Page 48 of The Lost Hours
Helen thought back for a moment, remembering. “My mother didn’t know anything about it, and made it clear she had no interest in knowing. She was all about saving the world, oblivious to what needed saving in her own backyard. But Malily—well, I did ask her once.”
“And what did she say?” Earlene was facing her again, the soft scent of her perfume bridging the space between then.
“That she didn’t know. But I think she was lying.” She turned her face up to Earlene. “I’ve found flowers on it, and always in the late summertime. Like there’s an anniversary being remembered.”
“Interesting,” Earlene said slowly. “I suppose I’ll have to dig a little deeper in the archives. But I don’t think I could be persuaded to dig up a grave.”
Helen recognized Earlene’s attempt to lighten the conversation and smiled in response. “Have you found out anything else that’s interesting?”
“The only other thing that really struck me was that your uncle was born nine months to the day after your grandparents’ wedding.”
Helen smiled to herself. “Are you suggesting my grandmother was less than pure on her wedding night?”
“Or just really fertile.” Earlene shifted her position on the ledge. “Do you remember your grandfather Charlie? And his relationship with Lillian?”
Helen jerked her head in Earlene’s direction. “Your friend—what was her name, Lola?—needs that kind of information?”
“My friend . . . ? Oh, no . . . I’m just curious, that’s all. I’m sorry if I’m getting too personal.”
“Don’t worry about it. Digging up information is probably just an occupational hazard for you. And I don’t mind answering. I’ll admit that it’s been refreshing to have you here at Asphodel and to have someone to talk to about things not related to horses or flowers.”
Helen took a long draw on her cigarette. “But in answer to your question, yes, I knew my grandpa Charlie. I was twenty when he died. He really loved Malily. And I’m pretty sure she loved him, too. Still . . .”
“What?”
Helen listened as Mardi began to prowl the perimeter of the fence, scattering squirrels and leaves as he approached. “My grandmother has finally decided to share her girlhood scrapbook with me. One of the parts she read to me is when she’s seventeen years old and her father is throwing her a come-out ball. She mentions my grandfather being a great dancer and dancing with him. She wrote that her father was wasting his time throwing her a ball to find a husband because she’d already fallen in love.”
“With your grandfather.”
Helen nodded. “Of course. Although she never said it, that’s what I was led to believe from everything else she wrote.”
Earlene stood, her feet soft against the pine needles and leaves that lay scattered on the ground, like accessories for the dead. “Did you ask her to clarify?”
Helen laughed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, my grandmother isn’t the sort of person who likes being questioned about anything. She charts her course and plows right on through, oblivious to who she might accidentally roll over, and don’t ask her to make any apologies or explain herself. She claims that she’s survived the Depression, a World War, and the loss of a husband and child, and she’s doing just fine, thank you very much. I was just so happy to be asked to share her scrapbook that I didn’t really want to say anything.”
Helen held up her hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I love my grandmother. I’ve never doubted that she loves me, and I owe her a great deal. She’s the one who’s made sure I have as normal a life as possible and don’t feel sorry for myself. She planted that garden for me and painted my bedroom exactly as I wanted it. But still . . .” She paused, not sure what she wanted to say next.
“But still . . . ?”
Helen thought of the portrait she’d made of Earlene, of a woman with large eyes who always seemed to be searching for something that was just beyond her grasp, like a fistful of wind. Helen had left the background blank, unsure of what setting to place Earlene in. But from what she already knew about Earlene, she wouldn’t place her inside at a desk poring over somebody else’s family tree. The Earlene she wanted to know was the girl who’d been brave enough to risk whatever it was that had caused the scars on her knees. The type of girl Helen had once imagined herself to be.
She took a deep breath, deciding to share confidences, hoping Earlene would give some of herself away, too. “I don’t feel as if I really know her. There’s a huge part of her life I know nothing about. And I’m pretty sure it was intentional. Until now.” Helen smashed the end of her cigarette into the stone base, then left the stub on the ledge. “She received news a few months ago that an old friend had died. Even though she hadn’t seen this friend in a very long time, it seemed to make her face her own mortality. Like she could suddenly count the hours she had left. And those she hadn’t used.”
Earlene took a few deliberate breaths. “Your grandmother’s friend—that would be Annabelle, right? Is she in your grandmother’s scrapbook?”
Helen nodded. “Yes. Quite a bit.”
Earlene was silent for a moment. “I’d like to see her scrapbook. Do you think she’d let me?”
Helen shook her head. “No, she wouldn’t. My grandmother has only chosen to share it with my mother and Susan and now me. I think there’s something in her past that conflicts with her idea of who she believes herself to be—the persona she’s built around herself. She’s already failed twice in her attempt to receive validation. And I think the only reason why she’s chosen me now is because she knows her time is short and there’s no one else.”
Earlene sat back down on the ledge. Softly, she said,“That’s not true.” After a brief pause, she added, “Annabelle was my grandmother.”
Ah.“Well, that certainly explains a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
“Odella and I found scrapbook pages and a necklace in a box on your kitchen table along with pictures of Malily. We figured there had to be a connection.”
