Chapter 19.

In the morning, I am red-eyed and groggy. I dress in my treasure hunting jean shorts and a light blue top and stumble to the kitchen. Miriam gets up from the table when she sees me and puts her arms around me. I let myself collapse into them. Encircle her. Feel her warmth, the beat of her heart. The tears flow again. Dembi jumps up too and we are trio-d in comfort again. I am a mess once more. I can't seem to stop feeling marshmallowy, soft and sad. This is not me.

I think.

Miriam has been up early, tending to Meme. She's made breakfast and now she tends to me. Her face is mine but her eyes reflect love and certainty. She knows who she is and she knows how to love.

We have waffles and strawberries and maple syrup and pecans. I devour them as happily as my siblings do. As we are finishing coffee, Melody appears at the kitchen door. She is laden with several bags including a leather one that resembles a doctor's kit.

All three of us help her into the house where she fills the kitchen with her big voice and her laughter. She has several things for Meme, sent by Tommy. Contraptions to stretch muscles, stimulate movement and assist with breathing. Other paraphernalia I am too overwhelmed to contemplate, adult diapers among them. Once Dee is unpacked, she and Dembi deliver the items to Meme's room while Miriam and I clean the kitchen. We wordlessly start on the picnic lunch, pulling out bread and meat and apples.

Dembi appears in the doorway with a white package. "Look what Dee brought for us." His slow, slurry speech is sped up by excitement. "Cookies for our treasure hunt!"

Holy crap, she bakes too, I think, wondering how on earth she had time to prepare this incredible-smelling mixture of chocolate, peanut butter and coconut.

Miriam claps her hands. "Wonderful! Anne and I are getting the picnic ready. Do you want to help, Dembi?"

He wags his head happily as though she has asked him to a party. It turns out to be fun, actually, as we pile up sandwiches, goodies and drinks. We are nearly finished when Dee comes back. She's not smiling this time.

"Libby is in worse shape than I thought," she says bluntly. "If I can't see any progress today, I might call Tommy and see if we should take her to the hospital."

"I knew I should have acted sooner," Miriam says, immediately taking on the burden. "She was so much better up until a few days ago and any mention of the hospital sent her into..."

Dee puts her large, beefy hand on my sister's shoulder. "Do not blame yourself, Miriam. This horrible disease can turn in a few hours, let alone days. She could even have worsened overnight. Let me see what I can do for her. Then we'll all make the decision together."

"Should we go on our treasure hunt or should I stay home?"

"No, no, you go on your treasure hunt," Dee answers, looking at Dembi's sagging expression at the thought of canceling. "Be back by around 3. That'll give me enough time to make an assessment and, if need be, have Tommy swing by for a visit."

Melody is precise, decisive and kind. Exactly what we need. The three of us finish our preparations. Then off we go as though we've received permission from our mother to retreat into an innocent childlike adventure.

Although it's still early, it's very hot. The sky is cerulean, cloudless, and the sun is a blazing heat lamp. We all don our hats. Slather on a bit of sun lotion and spray insect repellant. Down the hill we go, through bushes filled with buzzing insects and pincers from angry leaves.

Dembi hacks our way through, heedless of the flowers and weeds alike that we trample underfoot. He sings in a high-pitched, sloppy voice, A-hunting we will go. After a moment of giggling, Miriam and I join the singing.

In a shallow part of the river we walk into the stream with our arms straight out for balance, pausing a bit to let the refreshing water splash our sweaty skin. We hang over the bridge for a few moments watching the ripples and waves as they course away from us.

Our voices continue to drown out the cicadas' symphony, the bees' dance, the scampering of mice and squirrels and chipmunks as we invade their territory. We holler camp songs that have crossed borders and time. We attempt a few songs from the radio.

Dembi sings louder than we do.

"See that girl, watch her scream, playing the tambourine."

Miriam and I have to put our hands over our mouths to avoid laughing out loud.

"Nobody knows what it's like to be Batman."

Better than the bad man, I suppose.

"There's a bathroom on the right" instead of "There's a bad moon on the rise" puts us over the edge. We have to stop. Bend over and choke with laughter. Dembi joins in though he looks puzzled by our merriment.

By the time we reach the old church we are covered in perspiration, breathless and sporting Cheshire cat grins. All three of us sit side by side on the rock altar, swill a bottle of water each in one gulp and munch on Dee's cookies. Dembi holds the Vryheid book reverently on his lap. Gradually I ensure that Miriam sees the deed. The land we are sitting upon probably does belong to Meme. Her eyes widen. She's silent for a long time. Dembi and I turn the pages carefully while our sister contemplates.

I am mesmerized by the drawings as we progress through the years. Although throughout the decades different hands have made the sketches, there are similarities, as though the artists were related. Perhaps they were. The book was handed down by one family whose interest in recording Vryheid's history continued through generations. Namely, the Johnstons.

As we flip into the 1940's the artistic renderings are breathtaking. Mostly done in pencil, the pictures reflect the era both in the dress of the people depicted and the appearance of the village. They are distinctive, too. Where there is color, it's stunning despite the fading of time. The figures are so realistic, utterly arresting, especially the eyes. I feel as though I am gazing into someone's face. I'm not an art critic but I did learn something from Karoline's expeditions for Daniel's collections. These pictures, although meant to simply accompany the diary entries, are magnificent. This artist was highly talented.

Dark faces gaze back at us from the pages. From lined skin to youthful smiles, from short and hefty women in printed dresses to young slender girls carrying buckets of water, the portraits are mesmerizing. The combination of black and native is highlighted in the cheekbones, straight black hair, thick lips and flattened noses. The people are not all beautiful, but they are interesting characters. The landscape is so realistic that the houses of Vryheid live again, surrounded by colorful flowers, vegetable gardens, bushes and the paraphernalia of a rustic life.

Miriam leans over and stares at them, too. "They're lovely," she breathes.

"They look familiar to me," I say slowly, trying to remember something that has slipped into the fog of my recent tumult. "I feel as though I've seen something like these before."

"I know. I do too. Dembi, did Mrs. West see this book?"

He shakes his head. Emphatic, possessive. "No. No. Meme said to keep everything secret. Only the family. Meme, Miriam, Other Anne, Triplet Anne. Dembi."

Miriam and I look at each other. The topic obviously upsets Dembi. He regresses into his childish manners, closes the book, hugs it and rocks back and forth.

Miriam touches his shoulder gently. "That's all right, Dembi. We're not going to show it to anyone. Let's put it back and go on our treasure hunt."

He smiles now, carefully replaces the book and jumps to his feet. For the next couple of hours we prance through the woods, across the fields, in and out of Dembi's cave. We laugh. Hide and seek. Dig. Listen. We watch a hawk circle and dive. It lurches back into the sky with a dangled prey. We stand very still as a pair of young deer, upwind, munch on berries and leaves. Their beautiful brown faces turn in our direction when I snap a twig, but none of us moves. Eventually they meander away.

When we settle in for lunch we're happy to be out of the sun in the cool dry cave, tucked away under trees and rock. I sit in the rocker once more while Miriam and our brother perch on the wobbly chairs. Dembi is quiet, but his eyes are more alive than I have seen them. The perspiration has settled on his forehead and cheeks, making his dark skin glow. His shirt is inside out, I notice, but right at this moment, his unkempt look seems endearing.

Miriam laughs as she hauls the goodies out of the backpacks and distributes sandwiches and cookies and fruit and more water. Her face is dusky, kissed by the sun. Her eyes shine with merriment. The pink shirt hugs her curves and highlights her color. She's indescribably beautiful.

I am overwhelmed with a rush of love. The feeling leaves me gasping for breath, almost tearful. I'm uncertain about this new emotion. Not sure how to handle it. I wonder if I've ever felt this kind of pure love before. It's very different from what I feel for Ethan. Nothing like I ever felt for Karoline, Giulio or Parris. Even Elizabeth and my parents.

I am utterly connected to these two people. I shared a womb with them. They have my smile, my eyes, my skin. It's a strange astonishing sensation. Even Ice Queen Anne is silent in wonderment.

As I gaze around Dembi's cave I notice a stack of wood and paper shoved under his bed that I hadn't seen before. He must be in the mood to redecorate. I still have a flash of rage each time my eye rests on the picture of him and Karoline but the feeling is fading the longer I am here. Maybe he'll take that down when he changes things around. Maybe I can suggest it...

We chat and laugh. I rock and eat and drink in the sight of these lovely people. My true trio.

After lunch we pore over the rough copy of Dembi's map again. It's nearly impossible to make out the depicted village from the overgrown bushes and trees in our way. We spend about an hour digging and hunting, really to satisfy Dembi. But it's far too hot and the insects have come out to hunt. We head back to the farmhouse early, singing as we go. We slurp on water to keep our energy high.

Melody is in the kitchen. She's singing, too, in a deep throaty voice that sounds like someone in a jazz cellar. She sparkles with confidence and good news. It's infectious, an oxygenated air that pumps all of us, even Dembi. He scoots off to "see Meme and tell her about the hunt" while Miriam and I clean up the picnic gear and visit with Dee.

"I am so happy to tell you, girls," she says, as she assists us with the bags and tins and bottles. "Libby is resting very peacefully. Tommy did come by and, although of course she's terminal, he thinks he can make her remaining days much more comfortable and lucid. He's switched some of the meds and increased the oxygen intake. Plus, I opened her windows, even though at first she was terrified for some reason. She's already more alert with the better air. She'll enjoy Dembi's stories!"

I think of two things. The stale putrid air in Meme's room and the gaping door the evening before. Despite the heat in the kitchen I shiver. When we're finished cleaning, Miriam puts her hand on my arm.

"I'm going to visit with Meme, too," she says. "Do you want to try the two of us again?"

I know she means well. She wants Meme to accept me, along with my brother and sister. Unlike Miriam I am aware of the underlying tension. The fear that emanates from our mother when she looks at me. I'm still not certain of the reasons, but I am determined to find out. Meme will remember what I said to her when I first arrived. She will tell me, eventually, why she separated my trio.

My breath quickens as rapidly as the thoughts jet through my brain. I try to calm myself to answer but Miriam notices immediately.

"It's okay. We'll give it more time."

She dashes off down the hallway. Dee smiles at me with an understanding that seems deeper than it should be.

"Do you know why our mother rejected me?" My breath gives out and the 'me' is almost a whisper.

The woman sits in a kitchen chair and subtly signals for me to sit, too. I obey in puppet fashion, collapsing at the table. I am terrified. A sudden rush of grey memories clouds my eyes. Fire. Running feet. A dark shape in the hallway. The groan of springs as a monster sits on my bed.

Dee's soft big hand covers mine, a motherly gesture that I don't remember ever experiencing. I recall Vera's distance, her bustling, businesslike attitude. Her habit of patting my back perfunctorily as though that constituted a hug.

I feel Ethan's warmth as he wraps me in his arms. I stop shivering. Ice Queen Anne does not appear. Although I know I am going to be hurt, I leave myself open and soft, albeit breathless and afraid.

"I told you about the huge fire that destroyed Vryheid."

I nod as flames pass my vision. I smell the acrid, overwhelming smoke and almost cough.

"You must try to understand that people around here were backward and isolated in the 50's. They were a culture unto themselves, pretty much ignored by the rest of society for decades. A native and black mix who didn't know what to believe. They straddled two sets of histories and philosophies. They had very few tools for dealing with the encroachment of the town and its laws and so on. Over their history they were often incestuous, too, since few of them moved out to get married or mate. So they passed on some very weak genes in a lot of cases. I'm not sure of the original evolution of Vryheid, but it had something to do with Joseph Brant. If you get time, you should talk to Mary Lou West. She's the curator in the new Burford museum and has worked very hard on the archives."

I nod, my breath normal again as Dee drones on. She's probably rambling on purpose, gently leading me to the real nuggets of information that I need. I am calmer so her method works.

"I'm setting the background to try and get you to understand the atmosphere in 1954. Everything was changing rapidly. The towns were forcing change on Vryheid. The ownership of the land was in question. The Johnstons had evolved into drunkards and troublemakers. No one policed them very carefully. Brawls were so commonplace that someone had to be hospitalized before the law took any interest. But with the amalgamations of some counties and enforcement agencies, that hands-off policy was changing.

"In the village itself the people were poor, miserable, discontent and superstitious. They refused help from outside agencies, distrusted anyone outside, but didn't like each other much either. Around them the towns were booming with post-war affluence. The Vryheid residents were starting to talk about selling out to a subdivision development, while the Johnstons fought to keep the status quo. There was a rumor that all the land belonged to them anyway, but that wasn't substantiated until much later."

I flash to the Vryheid book and the wealth of information it holds.

"Anyone who wasn't related to the Johnstons hated them with a passion. And some who were related, too, I suppose. Stories went around about how they believed in voodoo and witchcraft. Strange rituals were supposedly carried out in the compound. None of this was ever proven. There was never any evidence of such goings-on. But the fear was wild. When the fire burned the village to the ground, the death of the Johnston men drove everyone away. The incident was blamed on witchcraft."

I conjure up the vine-choked, tree-hidden paths of the old village. The beautiful drawings in the book. The penciled outlines of Dembi's treasure map. The stone church still perched on the hillock. Safe from the hell fire. Now a bird sanctuary. A keeper of secrets. An orange glow lights up the darkness of my memory. I see my own face reflected in the pops and flashes as the fire eats its prey. I am smiling.

"And I was the witch," I say.

Dee leans closer to me. I can feel the heat of her body, the warm motherly quality that oozes from her naturally. Her eyes are kind and wise.

"Yes. Someone reported that they saw you with a torch of some kind, similar to a smudging stick. You walked around and lit piles of straw and paper. Supposedly you tipped over a couple of gasoline cans and lit them up, too. Personally, I adhere to the theory that there was an illegal distillery.

"Regardless, the village was a tinderbox, everything made of wood, everything crudely put together. It went up in seconds. No one contacted the fire department for hours. By then all the houses and much of the forest had burnt to the ground.

"But, Anne, you were a little girl. You were four years old. How could you have done that? I have never believed it and you shouldn't either. There were plenty of people who hated the Johnstons and had reasons for getting rid of them. It's also pretty suspicious that they were the only ones who died."

"I think Meme believed I did it. That's why she sent me away. Probably so did my adoptive mother."

Perhaps this explains Vera's wariness, her distance. I am a being to be feared.

Dee pushes her chair closer to me. I almost flinch when her arm drapes over my shoulder, pulling me to her. Instead, I allow the heat of her sympathy to drift over my skin. I'm not sure what I will do if she doesn't hold me upright.

"Remember that Libby was, and still is, limited in her understanding. She was the product-and the victim-of incest. Despite her beauty and gentleness she was not very smart. She couldn't help but believe in the superstitions and tales of witchcraft."

"So she called her sister to come and get me."

"Yes, I think so. Of course I wasn't here, so I don't know for certain. No one but Libby and Larue would know."

"And Vera."

Dee takes in a large breath and cuddles me closer. I don't resist. I can't sit up.

"Maybe. You will have to ask her some day, poor child. The important thing for you to remember is that you were little more than a baby back then. It's extremely doubtful that you could have done such a thing of your own accord."

I think of the pampered, oblivious, selfish, icy Anne. The 'me' who walked through life with her haughty self-aggrandized attitude. Could that person have lit a fire that killed two people? I believe she could and would. She murdered her best friend. She could easily eliminate those abusive uncles from her life.

And who am I now? Can a monster of such epic rage transform into a loving, beloved creature?

"But what if I did do it?" I ask Dee, my voice tremulous against her breast as she holds me.

She grasps my chin and forces me to look straight at her. "You were four. A little girl in a terrible situation. Most of Libby's brothers were cruel drunks. Who knows what they did to you or to Dembi? Maybe you had reasons to burn down that cesspool."

On some level, she too thinks I did it. She believes I was justified. But wonderful, generous, kind-hearted Dee will never know what it's like to feel responsible for the death of three people. To experience a rage so deep and uncontrollable that it turns you into a raving maniac. To not know who you are. She is a wife, a mom, a caregiver. Who is Anne? Which Anne can I trust?

I am suddenly too tired to think. A blanket of exhaustion washes over me. Slowly I extricate myself from Dee's embrace and sit up.

"I have to lie down, Dee. I can't even think."

"You rest, love. We'll talk again soon."

The big woman lifts herself gracefully from the chair and leans over a cupboard. She pours something into a small glass.

"I found some very nice Scotch in the cupboard just now," she says with a smile. "This will calm your nerves."

I smile back, remembering my binge the other day and take a satisfying sip. "Thanks, Dee."

"I'll see you in the morning, dear."

I traipse a little further into the hallway, past the route to my room, and listen near Meme's door. I can hear the soft voices of my siblings though I can't tell what they're saying. The cadence is excited and joyful, held quiet out of respect alone. The puff, puff of the oxygen machine is our mother's only reply. I take a sip of the scotch and feel a burning sensation in my stomach that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

Guilt churns its way through my intestines. I am, for the first time, truly sorry. I'm sorry for telling you I hate you, Meme. I'm not sorry for the feeling, only for the selfish act of saying it out loud.

I slip quickly past the doorway to the parlor where I curl up in a chair and dial Ethan's number.

He sounds sleepy when he says "Hello."

"Are you okay?" I ask, and suddenly he's awake.

"Anne," he breathes, as though he has just discovered me.

I picture him falling asleep in his chair, hair sticking straight on end, big eyes blinking without the glasses to focus them.

"I'm okay. Just bushed. That case kicked the shit out of me. I'm glad you can't read the L.A. papers."