The Stolen Canvas(6)

What did Jem see when he looked at her now? She raised her eyes to the filmy mirror on an adjacent wall of her mother’s studio apartment. When had she grown so thin? The curly hair clouding her shoulders looked dull and lifeless, her eyes enormous. They were brown. She’d always wished they could be blue—blue as the ocean.

“I can see the world inside them.” Jem had said that when they met along the waterfront—could it have been a year ago? The image in the mirror frightened her suddenly. She felt ugly and alone! As alone as her dead mother had been. What if Jem left her too, this time for good?

She tore her eyes away and pulled open the desk drawer. Just a few more things to go through. Trembling, she lifted a small packet of letters tied with a pink ribbon. Her mother had loved all shades of pink from shell to raspberry. Was this little bundle a sentimental record of some lost lover? Or could these be letters from the man who’d died before his little girl was born? Her eyes darted left and right; she felt like an intruder.

Dear Claire,

I’m so glad to hear from you after so many years. I am old now, but one does not forget the important things, or the people who have shared her life in some way.

You would love to see how spring has come to the bleak landscape around Grey Gables. Where once snow lay thick on the lawn and brittle branches streaked a dull sky, all is green and growing. The ocean has come to life again. The ice has broken up and is rushing away, chased by warm, westerly winds. Little green shoots and tiny flowers jump up everywhere. One can see that God, who is even older than I am, has not forgotten the important things either. In spite of our winter souls, he has sent spring once more.

I’m sorry you have not been well. You must take care of your health, and above all, remember that you are not forgotten.

It was handwritten on pale blue paper and dated April 4, 2009. The lines were straight, but the letters slightly wavy as though formed by an unsteady hand. The words sounded like poetry. She read down to the final line; it was signed, “Elizabeth Holden.”

Who was Elizabeth Holden, and why had her mother written to her? Tara drew out another blue envelope, opened it and read a letter dated that same year but four months later:

Dear Claire,

I was sorry to read you have been ill and that things are not going well. You sounded very upset in your last letter. That grieves me very much. There are good facilities in Portland where you can get help, but I hope you know that you are welcome here at Grey Gables.

The rose bushes are glorious. New blooms appear every day, and I drink in their fragrance coming through the open windows. You would especially like the pink ones that grow along the path leading to the road. I gave my neighbor a great bouquet for a wedding party she was attending today.

I pray for you every day and for Tara. I’m sorry she cannot come more often to see you. Write to me soon and tell me all your news.

This one was signed, “Love, Elizabeth Holden.” Tara stared at her name on the page. Whoever Elizabeth Holden was, she not only knew her mother but her as well. I pray for you every day and for Tara. Was this some relative her mother never talked about, even as she never spoke of her father or the grandparents Tara had never known? Tara read and reread the letter, the commiseration over a neglectful daughter. I’m sorry she cannot come more often to see you.

A wave of guilt swept over Tara. It had been wrong to stay away so long. She should have spent more than a few hours on Christmas day with the mother who, though she may not have loved her, had given her life. Claire Andrews had died alone, not having seen her daughter for months on end. No one had come to her aid, only a kindly woman who once knew her and hadn’t forgotten—a woman who wrote letters about roses and ocean breezes and had been gracious enough to invite her mother into her home—an idyllic sounding place … Grey Gables.

Tara rifled through more letters, each similar in tone, containing uplifting thoughts, expressing concern, giving assurances of prayer, along with little asides about the life of an elderly woman in a house where ocean breezes wafted through the windows … . I can still see well enough to work my needle. I hope you like this cushion cover I made for you. I stitched one like this for my daughter many years ago; perhaps it will remind you of your own child. And the signature … Love.

Tara looked down. The cushion had slipped off the chair and fallen to the threadbare carpet. She stared at the beautifully worked design that featured a cradle near an open window. No face could be seen, but inside it a baby must be asleep. On a table next to the cradle, pink roses flourished in a crystal vase. Filmy wind-swept curtains revealed a cobalt blue ocean on which a distant white sail glinted beneath a summer sky.