Where was that Hannah? Who was she?
That girl, that Hannah, had stayed home for her Gran, had cleaned houses to earn cash. If I’d known the truth, what would’ve been different? For one thing, I would never have been put in the position of running into Spencer in his kitchen that day and all that came from that.
Yet who could say what else, what good things, might never have happened if I’d lived my life differently?
On the drive home, I pulled off into the lumberyard parking lot. There were enough cars in the lot that mine didn’t stand out, but everyone was in the building or the fenced yard working, so I had privacy. The manila folder lay on the seat beside me. I didn’t remember picking it up and taking it with me. But here it was. I reached for it.
With great caution, I opened the folder. The headline was stark. It read SMALL-TOWN TRAGEDY. The black ink was fading. The newsprint was old. Twenty years old. It felt brittle. I read through each news clipping in turn and returned them to the folder. I learned nothing new. Mr. Browne had been correct in his telling of the story. I drove home, but I didn’t remember the trip. Everything I had learned, both about the truth and the lies—a lifetime of lies—had dredged up resentments I never knew I harbored.
My grandparents, the mainstays of my world as I knew it, the people I trusted as I trusted no one else in the universe, had kept this from me. Even the bare, basic fact of my father’s empty grave. Gran had known all these years, and she’d let me go on in ignorance. I had to confront her. This was unacceptable.
But.
A big but. It occurred to me that I hadn’t been the first to deceive, but I had embraced my own deceptions. Sweet Ellen’s father’s grave was also empty. For the purpose of saving questions. Of solving potential ugliness and keeping it from intruding in our lives.
No, I wouldn’t confront Gran.
Our dirt road dipped and then rose again, and I stopped in that curve. It was the last stretch before the house became visible. I sat in my car, the trees tall and dense on either side of me, and picked up the folder again.
I’d dug an empty grave and put a cross on it for the same reasons. Would I, could I, have done differently?
If not, then I’d better embrace the truth and not allow it to trouble my reality. Apparently, we Cooper women had a way of writing our own history, either to suit ourselves or to save ourselves and our loved ones from pain.
In the end, did knowing the truth make me feel better about things? No.
Gran was sitting with Ellen on the bed and reading her a story when I walked in. She looked up and stared at me hard. I stared right back, until I realized she was focused on the folder in my hand.
I walked over to the woodstove. I used my shirttail to shield my hand as I opened the little door and shoved the folder in. I shut the door and turned back to Gran, who was still staring at me. So was Ellen.
“What’s that, Mommy?” she asked. “What did you put in the fire?”
I kissed her forehead. “Nothing, honey. Mommy’s getting rid of some old papers we don’t need. Trash.” I turned to Gran. “You two did OK while I was gone?”
Gran nodded, and I saw a tear swell at the outside corner of her eye and wet her cheek.
“I was gone longer than expected. You two are probably hungry.” I tickled Ellen’s tummy, and she giggled. “I’ll get supper started.”
I went into the kitchen, still confused but home again, and that counted for a lot.
What was truth anyway?
My truth was there in the living room where my Gran was again reading to Ellen in our snug, warm home where an old woman’s chuckle could mix with a child’s laughter and make my heart beat warm and steady again.
I chose that truth and whatever came with it.
A few weeks after my meeting with Duncan Browne, Ellen nearly scared the life out of me. I heard her scream. Gran, who’d fallen asleep, awoke with a start and yelled my name. I ran to the living room.
Ellen was waving her hand and crying out.
“She touched the stove,” Gran said. “Ellen, honey, why’d you do that? Hannah, fetch the butter.”
Ellen ran to Gran and buried her tearful face in Gran’s blouse. Gran began soothing her.
It had all happened very fast. What I took in, first and foremost, as soon as I saw Ellen wasn’t seriously injured, was the open woodstove door and a piece of paper she’d drawn on. The drawing was on the floor nearby.
I closed the stove’s small door, picked up Ellen, and carried her to the kitchen sink. I ran the water cold and held her fingers in the stream until her cries softened and then eased. The finger pads were reddened but not blistered. I sat her on the kitchen table and smeared butter on the burns, but more for show than for need.
As I tended her fingers, I asked, “Why did you touch the stove? You know better. So why?”
She used her free hand to swipe at her messy nose. She gave a little gulp and said, “Ellen had something she didn’t need no more.”
“Ellen?”
“Me, Mommy. Ellen. I didn’t need it, and I burned it.” Her sentence ended on a very high note, and a new sob began as she said, “But it burned me! It hurt, Mommy. It hurt my fingers.”
This was my fault. I was Mommy. She was mimicking my actions and the way I’d defiantly shoved those clippings into the fire. A fine example I’d set for an impressionable child.
I held her hand gently and spoke firmly. “You must never touch the woodstove under any circumstances. Ever. You must remember that. If I can’t trust you, then I can’t allow you to be in the living room without me. I need you to be a big girl and promise me you’ll stay away from the woodstove.”
“I promise, Mommy.”
She went to Gran for additional consolation, and I retrieved the drawing from the floor. In circles and slightly crazy spikes and geometric shapes, Ellen had drawn what appeared to be Gran and me. Next to us was a male figure, judging by the height and the short hair.
My darling girl had tried to draw a father. Did she have some memory of the time before she’d come to us? Had she not wanted me to see it? Or had she been disappointed by her ability to draw him? Ellen tended to be a perfectionist. My heart broke for her but instead of asking, I folded the paper and slid it into the side of the kitchen trashcan, pressing it down until it was well hidden.
It had been a painful lesson for my sweet daughter, but I felt sure she’d remember and keep that promise. I learned a lesson, too. One I thought I already knew. No action is without consequence, especially unintended consequences. What I’d done to reassure Gran had backfired and served as a poor example to my daughter.
I resolved to do better, and I took extra care from that day on to be vigilant. I would do my best to ensure that no action of mine or anyone else would result in harm to Ellen.