"Gabrielle's last words to me were 'Thank you, ma mere, ma belle mere.'"
Grandmère's head dropped as her shoulders shuddered. I got up quickly and went to embrace her, crying with her for a mother I had never seen, never touched, never heard speak my name. What did I know of her? A snip of a ribbon she had worn in her dark red hair, some of her clothes, the few old faded pictures? To never know the sound of her voice, or the feel of her bosom when she embraced me and comforted me, to never bury my face in her hair and feel her lips on my baby cheeks, to never hear that wonderful, innocent laughter Grandmère had described, to never dream, like so many other girls I knew, that I would be as beautiful as my mother—this was the agony left to me.
How was I now to love, even like the man who was my real father but who had betrayed my mother's trust and love and broke her heart so badly she could only pine away?
Grandmère Catherine wiped away her tears and sat back, smiling at me.
"Can you forgive me for keeping all this a secret until now, Ruby?" she asked.
"Yes, Grandmère. I know you did it out of love for me, to protect me. Did my real father ever learn what had happened to my mother and did he ever learn about me?"
"No," Grandmère said, shaking her head. "That is one reason why I have encouraged you in your artwork, and why I wanted you to have your work shown in galleries in New Orleans. I have been hoping that someday, Pierre Dumas might learn of a Ruby Landry and wonder.
"It has brought me great pain and troubled my conscience that you have never met your father and your sister. Now, I feel in my heart that you should and will soon do so. If anything should happen to me, Ruby, you must promise, you must swear here and now, that you will go to Pierre Dumas and tell him who you are."
"Nothing will happen to you, Grandmère," I insisted.
"Nevertheless, promise me, Ruby. I don't want you to stay here and live with that . . . that scoundrel. Promise," she demanded.
"I promise, Grandmère. Now stop this talk. You're tired; you need to rest. Tomorrow, you will be as good as new," I told her.
She smiled up at me and stroked my hair.
"My beautiful Ruby, my little Gabrielle. You're all your mother dreamed you would be," she said. I kissed her cheek and helped her to her feet.
Never did Grandmère Catherine look older going up to her bedroom. I followed to be sure she was all right and I helped her get into bed. Then, as she had done for me so many, many times before, I brought the blanket to her chin and knelt down to kiss her good night.
"Ruby," she said, seizing my hand as I turned to leave. "Despite what he did, there must be something very good in your father's heart for your mother to have loved him so. Seek only that goodness in him. Leave room in your own heart to love that good part of him and you will find some peace and joy someday," she predicted.
"All right, Grandmère," I said, although I couldn't imagine feeling anything toward him but hatred. I turned out her light and left her in darkness groping with the ghosts of her past.
I went out to the galerie and sat in a rocker to stare out at the night and digest all that Grandmère Catherine had told me. I had a twin sister. She lived somewhere in New Orleans and at this moment, she could be looking up at the same stars. Only, she didn't know about me. What would it be like for her when she finally found out? Would she be as happy and as excited at the prospect of meeting me as I was about meeting her? She had been brought up a Creole in a rich Creole's world in New Orleans. How different would that make us? I wondered, not without some trepidation.
And what of my father? Just as I had always thought, he did not know I existed. How would he react? Would he look down on me and not want to acknowledge my existence? Would he be ashamed? How could I ever go to him as Grandmère Catherine expected I would someday? My very presence would complicate his life so much it would be impossible. And yet . . . I couldn't help but be curious. What was he really like, the man who had captured my beautiful mother's heart? My father, the mysterious dark man of my paintings.
Sighing deeply, I gazed through the darkness at that part of the bayou illuminated by the sliver of a pale white moon. I had always felt the depth of the mystery surrounding my life here; I had always heard whispering in the shadows. Truly it was as if the animals, the birds, especially the marsh hawks, wanted me to know who I really was and what had really happened. The dark spots in my past, the hardships of our lives, the tension and the turmoil between Grandmère Catherine and Grandpère Jack forced me to be more mature than I wanted to be at fifteen.
Sometimes, I wanted so badly to be like other young teenage girls I knew, full of silly laughter about nothing at all, and not always burdened down with responsibilities and worries that made me feel so much older than my years. But the same had been true for my poor mother. How quickly her life had flown by. One moment she was like an innocent child, exploring, discovering, living in what must have seemed to her to be an eternal spring; and then, suddenly, all the dark clouds rolled in and her smiles dimmed, her laughter died somewhere in the swamp, and she faded and aged like a leaf drying in the premature autumn of her short life. How unfair. If there is a heaven or a hell, I thought, it's right here on earth. We don't have to die to enter one or the other.
Exhausted, my mind reeling from the revelations, I rose from the rocker and made my way quickly to bed, putting out all the lights behind me as I went, leaving a trail of darkness and returning the world to the demons that feasted so hungrily and so successfully on our vulnerable hearts.
Poor Grandmère, I thought, and said a little prayer for her. She had been through so much trouble and tragedy and yet she cared so for others and especially for me, instead of becoming bitter and cynical. Never did I go to sleep myself loving her more, nor did I ever believe I could go to sleep crying for my dead mother, a mother I had never known, more than I could cry for myself. But I did.
The next morning Grandmère got herself up with a struggle and made her way down to the kitchen. I heard her slow, ponderous footsteps and decided that I would do all that I could to cheer her up again and get her to return to her old, vibrant self. When I joined her at breakfast, I didn't talk about our discussions the night before, nor did I ask her any more questions about the past. Instead, I rattled on about our work and especially about the new painting I was planning.
"It's a painting of you, Grandmère," I said.
"Me? Oh, no, honey. I ain't fit to be the subject of any painting. I'm old and wrinkled and—"
"You're perfect, Grandmère, and very important. I want you sitting in your rocker on the galerie. I'll try to get as much of the house in, too, but you are the subject. After all, how many portraits are there of Cajun spiritual healers? I'm sure, if I do it well, people in New Orleans will pay dearly for it," I added to persuade her.
"I'm not one to sit around all day and model for pictures," she insisted, but I knew she would. It would make it easier for her to rest and her conscience wouldn't bother her so much about not working on her loom or embroidering tablecloths and napkins.
I began the portrait that afternoon.
"Does this mean I've got to wear the same thing every day until you finish that picture, Ruby?" she asked me.
"No, Grandmère. Once I've painted you in something, I don't need to see you in it constantly. The picture is already locked in here," I said, pointing to my temple.
I worked as hard and as fast as I could on her picture, concentrating on capturing her as accurately as I was able. Every day I worked, she fell asleep in her chair midway through the sitting. I thought there was a peacefulness about her and tried to get that feeling in the picture. One day I decided there should be a rice bird on the railing, and then, it came to me that I would put a face in the window looking out. I didn't tell Grandmère, but the face I drew and then painted was my mother's face. I used the old pictures for inspiration.