Sweet Karoline (26 page)

Chapter
24

Melody lumbers into the room. Her face displays the same fear. She tries, along with Miriam, to pin Dembi's arms, but he gouges his skin. Blood spurts from his cheeks and arms.

I
can hear Memé respond to his distress with a wailing of her own. Muffled by the oxygen tent, it's a loud rumbling in her chest. It sounds as though she pounds the bed with her legs.

At
last I move. By now Miriam and Dee have wrestled Dembi's arms. They hang onto them like squirming snakes.

"
It's okay, Dembi, I've got a safe hiding place." Inspired by some message from the air, I add, "Other Anne said for me to protect it."

Our
brother's arms stop flailing. His screech becomes a quiet moan. His eyes are still wild, bulging as though he's consumed a psychedelic drug. Miriam and Melody hang on to both hands, murmuring soothing words. I continue to hear Memé's anguish in the background.

"
Dembi, we have to go and see Memé. Listen. Listen. She's so upset. You have to see her so she knows you are okay now."

The
moan stops. Dembi yanks his hands away from the other two women and disappears down the hallway. Miriam and Dee follow.

I
pick up the bags and race to my room where I store the paintings on the shelves once more. When I arrive at Memé's door the scene continues to be dramatic. Dembi is curled up on the bed beside our mother, rocking and moaning. Dee straightens the oxygen tent and puts the covers back to normal. Miriam sits on the end of the bed, patting their legs. Her touch begins to calm them.

Melody
looks up as I enter.

"
What on earth happened?"

"
We don't know, Dee, I told you."

For
Miriam, this is a testy response. I follow her lead.

"
Something upset him but we're not sure what. We'll find out."

Memé
is quiet now. Her arm rests on Dembi's body as he rolls around beside her. Just then the doorbell rings.

"
What now?"

Melody
is not her usual patient, calm self. I'm surprised at how much this incident has unsettled her.

"
It's probably the alarm company," I say, gently putting one hand on her elbow. "Will you go, Dee? If you handle that we'll take care of Dembi and Memé."

"
Should I tell them to go away?"

"
Why don't you sit with them in the kitchen and look at their information? Tell them what we want and ask for cost estimates. Ask all the details about installation, like when and how long it will take, and so on."

The
big woman looks unconvinced but she disappears out the door. Miriam and I take long, shuddering breaths. Clearly Dembi's sighting of the paintings in the house instead of their church hiding spot has completely unhinged him, but we're not ready to share the discovery with 'not family'.

"
Dembi, I'm so sorry I moved the paintings." I am close enough to him to whisper. "They are safer now. I have a treasure hiding spot in my room."

He
stops rocking long enough to stare at me. "Hiding spot?"

"
Yes, a really good one. Safer than the church or your cave. No one will find them."

Tears
spill down his face. He puts his fingers in his mouth and mumbles. It sounds like 'drown' but I'm not sure. Then he closes his eyes and rocks, though more slowly. I think he is less upset.

Miriam
and I gather at Memé's side. Her eyes blink up at us and she says, "Diable."

This
time, the word feels like a message. Our mother wants to tell us something. Information? Or a warning?

"
It's okay, Memé," Miriam says.

"
We'll take care of you," I add. "You and Dembi."

The
rocking has ceased and now we see why. Dembi is fast asleep.

Memé
squeezes our hands and closes her eyes, too, her arm crooked over her son's huddled form. Tears sprout from the lump of grief in my stomach. These simple, sweet people do not deserve to feel so vulnerable.

"
Who is Diable? Who is the devil?" Miriam asks and I see that her eyes are filled, too. "She's been saying that for three or four weeks now, every once in a while."

I
gulp down a cry. Memé wasn't calling me Diable. That was my guilt, my anger and insecurity. She was telling me something even then.

"
I remember you told me she was saying other weird things," I say as we head toward the kitchen, an unspoken agreement to see what's happening with the alarm system.

"
She could speak when I first got here but as she got sicker, she gradually went to the one-word speech that you're used to. And she seemed to get scared."

"
How long ago?"

"
I'd say about a month, maybe six weeks. By then she was in a lot of pain. She'd undergone all the tests and some chemo. She just didn't seem to be able to handle it. She stopped speaking, though the doctors had no idea why. There didn't seem to be a medical reason. They thought it might have been psychological or a result of a loss of oxygen when the cancer started moving into her lungs. For all the tests and treatments, we had to make long trips to the hospital in Hamilton and she hated it. I chocked all her behavior up to stress. Then suddenly she started repeating single words again. Like Diable or knife. Punch or kick. Once or twice, she said drowned."

Drowned?
Didn't Dembi say that, too? Is all this violence a memory of the past abuse that Memé suffered? Maybe she passed on her fears to him.

Miriam
is silent for a moment. We stop in the hallway within earshot of a murmur of voices from the kitchen. She keeps her voice at a whisper.

"
Larue. She called out for him a lot. There was another name, too, but I could never make it out, other than it ended with n. At the time I thought it was Anne. I thought she was referring to Karoline."

"
That's something I don't understand. Why did Memé think Karoline was me? Obviously she knew that I was your triplet and ought to look like you and Dembi even in adulthood."

"
I never knew to ask. Karoline was here well before I ever visited. I have no idea how she ingratiated herself. Memé seemed to accept that she was our sister Anne. And of course I never doubted it, so I didn't even think about it."

The
layers of Karoline's deceptions threaten to overwhelm me again. I can't think about any of this right now.

"
Dembi is terrified because I moved the paintings. Who is scaring him? Diable?"

Miriam
looks at me. "It was smart of you to tell them they were safe. What made you tell him that Other Anne said to move them?"

"
I honestly don't know. I started thinking that Karoline had to have something to do with the whole CoJon thing. I have no idea how she was involved. But there wasn't anyone else I could think of who might have manipulated Dembi. And maybe even brought home a painting or two."

"
I see what you mean."

Miriam
looks at me with eyes that show thoughts racing back and forth. Questions and doubts cloud her brown depths. It occurs to me that she has no reason to trust me.

"
Miriam, I promise, I am as confused as you are. I truly have no real idea of what Karoline did or was up to or thought…I swear to you. I was kept in the dark and had my head too far up my own ass to look around."

My
sister can't help but laugh. "Anne, after these last few days, my intuition tells me that you are completely trustworthy. To be honest, there was always a little voice in my head that warned me about Karoline. Something not quite right, a false note. But I ignored the signs. With you…we're part of a whole, you and I."

I
turn and throw my arms around her. "I love you."

There
's that L-word again. It's getting a little easier every time I say it.

"
I love you, too, Sis," she says and I am filled with gratitude and joy.

"
Let's go pretend we are interested in this alarm shit."

Several
brochures and plans later, we make an appointment for the alarm company to return on Monday. We've decided to wire up the whole place and it's going to cost a fortune but I don't care. Despite her protests, we send Melody home.

"
You've been working for nine straight days," I say. "And we need you for the powwow tomorrow. We can handle everything here for the rest of the day."

Finally,
she concedes. Her car kicks up a huge spray from the driveway. A thick drizzle continues to plow into the wet ground. I wonder how on earth we're going to get to the powwow. Or if.

Miriam
and I spend the rest of the day tending to our patients. Dembi sleeps through most of it, sucking on his fingers, regressed to infancy. Rolly curls up at his back. I am heartsick. My meddling has caused my brother's suffering. I wish I'd never found those fucking paintings.

We
bring dinner but neither Dembi nor Memé eats very much. Miriam and I have sandwiches in the room as we watch them sleep. We are too overwhelmed and confused to even discuss the CoJon issue or Dembi's reaction or the powwow or Karoline. We just sit and stare off into our own spaces.

When
it's dark I go to the parlor to call Ethan. The receiver feels even heavier when combined with tinny silence. The telephone is dead. I wonder if the storm last night has had anything to do with its malfunction. Miriam surmises that there's a line down somewhere. I feel so terribly empty, as though I am starving to death.

I
go around the house checking locks before I head to my bedroom. Under the duvet I shiver and sniffle. My new awareness is not much fun. I try to remember if I ever felt depressed, sad or lonely in the past and I can't. I don't think I felt much of anything other than a flat level of satisfaction and smugness. I don't recall pure joy but I don't have any memory of this dreadful loss, either.

All
at once I notice a profound silence. The rain has finally stopped. Now the creaks and groans of the dampened old house skitter back into my hearing.

I
jump out of bed. My feet stick to the old hardwood and linoleum as I try to run on tiptoes up the hallways. At Memé's bedroom, I brake and peer around the half-open door. My mother and brother are sound asleep. The oxygen machine sounds like a third person.

I
open Miriam's door. She turns over, blinking at my shadow, as sensitive to sound as I.

"
Miriam," I whisper so she's not frightened.

She
moves over and pats the other side of the bed. I crawl under the covers and snuggle up to her. She's warm and soft. I give a little mew of happiness. Being fully aware and fully alive is worth every low point. I am wrapped in my sister's arms, secure, loved. Strong together. I wouldn't trade places with anyone.

With
a rush of insight I realize that I've never experienced this kind of relationship before. My 'sisterhood' with Karoline, or my friendship with Parris, never came close to my feelings for Miriam. When a sister is also your friend there is nothing like it. I know we didn't grow up together, but we shared a womb and that seems to erase all the lost years. My sister knows me better than anyone. She accepts who I am but helps me to aspire to my personal best, too.

I
tamp down on the 'ifs', which threaten to keep me awake. If only Memé hadn't given us away. If only I'd never met Karoline. If only I hadn't gone out onto the balcony that night.

Once
they are filed away, I drift off to a healing sleep, warm in the heat of my sister's body, wrapped in her unconditional love.

Dear Diary,

Do
you believe in the devil? According to a bunch of religions the devil is an angel that's been turned. A fallen angel. There's often some head guy who convinces everyone else to become a devil. Does this mean that angels are gullible and easily led? Why are they called angels then? Maybe they should just be called human, since human beings are, essentially, very stupid and easily duped.

Chapter
25

The glorious morning speaks of a perfect day for a powwow. Not that I can truly picture what the word means. I step onto the porch with my coffee and breathe and listen. Squirrels rumble across the roof. Birds whistle and call from the willows and evergreens. It's a riot of noise, yet infused with a serenity that I've never heard from my balcony in L.A. I try to picture our apartment with Karoline alive in it and all I can see is a fuzzy glint. At my back the farmhouse pulses with life. With my new reality.

Dembi
is quiet this morning, but his excited anticipation of the powwow appears to have overcome his anxiety.

Miriam
and I tell him that we will take good care of the paintings. After the powwow we will all talk about them and decide what to do. We will protect him and Memé. He smiles slightly. Not his usual unabashed grin, but it's an improvement.

Dee
arrives at ten and Memé is almost ready. The four of us are in her room, fussing over her dress, playing with her hair. Despite the paraphernalia that helps her breathe, she looks even more like herself, Elizabeth Johnston, the lovely Libby. Her face has signs of life that have been absent as of late. She has shape and substance again. Her eyes, a scant week ago sunken and dead, sparkle with joy.

Melody
is astonished. She claps her hands and tears roll down her cheeks. I am amazed at her freely given emotions. It must be soothing to have such a gift. To never hold anything at bay.

"
I can't believe the change in her," she says. "It's a miracle."

She
puts a large, comforting hand on my shoulder. Her eyes say that she can't believe the change in me, too. I smile back at her and impulsively wrap my arms around her in as tight a hug as I can manage around her ample flesh. Dee is startled, but she returns the squeeze.

Memé
wears a grey ponytail underneath a big red bonnet. The hat looks somewhat out of sync with her native dress, but it'll protect her from the sun. Her traditional garment's slightly musty odor speaks to the time it has spent unused in her closet. We have no idea where she got the outfit, but it's well made, hand-embroidered, and old. Squares of yellow, blue and white decorate the hem, sleeves and shoulders. A turquoise crest, bearing the outline of a bear on its hind legs, is sewn onto the front. She wears the turquoise moccasins that hung in the closet with the dress. Other than the oxygen tubes in her nose and the tank at her side, Memé looks resplendent in traditional native garb. She has crossed back into her matriarchal heritage.

Miriam
and I wear sundresses, mine turquoise and hers pink. They're remarkably close in style considering we bought them in different countries. We represent the traditional mass consumer.

Dembi
produces a fancy shirt that looks hand-painted. It's light cotton, streaked with red, yellow and white circles and flowers, matching Memé's colors. Accompanied by Dee in her voluminous green-leaf smock, I am sure we make quite the parade.

Dee
has arranged for the rental of a large van to escort us to the powwow. It's well equipped for transporting a wheelchair. Our driver is a tall thin black man with long curly locks. The native influence is evident in his high cheekbones and long, narrow nose. His name is Viho, he says, as he effortlessly wheels Memé's chair onto the lift and tucks her skirts fastidiously around her.

"
It means 'chief'," he laughs in response to our quizzical looks. "My parents really wanted to keep the native culture alive. Unfortunately, I'm not a chief in any way, shape or form."

We
all laugh with him. Viho is immediately likeable.

Miriam
decides to take her car, too. We are uncertain of Dembi. His behavior has not returned to normal. If he wants to come home early, or has a meltdown again, we want the freedom to return to the farmhouse. Or even race off to the nearest hospital.

Dee
sits up front with Viho. Dembi buckles into the bucket seat beside Memé. I am in the middle. We wave excitedly to Miriam, turn left out of the driveway and take the new road into town.

It
's quite a distance to the fairgrounds outside of Burford. All the fields we pass are full of puddles from the recent rains. Crops show their appreciation for the sun by pointing straight at the sky. Everything is a deep green, lush and thriving. All they need now is for the rain to go away for a while and let them grow.

There
's a mix of beauty and ugliness in the scenery. A huge auto graveyard mars the land with rust and brokenness. Power lines thrust themselves through clumps of huge evergreens, cedars and pines, unsightly steel cable as umbilical cord to modernity. Purple flowers glow in the sunshine. Willow trees bow in their beautiful green dresses. A disused factory stares through leaded windows, its piles of brick, tin, rusted parts and empty trailers reminders of industrial hubris. Yellow wild grasses tickle the edges of the fields. Light green cabbages look like crayon lines. A small airport has shaved the land to replace it with strips of pavement. Yet the shiny silver bird that flies overhead through the rays of sun looks gorgeous.

I
watch a graveyard whiz past my consciousness. Rounded, scraped, ghostly sentinels, the graves are spotted, aged, green with fungi. Maple trees, clover and dandelions paint the landscape. Somewhere a church bell rings. I am mesmerized and almost forget our destination.

A
long line of cars on a dirt road alerts us to the proximity of the site. We're lucky with parking, however. A van for the handicapped has priority. Viho assists with the disembarkation. To my surprise, he plans to stay right with us, push the wheelchair over difficult spots and help with whatever we need.

I
notice that he's especially interested in Miriam. As we follow Memé from the parking lot to the entry point, he maneuvers the chair so he is walking beside my sister. He talks animatedly about the powwow and its history. But I think he only does that so he can be near her.

The
very large Indian fellow at the gate looks like an L.A. bouncer with his thick arms and massive head. I notice the signs warning against bringing alcohol into the park. I guess he's here to ensure compliance to the rules.

He
makes a fuss over Memé.

"
Libby! I'm Charlie's boy, Anton. Do you remember me?"

Memé
nods and smiles her crooked grin. I'm not sure she really understands. Her lined brown hand reaches out to pat his, though.

Anton
stares at the three-ness of us but he remains polite despite his obvious inquisitiveness. So it goes as we traverse the wooden planks that lead to the stands. Friendly Canadian greetings cannot quite mask the astonishment, shock and curiosity as our odd little group passes by.

Dee
makes it easier. She knows everyone. Introductions are fast and numerous. I doubt that I'll remember any of the names or even the faces.

There
is a huge crowd. Families, moms and dads with little ones, elderly parents, teenagers, young and old people are everywhere. Many are dressed in shorts and t-shirts but lots display traditional dress and wild colors. To my overloaded senses it's a sea of feathers, paints, beads and emblems.

The
sun is already hot but it's not humid. The air is clear, rich and scented with damp flowers and leaves. Most of the water has run off this area, as it's surrounded by a dip in the land that leads to the river. The Grand rushes past, happily full, gurgling with contentment.

The
stands form a circle around an earthen track. There are lots of entrances between the rows of seats, with one large one to our left. In the middle is a mound of very green grass and empty flagpoles. The bench on which we sit is in the first row, where Memé's wheelchair provides perfect sightlines without being in anyone else's way.

Viho
sits next to Miriam with me on the other side. Dembi stays close to Memé. Dee disappears to find Tommy.

The
air is charged. Everyone chatters away. The boards bend as more people hoist themselves onto the seats. Light little people spring all the way to the top, proud kings and queens of the castle. There's a feeling of anticipation that connects all of us.

Even
Dembi is cheered by the excitement. Though he has not said anything, he stops flapping and his smile is genuine. Miriam points out that he has clamped a hand onto Memé's chair. As though he is anxiously hanging onto her. We are still worried about him. I feel that knot of guilt again.

Dee
returns with Tommy. He's a foot shorter than she is, bald and bespectacled, but his smile is generous and fun. In his eyes we can see that he adores his wife.

Suddenly
the ceremony transports us away from our worry about treasures or illnesses or the darkness of night.

First,
the drummers enter the ring. One of them is a round, short native man. An aging wrestler who carries his drum like a featherweight. His fat fingers fly over the canvas, sending up a rhythm in perfect time with our collective heartbeats. He sports a beautiful white and orange-feathered circlet, cocked toward the back of his head. His vest, shirt, fringed pants and moccasins are lined with bright orange embroidery and beads. He looks fierce and magnificent. His face is a frown of concentration.

The
second musician is a very tall black man who taps two bongos that add a lighter sound to the beat. He's scantily dressed, showing off his naked well-muscled chest already shiny with sweat. His only attire is a thick red and blue cloth that covers his rounded buttocks and obviously generous frontage. I try not to think of pulling on the string that holds these pieces in place. He is a breathtakingly beautiful male.

Next
come two people who must be officials. One is dressed in a white t-shirt and modern grey slacks. The other is clad in a black t-shirt, pants and a baseball cap. Both are older but tall and trim, one black and one brown. Each of them carries an emblem perched on wooden poles. Next, a young woman in a red dress carries the Canadian flag.

On
their heels come the dancers. They are all ages and shapes, male, female, black, brown and white. Babies in arms. Children traipse after parents or older siblings who know the routines.

The
colors are astonishing, so vivid are they in the bright morning light. Deep reds, sea blues, fierce yellows. Bells and beads and shells and embroidery all mounted with artistic abandon. Feathers decorate heads or are carried as fans that are not just fans but part of the ceremony.

A
melodious wave rolls into the circle, gathering strength as the number of people increase. I realize that they are chanting along with the drumbeat. The sound becomes a pleasant rumble that resonates in my blood. Miriam feels it, too. She grasps my hand in exhilaration. Perhaps everyone here experiences the same thing. The vibrations course through our bodies to connect mind and soul.

The
dancers feel it most. They ride it. Dip forward in moccasined feet. Sway. Twirl. Tap the ground. Bring the chant from stomach to throat to air.

I
close my eyes so the color doesn't sap any of the emotion. Every beat echoes in my heart. The wooden benches pulsate.

The
parade spirals in on itself. There are layers of dancers now. They all follow the leaders. A chain that hops, leaps and steps. I open my eyes when the seats underneath us begin to spring up. People head for the track, summoned by both lead dancers. A deep voice reiterates the invitation through a microphone.

"
Come celebrate with us. Join the chain. Join the dance of peace."

We
can't take Memé's wheelchair onto the gravelly, muddy track, so the three of us stay near the benches. Viho, Dee and Tommy join the group. We're on our feet, though. We sway and hop around our mother. Memé smiles and moves her body from side to side as much as she can. We mimic the bend and step of the dancers in the center.

Briefly
I wonder what my L.A. cohorts would think of me right now. Ethan and Parris would probably join in. As for the reaction of the rest of sin city, I put my head back and laugh with pure delight.

At
first we don't notice that Dembi has halted all movement. He becomes a solid in our fluid motion. When Miriam stops and puts her hand on his shoulder, he goes into a frenzy again. This time he doesn't screech. His breath is pulled inward, mouth wide open. A mournful sound moans from his chest. He flaps and begins to slap his own face.

Goosebumps
sprout all over me despite the heat. I look around for Viho but he has disappeared into the crowd. The chants and drumming continue to rise all around us. Dembi is frantic.

"
Home?" Miriam asks loudly in our brother's ear. "Home?"

Dembi
stops to look at her. She grasps his chin and forces his eyes to focus on hers.

"
Home?" she repeats.

His
head wags up and down in time with the beats. Continuous nodding replaces self-flagellation.

Miriam
takes his arm and pulls her keys out of her shoulder bag. "Anne, I'll take him home. You stay with Memé. Take your time."