Seeing Sable

Mrs. Morgan’s Bentley collects me from the airport. Arriving hot as the sun, I am exposed and underdressed. My driver does her duty, unaware how badly ‘no shortcuts’ cuts me--unaware of what it costs me, coming home.

We arrive at Morgan Manor. Life here is constantly expanding. The Morgan's holdings cover twice the land in Scotland.

Stood before me, impeccable in bone-black haut couture, is the widow, Mrs. Robert Morgan. Sable’s heir, apparently. She waits for me--her waitstaff more like statues.

I’m certain that my being invited here is a mistake.

Mrs. Morgan's biographer introduced her to the world as 'Janette Antoinette Merriweather-Morgan.' But this woman needs no introduction.

She extends a bony wrist that dangles a bony hand that dangles an impossibly enormous princess diamond.

Gathering up her pale blue hand in mine, I shake her floppy fingers. She recoils, audibly. She’s sized me up before her inhale’s swallowed.

“Miss Bellasavada, I presume? How good of you to come.” Her thin voice coughs. “Shall I call you Elizabeth?”

No one else does.

“I trust you need no help with what you brought?” My hostess fails to await my answer.

“Given your significance to Sable, call me Jane.” Her considered voice trembles. Do I hear sympathy, age, pain? More likely, indifference.

Jane motions me indoors, and walks away.

I’m escorted by her staff into a parlor, where I am sat atop an ornate antique walnut armchair.

I sit, awkwardly. Ankles crossed and quiet. Ghosted in a room for giants, and careful where I place my Jimmy Choos.

I wait. I pace. I alternate. I'm chewing at my ash-blonde curls. I catch myself in mirrored halls, and am aghast. Could my skin really be that sallow? And when did I get leggy? I don't recognize myself in fancy threads.

The only thing that keeps me here is knowing soon they'll read the will and finally I will learn of my role in it.

*

That man is Mr. Silverscott, Sable's dashing lawyer.

And that rambunctious one is Margaret, better known as Meg. Sable’s only daughter. Meg relates to Jane by marriage, but otherwise there's no comparison. Meg's petite with gorgeous windswept hair. She's a million conversations, and so many contradictions, and convictions--especially how we care for vets. Her brother died a soldier's death. There was little left to bury. Twelve years later, understandably, she's still bereft. Come tomorrow, Sable sleeps at Robert's side.

I see Meg has her mother’s eyes -- a shade so hauntingly blue no human could devise. Unforgettable eyes! Eyes made to forget.

The thought of her loss makes the hollows of my cheeks all flushed and wet.

*

The idyllic view through the window holds my attention. The Italian water gardens, a boxwood maze. All these trappings make guests feel safe and occupied. The allure of falling water trickling soft against the stone makes it easier to pretend no one has died.

*

"I was impressed by Sable." I speak in part to clear the air, but I also want to go on record. "Sable could recall faces, not all, but some. You might like to know that. And key places, certain sounds. She took daily walks along the grounds for as long as she was able. She liked it when I escorted here. She held onto her passions fiercely. Art, music, wine. Compassion."

I expect someone else to share their recollections, but no one speaks. I resume, if only for the honor it brings to Sable's memory.

"It got harder. But trust me when I tell you, Sable fought with everything she had to keep her brilliant mind. She could recognize Vivaldi. She wrote in Latin," I laugh to recall, "as if it were a vice." The darkness finds me. The loss hits again. "But when she lost her voice, she lost her appetite." Those days were the hardest.

I continue, eyes to the marble floor at my feet. "She asked me, once, just a year ago, to help her --. But I could never." I find it hard breathe. "And of course, that woman loved a corny joke.”

I excuse myself, pretending that I smoke.

Jane follows me. I did not expect that.

Finds me on the stairs. She’s come talk, so I prepare to listen.

“Mr. Silverscott explained that you saw Mother every day, for several years." It isn't a question. She's done her research. "You walked for miles, Sagle House to Turtle Bay." I do not trace a hint of spite. "You two were friends--not volunteer and patient." There it is. The inquiry I have braced myself to endure. "You must have fancied yourselves, what, aging secret agents? Arm in arm, like English ladies, chattering on about changing seasons, and a million other things no one else knows?" Her tone changes as she speaks. She's hard to read. I almost believe her when she brings her lacy fingers to her mouth. "You kept her close, kept her clothed, kept her safe, and warm, and loved. You were there." When I was not hangs on the air. "Elizabeth--Beth--I hope you know you made a difference.”

Jane’s sullen eyes hold onto mine. She means it. The tears are true.

“I'm told the Sagle House director paired you together with Sable. You knew her given name, of course, but you were fed a false surname. Gilmore, I believe? You were kept away from Mother's family. I trust you understand, now, why that was the case?”

“You kept Mom mobile,” Meg adds, arriving on the stairs, “and kept her alert and present for so much longer.”

“You ensured her dignity,” Mr. Silverscott commends. “It was you who eased her mind. You know, not everyone can hack it, volunteering. Working with patients battling Dementia. Difficult work. Meaningful. Rewarding. But difficult. Personally, I find it noble.”

*

Noon arrives and it begins, and all of this is sinking in.

Mr. Silverscott looks to me and gently nods. “Help me with the small black books? Place each one on the table. Find the one marked with a ‘P.’ You know the one?” His eyebrow raises. “If I’m not mistaken, it contains a poem you penned?”

The leather’s soft and supple, an old friend to my hands. It remains in impeccable condition.

These black books became our compass rose. They hold our memories. They gave us insight. “One page, one idea.” That was Sable's idea. The good, the bad, and all the in-between. We documented all the sacred sparks of life. The special moments Sable wanted to treasure. The light. Scents. Sounds that moved her. Voices, birds, music. She described each of her closest friends, and I’d record it. She had me jot down her secrets.

Bound by these words, these tiny books became our world. They focused our attention on what mattered.

I sniff the books and it's familiar. I know her hand, her ghost: lilacs, sandal wood, smuggled whiskey sours.

I want to say to Silverscott that I’m okay, but I cannot lie. I'm choked up. “It might be best, if you do the honors.”

Song for Sable

In the morning hours, I will bring you flowers

and cool your fevered brow.

Soon I’ll have you up and dressed, I’ll sneak you past the nurses’ desk.

The secret will be ours to share.

I’ll tell you truths and silly things, about your loves, your wedding rings,

and all the moments you’ve embraced.

I’ll wheel you round these palace walls, and slip you past the ivied halls,

and help you find the thoughts you chase.

And when you need a friend, my dear, I’ll help you know that I’m right here

to help you find the self you seek.

And should your courage find its end, I’ll look inside our written friends--

the tiny books that keep it all.

And I will help you read the words, and find the blessings you deserve,

or simply help you find your place.

And I will help you understand that fate is gentle with its plan

and let you find your grace.

And in the morning hours, I will bring you flowers

to place atop your grave.

The room remains silent.

“Beth?” Someone says.

“Elizabeth?” Another voice trails.

Mr. Silverscott speaks so softly I’m not certain he's real. “Miss Elizabeth Jean Bellasavada.”

I honor him with my full attention.

“Sable wishes to thank you for your abiding friendship. You were real when others faltered. She hereby bequeaths to you all of her priceless works of art, that you should always see true beauty in the world. She sets aside a safe in Turtle Bay, and funds for any other location of your choosing, so that you may display and store your art works safely.

“For giving her dignity, for seeing her as a person, and never focusing on the wreckage of Alzheimer’s, Sable bequeaths to you her Victorian in Turtle Bay. She makes a note here, and I’m to quote it. ‘Do you remember when I’d point and say, That’s my house! Well, it really was. That was my house. And now it’s yours.’

“Additionally, Sable bequeaths to you twenty-thousand dollars per week for so long as you may live, placed in an irrevocable trust in your name. Spend it any way you choose. She does, however, encourage you to travel. Enjoy the world. Paint. Write. Reclaim your voice.”

“Lastly, and this not a bequest but rather a request. That you use those small black books you two created to pull together the threads of Sable's life. Tell her story. Be her biographer. She accepts no one else as the writer of her story.”

“It would be my honor.”

*

Nine years have passed. Time's spent itself while I was out there busy living. I looked up and grays had won the battle. I'm okay with that. I’ve finally finished Sable’s Song. And what a gift it is to tell her story. The money sometimes weighs me down. I’d rather have her company. It’s hard to see her life on a shelf.

Our small black books remain my greatest treasure.

I’m living back in Turtle Bay. Who'd have thought? But I am doing something good with Sable’s Victorian manor. We opened a center for at-risk youth. Souls who suffer neglect, abuse.

And I have a partner now. He’s kind, and funny, and he keeps me balanced. I only wish that he and Sable could have met.

Having examined life through writing about it, I’ve found a courage and a conviction that I never had. And so I now confess it: There is more to the story. The story of how I came to meet Sable. No, I never knew about the family’s wealth, or anything about Sable’s health. It happened a completely different way. It was my secret and I held it. I never lied to Jane or Meg, or anyone else. But it was my secret to hold, until I was ready. If I was ever ready.

Sagle House and House of Ruth. I confused the two addresses. The Yellow Pages featured both ads, side by side.

I’d been emptied, drained of any will to live. I was a fractured shell, all shaky hands and silenced mouth. At that time in my life, I walked in fear.

Then I walked through an open door. Not the one I had intended. Not House of Ruth. Realizing my error, I went to turn away. But a kind man behind the front desk asked me to wait, if only for a moment. Volunteers, you see, were in rather short supply.

I made a choice.

I’d been seeking a counselor, someone to help me rebuild myself, after.

Sable’s gift to me was the very thing that others found so unacceptable about her: Her ability to forget. I could tell her anything without regret or embarrassment, knowing soon enough it would fade away. It was easy to befriend her, and I owed her that measure of kindness, of dignity. She gave me so more than I could ever give to her. She gave me the means of working through my trauma without judgment, without forced sympathy.

One recent evening, late into the dampness of April, I sat beneath a tree. I listened to the foghorn blow and moved my wrist to jot the memory down, and had to laugh. Wouldn't you know it? I found I was finally out of pages.

***

Copyright © 08/18/2021 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.