This is the life-story of a woman whose fruitful spirit left behind a bountiful feast; I’m talking serious soul food. To fully grasp the impact she’s had, we need to start at the beginning.
Hers is a story that will take four courses. First plate on the table, a modest field of greens.
Elizabeth Ciscero was born
in the Orient. Her parents always joked there was a sticker on her bottom that said, “Made in Japan.” Her father, Major John Ciscero, was on a tour of duty at Tachikawa Airbase in Tokyo, doing some covert work for the Air Force. His wife,
Mary, blissfully unaware for the first few months they were there, was literally pulled into his work one day when she was walking down, Tamagawacho, on her way to a small grocery. Out of nowhere two sets of hands gently grabbed her arms from behind and hustled
her into the dry cleaning shop she was passing. The gentleman of the abduction duo, tapped his index finger softly against his lips. They led her into a back room, and in heavily accented English explained, “Mrs. Ciscero, you’re being followed.
We had orders from Major Ciscero to get you off the street.” Mary stayed in the care of the Nakamuras for the next hour; working with the U.S. government, their store was a garrison for under-cover American agents. Word came it was finally clear
to let her leave and she was sent straight home. So much for the Sashimi she had on the menu for dinner. Such was the life of the Cisceros.
After nine years of marriage, the couple
was childless. Seven years into their marriage and multiple miscarriages endured, Mary was told she probably wouldn’t be able to have children. Endometriosis had wreaked havoc with her reproductive organs and she was eventually facing a hysterectomy.
A woman of great faith, who could boast an extraordinary tolerance for pain, she kept putting it off. She always pictured a baby in her arms and believed all things were possible. When the air base obstetrician confirmed she was pregnant again, he told her
it would be a miracle if she carried the baby to term; he wanted her to prepare for another loss. But the miracle of Elizabeth Ann Ciscero appeared on Dec. 11th, 1958.
never that interested in being a parent, until he saw his daughter. Mary’s genetics had been left out of the mix, Lizzy was a carbon copy of her father. When he held her in his arms, her dark brown eyes and full head of thick black curls made them look
like peas pulled from the same pod. When he wasn’t at work, Little Lizzy was his obsession. John was a brilliant man who spoke several languages, including fluent Russian, the primary reason he’d been chosen for the assignment overseas. His was
a mind set apart. Early in her development, he saw that same capacity in Lizzy. She walked, talked and understood conversation before she was a year old.
The Cisceros often hosted cocktail
parties in their home for the officers in his division, and John loved nothing more than parading the miniature toddler into the center of the festivities to show off his little marvel. The two of them had a standing joke, no matter how many times the attendees
had seen the bit, they asked for an encore. All the better if there were new faces in the crowd. John would ask Lizzy to show their guests her golden bolt. She would dutifully pull up her party dress and point to her navel. He would then ask her what happened
if she unscrewed her golden bolt, and in her tiny voice, with impeccable comic timing, she would announce, “My ass falls off.” Needless to say, everyone vied for her attention, Lizzy was the main attraction.
One would think this first course had the ingredients for whipping up an obnoxiously precocious child, but Lizzy was quite the opposite. She preferred spending time alone, never interested in making herself the center of attention.
She was a thinker, taking in all her surroundings and finding ways to overcome obstacles. When she was eleven months old, to Mary’s horror, she found her standing on the living room windowsill, three feet above floor level. She’d inched her
playpen enclosure next to the wall and concocted a set of steps from her toys. There she stood, solid as a rock on four inches of surface, making her oft repeated plea, “Owside, Momma, owside.” Little Lizzy was a nature lover. Although
a nascent intellect, she favored playing outside to having a book in her hand. Give her a field of greens and she was at home, nourished and contented.
On to the second course, a satiating
little appetizer; savoring the imaginings of children is always satisfying. Saying Lizzy had a vivid imagination would be a colossal understatement. Hers wasn’t a childhood of pretend characters, she was far too pragmatic for that, Lizzy had a talent
for building something out of nothing. From toothpicks to styrofoam, she saw possibilities. Her knack for constructing from her imagination was nothing short of remarkable. In elementary school her preferred doll was a Troll, by third grade she had collected
a clan of thirteen. Realizing they needed a home, Lizzy gathered several buckets of pebbles from the stream behind their house in Omaha, Nebraska, their current tour of duty, and carefully washed her bounty of a thousand plus stones. Then she spread them across
the back porch to dry in the sun. After sharing her vision with her dad, he set her up with a three-foot by two-foot platform of Hard Maple that took up the majority of the surface on her desk. For any normal child it would have been an extravagant expense
on a seeming whim, but John knew better. If Lizzy saw something in her mind, she could bring it to life. It took two months of working one inch of height at a time, applying just enough glue to seal the cracks, then letting it dry overnight before she burdened
the structure with the next layer. In the end, she had built a seven room, stone dollhouse for the Trolls. She used rows of trimmed and stained paint stirrers, anchored between the walls to create her hardwood floors. The finished house had a kitchen and living
room on the main floor, replete with a fireplace and chimney that spanned all three floors. The second level, accessible by stairs along the back wall, had three bedrooms. The stairs continued up to the third story, one big open room with a second fireplace
off the chimney. John was astounded at the progress and took on the job of crafting furniture for house. Mary made tiny braided rugs for all the rooms. The finished product was a sight to behold. The shift from inspired architect to a little girl playing with
dolls was a smooth transition for Lizzy. She was unaffected by her accomplishments. They served a purpose, that was all that mattered.
From an early age, Lizzy had a recurring dream. It always
started the same way, she approached a bird perched on the lowest branch of a tree and cupped it in her hands. Lifting the bird off the branch she turned to face an open field and took off running. At the right speed, she loosened her hold, took one final
leap and spread what were now her wings. She loved the moment of release from the ground. There was never any fear, just the thrill of soaring above the landscape.
Once aloft, the dream varied,
she could go anywhere she liked. She glided effortlessly over whatever panorama that night’s journey offered; her thoughts brought the scenery. And always, regardless of the setting, she felt a heightened sense of the world around her, as if she’d
broken through the barrier of human existence and was above any folly. There was a peaceful exuberance in her journeys, a serene bird’s-eye-view of the world and its inhabitants. The dream didn’t happen as often as she would’ve liked, but
it was sustenance when it did, feeding her soul a steady diet of wellbeing, a plate full of awe, saturated in gratitude.
Finally getting to the main course, a heaping plate of protein. By
the time Lizzy was in high school she’d moved five times and attended six different schools. John put in a request to do a concurrent tour of duty during her sophomore year at Portsmouth High School. He’d been elevated to the rank of Colonel and
wanted to exercise some influence in keeping Lizzy in the same school until graduation. Although she never complained about having to move, she was grateful when the request was granted; being a member of an undefeated debate team with two of her male classmates
was something she loved and didn’t want to give up. Beyond their required class work, during the season the team regularly met for additional prep time at her house after school. Being the team member with no siblings guaranteed a quiet workspace and
it didn’t hurt that Mary kept a steady flow of drinks and snacks on what little room was left on the dining room table. They spread note cards, newspapers, periodicals and encyclopedias across the table in controlled chaos; in the 70s research was accomplished
the old fashion way. Their prep sessions would go on for hours, and regularly resulted in invitations to stay for dinner.
Mary loved having the boys there, they were a sweet taste of
the big family she always wanted. It was a treat for her when they agreed to join them for a meal. For John, it wasn’t so noble. Of the two boys, Greg was a typical intellectual; his talk of going to medical school impressed John and put him in the acceptable
category. Rick was another story. He planned to go to college as a theatre major, a profession John didn’t regard with respect. His disapproval of Rick went beyond his chosen career path, it was his lifestyle that turned John off. Rick had an affectation
about him that left little doubt about his sexual orientation. John was never outwardly rude to him, but his disinterest as compared with Greg was noticeable. Of her two teammates, Lizzy had a special bond with Rick and considered him one of her best friends.
Her father’s judgmental attitude toward him didn’t sit well and always made her uncomfortable.
Being an only child allows for a certain stature. Lizzy’s parents doted on
her and found great pleasure in her accomplishments and agreeable nature; time spent with her, especially in her busy high school years, was coveted. After dinner the Cisceros, often minus Lizzy, took walks in the woods. Three doors down, they could slip into
a Portsmouth nature preserve with a network of walking paths canopied by pine trees. On this particular night, Mary was the one missing, she had an Officer’s Wives meeting to finalize the details of a charitable fundraiser; it was a rare occurrence,
John and Lizzy were on their own.
The bitter cold of March didn’t deter the Cisceros, they were hearty people with a preference for walking in brisk weather. The frigid temperatures
all but guaranteed they’d have the woods to themselves and Lizzy planned to take advantage of a private moment with her dad. When they were about a quarter mile deep on the twisting paths, she started a long-overdue conversation, asking her father why
he disliked Rick. John tried to deny the charge but Lizzy wouldn’t let him off the hook.
“Your overt favoritism toward Greg is embarrassing. Rick is one of my best friends,
you know that, I don’t understand why you treat him that way.”
John was taken aback by Lizzy’s indictment, she had never been pointed with him before and it threw him off
balance. He was forced to admit he had a problem with homosexuality, and felt it was a choice that could and should be overcome. Lizzy accused her dad of being prejudice and argued her side with more potency than any of her debate performances. Her compassion
and reasoning were too vigorous to deny. She asked him what gave him the right to pass judgment, especially on a person as kind and honorable as Rick. For the first time in his life, John was speechless, Lizzy had unintentionally shut him down. She eased up
when she realized his defeat and delivered her closing argument with a soft landing.
“If you knew how much ridicule he faced from not only the kids at school but members of his
own family, you would know it’s not a choice. No one would do that to themselves on purpose. He told me he’s known he was homosexual since he was ten years old. That’s not a choice, Dad, that’s the way God made him.”
John finally found his words, “If that’s the case, then I respect him for being true to himself. And I think he’s damn lucky to have you for a friend. You have an extraordinary capacity
for love, Lizzy. You must have gotten it from your Mother, because it didn’t come from me.” John was right, the magnitude of Lizzy’s love far surpassed most people, and although she was her Mother’s daughter in disposition and
sentiment, she went beyond the kindness of Mary; Lizzy had a rare and beautiful understanding of the world, a gift that was given to her when she was only seven years old.
For a short period
of time when Lizzy was in the second grade and they still lived in Nebraska, John’s mother, Grandma Marie, came to live in their house. She was a prisoner of advanced dementia and couldn’t live alone anymore. At seventy-nine, she was a petite and
frail woman, who had lost the ability to converse. Simple, repetitive actions calmed her and placated her agitation, so Mary would set her up in the kitchen to execute her preferred activity. Her tools were a stack of pots & pans and several polishing
clothes. One at a time, Marie turned the pots over and summoned all her strength to rub in a circular motion, elbow grease employed to bring the darkened surfaces back to their original shine. Her work produced no change, but in her mind she was performing
Lizzy had not met Marie before she came to live with them, being an Air Force brat meant moving every three years and Grandma Marie was already in her seventies when Lizzy came
along; the luxury of traveling was no longer possible. She was only in Nebraska because John, also an only child, was forced to rescue her from a middle-class suburb of Pittsburgh, selling her house of forty-five years and insisting she move to Omaha. He always
said it was her undoing. The shock of being displaced took her voice, the only sounds she ever made was when she cried, which happened more often than not. Lizzy’s heart was with her grandmother; even though she was a stranger, she wanted to take
her sadness away. Their time together was limited, Marie would cry if she was made to eat with the family, so Mary set her up with a TV tray in her room. As soon as dinner was consumed, she would go to bed. The house was quiet and sad after she came. Lizzy’s
heart was broken.
On the second Saturday Marie was there, Lizzy walked into the kitchen to find her at the table polishing her pots. Grateful for the opening, she recognized a way to communicate
without having to say a word. She slid onto a chair across the table, grabbed a cloth and a pot and joined Marie’s party. Her grandmother didn’t protest with her normal tears, she just continued her mission, Lizzy took it as a sign of approval.
As they sat there, silently dedicated to their communal home improvement project, all of a sudden, Lizzy found herself above the kitchen, watching the scene below. She took in the aerial view, both of them working diligently to clean up Marie’s lost
world, then a voice posed a question. It wasn’t really something audible, more like a universal thought, but she heard the inquiry with crystal clarity, “What’s the meaning of life?” There was no hesitation or need to ponder, she
answered in the same way it was posed, not verbally but connected to the whole, “Love.” Lizzy felt a comfort that brought an unspeakable joy, no words could have adequately expressed her state of being; she was permeated by peace, enveloped
After the full realization of her altered state set in, she was back in her body, happily laboring away. Her
seven-year-old mind deciphered what had just happened with a depth beyond her years. Although she would not fully understand the concepts until she was much older, she instinctively knew it was a frequency removed. A quantum leap, that put her beyond human
boundaries. Lizzy also knew it was a gift she would keep to herself.
A week after the incident with her Grandmother, Marie came down with pneumonia and was taken out of the house in an
ambulance. She never came home. John arranged for her funeral back at her old neighborhood church. The family traveled to Pittsburgh and laid her to rest next to John’s father, Marie was finally reunited with Earl. Lizzy found great satisfaction in knowing
her grandmother resided in the unspeakable joy, she understood the peace she now inhabited. Although her parents were distraught and felt responsible for Marie’s death, Lizzy reveled in her serene transcendence. At that moment, the gift made all
the difference, as it would for the rest of her life.
What meal would be complete without a delectable dessert. Now some of you may not consider what I’m about to tell you pleasant in
the slightest, but trust me, it’s the most satisfying final course anyone could imagine. Asking for your trust means I need to come clean, you see, I’m Lizzy, or at least I was. There’re no names or bodies now. I can speak of Lizzy in the
third person because I’m not physically connected to human existence anymore. Being able to channel the story through a clairaudient is a wonderful thing, and my message-bearer has been pleasantly obliging. I’m grateful for her writing skills.
But let’s get back to the story. In addition to being a nature lover, fittingly, Lizzy had a unique connection to animals as well. Growing up, there was always a dog in the Ciscero family, they started with a portly beagle who wasn’t much for snuggling
but could always be found stationed at Lizzy’s feet. He was her guardian K-9, aptly named after George Bailey’s angel, Clarence died when she was thirteen. Lizzy and her parents went in search of another loyal companion. As soon as she set eyes
on him, she fell in love with Gus, a four month old, Yellow Lab. For five years they were connected at the hip. The separation of college was too much for both of them, so Lizzy brought him to school her sophomore year. He was her dog and they needed to finish
their run together.
After graduating with a degree in journalism, Lizzy and Gus transplanted to Manhattan for a summer internship turned full-time position. It didn’t take long for the
New York media giant she’d interned for to figure out they wanted what she had to offer. The Watergate scandal played out through her high school years and politics had become an obsession. The combination of her fascination with the topic and in-depth
debate research made her a veritable catalog of political insight and information. John and Mary were finishing out his final assignment in Washington D.C., he was now a Brigadier general and thinking seriously about retirement, they wanted to move to New
York to be closer to Lizzy.
No matter how many different places they’d lived, Lizzy’s roots were established in the suburbs. Oddly enough she immediately fell in love with the
city, living a vertical life was comfortable. She and Gus made their way down from the fourth floor twice a day and took their daily strolls through Central Park. Her Midtown location was perfect, down two blocks and across the street, her need for green was
fulfilled. Gus was almost ten when they moved in, so he didn’t mind a yard-less life, he was contented to keep the couch warm while Lizzy was at work.
After only three years with her
company, Lizzy was in the midst of a meteoric rise, at twenty-five, she was one of their top political analysts. Work happily consumed her and between attending political events and spending quality time with Gus, she hadn’t made dating a priority. There
were a few men interested, but none of them enticed her into considering a lasting relationship. She coveted her solitude and the thought of giving it up kept her single.
As was their routine, Lizzy came home from work on a crisp fall evening, fed Gus and they headed out on their walk. It was her favorite time of year, cold enough for a sweater but no need for a heavy coat. Gus
was an old man, the walks took twice as long with his deteriorating hips. They were walking up 8th Ave. to cross over into the park at Columbus Circle when Lizzy heard a loud crack above them. The reverberation off the surrounding buildings
was so loud, she was compelled to find the source. A man in a fifth story apartment had struggled to close an open window that was jammed. When it finally broke free, the pane slammed down so hard, it shattered. Lizzy looked up to search the sky at the precise
moment a seven by eight inch shard of glass hurdled toward her face with a velocity that made it unavoidable. In that split second of realization, she was no longer in her body, but once again above the scene, watching it all unfold.
For the people walking the streets around her, it was a horrendous sight. The piece of glass took approximately four seconds to make the decent. The impact happened about a second after Lizzy found it in the sky. It entered her
face directly across her eyes. The glass sliced through her temples and stopped at her ears. She was killed instantly and dropped in her tracks to the ground. The shard was so deeply imbedded in her face it kept the wound from excessive bleeding, but the impact
had demolished her skull. Although it was traumatic for everyone around her, Lizzy was peacefully detached, watching her death from above. She had already left her body and felt nothing of the pain or fear that permeated the air on the sidewalk. Unlike the
first time she was granted a view from above, she did feel one human sensation. She was violently thrown to the ground, laying on her back with her arm swung out to the side. The sound of her body striking the concrete with such force sent a rush of adrenaline
to Gus’heart, too much for his age, he laid down next to her with his head across her shoulder at the crook of her arm. She could feel the warmth of his body from above; as soon as the sensation came over her, his spirit joined hers and they transcended.
Lizzy's parents never really recovered from her tragic death. Not until the day they each lived the truth for themselves. No matter what the circumstances around a human passing, whether violent or serene,
the event is experienced from above. At sixty-seven, John watched his body shovel the heavy loads of snow that brought on a heart attack. Five years later, Mary hovered above a hospital bed on an oncology floor. No pain, no fear, just peace.
Lizzy served a banquet. Her heaping helping of soul food was the knowledge she left behind, the gift; there’s no reason to be afraid of death, it comes from above.
Many thanks to contributing editors, Maryann Whitaker and Casey Golden.
Wings of Change
Sir Richard Wellesley was a strict disciplinarian, never hesitant to use his razor strop for serious infractions; especially, he made it well known, if anyone
dared to touch his prized mantle clock. An artifact he guarded with keen security. His overly protective care of the timepiece kept all seven of the Wellesley grandchildren from going anywhere near the clock. As the eldest of the brood, I knew well the peril
of the paddle variety strop. Being on the receiving end of the sting was a punishment one didn't soon forget. My one and only sentence happened after a foray into Grandfather's tobacco pouch when I was nine. My backside was tender for days.
Sir Richard and Lady Constance Wellesley of Hampshire, were my father's parents, and every bit the patriarch and matriarch of our family. Grander, as we affectionately called him, had been an Admiral in Her Majesty,
Queen Victoria's, Royal Navy and his retirement from service had not diminished his executive approach to overseeing the activity of the Wellesley children. Because my father had followed in his footsteps and spent every summer employed in peaceful voyages
to lands far and wide, we were assigned temporary duty at their Hampshire country house for the duration of his obligation. Mother willingly agreed to spend the summers with Grander and Grommy, taking full advantage of a disciplined hand.
It mattered not how stern he was, Grander was a man we all respected and adored. Winning his attention was a triumph to be flaunted. Being not only the oldest, but also the namesake of his only daughter, who
had died of Yellow Fever long before I was born, gave me a distinct advantage. Although he didn't readily show favoritism, he and I had a special bond that was the envy of my brothers and sisters.
On Sunday evenings, the treat we looked forward to all week was his story time. Like little ducklings corralled in a line, we would follow him into the parlor after supper to enjoy his animated tales of intrigue and adventure. He would saunter in past
the grand piano, knowing we were all in tow, and settle in his favorite over-stuffed Campaign chair. He loved that perch, it sat low to the ground and put him close to all of us while still maintaining the decorum of being seated. He was an exceedingly handsome
man, with a strong, towering frame that appeared to be at attention, even sitting in the chair. He ceremoniously loaded his pipe and tamped down the moist tobacco, with his audience patiently gathered at his feet on the thick, black and red Oriental rug. After
lighting the bowl, he would draw heavily before saying a word. I loved that pungent odor, it meant a fanciful anecdote would soon follow. Most of the exotic treasures that decorated the house had a story to accompany them. Like the Katana Samurai sword hanging
in the entrance hall, whose owner, Grander told us, drew it from his belt and killed a man in a single motion. The Samurai offered the sword as a gift to the visiting English Admiral, who towered over him by a foot, because he said he showed no fear of the
weapon. Then there was the favorite story of the intricately carved ivory elephant tusk that found its way to the Hampshire library as the result of self-defense. We hung on every word as Grander explained the terror of the stampeding giant careening toward
him and the keen eye and steady hand it took to fell the beast before it trampled him to death.
The only item he wouldn't talk about was the clock, which consequently made it all the more
interesting, especially to the three oldest children. Richard Wellesley III, my younger brother, came along the year after I was born. At the time of this story, we were the only two children residing in our teens. My sister, Emily was close on our heels,
although at twelve years old, she seemed more like twenty. The three of us were a pack removed from the younger siblings. When we were little, Mother and Father were separated for several years by a voyage gone bad and it created a bit of a chasm between us
children, producing two separate sets. The four youngest, ranging in age from 4 to 8, were thick as thieves and occupied themselves with childish games. Richard, Emily and I, on the other hand, had grown-up adventures to accomplish. Rolling hills, painted
with heather and poppies, surrounded the grounds of the country house, and we enjoyed nothing more than exploring distant corners of our coastal retreat. But the most interesting place to explore was Grander's office, which brings me back to the clock. The
mystery of the cherry wood and golden artifact was the topic of many a conversation between the elder children. Especially considering the suspicious restrictions, no one could touch it, not the maids, not mother, not even the lady of the house, Grommy. Grander
would clean it once a week with a linen hanky from his pocket. For the rest of us, it was only for gazing. And gaze we did, it was a beautiful thing to behold, with it's exposed gold and silver mechanisms vigorously ticking off the day through the crystal
face. But without a doubt, the most notable feature was a curious set of golden wings that arched up the back of each side of the clock. It appeared as though it would soar into flight at any minute.
When possible, the itinerary for our travels included an expedition past the clock, which wasn't easy, it’s perch in Grander's office was the fireplace mantel beside his desk. The majority of his free hours were spent at that desk, attending to
administrative duties, perusing nautical charts and reading old logbooks. Our only window was an occasional afternoon nap. When the word was passed down to play quietly or go outside, the three of us would wait fifteen minutes, then, without a peep, sneak
into his office and crouch behind his desk to gaze at the clock. We surmised our newfound interest had come with age, because in our younger days we never gave it second thought. But understanding it was off limits brought a curiosity that bordered on whimsy.
We’d each conjured our own theory about why it was untouchable. Richard believed if we touched the wings, they would disappear. Emily was convinced it would fly away and I, well, I didn't share what I thought about the clock. I was afraid if I said it
out loud, it wouldn't come true, I wanted desperately for my revelation to be the one that held the secret.
I am truly my father's daughter, alike him in looks and temperament. The one trait
I was sorry to inherit was his propensity for insomnia. Being the only person awake in the wee hours of the night can be a curse. There's something about the black of night that makes everything seem desperate. My mind would wheel through all my worst memories
and the accompanying angst would perpetuate even more sleeplessness, a vicious cycle that plagued me. To try and avert the negative thoughts that dominated my sleepless hours, I would create scenarios involving the clock. Each afflicted night, I would picture
myself treading softly down the hall into Grander's office, walking up to the clock and gently touching the wings on either side. The desire to do so became a fixation, I was convinced my intuition regarding its power was accurate and wanted the release it
would offer. After a particularly difficult bout of three nights in a row with no sleep, the desperation of my situation got the better of me, I embarked on a mission to make my vision a reality. Not normally a child given to rule breaking, I was driven by
the insanity that accompanies sleeplessness. To this day I credit my lapse in judgment to that altered state. The house was still and larger than life. As I walked into Grander's office, I was certain he could hear my heart beating from his bedroom. The light
of the moon shone through the double window behind his desk and illuminated the entire wall of the fireplace. Fate lit a torch to carry out my task. Walking tentatively toward the linen-adorned mantel, my fingers trembled as I reached out for the clock. I
closed my eyes and concentrated on my desired result, my hands settled on the golden wings.
Daydreaming about time travel and actually experiencing it are two wholly different things. In my
mind, my journey back to the scene of my one and only offense, the day I regretted the most, was romanticized. I would float back to my ninth year and leisurely stroll into my Grandfather's office, see his pipe and tobacco on the desk and have the wisdom of
my age to change the outcome of that awful day. But the experience was nothing like that. My body felt too big for the space I was moving in, a claustrophobic kind of constriction made me feel unnatural and disconnected. Everything moved in slow motion. I
wanted it to be over, I couldn't get it accomplished fast enough. But each step was met with a hidden obstacle of space. The one thing that still moved at an elevated pace was the rate of my heart. The fear I felt was compounded by the horror of the experience.
My chest felt as though it was being crushed and each breath wasn't enough. I wished I had never gotten out of bed. I finally made my way to the office door and saw his pipe on the desk. I hesitated, something inside me wanted to go in and experience the sweet
scent first hand. But then I remembered why I was there and turned and walked away. As soon as I passed the doorframe, I was back in the present, standing next to the mantel gulping great breathes of air. In addition to being starved for oxygen, the episode
had left me feeling sick to my stomach. I limped back to bed, not at all satisfied I’d accomplished my goal. The only positive outcome was the resulting exhaustion that led to a deep and dreamless sleep.
The morning light brought a yoke of anxiety that draped my chest. Every time I saw my Grandfather I was sure he knew. The guilt of my new transgression far outweighed the shame of my original offense. And until I found out if my undertaking
had worked, I was being tortured by remorse for my foolishness. Being overly tired didn't help matters, and served to only intensify my paranoia. Halfway through the day I realized I could test my theory on Richard, who remembered the day of my shame as well
as I did. He too had been on the receiving end of corporal punishment and knew not only the sting of the strop but the ache of having disappointed Grander so much that he felt compelled to take such action. As Emily, Richard and I sat on the rocks of the shore,
flipping stones into the water, I causally mentioned something about the time I smoked Grander's pipe. They both fairly jumped to turn in my direction and said at the same time, "You smoked Grander's pipe!" That was it, all the proof I needed, I had changed
the course of time. "Of course not, but I want to." I tried to be nonchalant, but inside I was a veritable whirl of emotions. Beyond the fact that I had wiped away my misbehavior, more importantly, I had discovered a secret that only my Grandfather knew, he
had a clock that offered repentance, an instrument that could right wrongs, correct mistakes. I found it hard to concentrate the rest of the day and wished with all my heart I could talk to Grander about his miraculous machine. What trips had he taken on the
wings of change?
Being on the verge of young womanhood can cover a multitude of sins. My sudden need for solitude was blamed on hormonal changes. In reality, it was the endless desire
to go back and change the world, to shift the course of horrible outcomes. My mind was totally preoccupied with the clock and the power for good it represented.
On the occasion of my fifteenth
birthday, following a delightful celebration set up by Mother and Grommy, Grander offered me his arm to walk in the garden. It was the first time he’d ever done that and it made me feel like a princess. I waited for him to speak, figuring he had offered
his arm for a reason. When we were some distance from the back parlor, he respectfully announced, "Elizabeth Ann Wellesley, you embody the qualities of an exemplary young lady. You have never caused me a moment of grief and I just wanted to tell you that I
couldn't be more proud of the woman you're becoming." I couldn't have spoken if I wanted to, the lump in my throat would have choked any attempt. Aware of the awkward lack of the response, he stopped walking, turned to me and handed me his linen hanky, "I
didn't mean to upset you." I had no choice but to let the tears flow, there was no stopping them. I quickly wiped my face and asked if we could sit down and talk. There was a gray stone bench a few feet down the path, he lead me there and sat next to me, patiently
waiting for my response. The pain in my chest had welled to a storm of regret and I couldn't go on living the lie. I needed to be honest with the man I most admired in the world. But how was I to tell him I hadn't only broken the rules once but twice. How
could I admit I had smoked his pipe without admitting I had touched the clock. The clock, the object of my obsession; he needed to know. His hanky didn't have a dry spot left when I finally remembered I was becoming an adult and needed to act like one. But
before I could say a word, it was as if he read my mind. "Elizabeth, does this have something to do with the clock?" Relief and dread flooded in the doors of my mind simultaneously. I swallowed hard and looked him in the eyes, "Yes, Grander, it does." He let a slight smile escape before he settled on a grave expression and waited for my full explanation. The gesture gave me the courage I needed to be completely honest. I told him the whole story, how I had broken the rules as a young girl, wanting to
know what the aromatic tobacco leaves tasted like myself. How he caught me and gave me a substantial whack with his strop. How I had cried for a full day from embarrassment and, even worse, knowing I had disappointed him. How I found myself in his office only
weeks earlier, desperate to undo my transgression from six years earlier. How I had committed a cardinal sin and touched the clock. He sat for what seemed like an eternity before he finally spoke. "And what was your experience?" "I've been so anxious
to talk with you about it. It was just as I suspected, I went back and changed the outcome. At least, I believe I did. Do you remember me smoking your pipe?" "No." "I'm so sorry I disobeyed your wishes about the clock, if I could undo the wrong I’ve
done, I would." His words were somber, "Now that you know, it is a burden you will have to carry." "It's fantastic, it consumes my every thought. I want to go back and change all the wrongs of the world. Have you done that, Grander, have you changed
history?" He took a deep breath and an audible sigh before he spoke, choosing his words carefully, "I have changed two things. The first lead me to the second, the second back to the first." I was confused but listened intently. "Your namesake, your Aunt
Elizabeth, died when she was just a year younger than you are now. As you know, she was afflicted with Yellow Fever. I had acquired the clock on the same voyage that brought the fever here. Although I was told about the powers of the clock, I didn't give it
much credence, until Elizabeth passed. I was frantic to undo the loss, your Grandmother was inconsolable and I would have done anything to bring her back. As you have discovered, the power of the timepiece is unleashed when you touch both wings at the same
time while concentrating on where you need to go. I was unsure of how far back I should transport myself to make certain she would be safe. But I had deduced the fever came upon her because she, along with your father and grandmother, met me at the docks when
we landed. So I went back to the period of time before we landed and put anchor down outside the port and sent a small boat in with a message that the docks would be closed to all but the crew." "It didn't work?" "It worked perfectly. When I came
back to my office, while my hands were still on the clock, I could hear her playing the piano in the parlor. They had waited for me at home, she never got the fever." "What happened? She did die of Yellow Fever." "That was the second time she died.
I thought I had cheated fate, she was healthy and safe, a precious child to behold." He paused, the memory was too hard to bear, he dropped his head with another deep sigh and regained his composure. After a moment he continued, "One month to the day after
she would have died the first time, she was standing by the rocks on the shore, with your father. Like you, she was as physically capable as any boy, and willing to follow him anywhere. Your father attempted to scale a wall of rock that led to an over-hanging
cliff, your aunt stood below on the shoreline, waiting her turn. During his assent, the rocks started to shift and a landslide of stone came down. Your father road the tumbling rocks to the bottom, but your aunt was knocked to the sand and covered by the avalanche.
Her upper body was still exposed but from the waist down she was crushed and pinned to the shore. Your father attempted to clear the stones, but he was no match for the massive boulders. Digging her out only sank her body deeper in the sand; time was against
them, the tide was coming in. Richard panicked and came to find me. By the time we returned, the water had reached her head and was rising rapidly. We tried to move the stones together, but it was futile, it would have taken double our number to roll the stones
off her body. As we worked, the water continued to rise and had encased her head. Each time a wave came in, she was submerged until it receded. Choking and terrified, she pleaded for help. It was hopeless and she faced a hideous death. I told her I could save
her, that I needed to get a tool, and would be back directly. I ran to the clock and took myself back to the moment before I sent word to close the port. When I found myself back in the office, it was a month past the date she had died of Yellow Fever. Your
grandmother was grieving her death, but had the image of her daughter passing in her sleep, in the comfort of her bed."
A fresh round of tears rolled down my cheeks, but this time it was for
Grander's mistake, not mine. And I realized fate had a design that would be followed regardless of our meddling. My heart ached for his burden and I understood his protection of the clock. Although, it wasn't really the clock he was protecting all along, it
was his family.
In this my seventy-seventh year, I remember that conversation with my Grandfather as if it was yesterday. Gratified to have shared in his decision to destroy the clock. We
walked to that fateful cliff, where the rocks had long before fallen to a heap on the shore, without the help of his children, and dismantled the object of my obsession. Then, we hurled the pieces into the pounding waves below. I never felt closer to my Grandfather
than on that fateful day, standing on the cliff, looking out over the vast and powerful ocean. We had both learned the priceless lesson of living each day as it comes.
The door was hard to open, Trina had to lean her entire weight into the old oak monster to push it far enough over to slip into the cabin. Weather had warped the ingress, transforming it into more
of a blockade than a front door. The throw rug just inside wasn’t helping, the wooden brute couldn’t make a clear swing anymore. The rug bunched and locked the door in a textile grip. She left it there in the carpet’s clutches to allow fresh
air to follow her in. As soon as she crossed the threshold the musty smell of five years of a vacant, sealed space hit her like the wall of mist coming off Niagara Falls. She lifted the bottom half of her turtleneck up over her nose, pinching her nostrils
until she could make her way to the nearest window. That too was stubbornly sealed off from the outside world. Trina had the fleeting thought, and was half tempted, to pick up the nearest heavy object and hurl it through the encrusted glass. Reason prevailed,
she abandoned her makeshift face-mask long enough to push the pane up with both hands until it was completely open, ushering in a refreshing blast of cold air.
The ladder-back chair by the
window offered a temporary reprieve to assess the space and systematize the laborious task at hand. Plopping with a little too much force, even her petite, athletic frame made the chair groan with the chore of supporting unexpected weight. Trina dug in her
satchel bag until her hands detected a comb for her hair. She slipped her purse to the floor and stashed the comb in her mouth, freeing her hands to wind her long, brunette locks into a twisted bun, securing it out of the way. As much as she hated the idea
of getting started, she needed to prepare herself for the Herculean job. Sitting there looking over the mess the cabin was left in, Trina heaved a sigh and spoke to the dead, “Dad, didn’t it ever occur to you that I was going to be left to clean
this up?” She shook her head, “Just add it to the list.” The room was gloomy, everything was covered with a thick layer of dust. There were books and magazines stacked on every available surface, hundreds of them.
“I’m half temped to take a match to this place, if it wasn’t illegal...” Before she could finish the thought the front door, she thought was securely wedged, blew shut with such force it made Trina jump in
her seat and clutch her breast. Her heart pounded and she had an eerie sense the cabin was responding to her condemnation. Then her analytical mind seized the fantasy; clearly, the wind coming in from the window had created a vacuum that sucked the door shut.
Still, she had to fight back the guilt that somehow she had indicted this old family eyesore unjustly, that she was doing what her parents constantly accused her of while they were alive, being overly critical. But who would blame her? The place was an absolute
mess. Like every other place they had inhabited.
When Trina’s mother passed away in 1977, five years earlier, she helped her dad pack up their family home, a modest three-bedroom Cape
Cod. She moved him to a condo in her complex, freeing him from the responsibility of yard work. At sixty-two, a pair-shaped man, and in pour health himself, he wasn’t really capable anymore. And, truth be told, he never took care of the yard. Trina’s
mother, a slight but strong woman, four years his junior, loved being outside. She claimed digging her hands in the dirt was therapeutic. No matter what the condition of the inside of their house, the outside was always pristine and had a constant array of
seasonal flowers. Their living space was quite another story. Forty years of two pack rats living together had manufactured a monumental mess. As she anticipated, it had been a fight to get her father to agree to let go of anything. In addition to too much
furniture for one small house, (they had five rocking chairs,) there were old radios, cameras and models, numerous kitschy figurines with moveable parts, trinkets they acquired from every place they travelled, stacks of fabric her mother collected for projects
she never got to, beer steins and martini glasses, magazines and books, paperwork — mountains of paperwork. Her father’s work as a technical writer for a company that dealt mostly with government contracts had spawned rafts of manila folders and
random volumes of procedural tomes. It had taken a month to sift through everything and figure out what had value and what was just taking up space. The move was the source of endless battles between she and her father and neither of them was very good at
conceding. Her relationship with him had always been strained, they were like oil and water and without her mother there to shield them from each other, they were always at blows.
conducted her affairs in quite a different manner than her parents. Her townhouse was decorated minimally and she banned clutter from her reality. She rarely kept anything that wasn’t of value; in her mind, keeping mementos was silly. She liked an ordered
life that was predictable. From the time she was a teenager she assured her parents she would not live the way they chose to exist. She would have a tidy home, a place anyone would be proud to own. Her folks always humored her parental tones and her mother
reminded her it took all kinds of people to make the world go around. She wondered why their world had spun out of control.
And here she was again, cleaning out yet another residence marred
by a lackadaisical and lazy existence. The year her mom got sick with the breast cancer that eventually took her from them, her parents decided they would sell the small lake house they had purchased down in South Carolina. Her father abandoned the idea
of being a snowbird, saying he couldn’t do it alone. They had only owned it for three years but the familiar chaos Trina detested greeted her when she arrived to help them move. Thank goodness the furniture was staying. But the personal paraphernalia
that peppered the little rancher took an entire day and two trips to the local incinerator to clear away. The newspapers and magazines alone had filled her car for one round. And now the cabin in the mountains of Western Maryland, the secret get-a-way that
had been in her family for three generations, was another victim of her father. In honesty, she blamed all the abhorrent hoarding behavior on him. His parents, grandparents she had never met, were hoarders themselves, on top of being hopeless alcoholics. The
stories of the row home they owned in Dundalk, Maryland were legendary. Her mother had fascinated her with tales of a small path that lead from the entrance through the house to the kitchen. Walls of newspapers and books and boxes, lined with random junk,
incarcerated the inhabitants and kept their freedom limited to a space barely big enough to move from one room to the next. She told of a kitchen that had a perpetual sink full of dirty dishes and counters that were buried somewhere beneath mounds of abandoned
cookware, empty food boxes and grocery bags. Roaches would scatter in all directions when any bit of the mess was shifted. Their table had only two empty chairs, of the four that saddled up to the square Formica dumping grounds. And there was only enough space
on the table in front of the two chairs to set out a bowl and cup. Trina’s mother painted a grim picture of her father’s life growing up, she wanted her to understand the damage his parents had inflicted on him, to be patient with his propensity
for hoarding and clutter. But instead of cultivating the sympathy her mother wanted her to embrace, Trina hardened to the empathy her mother exhibited by letting her father get away with his dysfunction, no matter how much smaller in scale it was in their
lives. In her mind, the problems of his past should have been left there. He had a family of his own now and a responsibility to protect them and give them a comfortable life. Her mother never seemed to mind that the kitchen table was always stacked with papers
and mail. She wasn’t troubled by the avalanche of books her father had on the end table next to his chair in the living room, or the shelves in the den being overloaded with knickknacks that amused him. He would get angry if anyone tried to organize
his books or move anything. He said he had a system and that was the way he liked it. So her mother finally acquiesced to his way of living and seemed to personify it herself. A development that irked Trina beyond reason, making her promise herself
she would never let a man dictate how she lived and compromise what she wanted out of life. Consequently, at thirty-seven years old, she was still a single woman and didn’t have any real prospects of marriage on the horizon. She told herself that was
the way she liked it. At least she didn’t dislike it.
Looking around the cabin, Trina was transported to the Christmas she was ten years old. Her mother and grandmother
had filled the earthy home with the comforting scent of a roasting turkey, that delicious aroma that permeates the entire house and builds unbearable anticipation for the holiday feast. While the women cooked, she and her father and grandfather were engrossed
in a game of Monopoly. It was a time before she recognized her father’s folly, which seemed to get worse with age, and she was warm and protected in the cradle of familial love. The memory fell on her like a granite stone dropping on her chest. Trina
did what she rarely allowed, she welled and let emotion rule the moment. That had been an ordered time, a time when her heart was full and the world was right. Now things felt broken and incongruent, her father’s death had her off kilter. She looked
around in defeat. It was her intention to keep the once enchanting mountain retreat, but she realized she didn’t have the heart for it anymore. Before she’d even gotten started, she gave up. As much as she didn’t want to let it go, she would
sell the cabin “as is” and let someone else worry about cleaning it up. What would she, a single professional woman, do with it anyway? Her caseload at work kept her in the office late almost every night and necessitated working several weekends
a month; as a successful defense attorney, she didn’t really have the time to use the cabin anyway. Hidden under layers of guilt, Trina felt a sense of relief. There would be no arguing over this decision with her father, it was her choice, the
cabin and its contents belonged solely to her. Although she was glad things weren’t complicated by anyone else being involved, when she was growing up, she lamented not having any siblings. She always thought having a sister to commiserate with would
ease the pain of the furtive life she protected. As she grew into the awkward teenage years she didn’t invite friends over, it would have been too embarrassing for them to see the way she lived. After not reciprocating with her friends, by the time she
got to high school, the girlfriends fell away. She was a serious student, always pouring herself into her schoolwork, so it didn’t much matter. She was more interested in getting into an impressive school for her undergraduate degree, one that would
open the doors to a prestigious law school. Her life had followed the path she envisioned and was proof enough to her that she had done all the right things. Girlfriends had definitely not been necessary. And she reasoned, as a new partner in the firm where
she worked, there wasn’t any time for friends.
But what about her relationship with her mother and father, could she say they had done right by her? It was a judgmental verdict but her
immediate answer was, no. As harsh as that sounded, they allowed themselves to be swallowed by dysfunction and it ruled their lives. For that matter, it ruled hers, at least until she broke free and went to college. But now, for the first time
in her life, she could make decisions on what she thought was best. She didn’t have to worry about her parent’s wishes. And, as heartless as it may seem to disregard a family treasure, she didn’t want to deal with the headache
the cabin represented. Her mind was made up. The task had just become a lot easier. She would survey the retreat for anything she could carry out, and walk away without regret.
space she scanned was the master bedroom. Walking into the room her parents slept in reintroduced that unfamiliar urge to well up. It was so unlike Trina, she was uncomfortable with emotion and chalked it up to the stress that was fostered by having to deal
with closing out her father’s estate. The cabin was the last item on her list and she resolved to leave the anxiety that surrounded the transition there when she walked out the door. She would turn it over to a real estate agent and put it out of her
mind. With the renewed conviction, each step seemed lighter, the burden of a life-time of contempt toward her father would be over. She noted that the bedroom was surprisingly well organized. There was so little in it, the bed, two nightstands, a
dresser, and the ever-present rocking chair. Not a lot of surfaces to strew. The nightstand next to her father’s side of the bed wasn’t completely covered, but was well on its way. There were several locks with keys, coins, vitamins, handkerchiefs,
a few small tools and, of course, several paperback books. She avoided his side of the bed and headed to her mother’s. Her nightstand had only three things on it, a box of tissues and two framed pictures. The first one she picked up was an image of Trina
when she was twelve, holding a rather large trophy. She remembered the weekend the photo was taken like it was yesterday. It was the regional spelling bee competition. She locked herself in her room and studied for weeks before the event and it paid off. Her
mother and father were beaming when she won and took her to a restaurant in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor to celebrate. She always loved that her mother kept the photograph next to her bed. She slipped it into her bag and picked up the second frame. It was
a picture of her parents shortly after they had gotten married. They looked so young and content. Her mother was sitting on a stone wall with her legs crossed and her father was standing next to her, leaning against the wall, with his arm around her waste.
They looked stylish, her mother in strapped pumps, a straight navy blue skirt with a kick pleat that hung back against the wall, and a crisp white fitted blouse with the collar turned up. Her father wore a tweed suit with a knit shirt and no tie. It looked
like her mother had been laughing at something her father had just said. He had his faced turned toward her and she was looking at the camera. It was a sweet moment and Trina had to concede, they had been happy together. No matter what she thought of
their lifestyle, they did always seem to love each other. On the bottom of the frame was a small brass plate, engraved with the words, “Marie and Dwight ~ together forever”, Trina ran her finger back and forth over the plate, then set the photo
back on the stand. She turned to leave the room and stopped at the doorway. She thought better of leaving the personal effect behind and went back and put the frame in her bag.
“Time has a way of slipping past you, unnoticed.”
“Yes, Miss Trina, you are
right.” The female aid talked a little louder than normal to compensate for the running water in the shower. She put liquid soap on a washcloth and worked it up and down Trina’s back, “I blinked and my daughter was in kindergarten. Once she
started school, it all went so fast, now she’s learning to drive. That’s why I took this second job, I want to help her get a car and be able to pay for the insurance.”
enjoyed the back massage that came with this phase of her shower, “How old is your daughter?”
“Oh, yes, that makes sense, she’s driving.”
“She’s a good girl, always helping out, she’s earned a car. She agreed to give me payments until she’s
paid it off, but I just want to be able to buy it for her.”
“You two have a close relationship?”
she’s my girl.”
“Good, you keep it that way.”
Phyllis, a medium height and stocky woman with bottle
blonde hair, finished Trina’s bathing routine by helping her stand up and hold onto the shower bars. She gently washed her delicate parts then rinsed her with the handheld spout, turned the water off and put a towel over her shoulders. Getting Trina
from inside the shower stall to the seat against the wall was a tricky prospect. Her advanced Arthritis had crippled her years ago and relegated her to spending the majority of her day in a wheel chair. Her knuckles were bent and misshapen, her knees were
swollen to an unnatural size and her feet turned out at an awkward angle. Phyllis took Trina by both hands and slowly walked backwards with her as she carefully guided her to the shower room bench, “Miss, Trina, you can use the roll-in shower chair to
make this easier.”
“I don’t need that yet.”
“Well, it would make it a lot easier on you.”
Phyllis dried Trina and helped her into her pajamas. She needed help with every movement, her body had failed her and independence had gone by the wayside. After she got her dressed, she filled a basin with water and put toothpaste on her brush. She held the
basin under her chin and handed the brush to Trina. Proud at 80 years old she still had all her own teeth, Trina painstakingly brushed each tooth thoroughly. When she was done, Phyllis brought her wheel chair over and locked it in place to the side of the
bench. She took Trina’s hands, helped her to her feet and shifted her in a half turn to make the transfer to the chair. With the nighttime routine accomplished, Phyllis rolled her into her room and made the final transfer for the day into her bed. “Alright,
Miss Trina, you have a good night. I won’t be with you tomorrow, Alice is scheduled for this wing of the second floor, I’m down on one. I’ll see you next week.”
Phyllis, who was fairly new at the facility, admired Trina’s cozy room as she walked out. She had a recliner situated next to her bed and across from the television that was perched on her chest
of drawers. A small wooden bistro table with two chairs sat on the same wall as the chest, and across the room from the table was a nightstand next to her bed. On the nightstand were two frames. The frames she had rescued from the cabin over forty years earlier.
Next to the frames were a stack of paperback books, Trina took the book on the top of the pile and opened it. She settled in to read until her eyes got too heavy to stay open, with the book on her chest, she drifted off to sleep and the lamp next to her bed
would bath her in light all night.
With the bedtime routines for the residents on the east wing of the second floor caught up, and all the sanitation duties completed, Phyllis found her way
to the community room to snag a much-needed cup of coffee. Two of the other floor aids were already there, doing the same thing. She hadn’t quite gotten the routine down as fast as some of them, especially the women who had worked there for some time.
Twelve-hour shifts made it easier to be a working mom, Phyllis only had to work three days a week at the facility to make the extra money she needed. Only a few people stayed to work through the night, in the wee hours they were charged with getting all the
resident’s laundry done. It made for a long night but it gave Phyllis the freedom to have an extra job and still be able to attend her daughter’s volleyball games after school. But the odd hours were tiring and by midnight, a coffee break was a
necessity. She poured a cup and joined the two women who were already seated at one of the round craft tables. As it always did, conversation about the residents and what was going on with their families proceeded. After listening to the tale of poor Mr. Bill’s
bout with the stomach flu and the need to change his sheets twice in one night, Phyllis asked the women about Trina. She was curious about her family. The aids all rated the families of the clients. A “one” was the best rating, those were people
who went above and beyond to help with daily routines, things like changing sheets, showers and moving their family member to and from the dining hall. Those were the same family members who visited often and took their aging relatives for home visits and
outings. The worst rating was a “five,” those were the visitors who never did anything to help, rarely came and never bothered with taking them anywhere.
Nancy, an older English
woman with a long, thin face, the aid who had been working in the Edgecombe Retirement Community the longest, filled her in, “Miss Trina doesn’t have any family. She’s been here three years and in all that time not a single person has come
to visit her.”
Phyllis was aghast, “Oh my God, that’s awful.”
“She keeps pretty much to herself,
doesn’t even have any friends in the building. She’ll take her meals in her room as often as we’ll let her get away with it.”
“Not a single visitor?”
Nancy shook her head, “Nope.”
“What’s her story? Does anyone know?”
April, a young woman with red hair and a face full of freckles, piped in, “She’s an old maid. Never married. She was some kind of judge or something.”
“That’s too sad, to be so alone.” Phyllis sat quietly for the next ten minutes of their break, obsessing about Trina’s life, or lack of one.
dinner was just finishing up when Phyllis clocked in. She had missed being Miss Trina’s aid on Monday and Tuesday, so she went straight to the dining hall and scanned the room. At the table in the far right corner, she noticed Trina finishing the
last bite of her chocolate cake and covering the small china dessert plate with her napkin. The other three people at her table were finished and patiently waiting to be taken back to their rooms. Trina was the only really verbal person of the group.
Mrs. O’Reilly was almost completely deaf and didn’t do much but nod and smile. Mr. Thomas was a large man, confined to a wheel chair. He was never pleasant and most of the aids did anything
to avoid being his caretaker. The women, in particular, waited for the male aids to tackle his needs. Mrs. Crone was a bit off her rocker, her family was in denial but it wouldn’t be long before the director of the facility would have to force a move
to the Alzheimer’s unit. Her discussions went round in circles if they made any sense at all. Poor Miss Trina had to be saddled with the worst table assignment in the place. Phyllis quickly made her way to their table, slid behind Trina and leaned
down to her right ear, “Miss Trina, are you ready to go back to your room?”
“Yes, Phyllis, thank you.”
A group of regulars gathered in the community room on the first floor to watch an old movie, and Phyllis noticed that Miss Trina didn’t even turn to look their direction as she wheeled her past the beautifully decorated living room on the way
to the elevator. They were a nice group of people and she wondered why Miss Trina didn’t plug herself into that clique. Miss Trina was a curiosity and Phyllis couldn’t help wanting to know her story.
They got to her room and it was only 7:15, but Phyllis wanted to find a way to stay with her, “I know it’s early, but do you want your shower now, Miss Trina?”
“No, thanks, I don’t think I’m going to shower tonight. I’m really tired today and that’s always a workout. I’ll get one tomorrow.” Phyllis helped Trina transfer from her wheel chair to her favorite spot, her
recliner. She pushed her wheelchair out of the way and brought her walker next to the chair in case she needed to get up for any reason.
“Alright, is there anything else I can do for
“Actually, there is.” Phyllis thought Miss Trina must be reading her mind, those were the exact words she wanted to hear.
“There’s a photo book and a journal on the top shelf of my closet, they’re stacked together, I’d be grateful if you’d get them down for me.”
“Sure.” Phyllis opened Trina’s closet door and scanned the top shelf. There were several pricey handbags, two shoeboxes and a blue leather album with a small brown cloth journal sitting on top of it. She grabbed the books and noticed
the cover of the photo album was coming apart. The front and back were barely held together and the leather was worn and peeled on the bottom edge.
“This looks like it’s been with
you for a while.”
“It was my mother’s, they both were, she was fond of pictures. I haven’t looked at them for quite a while.”
“Is there a picture of your mother? Would you mind?” Phyllis carefully handed the album to Trina.
“No, of course. Sit down.” Trina motioned
for Phyllis to grab one of the antique Winsor chairs from her small round table and bring it over. She slipped the journal down between her leg and the arm of the recliner and cautiously opened the front cover of the album to reveal a page of four black and
white photographs that looked like they might be from the 30s or 40s.
“Oh my goodness, is that your Mom, she’s so pretty.”
“Yes, that’s she and my Dad shortly after they were married.”
Phyllis and Trina sat looking through the album for the next fifteen minutes, with Phyllis
asking a raft of questions about the places and people in the photos. She learned that Trina was an only child and saw her progression from birth to college. Trina talked lovingly about her parents and she wondered how a woman who was so lovely herself, had
gone a lifetime without ever meeting someone special. She wanted to ask her about it, but didn’t want to dredge up any bad feelings, so she just let Trina tell what stories came naturally. When they got to the end of the book, Trina carefully closed
it and traded places with the weathered looking journal.
“This book is a treasure and I almost missed out on having it.”
“What do you mean?”
“We had a family cabin I inherited many years ago. I was a foolish young woman, well, not even so young, I can’t much blame it on youth.
When I went through the cabin I decided it wasn’t worth keeping so I put it on the market. Because I didn’t empty it out first, it never sold. After about a year, I took it off the market and basically just forgot about it. I had, what I deemed
at the time, an important job and didn’t make time for leisure.” Here Trina paused her story, looked at Phyllis with her lips pulled tight in thought and after a moment, in a sadly resigned sort of way, said, “You can imagine, I wasted a
lot of time.”
“Well, no, it wasn’t wasted, if you had an important job. Someone told me you were a judge, is that right?”
“Yes. That’s right. I was appointed my judgeship in 1985, I was forty-five. That same year a real-estate agent came to me and said there was a family who had seen my cabin several times when they hiked through the woods
and they wanted to know if I would consider selling it. I was glad to finally be rid of it, the place had been sitting empty for over ten years, so I told the agent they could have it for whatever they could afford. I couldn’t have been luckier to have
those people stumble on my cabin.”
Phyllis smiled, “Why, what happened?”
“About two months after
the sale I got a package in the mail with this journal in it. There was a note from the mother, she had found the journal in one of my mother’s dresser drawers. She asked my forgiveness for reading it but said she couldn’t stop once she got started.
She said she knew I would want to have such a treasure, and she was right.”
“So, it was a journal your mother kept and you never knew about it?”
“It was a ‘Cabin Journal’, or so my Mother called it, and no, I never even knew she kept a journal. Would you like to hear the first page?”
Phyllis felt lucky to be in on such a private and special moment with Miss Trina, she figured correctly that Trina had never shared this information with another
living soul, and she felt the significance of the moment.
Trina opened the journal and began to read, “This book is dedicated to you, Catrina, and it will be our secret. Before I forget
all the joy you’ve brought to our lives, I want to write it down. Time at the cabin is always peaceful and reflective and it seems the perfect place to write, so today begins the ‘Cabin Journal’, the story of our time as a family. I hope
you will one day read these thoughts and remember how immensely you were loved.” Trina started to well and let the tears roll down her cheeks.
“Oh, Miss Trina, I’m sorry
if this makes you upset, you don’t have to keep reading.”
“No, child, it doesn’t make me sad, these are tears of joy. To know one was loved so completely is a pleasure
that goes beyond words.” Phyllis reached over to Miss Trina’s side table and snatched a Kleenex out of the pretty wicker-covered box that dominated the small surface and handed it to her. Trina dabbed her face dry and kept the tissue in her right
hand as she continued, “We’re going to try to come out to the cabin as often as possible, because Dad agrees the fresh air will be good for you and Grandpa wants to teach you to fish. That’s probably his favorite pastime, and I love that
he wants to share it with you. He used to take me when I was a little girl, but he says it’s your turn now.”
“Dad brought up a present today, a beautiful wooden rocker with
an over-sized seat so you and I can snuggle it in for a long time to come. He bought it unfinished, from a carpenter friend, and painted it a warm brown color to match the headboard in our bedroom. The rocking chair in my hospital room was the only thing
that would calm you down, so Dad said he would make sure you had one in every room to keep you comfortable. Your Dad adores you, Muffin. And so do I.” At this, Miss Trina welled again and closed the book. She dabbed her eyes once more and said, “We’ll
read more later. All of a sudden, I’m so tired, I can’t hold my head up.” Phyllis helped Trina into bed, held her in a firm and extended hug, kissed her on the cheek and turned off the lamp on her side table. As she walked out of her room,
Phyllis couldn’t help but feel a sadness that this lovely woman, who was so gentle and appreciative, had no one to share the last part of her life with. She resolved to spend time with Miss Trina as often as she could. She was at the end of her three-days
for the week, but would pick up where they left off when she was back again next week.
The rest of the week at home turned into a contentious time between Phyllis and her daughter. She had
found a cigarette in the bottom of Shelby’s purse and the two of them had nothing but harsh words for days. As much as she loved her daughter and wanted to be home with her, she was glad when the beginning of her shifts for the week rolled around because
she wanted to talk to Miss Trina about Shelby. She needed some motherly advice and she figured Miss Trina was the best person for the job. Her mother had run off with a man who rented the spare room in their apartment. She never had a father that she knew
of, from the time she was seventeen, she was on her own. She promised herself she would be a better mother to Shelby, that she would give her the kind of guidance she needed to be a good girl. But never having a decent roll model made her question her mothering
all the time. Shelby was the result of a one-night-stand when she was in her early twenties, but that didn’t mean she loved her any less. Her daughter meant the world to her and she wanted to make sure she was a good mom. She came into work early on
Monday so she could visit with Miss Trina before she clocked in. It was a beautiful day and there were a line of residents filling the rocking chairs on the front porch. Phyllis quickly scanned the people as she walked into the building, looking for Trina.
She stopped to chat with Eileen, the front desk receptionist. After exchanging pleasantries, she asked if Eileen had seen Miss Trina.
“Yes, as a matter of a fact, she’s sitting
in the sun on the back patio.”
Of course Trina would be by herself on the back patio while the rest of the residents enjoyed socializing on the front porch.
“She had some visitors today, they left not too long ago.”
Phyllis was in a state of shock, “She had visitors? Who?” Eileen turned the visitor’s
log around so it faced her and scanned down the names, “It was a young couple,” she ran her finger down the page to the third to last people to sign in, “Hmmm, they only signed their first names, ‘Dwight and Marie’.”
“That’s wonderful, I’m so glad Miss Trina had visitors. Thanks.” Phyllis headed out the double French doors leading from a sitting room to the back patio. The space was inviting,
with it’s hedgerow of rose bushes and raised vegetable beds lining the back fence. She often wondered why more people didn’t sit out there instead of the front porch that overlooked the asphalt parking lot. This seemed to be the forgotten space
where the residents were concerned. Of course Miss Trina would appreciate it. And there she was, at the end of the hedgerow, sitting in her wheelchair with her head dipped to the side, sound asleep. Phyllis walked up slowly so she wouldn’t startle her,
but when she rounded in front of the chair she realized Trina was washed of color, she had that grey translucent look of death. She reached for her hand and felt the cold stiff skin that no longer protected the spirit of Catrina Walker. Her soul was gone and
the perishable and broken container that shielded her was no longer needed. It was a peaceful scene and the look on Trina’s face was one that Phyllis would never forget. There were no words to describe it, but it was the moment she stopped fearing death.
After the ambulance pulled away and the uproar that surrounded the passing of a resident had calmed, Phyllis offered to go to Trina’s room to box her things. With no family to speak of, without
a written directive, her belongings would end up being donated to the local thrift store. She walked into her room and set a cardboard box on her bed. Starting with her nightstand, she found the thing she most wanted to retrieve, Trina’s journal. There
was a small piece of paper torn from an envelope sticking out of the top of the book, in a scratchy cursive it had two words, “For Phyllis.” Phyllis caught her breath and clutched the book to her chest. She finished the task as fast as she could
and put the journal with her personal belongings before anyone told her it wasn’t allowed. Her twelve hours dragged on longer than any night she had spent there since she started. She usually went home, took a hot shower, kissed Shelby goodbye as she
headed out for school and climbed into bed. But today sleep could wait, she would sit at the kitchen table so she could read the journal. At least start it, she wanted to savor it as long as possible.
With Shelby out the door and a cup of Chamomile tea steaming in front of her, Phyllis opened the journal. She wasn’t much of a reader, she spent more time in front of the television than a book. But a couple times over the years, she had read
books that made her dread getting to the last page. She was familiar with that disappointing feeling of knowing there were only a few pages left and she never wanted the story to end, the journey through the journal had been the same; it went too fast.
Holding the last few pages between her index finger and thumb, she closed the book over to rest on her hand and thought for a moment. Was she ready for it to end or should she wait? The Kleenex box that made its way to the kitchen table had been the catch-all
for the emotions that slipped off the pages and puddled in Phyllis’ heart. Being the kind of person who cried at television commercials, she was an easy mark for the tug that came from the images of Trina as a child. Her family’s time at the cabin
was the stuff dreams were made of. She wished she could have been friends with Trina’s mother, and hoped a little of the love that spilled out on the pages she so carefully documented would rub off on her. Trina was currently 10 years old and there
were only a few pages left. In honesty, there was no way she was going to walk away from the story without knowing where it ended. She took a break to make a fresh cup of tea and her thoughts drifted to Shelby. She was a sweet girl who always got good grades
and pitched in to help around the house without being asked. To find a cigarette in her purse was so disappointing, but she wasn’t going to let the idea of smoking come between them. She would do everything in her power to convince her not to smoke,
but she would also treat her with respect in the process, something she hadn’t been doing the last couple of days. After reading the journal she felt terrible for over-reacting and would make it up to her when she got home. She tilted the saucepan
of boiling water over her cup and immediately caught the earthy scent of the fresh chamomile tea bag as the steam curled up from the counter. The warmth of the mug felt good on her hands, she made her way back to the table. As tired as she was, she had a calm
and peacefulness that was rare in her life. Seemed like she was always exhausted and worried about something, but at this moment she was only focused on the gift Trina had given her; it was a panacea.
She lifted the journal she had placed face down on the table, turned it over and carefully ran her hand along the binding to smooth the page back enough to see all the text. She had stopped at the beginning of the entry on this page, the date was September
23rd, 1945, and her family had gathered at the cabin for Trina’s birthday. Phyllis thought it was interesting that Trina had passed away the day after her birthday.
is your birthday, my beautiful girl! It’s been a fun celebration weekend at the cabin. Mom Mom and Pappy came up today to join us, so all your biggest fans were here to celebrate your actual birthday, (so glad it fell on a Sunday!) It was a special birthday
with the recent news of the war finally being over. Even at your tender age of ten, you seemed to grasp the awful reality of war. You’ve been jumping around all weekend, excited that it’s your ‘first birthday without the war!’ Well,
not quite, but almost. Certainly the first you would remember without the war. No matter what, it feels good. And you have been a constant reminder for Dad and I to continually be grateful.” The entry went on to talk about the special cake her grandparents
brought up with them, a cake that was ordered at a bakery, not homemade. And a list of all the gifts they spoiled her with, not one but two Barbie dolls, clothes for the dolls, (some handmade by her grandmother,) a Slinky, an Etch A Sketch, four Little
Lulu comic books and the board game, Monopoly. It was the last gift and was opened immediately to start a game. Picture perfect. It was no wonder Miss Trina was such a kind old soul, she had a lot of love growing up.
Phyllis knew she was coming to the last two pages and she lamented the end to this journey. Having the stories of Trina as a child brought her back to life again. When the book was done, she would be gone for good. She turned
The final entry was not in her mother’s handwriting, but in Trina’s challenged scrawl. It was dated, 9/23/15. The same date as the last entry her mother had written
70 years earlier. It was a letter to Phyllis.
I thought I was going to leave this world without ever
having the gift of another human being’s embrace, it’s been since my youth that someone last took me into their arms. You have no idea the significance of your kindness. For a life poorly lived, I’ve had much to atone for and your gestures
of affection suggested a penance fulfilled. Were you to only read this journal without an explanation, you would have imagined me a precious child and a decent person. But, sadly, the opposite is true. I grew up to be a thoughtless woman who made it her job
to pass judgment on people and none so harshly as my parents.
When I received this journal in the mail, an unknown layer of my life opened to me, a parallel existence
I hadn’t even realized had unfolded. It was a rich and satisfying life that was carelessly disregarded. I am the perfect example of a person who missed the forest for the trees. Receiving the journal was a saving grace, especially considering it
came the year I was appointed to the bench. The judicial system has no place for self-righteousness and I was the worst of it. The journal was my judge and jury, and I was guilty with no justification for my actions. I am eternally grateful to my mother for
keeping this journal and teaching me in her gentle and patient way, long past our time together. She made me a better judge.
I’ve never gotten close
to anyone before, I didn’t want to live a lie and I was too ashamed of the person I was to be honest about my life. So I devoted myself to my work and nothing else. Then, you came along. You hugged me and kissed my cheek. There are no words to express
my gratitude. I have come full circle, my friend. You brought back my mother and father and, by your embrace, I now know they have forgiven me.
I put in a call to
my lawyer, you will be getting a little something in the mail. (I called the Edgecombe business offices and cleared it, no worries.) It’s more than enough to help you quit your second job and spend more time with your daughter. I’m grateful to
be able to pass something on to a mother and daughter who love each other.
Make sure you continue to give her those embraces of yours, they are life changing.