Now it seemed obvious that a renewal of spirit had been taking place behind her closed door. I placed Dimity’s letter beside me on the couch and took up the buff-colored one. Looking over the familiar scrawl, I pictured my mother at her writing desk, bending over these pages as she had bent over so many others, and after a few deep breaths, I opened the envelope.
Something fell into my lap. It was a photograph, a very old photograph, stained in places, the corners creased, one missing altogether; a photograph of … nothing much, as far as I could tell: a gnarled old tree in the foreground of a grassy clearing, a valley beyond, some distant hills. It was no place I’d ever been, no place I recognized, and there was nothing else in it: no people, no animals, no buildings of any sort. Baffled, I set it aside and unfolded the pages of my mother’s letter.
Sweetie,
All right, Sarah Bernhardt, dry your eyes and blow your nose. Your big scene is over.
I know what you’re thinking right now, just as surely as if I were sitting there looking at you. You’ve never been much good at hiding your feelings, not just from me, but from the world at large. It has always been one of your most endearing and exasperating traits. Your thoughts are on your face right now, and I can tell that they are U-N-H-A-P-P-Y.
You feel as though Dimity and I have played a pretty mean trick on you and I can’t blame you, because in a sense we have. But look at it this way: if I’d told you about everything, you’d know it all already and I’d be dead and that would be that. As it is, I may be dead, but you still have a lot to learn about me—the story continues, so to speak. I like the idea. I think you will, too, after you finish moping and feeling sorry for yourself.
You’re probably wondering about the photograph. I am, too. That’s why I’m giving it to you. This is serious, so I need your full attention. This is not something I can tell to Reginald.
Dimity said that she would tell you how we first met, and I’m sure she has. I’m equally sure that she hasn’t told you the state she was in, that day at the zoo. Not to put too fine a point on it, she was a wreck. She looked as though she hadn’t eaten a solid meal or slept a good night’s sleep in a month. The reason she ran into me was because she was walking around in a daze, only half aware of her surroundings. I took her back to her flat, got some tea and dry toast into her, then stayed with her until she fell asleep. I talked myself hoarse that evening, and the next, and gradually, over the course of a few weeks, I managed to coax her out of her shell. She talked about a lot of things after that, but she never mentioned what it was that had knocked her for such a loop.
After I got to know her better, I asked her about it. It was as though I’d slapped her. The color drained from her face, she said there were some things she couldn’t speak of, even to me, and she made me promise never to ask her about it again. You know how I am about promises. I never asked her again, but I never ceased to wonder.
Dimity took me down to her cottage once, to show me the place where she’d grown up. While we were there, two of her neighbors pulled me aside. They were elderly and not very coherent, but I got the impression that Dimity had suffered some kind of nervous collapse the last time she’d been home. Apparently, they’d found her in the cottage one day, with photo albums strewn about her on the floor, mumbling to herself and clutching—you guessed it—this photograph.
They were convinced it had something to do with her condition, so they took it from her, then didn’t know what to do with it. They were afraid to give it back to her, but they didn’t want to destroy it, either, so they decided to pass it on to me for safekeeping. They said I was “what Dimity needed” and seemed to think I’d know the right time to return the photograph to her. I tried to explain about my promise, but they wouldn’t take no for an answer.
So here I am, all these years later, still pondering the question of how an innocent-looking photograph could cause a woman like Dimity to fall apart. And why someone who opened her arms to the world kept one part of her life in darkness.
I’d like you to find out for me. I don’t know how. I don’t know where the picture was taken or by whom. The neighbors who gave it to me are no doubt dead and gone by now, so they won’t be able to help you. It may even be that the answers died with Dimity, but if not, I know that my unstoppable baby girl will find them.
Why is it so important to me? I’m not sure. It’s certainly too late to fix whatever it was that went wrong. But I can’t help feeling that, whatever it was, it needs to be brought into the light. It can’t hurt my friend now, and I’ll rest easier, knowing you’re looking for answers to questions I was never allowed to ask. You can tell me all about it the next time I see you.
And that’s about all for now, except to tell you to scratch Reginald behind the ears for me. And to tell you that I love you very much. You will always be my favorite only child.