What We Take For Truth

by Deborah Nedelman

  Damn.

  Could that be right? Did dishonesty run in her family? Pat might be one of the few people in Prosperity Grace could trust and she’d just pushed him away so she could hide her own secret from him. Had she inherited her mother’s lying, cheating ways, or had the whole world gone crazy, including her?

  Whatever her mother was or wasn’t, Grace was still responsible for at least part of the craziness. Feeding the protestors had been her decision. Maybe she’d made it out of desperation, but she had brought that problem on herself. And now at least she could try to fix that one thing. She looked at the clock on her stove. It was getting light now and she needed to get up the mountain and back before anyone noticed. Luckily the rain they’d had in Seattle a couple of nights before hadn’t reached the Cascades. The trails were dry.

  She went into the café through the back door. Lyle had stuffed the pack and left it for her with a note: Make sure they pay you!!! On the counter blueberry muffins were cooling on a rack. She grabbed one and pulled the pack onto her shoulders.

  Grace was halfway up the mountain when her mind began to clear. She couldn’t go on acting like nothing had changed, like she was going to keep struggling to pay the café’s bills, like she was going to stay in Prosperity and serve food to all those liars. And there was no way she could keep this huge secret from everyone, as if this wrong would cancel out the wrong they’d committed.

  She stopped dead on the trail and looked around. She’d always felt so comforted by the forest, but why? The trees didn’t give a damn. Whether she was just as much a liar as everyone else didn’t make a bit of difference to them. They’d just stand here growing until some man with a chain saw decided their time was up and then they might prove to be just as full of treachery as any human being. That’s one lesson her father’s death ought to have taught her—you can’t even trust the forest.

  She adjusted the straps on her back, took a deep breath and headed up the trail the rest of the way to the camp. This time she made plenty of noise when she arrived.

  “Hey, Chelsea!” She called when she saw the first glimmer of light on the plastic tarps. “Food delivery!”

  “Shut up, it’s too early,” someone grumbled from within one of the tents.

  Chelsea stuck her head out of another. “Hey, Grace,” she whispered. “Just leave everything there by the fire pit, OK? Here’s a list for next time.” She held out a piece of paper.

  “I need to talk to you, actually,” Grace stood in the center of the encampment and turned in a slow circle, “I need everyone to hear this.” She waited a moment, listening to the sounds of people unzipping sleeping bags, grumbling as they shook one another awake.

  “This is my last delivery, guys.” She set her pack down and started laying out all the food Lyle had packed. “Nothing personal, but I’m not doing this anymore. And,” she saw a few tent flaps lift, a few scraggly heads stick out. “I need to get paid. Everything you owe me. Now.”

  Silence. After several seconds, Chelsea stepped out of her tent. “Bummer for us. Does this mean your business has picked up?”

  “Not really. But it’s not about that. I just need to stop doing this.”

  “Your conscience finally get to you? Feeling like a traitor to your roots, logger girl? I knew you didn’t really give a shit about the environment.” Jason now stood across the fire pit from Grace.

  “Yeah, well maybe and maybe not, as my friend Kev would say.” Grace did not have the energy to argue with this jerk. “Right now, what I care about is my money, so I guess I’m just like everyone else in Prosperity—according to you. Here’s the bill.” Grace handed it to Chelsea.

  Chelsea rummaged through a string bag that hung over her shoulder. She pulled out a roll of bills that shocked Grace. “Here. This money is supposed to last us till these trees are safe. It’s probably just as well we aren’t tempted to buy any more of your delicious food.” She handed Grace more than she owed. “Keep the change. And good luck, Grace.” Chelsea smiled and opened her arms to give Grace a hug. “Blessings on your journey.”

  Grace let herself be embraced and then picked up her empty pack and headed back to town. Whew. That was over and she’d gotten out of the enemy camp unscathed. Except she had no idea if the people she’d just cut out of her life were, in fact, her enemies or not.

  ***

  “D’you get the money?” Lyle said as she came into the kitchen from the back.

  Grace gave him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

  Lyle laughed as he began emptying the dishwasher. “I’m just hoping to save my job here. It’s about survival.”

  She threw the bills on the counter. “More than they owe us, I’m betting. I didn’t stop to count it.” Dumping the pack on the floor, she rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. “Listen, I hate to do this to you, Lyle, but I just can’t handle the café right now. I got some stuff I need to do, and I’ll have to leave town for a while.”

  “I’m listening.” He turned toward her, leaned back against the counter, and folded his arms across his belly.

  “It’s a long story and I don’t want to go through it all now. But I need to track down someone. And, honestly, I don’t know what’s going to happen when I find her.” Grace sat on the one stool in the kitchen and wrapped her feet around the cross pieces to keep her knees from bouncing. She was having trouble sitting still.

  “And the café?”

  “It’s up to you, I guess. If you want to stay and run it on your own, go for it. You can tell Jane I’ve turned it over to you. I can leave you a few signed checks to cover things till I get back.” For someone who just learned that all the people she’d trusted with her life up to this point had been lying to her since she was four years old, Grace couldn’t ignore the irony of giving him free access to her money. But Lyle had nothing to do with the big lie, as she’d begun to think of it. Plus, he was well aware that the café account was practically empty.

  “What’s Jane have to say about this?” Deep furrows formed on his brow.

  “Yeah, well. I’m not actually talking to her at this point. You can tell her if you want to. She’s not going to be surprised. She’ll probably be grateful to you.”

  Lyle pushed himself away from the counter. “How soon you leaving?”

  “Not sure, but soon. I told Chelsea the catering service is over.” She jumped down from the stool. “You think about it. I’ll check in with you later. If you don’t want to take it on, we’ll just close the place and let Jane deal with the bills.” It would mean bankruptcy for sure. Putting Jane through that humiliation might just be worth it, even if she got dragged down with her.

  ***

  “Why, Dad?” Grace put her hand on the cold marble that marked Warren’s grave. “How could you let me believe she was dead?”

  She lowered herself onto the grass and let the memories wash over her: her daddy kneeling down to see the world as near as he could through child eyes and then offering her a peek through his binoculars; his finger to his lips as they stood in the duff above a stream and watched a doe nudge her fawn to drink; standing together staring up into the ancient tree as he introduced her to their owl. Her eyes were dry. The sharp stab of betrayal cut off the comfort those memories used to bring.

  Then another memory, this one foggy and dark, made her pull her hand away as if the gravestone had bitten her. Her father’s huge hand whipping toward her face with the suddenness of a rattlesnake striking, the stinging crack that seemed to ring in the air for hours, the numbness that settled over her as she watched him turn and walk out of the house. Years of practice had embedded a habit of pushing that memory away, unexamined, so that when it rose now, it felt as if it did not belong in Grace’s head.

  Jane’s confession had knocked the world out of kilter and then Pat had sent it into a new orbit. Grace couldn’t get it to slow down enough to tell what was real anymore. Was her mother the angel she’d always believed, or was she some horrible woman who walked away from her own chil
d? Was her father the loving, kind man she wanted to remember? Or was he a violent abuser? Did she still love Pat or was what she felt last night merely a reaction to all the turmoil and shock? Right now, she barely recognized herself.

  She couldn’t shake the sense that the only way to get her feet under her again was to find her mother. Yes, that might mean tracking down a monster, like Pat said. But Annie was alive and owed Grace an explanation. Besides, now that she knew the truth, Grace couldn’t go on pretending her mother didn’t exist. That would be just another lie, wouldn’t it?

  But how to find her?

  She could go to Walt or Rose and demand what information they had. They’d be full of feeble apologies and self-protective explanations. The thought disgusted her. Before she resorted to them, she needed to search the one place Annie might have left a clue.

  Chapter 18

  Leaving the cemetery, Grace walked up the hill toward town, stopping to stare at the house everyone called “the Tillman place.” This was where Jane and Warren grew up. This was where Warren and Annie lived with their baby. This was where Grace stayed with her father after Annie left. And this was where Jane had returned to help her brother care for his daughter and to repair the damage his wife’s abandonment had caused. Until she moved to Jake’s cabin, this was the only home Grace had known.

  The flowerbeds that ran on either side of the concrete path up to the front porch had been recently weeded; dark pansies bloomed in the churned earth. But no one in the Tillman clan had ever had the patience to make a garden. The flowers were Sherrie’s work.

  As Grace climbed the front steps of the house, a flood of memories fought against her determination. Sherrie had been part of her life as long as she could remember, so Sherrie was undoubtedly part of the lie. Grace must remember that. She steeled herself and raised her fist to knock.

  The door swung open before her knuckles reached it. Even now, fully grown, Grace had to look up at her. Nearly six feet tall, Sherrie leaned against the door, her body in shadow. Strands of her pale hair stuck out, backlit by the gray day pressing in through the kitchen window.

  “Oh, sweetie.” She opened her arms to Grace. “Jane called. She told me.”

  Grace stood still, her eyes focused just beyond Sherrie’s shoulder. This offer of comfort and condolence stunk of guilt, a sinister stench. “I need to look around.”

  Rebuffed, Sherrie stepped back and lowered her head. “Of course.”

  Grace walked into the familiar room. The brown shag rug from her childhood was gone and a brightly colored braided one sat in the center of the room. Photos of Jeremy—here flanked by his parents, there standing alone on top of a huge stump, feet spread, arms akimbo-—sat on the mantel where Jane had kept Warren’s picture. But the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace, the tired couch with its arms darkened by years of Tillman heads and feet, were part of the landscape of Grace’s childhood.

  Sherrie watched Grace take in the room. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. We really believed it was the best thing.”

  Grace held up a hand to stop her. Shook her head. “Do you know where she is?”

  Sherrie’s eyes widened. “She? Your mom? God, no. Not for years.”

  Grace nodded. “Yeah.”

  She walked through the front room and stood a moment by the hallway entrance. “Jane must have left some stuff, papers? Pictures? Where?”

  “Parrot, sit down a minute. Let me get you some coffee. You need to understand.”

  “Please.” Grace folded her arms over her chest. “What I need is to do is figure out where my mother is. I’m not in the mood to listen to excuses. If Jane left anything, I want to see it.”

  Sherrie squeezed her lips together and shrugged. “I haven’t found anything.”

  “OK. I’m going into my bedroom. I’ll need a stepladder.”

  Sherrie nodded slowly. “Huh. I think there is a ladder in the closet in that room. I wondered what is was there for. Just left it.”

  “There’s an access to the attic space.” Grace turned and hurried down the hall.

  Sherrie walked into the kitchen and rummaged in the drawers.

  “Here’s a flashlight,” she called, following Grace down the hall.

  Without the bed and dresser that now stood in Grace’s cabin, the room was nearly bare. She opened the closet door. In the ceiling, next to the bare bulb, was a recessed panel, access to the storage space above.

  “You might need this.” Sherrie handed her the flashlight. “Want some help?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry about the whole thing. I just…”

  “Don’t bother, Sherrie. I don’t want to hear it.” There were a few people in this town who didn’t deserve her fury, but Sherrie wasn’t one of them.

  Turning her back to Sherrie, she pushed aside the few things she’d left hanging, unable to choose their ultimate fate—Pat’s letterman’s jacket, a tattered chenille robe that had once belonged to Annie, and two dresses far too small for her adult body. There had been a time in her middle school years when Grace had worn nothing but dresses. As she crammed the hangers aside, she grabbed a handful of one of the flowered prints and crushed it in her fist. How many ways had she tried to imitate her absent mother?

  The stepladder leaned against the back wall of the closet as it always had. When her father explained its presence, he’d been matter-of-fact about it. “That’s how I can get up to the roof if we have a leak or I need to fix something. It’s just a small space, all dusty.” He’d pushed the panel aside and held her up, so she could peek into the darkness. She’d put her hands on the rim of the square opening and they’d come away covered with black scum. “Yeah, it’s pretty dirty up there.”

  Grace had squirmed in his arms, “I want down.” She’d never liked the dark.

  Grace pulled the ladder’s legs apart and stood it below the access panel. Then she climbed the few steps, reached up and pushed the panel aside. She stood on the top step of the ladder and stuck her head into the opening. A shiver of panic passed through her as she peered into the darkness, then she pulled the flashlight from her back pocket and switched it on.

  “Frankly, I think this town is cursed.” Sherrie’s voice from the doorway startled Grace. Her foot slipped.

  “Damn it.” She grabbed the edge of the opening to steady herself, the flashlight still firm in her other hand.

  “Oh, god, I’m sorry, sweetie.” Sherrie had grabbed Grace by the legs. “You OK?”

  Grace looked down. “Yeah. You can let go.” She lifted her hand from where it rested, her palm coated with black dust.

  “See? That black stuff? It’s probably all over up there. Ashes from all the fires over the years. The forest burns and takes its revenge.” Sherrie’s voice softened. “Just plain cursed.”

  Not long after Annie disappeared, smoke and ash coated Prosperity in a ghostly dust and a hot wind blew even at night. Firefighters came and pushed everyone onto buses. Sitting on her father’s lap, Grace had pressed her face against the bus window and heard the noise of hungry fire. Four-year-old Grace had identified that hot roar as the sound of her grief.

  Grace shone the light across the attic, revealing the skeleton of the house—raw planks with battens of Rockwool shoved between them. No actual floor, just the ceiling joists of her room below, and a cardboard box balanced on those joists, illuminated by the narrow beam of light. The box sat within arm’s reach of the opening, as if hoisted quickly out of sight with no time to push it farther in. She set the flashlight down and stretched up onto her tiptoes so she could gather it into her arms. She looked behind her and put one foot out, searching for the next step down. “Sherrie? Are you still there?”

  “Right here, sweetie.” Sherrie stepped up to the closet door, her hands in her pockets. Grace passed the box down. “Put this on the floor for me.”

  “Yuck. This stuff is going to get all over your clothes.” Sherrie placed the box under the bedroom window. “I’ll get som
e paper towels.”

  Grace climbed down and stood over the box. “Don’t bother.” She wiped her hands on her pant legs. “If there’s anything in here I need, I’ll take it home. Just give me a minute.”

  Sherrie stepped back out of the room.

  A wave of vertigo rocked Grace as she stood looking down at the box. She put a hand out to steady herself against the wall and reached over to raise the window. The latch had always been tight. As a child she’d needed to get her father’s help to release it so she could let fresh air into her room. In recent years she’d kept a hammer on the windowsill for assistance, but there were no tools in the room now. Grace clamped her lips together and pushed the heel of her hand against the latch as hard as she could. It gave and her own force knocked her backward. She stumbled over the box and landed hard on her rear, the heel of her right foot denting the top of the box. As she pulled her foot off, she spun the box toward her and, on the side that she had not seen, the letters A N N I E were scrawled in faded pencil.

  She scrambled to her knees and yanked apart the overlapping flaps that sealed the box. A blast of dust and mold hit her in the face. The vertigo returned. Grace scrambled back to the window and pushed it open wider. She stuck her head out and closed her eyes, inhaling. The box was real. It had her mother’s name on it.

  Grace pulled her head back into the room and looked down into the box. A jumble of envelopes, different sizes and colors. She inspected her hands and once again wiped them, this time slowly and carefully, on her pant legs.

  She reached in and picked out the top envelope. It had been ripped open; a single piece of paper inside. Her hands began to shake as she looked at the name on the front of the envelope: Parrot Tillman, 137 Second St., Prosperity, WA.

  There was no return address. The postmark said July 14, 1977, Seattle WA. Grace pulled out the folded sheet of white paper. She unfolded it and read the loopy script: