After Aunt Julie went downstairs, I walked around the studio remembering how Glen and I, and occasionally Wendy and Russell, used to come up here to play hide and seek behind some of the paintings or in the nook and crannies under the window where Aunt Julie always kept bins and boxes. I suddenly noticed a canvas, set apart from the others with its back facing the window. I turned it around to check it out and was surprised to see that it was a double portrait. On one side, my aunt had sketched Bart Donovan as he appeared when he visited the inn twenty years ago. The other side featured Detective Marshall's face. Had she been trying to decide between the two? She hadn't ended up with either man.
I turned the painting back and reached for the sketchpad my aunt had indicated. After a few futile attempts at outlining Kit Kat, I gave up and decided to head to my room. I had an urge to read more of my diary.
As I approached my room, the door across the hall opened. Mother waved. “Sarah, can you come here, please?”
I recognized the slur of her words and the sway of her body. She was drunk.
I hesitated a moment. Mother didn't get angry when she hit the bottle. She became sad, and I always thought there was a certain irony about that because the reason she drank in the first place was to ease her depression.
“I need to talk to you.” She sounded as if she was pleading.
I followed her into the room, and she closed the door behind us. The smell of liquor permeated the interior and even seemed to soak the sheets, although they were dry to the touch. I took a seat on the bed where Mother indicated, and she sat in the tapestry rose chair next to it.
Empty whiskey bottles lined her bureau. I was surprised they were in full view, as she always took time to hide them when I was a child.
“Where did you get those?” I asked. Surely, she couldn't have brought them aboard the plane, and I knew she hadn't left Sea Scope since she arrived.
“As much as Julie and I have our differences, she knows how to treat a guest.”
It disheartened me to hear that my aunt, knowing my mother was off the wagon, had enabled her addiction.
“This is very important, Sarah. Before that detective comes tonight, I have to tell you about your father.”
“What about Dad?” In the nineteen years since he shot himself in the garage, Mother rarely talked about him. I never believed it was because it caused her pain. She was hardly what one would consider a grieving widow.
She looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. I noticed her unpainted nails were chipped and bitten. “I loved him, you know. It may not have appeared that way to you and Glen, but we were happy once. I still believe he loved me. He never meant to hurt me, but I should've let him go long before this all happened.”
“What do you mean, Mother?”
She sighed deeply and blew out a breath of whiskey. “All these years, I've been trying to escape through the bottle. It wasn't fair to you kids, but it was my only way of coping with the truth. I remember when I first met Martin's family. I wondered why they all acted so cold toward me. I assumed Martin had a lot of girlfriends before me because he was a good-looking man and was already in his thirties when we met. He never spoke about his past, and I was too enthralled with him to ask. I can't believe I didn't recognize the signs. I was a social worker before you and Glen came along. I tried to help people like him.” She swallowed and glanced at one of the empty bottles as if wishing for a refill.
The memories of Glen and I trying to solve the mystery of whom Wanda was sleeping with came back to me. We'd never determined it was Dad, so that's what I expected her revelation to be. But as I let her continue, her words drew a different picture.
“I should've told you many years ago. Not when you were a child but when you were old enough to understand. God, these days it's very common. Even then, it wasn't the sin the Church considered it in the past.” She got up and began to pace the room. Her steps were so uneven I was afraid she would fall.
“Mother, I don't understand. Are you saying Wanda was Dad's lover?”
She stopped pacing and stood before me, her eyes red from drinking and crying. “Is that what you thought?” She laughed, but it ended on a sob. “Oh, my God!”
Dropping down next to me on the bed, she took another breath. “I don't know why I held this back so long. I'm sure Julie knew. The whole damn inn probably knew.”
“What are you saying, Mother?” I kept my voice gentle, even though I was growing impatient with how much time it was taking her to tell me what she wanted to say.
“Sarah, do you remember that young bell hop who left so suddenly? I don't think you would recall the young man before him. There have always been college students at Sea Scope, mostly men your father hired without Julie's approval because Wanda did most of the work, even the heavy jobs. But when Julie put her foot down after Bud, I think that was the bell hop's name, luck was on Martin's side when Michael checked in.”
“I don't understand.” What was she getting at?
“I guess I need to say this bluntly, Sarah. Your father was gay.”
I was shocked. I couldn't talk for a few minutes. “Are you saying Dad was having an affair with Michael?”
She nodded. “The little time he spent in this room with me was only to keep up appearances; but as I said, most people knew. I could see it in their eyes. They pitied me, but I pitied myself more. I should've asked for a divorce when I first discovered what was going on, but you and Glen were young. I'm different from Julie. I knew I couldn't survive on my own with two kids, so I put up with him. The liquor helped.” She sounded quite sober now.
“What about Dad? Did he stay with you for the same reason? For us?”
“I assume so, but he asked me to cut him free the day before Michael died.”
“What?”
She looked back down at her hands. “He gave Michael a ring for his birthday. No one knew about it. After the party, he must've presented it to him. It wasn't an engagement ring. Same sex marriage wasn't permitted in South Carolina at that time, but it was a token to show his feelings.”
“Were you going to grant him the divorce?” I asked, still trying to picture my father, a part-time construction worker, and gentle Michael, so studious and kind, being together, being in love.
“Yes. I told him I would. Even though I'd been so afraid to ask him, I knew I had to finally face life's hard knocks. I had no choice.”
“What about Michael?” I asked, my heart starting to beat again. “Mother, you weren't involved in his death, were you?”
I waited, holding my breath for her answer.
“No, Sarah.” She reached out and took my hand. My mother had never been the demonstrative sort, but I could see the love in her eyes as she met mine. “The reason I had to tell you all this is because Detective Marshall is going to bring it all up again tonight, and I don't know what to do. You see, when your father shot himself a year after Michael's death, he left a note.”
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. “Mother, you told the police that there were no signs that Father had planned to kill himself.” I recalled how she told the officers, through her tears, that her husband hadn't left a suicide note.
Mother still held my hand. “It was my fault he put that gun to his head. I'd goaded him that morning, reminding him it was the anniversary of Michael's death. I knew he wouldn't have forgotten it.”
“What did the note say?”
She took a breath and let it out filling the air with the scent of alcohol. “That's the problem, Sarah. I couldn't show it to the police, and I can't tell Detective Marshall about it.”
“What did it say?” I repeated.
She let my hand go, and it felt like the umbilical cord that had connected us thirty years ago was clipped again.
“'I killed Michael.' That's what it said, Sarah.”
From the Notes of Michael Gamboski
Heceta Head Lighthouse (Pixabay) and New London Ledge Lighthouse (Wikimedia Commons)
The
re are legends attached to many lighthouses related to ghosts and the supernatural. The lighthouse at Heceta Head in Oregon is supposedly haunted by the ghost of a mother whose baby daughter fell to her death from the cliff upon which it stands. The apparition is dubbed “The Gray Lady,” as she is reported to wear a long, gray skirt while floating around the attic of the lighthouse, which has been renovated into a guesthouse.
In 1929, the U.S. Coast Guard began taking shifts at the New London Ledge Lighthouse. Not long after, strange things began happening. Legend has it that a lighthouse keeper by the name of Ernie jumped from the roof of the lighthouse to the ocean below, where his body never resurfaced. Many people don't believe that he killed himself. After the lighthouse was automated in 1987, several reports filtered in from boat crews that a figure at the lighthouse had signaled to them or tried to lure them to the dock. However, whenever these reports were investigated, not a living soul was found at the lighthouse.
(from the article “10 Creepy Lighthouses Surrounded by Spooky Legends” by Estelle Thurtle, August 12, 2014).
Chapter Thirty-Six
Long Island: Nineteen years ago
Sarah entered her mother's bedroom. Her father had his own room down the hall. Glen had once asked his father why he no longer slept with his mother as most married couples did. He said he snored too loud at night and kept her up. Sarah knew that was an excuse.
“You wanted me, Mother?” she asked, noting the large box on the bed and several items of clothing and papers strewn across it.
“I was tidying up, and I came across a few of your sketches. I don't want to throw them out unless you approve.” She held out two drawings Sarah recalled she'd done at Sea Scope the year before when Aunt Julie allowed her to work in her attic studio.
“Where did you find these?” Sarah took the sketches from her mother's outstretched hands. One was of Ms. Wilson; the other of Michael. Sarah had drawn them, her only attempt at penning portraits, right before moving to Long Island after the subjects were already gone—Ms. Wilson to her new home in town and Michael to heaven.
“I still have boxes from South Carolina that I haven't unpacked,” her mother replied. “I took one down from the attic. It's about time we go through them and get on with our lives.”
Sarah didn't quite understand what her mother meant, but she was glad to see her working and not lying in bed with a bottle as she expected. Unlike her father who was almost as neat as Ms. Wilson, her mother was as disorganized as Glen. She even hired a cleaning woman who came in once a week to tidy up their house.
“Do you want them or what?” her mother persisted.
Before Sarah could answer, Glen came running up the stairs. He was out of breath and choking on his words. “Dad,” he cried. “Dad's dead.”
“What?”
“In the garage, Mama.”
Sarah's mother put the sketches down on the bed with the other items, color draining from her face. Sarah followed her brother downstairs, their mother a few feet behind. When they reached the open garage door, the two children stopped so their mother could catch up.
“We heard this loud noise,” Glen said, gulping tears and air at the same time. “It was Daddy's gun. Go see.” He covered his eyes with his hands and began to shake. Sarah went to comfort him even as she felt fear ride up her spine.
“We have to call the police,” their mother said. “Sarah, you remember about dialing 911 in an emergency. Take Glen in the house and call.”
Sarah was surprised how calm her mother sounded giving instructions. She usually was the first to fall apart, unlike Aunt Julie who knew exactly what to do in any situation.
When Sarah hesitated, her mother said, “Listen to me. Take your brother inside. Now.” Her voice was firm.
As Sarah took Glen's hand, she glanced into the dark interior of the garage. Although her father had a lamp and an overhead light for his workspace, they weren't on. She was afraid to look further. She hated the sight of blood and could hardly tolerate it when the doctor took some from her arm. She was thankful for the poor lighting because all she could see was the shape of her father slumped across his desk.
“Come with me, Glen,” she said gently. “We have to call for help.”
“It's too late,” Glen said, even as he followed her toward the house. “He's dead. The bullet went right through his head.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sea Scope: Present day
After I'd composed myself, I said, “Mother, you have to share this with Detective Marshall.”
She looked down at her hands. “I realize that. I've hidden this way too long. I wanted to protect you and Glen. I didn't want you to know your father was a homosexual and a murderer, too.”
“I don't understand. If he was in love with Michael, why would he kill him? You told me you'd already agreed to a divorce.”
“Sarah, I don't have all the answers. I haven't been the best mother to you by hiding this and trying to drink it away. I'm ready to face whatever happens now.”
“What did you do with the note?” I hoped she'd saved it, which might make things easier when she spoke with the detective.
“I tore it into tiny pieces and threw it in the trash. I wanted to burn it.” Her voice, low until then, began to rise. “I was so stupid. I was in my late twenties when I met your father. I should've known better. I still wonder why his parents or sister didn't warn me, but I probably wouldn't have believed them. I was so in love.” She started to cry, but I wasn't sure if they were tears of sadness or anger. Maybe both. “Why did Martin even bother to marry me and have children with me?” The tears were falling freely now.
“Mother. I'm so sorry.”
She looked at me through eyes filled with tears that were nonetheless clearer than I'd seen them in years. “I'm the one who should be sorry, Sarah. I wish I could make it up to you. It's too late for me to make it up to Glen.”
We sat there for a while lost in our memories. It was the closest we'd been in years.
Our silence was broken by a knock on the door. “Jennifer, Wanda's back with lunch. Are you coming down to join us?”
Mother wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “Answer the door, Sarah. I need a few minutes.”
I opened the door and told my aunt we would be down soon. She was surprised to see me in my mother's room. I think she expected to find me still drawing in her studio.
“That's fine. Carolyn and Russell are already at the table.”
When we joined everyone eating sandwiches from a local deli, Wanda told us that while she was out, she'd checked her house to see if Wendy was there. “I thought she wasn't answering the phone, but the place was empty. I believe she even took clothes with her.”
“Is that typical?” Russell asked. “I mean, has she done this before?”
Wanda sighed. “Yes. There were several times during her marriage that she disappeared. I didn't know about them until I called her one day, and her husband said she wasn't home. I finally got it out of him that she would leave without notice on a regular basis. He would come home from work and find her gone. After checking with the bank where she was working part time, he'd discover she'd called in sick. Wendy always had trouble keeping jobs, so he thought she was trying to get herself fired again.” Wanda sighed. “What worried him was when he'd find her suitcase wasn't in the closet and her clothes and toiletries were missing. She'd also withdraw money from their account.”
“Where did she go?” Carolyn asked, putting aside her ham and swiss sandwich.
“He never found out. Every time she returned several days later, her only explanation was that she needed to get away for a few days.” Wanda placed a pitcher of lemonade on the table. “I wasn't surprised when Richmond finally began divorce proceedings. He thought she was cheating on him even though she swore she wasn't.”
“But the notes came later?” Russell asked, signaling to Carolyn if she wanted him to pour her a glass of lemonade.
“That's right.
They started when she moved back in with me after her divorce.”
“I wonder where she is now,” I said. “We would know if she was here at Sea Scope. There haven't been any further messages, and I haven't found my phone.”
“You said she didn't have a car,” Russell said, pouring Carolyn lemonade and asking if I wanted any. “She wouldn't be able to get far on foot, and she'd need a place to sleep.”
“She has a few friends in the area, but I don't know if she'd stay with them. I don't think any of them know about her problem.” Wanda sat next to Aunt Julie who said, “That's why it's a good thing we've called Donald.”
I noticed how Julie referred to the detective by his first name, and I saw from my mother's glance in her direction that she was aware of it, too.
“Sarah's husband is arriving tomorrow,” Russell said, and I remembered I'd forgotten to notify my aunt.
“Sorry, Aunt Julie. I forgot to tell you. Derek is on his way. He managed to get out of his summer class and wanted to join me. I hope you don't mind. I know it's a bad time.”
“No, it's fine. There's plenty of room here. If you're too cramped in the Violet Room, I can move you to a larger one. I look forward to seeing him again.”
“What exactly are we going to tell Detective Marshall?” Carolyn changed the subject.
“We have to tell him about Wendy, the notes, and Sarah's phone,” Aunt Julie said.
“I don't mean that.” Carolyn took a sip of her lemonade. “From what you've said, this man is retired. He'll probably tell us to file a missing person's report with the police.”
“We think this is all tied up with what happened twenty years ago,” Russell said. “Because Detective Marshall was the one in charge of Michael's case back then, he's the best one to consult on this matter.”
I suddenly felt queasy. With everything going on, I wasn't thinking about the baby, but the nausea that threatened seemed to have more to do with what my mother had revealed and the corn-husk doll that I was hiding in my car.
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