Last Seen Alive

by Carlene Thompson

  When the bell rang the second time, Chyna realized Rex wasn’t going to answer it. She knew he was somewhere in the house, but perhaps he was taking a nap after having been awake all night. She gently moved Michelle’s head off her lap, tossed aside the afghan and book, and hurried to the front door.

  A young man dressed in a navy blue suit and coat stood on the porch. His cheeks were red and she had a feeling it wasn’t from the cold. He was either embarrassed or uncomfortable. He held a large, sturdy brown bag in front of him.

  “Miss—I mean Dr. Greer?” he asked.

  “Yes. Chyna Greer.”

  “My name is Norman Holt. I work at the Burtram and Hodges Funeral Home.”

  “Oh!” Chyna uttered in surprise. “My goodness. I wasn’t expecting anyone from the home… I’m so sorry about Rusty.”

  “We all are, ma’am,” he said dolefully. “Young Mr. Bur-tram was always good to me. Very patient, very kind. Not like—” He broke off and his cheeks grew redder. Not like the elder Mr. Burtram, Chyna thought. “Anyway, the funeral home is closed today because of Russel’s—Mr. Burtram’s—

  death, but this was ready and I thought I’d just deliver it instead of making you come down to the home tomorrow or the next day, whenever Mr. Burtram—Mr. Owen Burtram— decides to open again.” He thrust the bag at her. “Here.”

  Chyna took the bag, surprised by its weight. “What is this?”

  Norman Holt went from red to fuchsia. “It’s your mother, Dr. Greer, all cremated and tucked away in her urn. I’m sorry for your loss.” With that he turned on his heel and walked quickly to his car, never looking at Chyna again as he backed out of the driveway.

  She stood motionless, holding the large, weighty parcel, until Norman Holt’s car disappeared. Then she looked down at the bag, slowly stepped back into the living room, and closed the front door. Once again, Michelle had drawn near her, so close her body pushed against Chyna’s leg. “You always know when I’m upset, don’t you, girl?” she muttered to the dog.

  Chyna walked on stiff legs to the couch, held the bag for at least a minute, then slowly withdrew the heavy gold-plated urn that held the ashes of Vivian Greer. This could not be, Chyna thought. Ashes in an urn could not be the remains of her beautiful, loving, vivacious mother. Although no tears came to Chyna’s eyes, a wave of desolation swept over her. “Dust in the wind,” she murmured, and then in a strangled, agonized voice, “Mommy!”

  This was all that was left of Vivian Greer. It seemed impossible to Chyna. This urn, heavy though it may be, could not contain the only earthly remnants of her mother’s body. The thought was too bleak, too desolating.

  Chyna leaned forward and set the urn on the coffee table. A flash of light from the fading sun caught its bronze luster and sent out a tiny beam of light—a beam that fell on the white box Ned had brought her. The box containing her mother’s engagement ring. Chyna hadn’t even looked at it yet.

  Slowly, she removed the lid of the box. There on a square of cotton lay the beautiful platinum ring. Chyna slipped it on

  the third finger of her left hand, holding it up to the light. The two-carat center diamond gleamed amid its bed of platinum filigree and sapphires. She still thought it was the most beautiful ring she’d ever seen. In fact, it looked even more beautiful than ever. Chyna stared at it, mesmerized as it sparkled and flashed with an almost unnatural brilliance….

  Vaguely, she became aware of Michelle beginning to tremble. Then, slowly, the room darkened. For a moment Chyna thought she was passing out. Then, like a bolt of lightning, the room seemed to fill with golden sunlight. She stiffened, blinked, then abruptly turned to look at the secretary desk in the corner. After a moment, she saw the figure of a woman writing on her blue-gray stationery.

  “Mom,” Chyna mumbled to the oblivious figure she knew was only part of a vision. Her mother wore beautiful brown slacks and a matching sweater, but her hair was drawn back sloppily with a rubber band, her face was white and without a trace of makeup, and her hands shook. She was writing furiously, as if she might not have enough time to finish all she had to say, and beside her lay a pile of trinkets and a plastic bag of the type usually used for leftover food.

  I’m in the past, Chyna thought foggily. I’m in the past on what I know was the last day of my mother’s life.

  Chyna sat frozen on the couch, staring at the desk where she could see her mother writing frantically, nervously, stopping only occasionally to wipe her face with a tissue. She was crying, Chyna thought. In all of her life, she had never seen her mother cry.

  Finally, Vivian had folded the sheets of stationery, then reached for the plastic bag in which she placed the trinkets that lay on the desk along with her letter. Vivian then picked up a roll of tape and walked over to the portrait of her and Chyna’s father, the one in which Edward had looked so distinguished and she had looked so beautiful, confident, and happy. Her face glistening with tears, Vivian took down the large portrait and propped it against the wall with the back facing outward. She then taped the plastic bag to the back of the portrait, touched it once almost as if she were tempted to

  remove it, then shook her head and said, “No,” aloud. Vivian turned the painting around and, with an effort that betrayed her failing strength, lifted it and hung it back on the wall. Finally, she touched a spot on the portrait—her beautiful diamond and sapphire engagement ring, the ring she had promised Chyna would one day be hers—and said, “Find this package, Chyna. It’s meant for you because you’re the only one I trust to know what must be done.”

  As the vision faded, Chyna felt air leave her body in one long, profound sigh. The first day she’d been home, she’d looked at that portrait of her parents. They’d both seemed young and good-looking less than ten years ago. Vivian even had a twinkle in her beautiful blue-gray eyes.

  Chyna had also looked at the ring—the ring given to her great-grandmother and passed through generations, the gorgeous platinum ring with the two-carat center diamond with four sapphires set in filigree on either side. She always gazed at that portrait when she came home and commented on what good-looking parents she had. Her mother had usually stood beside her, given her a nudge, and said playfully, “How you love that ring, little daughter. Don’t worry. It will be yours someday.” Vivian had known Chyna loved the portrait, so that’s why she’d put something especially for her in that particular spot, Chyna thought. Behind the portrait Vivian had placed the letter she’d written so hurriedly, so emotionally. But Chyna had no idea what other trinkets Vivian had put in the plastic bag with the letter. There was only one way to find out.

  With shaking hands, Chyna lifted the portrait off the wall and set it on the floor, the back side facing outward. The bag hung there, securely held by several strips of tape. Painstakingly, Chyna began to remove each strip, although she felt like ripping the bag off the portrait. She didn’t want to damage anything, though. Both the painting and the bag were important, she reminded herself. She must be careful, careful.

  When at last she’d freed the plastic bag, she looked at it with a pounding heart. No definite images came to her from it, yet it seemed to emanate an aura of despair and tragedy.

  I don’t want to open it, Chyna thought almost childishly. I don’t want to read Mom’s letter, and I don’t want to touch those trinkets.

  But she knew she had no choice. They had been left with urgency and only for her.

  Her fingers trembling, Chyna withdrew the stationery and unfolded it to see her mother’s handwriting. The letter was dated the day before her death:

  My Dearest Daughter,

  This is the hardest letter I have ever had to write. You have always been the most precious person in my life and I have thanked God for you every day. I have felt that you truly love me, too, but after you read this, you certainly will never feel the same about your mother. The truth must be told, though, my confession made.

  Almost six years before your birth, I met your father. We began to see each other and
I soon realized Edward loved me. I did not take his love lightly, but I was young, gregarious, some said wild, and Edward was too “tame ” for me. I was still dating him, though, when he introduced me to his younger brother, Rex. Rex seemed just the opposite of Edward and, in terms of personality, almost a mirror image of me. Within a month, I had broken off things with Edward and had begun seeing Rex, with whom I quickly fell in love.

  “Fell in love”? The words echoed in Chyna’s head. She’d always known Rex and Vivian were fond of each other. When Rex had come to visit, Vivian had acted even younger than usual, with her spirits always high. The two had talked and teased, obviously enjoying each other’s company. And Chyna’s father, Edward, had simply looked on, not showing the least bit of jealousy or competitiveness. In fact, now that Chyna remembered those visits, her father had acted as if he were benignly watching two high-spirited children when Vivian and Rex were together. But what had he really felt? Chyna wondered. She had never been able to read her father’s

  thoughts and moods, though. He had been an enigma to her. Intrigued, she read on:

  About five months into my relationship with Rex, I learned I was pregnant. I knew Rex certainly wouldn ’t be pleased—he was still in college, still really just a high-spirited boy. I told him and he had the reaction I’d expected. He did not want me to have the baby. He offered to see me financially and emotionally through an abortion. I was surprised to realize I had a moral problem with it. I refused to have the abortion, which threw Rex into an agony of fear and stubbornness. He told me quite plainly that although he loved me, he simply could not bring himself to marry me at that time in his life.

  I felt lost, frightened, rejected, overwhelmed. I knew I could not turn to my mother—my father had long ago deserted her. For some reason I never understood, Mother blamed me for Father’s desertion and had little love or generosity in her for me, his child. Edward had finished law school and had just begun his career at the bank then, and in desperation I turned to him. Maybe I thought he could talk Rex into marrying me. Maybe I just remembered his unfailing kindness and tenderness toward me. Even he could not move Rex into marrying me, though. Instead, he finally asked if I would be his wife. Chyna, I honestly had not gone to him in the hopes that he would propose, but I had no trouble accepting his offer of marriage, and not just because I was in trouble. I knew I needed his strength, his goodness, his maturity, and his unselfishness. We were married within a week, and eight months later your brother was born. Thank goodness he was late. He made it easier for us to pass him off as a premature baby.

  Chyna stopped reading, stunned. Edward Greer Jr., Ned, was Rex’s biological son? She’d noticed before how alike their bright blue eyes were, how they both possessed the same occasional joie de vivre, the same casual attitude toward life, but she’d always thought Ned had simply inherited more of

  the personality traits of some of the Greer family than had Edward. How wrong she had been.

  Ned was not a happy baby. In fact, whenever we held him, Ned would scream until he was almost blue. We took him to a number of medical specialists, but none could find anything wrong with him. Edward suggested that somehow Ned realized Edward was not his real father, and believed it a good idea if Rex came to see the baby. Edward and Rex had not been in touch since my marriage.

  Anyway, Edward’s parents had recently died, leaving him this house because they knew Rex never wanted to return to Black Willow to live, and we had moved in. With my permission, Edward invited Rex to come for a visit both to see the baby and to “keep the family together,” he said.

  To my surprise, Rex came and, although the atmosphere was tense, at least a tenuous bridge had been built among us again. Rex paid the baby a great deal of attention and Ned seemed calmer in Rex’s presence than in Edward’s or mine. Although at the time I still resented Rex mightily, I did my best to hide my feelings because Edward was obviously glad to have his little brother back in his life. I decided I would never let my personal animosity come between the men.

  More and more, Edward invited Rex to our home. Rex and Ned became pals, and when I saw that Rex truly cared for the child, I couldn’t help letting go of the rage I still bore toward Rex. I became calmer and more settled in my new life. By the time I announced that I was expecting another baby, your father and I were elated. I looked forward to giving Edward, that wonderful man, a child who was his in every way.

  So Daddy was happy when Mom told him she was pregnant with me, Chyna thought. He’d usually been so reserved around her, so different in his outward affections than her friends’ fathers were, that at times she thought he’d been disappointed in her or that maybe he hadn’t wanted a second

  child. But apparently, he had wanted her as much as her mother did. Chyna continued to read:

  Edward was thrilled when his beautiful baby girl was born. You were a beauty, happy, quiet, and never seemed happier than when you were in your father’s arms.

  I made Daddy happy, Chyna thought, tears rising in her own eyes. The thought that she had pleased him, even then, made her feel both happy and sad. At that time in his life, although more reserved than Rex or Vivian, Edward had been able to let loose and act “thrilled.” Later he became self-contained. Chyna hadn’t thought about it until this moment, but she never remembered her father even laughing out loud, not like her mother said he had when she was a baby.

  Ned accepted his new sister with as much grace as a three-year-old can be expected to have. I didn’t think Ned felt neglected. Now I know different. Over the next few years, he grew into a feisty child, usually happy but prone to occasional black moods when he seemed to shut out the world around him.

  Ned’s moodiness didn’t begin to show itself until you were around three. Your father and I knew even before then that you were special—not just pretty and smart, as most people believe their children to be, but gifted. At four you were already reading and better in math than Ned. When you were five, you began to play chess with your father, a game Ned never mastered.

  Ned always acted pleased by his little sister’s accomplishments, but I sensed in him a feeling of inferiority. All of us—Edward, Rex, and I—-made a great fuss over Ned’s own special gifts, like his exceptional coordination and quickly blooming expertise at sports, and for long periods at a time he would seem satisfied with himself. Then you would do something remarkable, such as read a book with ease that he ’d stumbled over in spite of being three years your senior, and he would draw in upon himself again. He was never

  mean to you, but some special feat you performed would usually be followed by Ned starting a fight with a neighbor’s child or getting in trouble at school. We knew he felt overshadowed by you and none of our praise could make him believe he was equal to his sister, either in his accomplishments or in our hearts.

  After you both entered school, the old pattern persisted. Ned made passing grades, but only with the help of tutors. Meanwhile, you were blessed with an insatiable curiosity and an ability to soak up any subject placed in front of you. At the end of second grade, they placed you in fourth. We were informed you had nearly the IQ of a genius, a fact we never told Ned. But he knew. And even when you were only seven and eight, when children are losing teeth and not always looking their best, you looked like an angel. Ned, however, went through what we secretly called his “ragamuffin ” stage. His front teeth were slow in growing in, he had acne, and he nearly always sported a black eye from one of his many fights.

  Chyna put down the third page of stationery and began reading the fourth, noticing that with each page, her mother’s usually beautiful handwriting had become more unsteady.

  Edward had Ned’s clubhouse built when he was nine. He felt giving the boy a place that belonged to him alone might draw him out of his increasing depressions, his aggressiveness toward other children, his feeling of inferiority to you. For a while, it seemed to work. Ned spent hours in the building, which eventually became known as the clubhouse for the Black Willow Warriors, th
e gang of boys who were brave enough to be Ned’s friends. As Ned grew older, he spent less time in the clubhouse, but he always kept it locked, making certain everyone knew it was his.

  Then came the teenage years. Ned’s looks had improved dramatically, as had his personality. He became popular and excelled at sports, although his poor grades often had him teetering on the edge of losing his place on various

  teams. Also, there were several acts of vandalism around town at that time and Ned was suspected of being involved in some of them, but he was always cleared, sometimes because of Edward’s influence.

  But in spite of Ned’s many friends, and girlfriends, he was still prone to those dark moods that worried me so much, times when he barely spoke, spent hours staring at television, and seemed removed from his family and the world around him. Once I went into his room while he was at school. I admit to snooping, and what I found shocked me. In a metal box he’d forgotten to lock, Ned had a collection of stories about serial killers and what I had no doubt were staged photos of naked girls who had been brutally murdered. Still…

  I was deeply shaken but couldn ’t bring myself to tell Edward. Instead, I called Rex—a man I am ashamed to confess to you had become my lover again when Ned was about eleven. I had a bond with Rex I never had with Edward, and Ned was Rex’s son. But perhaps those are just excuses for not doing what I should have done, which was get professional help for my son, When I told Rex about Ned, he assured me I was overreacting—that many teenage boys became fascinated by tales of horror and pornography. He insisted Ned was just going through a “stage.” Maybe I accepted Rex’s diagnosis of Ned’s behavior because I wanted to believe him. More likely, I was running from an appalling fear that had been haunting me for months. I probably don’t have to warn you of all people, Chyna, that you should never ignore your instincts about people. If only I hadn’t ignored mine.