The Liberation
of
Ravenna Morton
A novel by
Suzanne Jenkins
The Liberation of Ravenna Morton
by Suzanne Jenkins
The Liberation of Ravenna Morton. Copyright © 2014 by
Suzanne Jenkins. All rights reserved.
Created in digital format in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in blog posts and articles and in reviews.
The Liberation of Ravenna Morton is a complete and total work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
For information on the Greektown trilogy, the Pam of Babylon series, and other works by author Suzanne Jenkins, please refer to the ‘Also by…’ section at the end of this novel.
Table of Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part II
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part III
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Author’s Note
Webography
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Questions for Discussion
Chapter 1
Esme Wynd looked out the plane window as it prepared to land in Grand Rapids, thinking, I hope I’m not making a big mistake. She’d walked away from her life in New York, shocking friends and family who worried she might be having a meltdown because of her mother’s death. It was because of it, but not the way they thought. The view out the window was like other generic landscapes; farmland juxtaposed against urban sprawl, relatively flat compared to New York. But the topography wasn’t what was worrying her.
The flight attendant reminded passengers to remain seated until the plane came to a stop at the gate, but the people around Esme ignored the warning, unbuckling their seatbelts and gathering up belongings. She felt a little anxiety about getting off the plane; it would mean facing the unknown. After everyone seated behind her had passed by, she got her carry-on bag out of the overhead bin. In the baggage compartment down below stowed the remainder of her life: two large suitcases and a box with her files. Everything else she owned she’d given away save the few things that were too cumbersome to bring, like her sewing machine, which her father promised to ship once she settled in.
The hallway to the baggage compartment was one one-hundredth of the length of the shortest concourse at JFK. The few people walking from the gate were smiling and polite.
“I’m not in New York anymore,” Esme whispered. Reaching the baggage claim, an older man with white hair and a bushy white mustache stood near the exit with a sign hand-printed in big black letters: WIND. It had to be for her. She approached him, smiling. “I’m Esme Wynd.”
“Welcome to Grand Rapids, Miss Wynd. I’m Magnus Johnson, but call me Magnus,” he said. “Let’s get your suitcase, and we can be on our way. Your coach is waiting right outside these doors.”
She followed him to the carousel to wait for her baggage. “I also have two suitcases and a box,” she explained.
He smiled at her, raising an eyebrow. “Staying a while?”
She just raised her eyebrows in return and smiled. She didn’t know for sure what she would ultimately do and didn’t feel like going into too much detail with a stranger.
“My daughter owns the Green Leaf Inn,” he said. “We’re the best place to stay in town—the best beds, the best location, and the best food. You picked the right place.” After a short wait, Esme’s bags arrived, and they managed to drag everything outside with no catastrophes.
“You weren’t kidding about a coach!” Esme exclaimed when she saw the classic Lincoln at the curb.
“It’s a 1941,” Magnus said. “I’m the original owner.”
“No way!”
“What do you drive?” he asked.
“Nothing. I don’t even have a license,” Esme said. “No need where I come from.”
“Well, that may not work for you here, if you decide to stay,” Magnus said. He lifted the last suitcase in the trunk. “Hop in, miss. Front seat would be fine. Then I can point out landmarks to you as we go.”
Esme did as he suggested. The interior of the car smelled like old leather and motor oil; taking a deep breath, there was something reminiscent about the smell, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. A combination of exhaustion from traveling all day and anticipation fogged her mind. She struggled to keep her eyes opened as Magnus steered the car onto the highway. As though reading her mind, he opened the air vent up. They drove for miles in silence.
“We’re going through Holland now,” he said. “There’s not much to see from the highway, but the town is lovely. Mind if I ask why you’re here?” The dreaded question. And then an innocuous, “Vacation or business?”
I don’t need to read more into what everyone is saying. “Oh, just a chance to get away, I guess,” she said. What could she say to him? That her mother had made a deathbed confession? That her mother’s siblings, six adults she’d never have the opportunity to meet, had made a feeble attempt to contact her, only to discover she was dying? Truly, she didn’t really know herself why she was here.
“A wild-goose chase,” her father had said. “How do you know those people don’t want something from you?” She wasn’t worried about being taken advantage of, but leaving her job and a comfortable life because of a dream may have been a mistake.
Shortly after her mother died, she’d wake up screaming in the middle of the night. She wasn’t afraid, and nothing frightened her in her waking hours. She had no idea why she was doing it. Finally, after a few months of scaring her father to death every night, she went to her friend Beth, who was also a therapist.
“What changed after your mother died?” Beth asked.
Esme knew the answer right away. A month before, her mother, Maria Wynd, had discovered she was adopted, when April Freeman, a birth sister, contacted her. Maria refused to talk to her when April called, horrified to discover at sixty-two years of age and dying of lung cancer that Penny and Gus Patos were not her real parents after all. If the shock precipitated her death, no one blamed April. Esme and her therapist decided the night terrors were a combination of sadness and regret; regret that her mother died not knowing who she really was, and for Esme, that meant not knowing who she really was, too.
April wrote Esme after hearing the news that Maria had died. She was apologetic, saying her brothers and sister were devastated. It would be too late to have a family reunion, but maybe not for Esme.
Magnus said, “This is a good place to get away. Or to hide, if you’re lookin’ to do that.” He smiled at Esme. In spite of his encouragement, she wasn’t going to divulge her reasons for being there. The car pulled off the highway onto a road that appeared to wind through a pine forest.
“This is the edge of the Allegan Forest,” Magnus said. “See that high point?” He pointed in the distance to a ridgeline high above. “The river carved out a nice basin
to flow through. Saugatuck’s built on the harbor. You’ll see. It’s magnificent.”
As they approached the town, Esme could see what he meant. Although it was autumn, there were still sailboats in the water. A large, lighted sign, Saugatuck, with an artist’s palette in neon, guarded the entrance to the town. The large car wound around the serpentine road leading to the town center. Summer cottages lined the road; the homes on the river side with docks and boat slips, those on the opposite side with wooded yards. Built at the foot of what was known as the “Hill”, treacherous-looking driveways went up the hill on scary angles.
“How do they get cars up that hill in winter?” she asked.
“Oh, Michiganders don’t let a little snow keep them down. Many of these homes are occupied year round now, although just a few years ago it was a sleepy town after Labor Day.”
Esme looked out the window, thinking the little town reminded her of many of those on the East Coast but without the quaint factor, happily. She didn’t see one chain restaurant, either. Magnus followed the road through a flashing traffic light, the only one in town, and around a bend that matched the curve of the river. He came to a brick driveway between two Victorian homes, whose lower floors were a gallery and a restaurant respectively. Going through lovely, wrought-iron gates, Esme glanced up at the ivy-covered structure. This might be her home for the time being, and her first instinct was that she’d picked the right place to stay. Magnus instructed her to go to the desk to register, and he’d get her things up to her room.
The desk clerk, an attractive woman about Esme’s age, was waiting for her. “I see Magnus found you! I’m Rhonda. How was your flight?”
“Just fine. Magnus gave me a great introduction to the area on the way here,” Esme said. “Are there any good places to eat?” She was tired and hungry, and it was making her edgy.
“We have a dining room. The menu is limited now that the season is over, but I’m sure you’ll find something you like. Would you like to wait to see your room?”
“Is my starvation that obvious?” Esme laughed. “The room first is fine.”
Rhonda came out from around the desk and led the way up a wide staircase. Esme looked around the large reception area; it was comfortable and welcoming, with overstuffed furniture, books and good reading light, just what she was hoping for. Her room was nice, simply decorated and clean, with an iron bedstead and a handmade quilt covering it. A large window called her over to see that it overlooked the Kalamazoo River, autumn sunlight at just the right angle dappling on the water’s surface. A small writing table and chair positioned in front of the window invited contemplation; Esme knew she’d be spending a lot of time sitting at the desk, writing or not. Rhonda regarded the large suitcases and box Magnus left.
“If you need any storage, there are locked closets out in the hall. Because you’ve taken the room for a month, you can use one free of charge.” She glanced around the room to see if everything was in place. “If you think of anything you need, just call the desk. There are extra pillows and blankets in the wardrobe. It gets chilly at night, although Indian summer is upon us now. People are still using the pool, so it’s open for the time being. It’s too cold for me. Once the leaves start to fall, that will be it for the season.”
Esme appreciated the information, but she wanted to unpack and settle in. She didn’t engage Rhonda but smiled in appreciation.
“Okay, well, if you’re all set, I’ll leave you be. The dining room serves until eight.”
“Thank you, Rhonda,” Esme said.
After she left, Esme sat on the bed. Although the pleasant surroundings and kind people calmed her anxiety a little, there was still a nagging worry permeating her thoughts. She went to the writing table and set her computer bag on it, removing her pencil jar, phone and a small china owl. It was already feeling like home. She wanted to call April Freeman before doing anything else. Getting out her phone, she keyed in the number, and April answered on the first ring.
“Oh, I am so happy you called me. I can’t believe you’re really here. How was your flight?” They made small talk for a few minutes and then got down to business. “Are you too tired to meet with me tonight?” April asked.
Esme was tempted to say yes; tiredness would be a good excuse for not going through with what she was afraid might end up being life changing. Emotions on a roller coaster, she knew she was being fickle, so she agreed to meet April after dinner, at a coffee shop around the block on Hoffman.
Esme freshened up her makeup and put a brush through her hair. Though she’d made peace with her looks years ago, their origins were not what she had originally thought. Scrutinizing her reflection in the mirror, she looked like other Greek women because she looked just like her mother, although aunts and cousins ranged from slender, athletic types to voluptuous earth mothers. Esme’s appearance fell somewhere between those two extremes. Maria and Esme had darker skin than anyone else in the family who had to keep under cover because light olive skin burned easily, while theirs turned toasty brown in the sun.
“You look like a Mexican,” an old boyfriend once said to her, “or someone from Peru.”
She had high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. Now she knew why. She was one-quarter Native American. She could very well fit in with a Mexican family or someone from South America. Without meaning to, she started to cry. Not from sadness, although she was sad her mother couldn’t have shared this with her, it was partly joy, having discovered something about herself that would help lead to completion. She knew who she was.
Thinking back sadly to her mother’s last days; Maria Wynd had always known there was a missing piece to the puzzle of her life. The Patos family had been wonderful to her, but she didn’t look like her parents, and that always bothered her. Although they would deny it, her grandparents and relatives treated her differently. It gave her a sense of shame she couldn’t find the source of, a sense of never belonging. That her parents had adopted her never crossed her mind.
When the truth was revealed, she thought, Of course! It was so simple, yet so maddening. That was why Maria couldn’t talk to April again. She didn’t have the time to resolve anything; the little energy she had left, she wanted to spend telling her husband and daughter how fabulously in love with them she was.
She gave Esme a final edict: “Find out what you can. If you think it’s worth the effort, tell them about me. But more importantly, find out about you.” Then Maria made a confession. “I didn’t know who you were when you were born.”
Esme was confused. “Mom, what does that mean?”
“I knew when I saw you, right after you came out of my body, that you were of some genetic material that was unfamiliar to me. I almost wondered if there had been some kind of miracle.” Maria began to weep. “I always knew I was different from the rest of the family, but I didn’t trust my own inner voice, my own intellect. Whom can you trust if you can’t trust yourself? And now I know the truth.” She fell back against the pillows. “I didn’t investigate because I was afraid. You know the life we led.”
Esme knew what she meant. They were from an insular family. If it wasn’t Greek, it wasn’t a consideration. They were almost a sect, the isolation was so intense. When she made the decision to work in Manhattan, she thought her father would have a heart attack. Her mother insisted that they allow her the freedom to commute into the city every day, and even move there if she wanted. Esme was a little too dependent on her family to make that final move, so year after year she became more integrated into the structure of the family. She’d be the unmarried daughter who would live at home until she died.
Last year, her mother became ill. A nebulous complaint of shortness of breath when she was gardening was the first sign. “I must be developing hay fever,” Maria said.
Then she started to lose weight, although she looked at that as a boon. “Oh my God! Could I finally be getting hold of my appetite at this late stage?”
A routine chest X-ray done before she
had her bunions removed revealed what the real problem was; she had a tumor. The doctors removed it, leaving her with a six-inch scar that wound around her flank. She had two rounds of killer chemotherapy. Her luxurious dark brown locks with just a hint of gray fell out, leaving her completely bald. She looked like a tiny, baby bird. Her mother, who had been statuesque, big hipped and busted, was now the size of a ten-year-old. She took to wearing the terry athletic suits Esme bought, her favorite a bright, baby pink, so Esme bought her several more. After the chemo, her energy returned, and her hair gradually grew in, like white down. She’d gone gray overnight.
Then, they found out the cancer had spread throughout her body, and she had just a few months of life left. Esme was furious with the doctors. They said there was “nothing they could do.” Esme thought a few classes in therapeutic communication might have helped, but realized she was lashing out. They couldn’t save her mother, and therefore, they were to blame for the hopelessness.
John Wynd stayed in denial. He wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about it. So Esme stepped in. As much as it hurt, she wanted to be with her mother. She wanted Maria to be free to speak every thought and feeling, to make every second they had together count.
When she took family leave from her job as an editor at one of the largest publishing companies left in the country, she knew she wasn’t going back. How could she? If her mother died, life in White Plains no longer existed for Esme, either. It would be as though they both had died.
Now, in the foreign land of Saugatuck, Michigan, Esme Wynd prepared for an audience with her mother’s sister, April. Aunt April. She ran down the staircase to the dining room, and was led to a table overlooking the beautiful river. The sun was going down and the light was the opalescent gray of dusk in the fall, when the angle of the sun permeates every surface, and seems to last long after its descent beyond the horizon. Enough light shined from buildings along the other side of the river that she could see it clearly. In the tourist book left for her in the room, she read that there were two methods to get over the river: a ferry that was propelled along by a chain that lay at the river bottom, and the Blue Star Highway. She made a promise to herself to hire Magnus to take her to what the locals called “the beautiful Oval Beach.”
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