A Story about the Spiritual Journey

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  “I want to hear all about your latest adventures,” Meg said, taking her sister’s arm and guiding her into the kitchen. “I especially want to pick your brain about England while you’re here.”

  Rachel whistled. “I still can’t believe you’re going. If I actually believed in miracles, I’d call it one.” She seated herself at the table while Meg made coffee. “So how is Becks doing?”

  Meg was happy talking about Becca and London. Anything to avoid the many landmines of more volatile topics. Meg stepped carefully, skillfully steering the conversation. Once Rachel started discussing her work and her travels, Meg relaxed.

  They spent the next hour catching up, and then Rachel insisted on going out to eat. Meg pretended she hadn’t already labored to plan and prepare a meal, telling herself she could freeze it for another time. Or she could deliver some more meals to Angel and the girls. Meg also pretended that she would be thrilled with spicy Thai food, convincing herself that heartburn was a small price to pay for avoiding a lecture about her “lack of adventure.” She slipped some antacids into her purse when Rachel wasn’t looking and cheerfully drove to the restaurant.

  They were home by seven o’clock. Rachel’s eagerness to explore the attic kept her from insisting on spending the evening at a bar. Meg was relieved. Another potential landmine averted.

  “Smells exactly like I remember,” Rachel said, climbing the stairs into the darkness. “Mold and mothballs. Ugh.” She cast the beam of her flashlight around the perimeter of the room. “What a mess! We could get lost up here for weeks.”

  Meg was glad she had removed the box with Jim’s letters. She wouldn’t have wanted Rachel to find it.

  “There used to be a light up here somewhere,” Rachel said, scanning the ceiling. Meg found the bare, dusty bulb and pulled the chain.

  “That helps a little,” Meg commented, still shining her flashlight into dark corners. “So what are you looking for?”

  “A box of photos, for one thing. Lots of pictures of Daddy. I used to sneak up here after Mother went to bed, and I’d spend hours looking at them.” Rachel began to dig through some of the boxes. “She hated me talking about him. Sometimes I’d do it just to tick her off.”

  Meg cringed.

  Rachel chuckled, saying, “That’s one of the reasons I married Greg. She hated him. I only stayed married as long as I did to spite her. You knew that, right?”

  Meg nodded. Rachel the agitator; Meg the pleaser. Rachel had never been afraid of a fight; Meg would do anything to avoid conflict. She hoped this wasn’t the prelude to another one of her sister’s long tirades against all the men who had ever wronged her. Or a diatribe against their mother.

  “Hey! Found them!” Rachel pulled out a stack of photos and blew off a cloud of dust. “How’d such a good-looking guy end up with such a piece of work?” Rachel wondered aloud, shaking her head. “Here—check these out. Don’t you think I look like him?”

  Meg gazed at the many faces of her father, from small boy to grown man. She didn’t see much resemblance between Rachel and their dad, but she wasn’t going to disagree. Rachel had always been so eager to connect herself with him.

  “Such sad eyes,” Meg said simply, looking at some of the images from later years.

  “Do you blame him? Imagine having to live here with her.” Meg didn’t have to imagine. “Okay,” Rachel said. “Keep looking. Maybe there are more photos I don’t know about.”

  Meg was quiet as she sorted through boxes. Their mother had kept decades of meticulous records: tax returns, bank accounts, receipts, and medical records, all carefully organized by year.

  Rachel had moved to one of the corners of the attic. “Finding anything interesting?” she asked after a while.

  “Nothing.” Meg opened a box containing all the files from her childhood.

  “There are boxes and boxes of books over here, Megs. And even some drawings of the house signed by Emmanuel Fowler. Oooh! Here’s a box of Daddy’s books. Old textbooks, storybooks. No photos, though.” Rachel kept hunting. “Don’t do anything with these boxes, okay? I’m gonna want to sort through all these books someday. Not now, though.”

  Meg took the file from the year she was born and flipped through a stack of receipts and canceled checks. “Boy, I sure was a bargain!”

  Rachel stood up and wiped cobwebs from her sleeves. “Whaddya mean?”

  “Mother kept everything. She knew where every penny went, and here’s the record of every penny they spent the year I was born.”

  Rachel came over to look. “Daddy liked his drink, huh?” She smirked. “Like father, like daughter.” Picking up the file from the year he died, Rachel began shuffling through receipts. “Funeral costs, flowers, dresses, coffin. I can still see it. I can still smell the lilies. To this day I can’t stand the smell of lilies.”

  “Was I there?” Meg asked quietly. There was so much Meg wished she could remember.

  “No. You stayed with one of the neighbors. With Mrs. Anderson, I think.” Rachel continued to thumb quickly through the file. “Nothing exciting here. Not even an obituary. Mother certainly wasn’t sentimental, was she?”

  She handed the file to Meg and began opening other boxes, still searching for photos. Meg flipped through the papers, looking for anything that conveyed emotion about William Fowler’s death. But the records and receipts were cold and sterile. Had her mother preserved nothing but these slips of paper to mark his passing? Nothing but a financial accounting of his life and death?

  Meg was just about to close the file and move on to a more promising box when her eyes fell upon a single envelope marked with the return address of an insurance company. Intrigued, Meg opened the envelope and read the brief letter enclosed. It was dated three weeks after their father died.

  Regarding Policy No. 1438

  Insured: William G. Fowler

  Dear Mrs. Fowler,

  This letter acknowledges receipt of your claim for benefits under the above policy along with a copy of the death certificate. The claim is under review. Pending the outcome of the investigation, we are neither accepting nor denying payment of the claim at this time.

  If you have any further questions, please contact me at the number below.

  Sincerely,

  Peter Michaelson

  Claims Examiner

  Meg’s heart beat faster as she thumbed through the file. She didn’t even know what she was looking for until she found it—a letter dated six weeks later.

  Regarding Policy No. 1438

  Insured: William G. Fowler

  Dear Mrs. Fowler,

  Regarding your claim for benefits under the above policy, we must inform you of our decision to deny coverage for the death of William G. Fowler.

  Our investigation revealed the cause of death was suicide and not accidental. As you should be aware, under the terms of this policy, there is a clause denying coverage of death by suicide within the first two years of the policy coverage. Since your husband purchased this policy six months ago (see attached copy), we must deny coverage for this claim.

  Should you have any further questions, please feel free to contact me.

  Sincerely,

  Peter Michaelson

  Claims Examiner

  Meg stayed on her knees. “Rache?” she quivered. The eaves were closing in. The air was stale and stifling. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Find something?” Rachel asked, coming over to investigate.

  Though Meg moved her lips, no sound emerged. Trembling, she offered the papers to Rachel, who flushed with anger as she read.

  “Daddy didn’t kill himself,” she said, barely disguising her rage behind clipped syllables. “They just didn’t want to pay out the money. What a load of crap.” Kicking a nearby box, Rachel headed for the stairs, spewing profanity.

  “Rache?” Meg implored, the tears searing her face.

  Rachel didn’t look at her. “I need a drink,” she snapped. “Don’t wait up for me.”

  Meg di
dn’t sleep. At 2 a.m. the front door opened, and she heard the sound of Rachel’s heavy footsteps plodding up the stairs. Though Meg wanted to call out to her, she kept silent, honoring her sister’s desire for space. She watched from her bed as Rachel paused in their mother’s doorway across the hall, muttering inaudibly. Then she stormed to her childhood room and slammed the door.

  Meg waited until 5 a.m. before going downstairs to sit in the darkness of the kitchen. What other secrets had their mother kept? What other truths had been hidden away? Meg had spent another three hours in the attic after Rachel left, scouring files and boxes, seeking anything that might shed light upon their father’s life and death. But she found nothing.

  Not that she had expected to find anything.

  In fact, she was surprised her mother had retained the insurance letters. An oversight. It must have been an oversight in her mother’s attempt to conceal the truth. Or perhaps her mother’s keeping them was simply part of the compulsion to document all the details thoroughly. She must have thought that no one would ever bother to sort through those files.

  Of course, Meg knew what Rachel would say. If Rachel actually believed their father had committed suicide, she would accuse Ruth Fowler of deliberately leaving behind the record to torment her daughters after her death.

  Meg breathed deeply. Had their mother managed to hide the secret from everyone, or just from her daughters? Who else had known the truth? And how could Meg possibly confront the pain of this new revelation? She wept as she heard her father’s voice again, “I’ve got you, Meggie. Keep comin’.”

  But he had abandoned them. For whatever reason, he had given up. Why? If he had ever given answers, they had been buried with her mother. Ruth Fowler had died with more secrets than Meg had ever imagined. Heavenly Father, help me. Please.

  At nine o’clock Rachel appeared in the foyer, dressed and with her bag packed. “Are you leaving already?” Meg asked.

  “I need to get going.”

  “Rachel, please—”

  Rachel shook her head and waved her hand to cut off conversation. “Not now,” she clipped. “Not now.”

  The room was spinning. Meg wasn’t sure if she was going to faint or throw up. But she didn’t argue. There was no use arguing with Rachel. “Can I at least get you some breakfast?” Meg asked weakly.

  Again, a shake of the head. “I’ll stop and get something on the road.”

  Meg rose to give Rachel an unreciprocated hug. “I’ll walk out with you,” Meg said, choking back her tears.

  Meg stood in the driveway, staring up at the forlorn house. If only Mother had confided in her. If only Mother had shared the heartache, maybe things could have been different. Maybe . . . .

  Maybe the attic revelation merely confirmed what Meg had always suspected: there was something deeper and darker to the sadness of her family. The specter of sorrow had never been named, and so it had become the air they’d breathed, poisoning them with its secrecy and silence. Now Meg had words. No reasons. No answers. But words for voicing the burden. Maybe that was gift enough.

  Still—if only there were someone who could tell her about her father. If only there were someone who had known him. But there was no family left. And where would she even go to track down a friend? Her mother had lived such a secluded, solitary life.

  As Meg trudged up the steps to the porch, her gaze shifted to Mrs. Anderson’s house.

  Dear Mrs. Anderson.

  Her home had been a bright spot in Meg’s childhood, a place of warmth and welcome. Mrs. Anderson had always shown so much kindness to Meg, and Meg had been sad when she moved away. They’d kept in touch with Christmas cards over the years, but Meg hadn’t seen her since Becca was a little girl.

  Dear Mrs. Anderson. Thank you, Lord, for Mrs. Anderson.

  Wait.

  Mrs. Anderson.

  Was there a reason why she had come to mind? Had Mrs. Anderson known the truth?

  Mrs. Anderson had known the Fowler family for decades. Was it possible that Mrs. Anderson could shed light on William Fowler’s death?

  Meg hurried inside and found her address book. Loretta Anderson. Winden Plain, Indiana.

  Which was stronger? The impulse to confirm what she thought she knew? Or the guilt over betraying a family secret by asking questions?

  As she sat at the kitchen table, she heard her mother’s stern voice commanding her: “Don’t you dare take this out of the house. You hear me? Don’t you dare take this out of the house!”

  Meg closed the address book, held her head in her hands, and prayed.

  Loretta Anderson was thrilled to hear Meg’s voice on the phone. She had often thought of her, ever since she’d heard the news that Ruth Fowler had passed away. Loretta had always loved the younger Fowler daughter. Rachel had been more independent and aloof, often angry and confrontational. But Meg—Meg had a purity of heart and sweetness of spirit that somehow persevered in spite of everything. Loretta had always marveled at Meg’s lack of bitterness, especially when there had been so much to be bitter and resentful about.

  But then, that was her outsider’s view and assessment of things. Meg had never spoken about it being difficult. Nevertheless, Loretta had observed enough to know that Ruth Fowler had not reciprocated her daughter’s affection and devotion. At least, not outwardly. So Loretta had seized every possible opportunity to show compassion to Meg while hiding from Ruth her motivation for doing so.

  “I’m so happy to hear from you, Meg!” Loretta exclaimed. “I can’t tell you how often I’ve thought about you the past few months. How are you, honey?” Loretta listened with keen interest as Meg spoke about Becca’s adventures in London and how she had just received her own passport in the mail. “A world traveler!” Loretta marveled. “That sounds fantastic! I still can’t believe Becca is in college. Where does the time go?”

  “I know,” Meg replied. “She’s still a little girl in my mind.”

  “As you are in mine,” Loretta said. “Do you remember coming over to help me bake cookies?”

  “Cookies, music lessons, books. You were so kind to me, Mrs. Anderson. Thank you.”

  Loretta laughed. “After all these years, Meg, you can call me Loretta. And I always loved having you over. You were such a sweet little thing. So eager to help, eager to please. Of course, you didn’t lose those qualities when you grew up.”

  They chatted comfortably for the next ten minutes, reminiscing about the neighborhood and swapping stories of things they remembered. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so,” Loretta said. “But you must be rattling around inside that big house. Don’t you find it lonely?”

  “I do,” Meg answered. “It echoes terribly.” There was a moment’s hesitation. “In fact, Rachel was saying the other day that our father would have been alone in the house too after his mother died. I guess I’d never thought about my father and me being in the same situation. Alone in the big empty Fowler house . . . ” Meg’s voice trailed off.

  “You’re right,” Loretta replied. “He was alone and very lonely. We used to have him over for dinner as often as we could. I don’t think he did much cooking for himself. Then your mother came along, and—” Loretta caught herself before she said something negative. “Well, we didn’t see him as often after that.”

  Though she could have said much more, she bit her tongue. She didn’t believe in speaking ill of the dead. But as she had frequently remarked to her own dear husband, Ruth Dickinson had been a pretty little thing who knew how to turn on her charm when she wanted something. And she had wanted William Fowler and his house.

  “Are you still there?” Meg asked.

  Loretta reined in her wandering thoughts. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m here. What were you saying?”

  “I was saying that I’ve been thinking about my father lately, realizing how little I actually know about him. I wish I knew more. And with Mother gone now . . . well . . . I was hoping maybe . . . I was hoping maybe you’d be willing to talk to me about him . . .
to tell me what you remember.” Loretta forgot that Meg was hearing only silence—not the racing of her thoughts—and she was silent a long time. “Mrs. Anderson?”

  Years ago Loretta had promised herself she would never initiate a conversation with Meg about either of her parents. It wasn’t her place. But now Meg was asking a direct question. She drew in her breath.

  “What would you like to know?” she asked, begging God to help her answer.

  Loretta was careful in what she said. Very careful. She knew the stakes as soon as Meg asked about her father. If Meg had known anyone else who could have answered her questions, she wouldn’t have phoned. Loretta wasn’t prepared to be Meg’s sole source of information for something as important as her family history. That was too big a burden to bear.

  So she restricted her comments to things she had personally known or observed to be true. She avoided offering her own opinions and speculations, though she had plenty of those. She loved Meg too dearly to say anything that might cause unnecessary heartache. After all, Meg had already had enough sorrow in her life, and Loretta wasn’t going to add more. Not when there weren’t people who could contradict or confirm what Loretta thought she knew. No, she would take her conjectures to the grave with her, and Meg wouldn’t know the difference. Like the old saying, “What you don’t know won’t hurt you.”

  Determined not to hurt Meg, Loretta began with innocuous details, hoping those would satisfy Meg’s curiosity. “I first met your father when Robert and I moved next door as newlyweds. Your grandmother was very kind to us. So was your father. He had a wonderful sense of humor and a way of telling stories that kept everyone spellbound. A ‘gift for exaggeration,’ your grandmother called it.”

  Loretta hadn’t thought about William’s stories in years. He had been a real entertainer—so likeable, so good-natured. She and Robert had been so very fond of him.

  “He and your grandmother were very close,” she went on. “He had moved home to help take care of her after your grandfather died, and he was the most eligible bachelor in the neighborhood. Handsome, full of life. Attractive in every way. After your grandmother passed away, he was lonely, like I said. And your mother was such a pretty little thing with a sharp wit. He fell madly in love. I remember him talking about her one night at our kitchen table. He was totally smitten, and they were married within six months, I think. Rachel was born a year or so after that . . . but you know that already . . . ”