The Gift of the Twin Houses Read online

  “Listen, I know you’ve kissed me and you’ve held me in your arms, and I’m loving it, but if after I tell you about.. .well.. .after I tell you, if you’d prefer to stop seeing me, please understand I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? Have you lost your mind? Why would I do such a thing?” Now he was angry.

  “Well.. .this anger I see in you might get worse when I tell you.”

  “I’m angry that you would think me so stupid as to want to run away from you. What the hell is going on?” He stood right in front of me expecting an answer.

  “OK, here it is. You’ve accepted the fact that I can sense things from the past. You’ve rationalized that it’s because I’m just as perceptive as your grandmother. But it’s much more than that.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “When I was little, I felt and knew things before they happened. Sometimes if I got close to someone—just a passerby, no one I knew—I’d see what he’d just done or what he was thinking of doing next. I didn’t see it all the time or with everyone. I didn’t choose to see it or sense it. It just happened. The visions just popped into my head. My grandmother thought this ability to be a gift, but my parents didn’t agree, especially when our neighbors and friends thought me strange and were frightened of me.”

  “Frightened of you? Why?” He sat back down next to me.

  “You have to admit that a little girl saying to someone, ‘I’m sorry your grandfather died,’ before he was gone is a bit strange.”

  “I can see that.”

  “What happened when I was six was horrible, the culminating moment when my so-called gift traumatized everyone at my best friend Lindsay’s birthday party. All I did was tell her—unfortunately in front of everyone—how sorry I was that her cousin George had hurt her. Turns out Lindsay hadn’t told a soul this middle-aged creep had played doctor with her. When George went to jail and Lindsay’s mom killed herself, my family was ostracized, and everyone blamed me for the tragedy. From that moment on, everyone around us believed me to be possessed by the devil. They called me a witch.”

  “I see.”

  “My family escaped from that neighborhood and forced me to bury my abilities. Now, fifty years later, they’ve come back to life.” I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, expecting him to get up, and then I’d hear his footsteps as he marched out the front door.

  But he didn’t. Instead he reached for me and embraced me. I tentatively uncrossed my arms and hugged him.

  “I understand now,” he whispered.

  “Aren’t you freaked out?”

  “Sure I am. Who wouldn’t be? I’m holding a witch in my arms. I don’t suppose you can wiggle your nose and make things appear and disappear, ’cause I’d like a new truck.”

  We laughed so hard that tears kept running down our cheeks. We eased back onto the sofa and in silence watched the fire for a long while.

  “Your fear and reluctance make sense to me now,” he finally said. “It helps me understand how you can actually live through the photographs and even visit with your nana. It must be quite frightening to be in both worlds.”

  “At times it is.”

  “What’s in store?”

  “Don’t know. I sense that my house has something to tell me.”

  “The house?”

  “Maybe it’s Angela. But at times it feels as if there are others that need to be heard.”

  Chapter 17

  Ethan

  The next morning I woke up with a powerful sense of gratitude for my house and the new life it had propelled me into. After breakfast and a shower, I went to visit with my attic. I needed to chat, share my happiness, and most important, offer my thanks for inviting me to come live here.

  “It’s been quite a ride these last few months,” I told the attic. “You’re to blame, you know? You’re the culprit of all of my new adventures and discoveries. I don’t quite understand it all, but thank you for the experiences you’ve given me. I can only imagine what is to come...Do you have more in store for me?”

  But the attic offered no answers, only the familiar sensation of ease and comfort, with the invitation to relax.

  “OK,” I went on, “it’s true that I’m still worried, not sure what’s expected of me or why I’m tuned into the lives of these people, but I’m willing to go along with you.”

  I strolled about the room, running my fingers along the furniture, the trunks, and the boxes of photographs. I picked up one box and thumbed through the remaining pictures. They’d been silent the last few times I looked through them.

  “Caroline was stunning,” said an unexpected shy voice emanating from the box whose contents I’d obviously awakened.

  I flipped through the photos searching for Caroline or the voice behind the picture. This box contained the old sepia photographs, and sometimes it took me a while to focus enough in order to bring the likenesses within them forward. I found a small photograph of an elegant family, a lovely woman, her hand resting on the arm of a strapping young man, and two little boys.

  Is this Caroline?

  As I studied their faces, I thought I recognized Leonard, but their garments didn’t seem to be in the same style as the ones in the previous photographs. I turned it over to see if there was a date or any indication of who they were and found a barely legible inscription: San Francisco, 1864,

  “She had been a widow for about one year when I met her. I fell in love the minute I laid eyes on her. Been in love ever since.”

  “Where did you meet?” But he didn’t hear me. He spoke with someone other than me, so I quietly got out of the way and sat down to listen.

  “I wrote to tell you I wanted to marry her, asking your permission to do so, and inviting you to join us for the ceremony. I wrote you several letters but never heard back from you, so I thought you were traveling again, and news of your whereabouts would reach me sooner or later. In the end we married without you. If you had met her, you would have approved. I know I have told you this story many a time, Father, but bear with me. I like remembering how it all began as I tell you how it is turning out.”

  He paused for a long time, and I feared he’d left, but then I heard him sigh.

  “After the wedding we came back and found we had missed your funeral by a month. Wish Louise would have written to me, but you know how moody she was. Amy didn’t know of your death until a couple of days before the funeral, and that was by accident. She ran into the preacher’s sister, who extended her condolences. You can well imagine how Louise took your death. She was beside herself. Amy tried to give her some solace, but she would have none. Cora and Laura didn’t come to the funeral after Amy wrote to them, nor did they write. They were off tending to their anger as usual. I felt sorry for them all these years, never married, never getting close to anyone, always distant and angry. Poor souls.”

  Suddenly, I saw Ethan kneeling on the ground before Leonard’s grave. He was not the young handsome man of the photograph but a man in his late seventies or early eighties.

  “Caroline’s been the joy of my life. Her two sons, Henry and Stuart, were a handful but great to have around and watch them grow along with Amy’s twins. You remember I’ve told you that our twin boys are but a few years older than Annie and Claudia, Amy’s girls. I have told you before, right? Watching them grow so well, and their mother so at ease and happy to live in our house, has been good for me. Nothing like it was with Aunt Louise and you. I have been a lucky man to find such a loving wife.

  “I can only imagine how hard it must have been for my Caroline’s late husband. You know, Hugo Thompson. I’ve mentioned him to you. Anyway, when his body gave up and he knew he would leave her with three-year-old twins, the pain he must have gone through is hard to imagine. I don’t think I could have endured it. The thought of losing Caroline even by my own death terrifies me. Thank goodness I’ve not had to deal with that in my lifetime. My admiration for Hugo has never waned. And the effort he mad
e to do right by her and the boys is commendable.

  “I learned well from you, Father, and have put the money from her trust fund to good use. I honored him by insisting that his boys keep his name in spite of Caroline’s request that I give them mine. Time confirmed I made the right decision. Every year on the day of Hugo’s death, we remember him and honor his memory and legacy. It’s been a good lesson for the boys not to forget their birth father and to have no guilt or shame for their love for me. The boys and I are endeared to one another just as much as you and I were.

  “As I have told you before, we have had some bad years, but with the profit from the trust fund and the little we got out of the mines before they closed down, we have been able to make ends meet. Along with Christopher and Amy, we have kept the twin houses and the land alive and well cared for. Granted that both are a bit different than when you and Aunt Louise were alive. Christopher and I have had to adjust to farming and cattle ranching. Caroline and Amy are truly taken by the houses, and they tend to them as if they were precious jewels. We tease the women something awful, but they like it. Christopher’s been a good husband to Amy and a dear friend to me. He was at your funeral along with Amy, their twins Annie, and Claudia. Aunt Louise didn’t even notice; she was so broken up. I’m glad you had some of your family around to bid you farewell.”

  He paused again, and a few tears dropped on my lap. The loneliness of Leonard’s death weighed heavily on my heart.

  “I gave Amy some of the old photographs to keep in that attic of hers. Neither one of us bear any resentment. We actually wish to keep the memories of times past that we all enjoyed and even the pain we endured. It is part of who we are. Having found love ourselves, we can recognize its influence. At best, the two of us accept what was and aren’t bitter about it. We both loved you, and have chosen to remember all the good things you did for us and even some of the good times we experienced with Louise when she was in high spirits.

  He paused again, and I thumbed through the photographs searching for the memories he’d just mentioned. All of a sudden every ghostly sepia photograph came into focus. There were photographs of Ethan with his father, of Amy with both of them, of Louise and Leonard with the three girls, and of Louise with her mother.

  As I held each photograph, I perceived the moment and the emotion captured within it. I’d been transported to the instant when each was taken.

  The photographs of Ethan and Leonard clearly showed that they were close and shared trust and friendship. Although there were no more than six pictures of the two of them when Ethan was young, an obvious silent connection emanated from each photo that communicated a strong bond between father and son, between allies. Ethan looked handsome and composed, filled with happiness and assurance, sometimes mischievous, sometimes pensive, but always connected with Leonard by a resilient bond.

  However, in the photographs where Louise was present, Ethan seemed to cower, to shy away, to become less expressive, to move into the background as if wishing to disappear from the moment. The happy, secure, and strong Ethan returned when photographed with Amy but would retreat somewhat when photographed with his cousins Cora or Laura when Amy was absent.

  The photographs of Louise and Leonard alone always showed deep emotion, a silent exchange between them, sharing the certainty that they were destined for one another yet exuding a palpable desire to communicate

  detachment. Their love for each other was as evident as was their apprehension of it.

  The three photographs of Louise alone or with her mother spoke of resentment and denial. Neither woman looked at the camera, they didn’t gaze at each another, and their eyes focused internally, away from the moment.

  “I still cannot understand why you went to the mine. You had no business there. You owned the place. Why put yourself in such danger? What possessed you to go in and try to save them?”

  I heard rustling as if something or someone were stirring. I looked around the attic but found only stillness.

  “Father, don’t be angry. You know I always ask this of you when I visit your grave. Please understand that I want to know.. .I need to know. Amy is convinced your actions are a reflection of who you were as man. Apart from the bond between you and Aunt Louise, you were a man of honor. I know that as well. I can understand you wanting to show your support for your men. But you could have done it from a distance. Amy tells me you went because you needed to feel you were a good person, given that you kept chastising yourself for what you and Louise had done. But I know you better; there must have been another reason for you to want to die with them.”

  Then silence surrounded me. I couldn’t hear anything, not even the slightest whisper. I waited.

  Quietly, I thumbed through the remaining photographs, finding a handful of pictures of Ethan with Caroline in front of their house, tending to the farm, and working with the animals.

  “Caroline and I never conceived our own brew.” Ethan continued with no reference to what his father might have answered or if he’d answered his plea at all.

  “Good thing,” Ethan went on, “given our family’s history. Her boys turned out to be much better for all of us than if they had been mine. They have no resentments, no skeletons in the closet. They are hardworking kids, and life has been good for all of us. Henry has taken to farming and Stuart to cattle ranching, a true cowboy.”

  I found a few photographs of Henry and Stuart as they grew up, Henry always tending to the farm animals while Stuart rode or cared for the horses. There were also several photographs of Annie, Claudia, Henry, and Stuart in moments of play or as they celebrated birthdays and holidays.

  “Thank goodness for Christopher’s notion of picture taking. He’s been real good with his camera at preserving the memories. Amy keeps the photographs in the boxes she makes for safekeeping and then hides them in that attic of hers. She brings the boxes out at Christmas and we all reminisce about years gone by. Who would have thought we could have such fun remembering what was?”

  Unexpectedly, I realized the photograph that the cowboy had given to Jeremy’s pa was in my hands, and I bolted up. Was it possible that this was the photograph I’d been looking for? Was it possible that Stuart was the cowboy in Jeremy’s story? It certainly felt like it, no doubt about it. Yet, with the same force that carried that certainty, a myriad of questions invaded in my mind.

  My instantaneous realization caused Ethan’s retreat.

  “Ethan, you can’t just leave. I need answers,” I pleaded. “If Stuart was the cowboy in Jeremy’s story, was Henry his father? Who was his mother? Come back, please,” I begged, but to no avail. Ethan had left.

  Actually, he’d never been there.

  Remembering that this entire exchange had occurred with Ethan kneeling before his father’s grave offered a possible path to follow where I could find some answers. I rushed out of the attic and headed for my computer to search for the cemeteries in the area. If I could find Leonard’s grave, maybe I could find all of the other graves and piece the stories from the photographs together.

  My online search resulted in finding several potential cemeteries, but none showed Leonard Whitman, let alone someone called Louise connected to him. Neither appeared on the lists posted by those who surveyed the graveyards.

  Maybe if I went to the cemeteries within driving distance, I could find a clue or something. First I drove to Sullivan Cemetery, east of Winthrop, but although it had some old gravestones, I found no trace of the Whitman legacy. My visits to Beaver Creek, Methow, Melson, and Okanogan cemeteries yielded little information as well.

  By the time I made my way back home, it was dinnertime, and Conrad was scheduled to arrive in less than half an hour. I quickly whipped up garlic and olive oil pasta, tossed with sauteed shrimp, and a nice salad. With no time for freshly baked bread, a swift warming up of the leftover loaf did the trick.

  As usual, Conrad arrived right on time, and our evening began with a warm embrace and tender kisses. Immediately, I relaxed and rela
ted Ethan’s appearance along with my visits to the cemeteries. As we ate dinner, Conrad listened to my story and calmly looked through the old photographs.

  After dessert we made our way to the living room, and Conrad took another look at the pictures. We sat in front of our Christmas tree, and multicolored lights danced on the old sepia photographs, bringing them to life. I hoped they would ring a bell and prompt him to tell me more about them.

  “I can’t say I know any of these folks, sorry,” he said with a smile. “And I’m not surprised you didn’t find any tombstones or genealogy records either. So much has changed in these parts through the years, even though I imagine we’ve changed less than other states in the union. My family, though, has preferred not to have stone or any other manmade markers, just natural burials whereby they can become part of the earth, the Cascades, one with nature. That way we can remember them throughout all of our surroundings, free as the wind or the water of the rivers, the rain, or the snow instead of locked up in one place. It’ll be difficult to find tombstones for my clan.”

  “Do you think Stuart is the cowboy in Jeremy’s story? Because if he is, then his sister Rachel is Angela’s mother.”

  “Could be. From my granddad’s side of the family, we’re named Thompson. That fits with what Ethan said about last names. My granddad’s father, Ernest Thompson, married Elisabeth, my great-grandmother. I think his father was named Stuart. But these names are pretty common names.”

  “How about on Angela’s side?”

  “Her father’s name was John Meyers, and her mother’s was Rachel, as you know. Her grandmother was named Annie, and I believe her husband was Henry Thompson. You already know Angela’s great-grandmother was named

  Amy, so it seems you’re ahead of the game. All these names could make one’s head spin, and to be honest, I haven’t paid much attention to these things in the past. Sorry I’m not much help.”

  “You’re right. I do know these things. Amy’s twin girls married Ethan’s twin boys!” I sat on the edge of the sofa, my forehead furrowed, my lips puckered.