Tristan rustled in her alcove bed, thoughts disrupting her slumber. Something just wasn’t sitting right with her. Why was her father so willing to get her off the hook for this assignment? He had never done that before. She didn’t want to get out of the project entirely, but she at least wanted him to be aware of what the problem was. Although she would never admit this aloud, what Tristan wanted more than anything was to hear the full story about her mother from her father.
The only thing Jack ever told her about her mother was that she was gone. No explanation how, or why, as if she vanished out of thin air. There had to be more to the story than that. People don’t just vanish. Why did she leave? Where did she go? And why did no one seem overly concerned with finding her? Tristan had always gotten the impression that her father loved her mother tremendously, and to speak of her pained him deeply. But didn’t she have a right to know the whole truth?
In frustration, Tristan kicked off her purple comforter, giving up on sleep for the time being. She slipped her feet into a pair of moccasins and quietly trudged from her tiny bedroom into her brothers’ bedroom. Her brothers were already sleeping, so she had no qualms about booting up the ancient computer and giving her project yet another go. Although she was determined to give the assignment her all, she feared that the little information she knew about her mother would simply not be good enough for the persistently picky Mr. Kendricks.
*
Exhausted, Jack walked down the hallway to check on his children before bed. He wandered down the long hallway, past his own bedroom suite and beyond the one belonging to his sister on the opposite side of the hall. Generations of family portraits and paintings led the way from the master suites to the single bedrooms. He approached an old wooden door on his right. The word “nursery” was etched into the wood, though someone had tried to paint over it in years prior; below hung a sign that read simply, “Tristan.” Jack cracked open the door to reveal Tristan’s tiny bedroom. In the room stood a wardrobe and an ancient alcove bed, with the bed linens still perfectly intact.
With a lurch of his stomach and an awful sense of déjà vu, Jack closed the door quietly, leaving it slightly ajar. He walked a bit faster now to the last door in the hall, and opened it with a push. Jack listened with a touch of amusement as he took in the symphony of snores that was coming from the two sets of wooden alcove bunk beds. To his left, Blake and Tommy slept peacefully, while his nephew Shane occupied the bottom bunk to his right as Liam crowded the top bunk. In a recliner in the back corner of the room, Adam slept soundly. As Jack turned to leave the room, he noticed there was someone asleep at the keyboard. When he removed the hood, long dark curls were revealed and he found who he was looking for, fast asleep. Jack read the words on the computer screen, and a fracture in his heart began to form.
Tristan Morrow October 6, 1997
English 104 Room 219
Biography Assignment
Subject’s Full Name
Catherine Elizabeth Westfeld-Morrow
I never met my mother. I hear she was lovely. I hear she was crazy. I hear lots of things. One thing's for certain though, she didn’t stick around long enough to teach me a single thing. My oldest brothers, Adam and Liam have memories of her. I have not a single one. Were this assignment about lessons my father taught me, or advice my Aunt Bridgette gave me or practical jokes my brothers have played on me, I’d have hundreds of words to fill this page. But as it is, the assignment is to write a biography on someone I never knew and regrettably, I have nothing further to add.
Jack released a deep sigh. How could simple words from a fifteen-year-old girl rip open old wounds afresh again? It was as if she ripped the bandage off of a healing scab. His intentions were not to have his children hate their mother, nor to alienate them from her completely. His intentions were to protect them from the horrible truth that occurred in the winter of 1981.
In one swift movement, Jack lifted his daughter from the rickety folding chair and cradled her in his arms. Delicately, he carried her out of the boys’ bedroom and down the hall. With a skillful move of his foot, he nudged the door to Tristan’s tiny bedroom open.
The room was no bigger than a small walk-in closet. Her alcove bed was crafted from mahogany wood and built into the wall some generations before. Carved into the wood were elaborate flowers, fleur-de-lis and a bold cursive M across the center of the frame. Adorning the bed was a brass rod from which purple, gauzy curtains with silver crescent moons hung. Jack approached the bed and moved the billowing curtains aside so he could tuck her safely in her bed. With the tug of a gold tassel, the curtains closed again. Tristan let out a sigh as she slept.
Wearily, Jack walked down the hallway to his own bedroom. Thoughts continued to flow, a stream of unwanted reminders of his wife’s final curtain call. The night his daughter was born, the very same night his wife had disappeared. How he yearned to protect his children from the devastating truth, but somehow, he knew that one day he would have to tell them, especially Tristan. How very alike they were too, with the same hair, same face, and same laugh. It took forcible measures to keep from calling Tristan her mother’s name: Catherine.