The Last of the Stanfields(110)

With that, my mother left, dignified in her heartache, leaving me shattered and alone in her wake.

After the hospital, I stopped by the loft, but May wasn’t there. I decided to go to the bank to cash the check that my mother had given me to buy me off and put me in my place. At the bank, I ran into Rhonda’s husband and had him open a safety-deposit box in my name. I knew my mother’s precious Girl by the Window would be safe there. He had me fill out the papers, no questions asked. I refuse to take the painting with me. Despite how beautiful that girl is, I can’t look at her any longer without thinking about what the painting has done to our lives, without thinking of my brother . . .

After leaving the bank, I went to buy a plane ticket and put what money I had left into an envelope. I will leave it on the nightstand for May to help her cross the border into Canada, in hopes she’ll find a fresh start with the new life that awaits her there.



This is the last time that I will write to you, my love.

I went back to the loft a second time and found you there waiting for me. I told you of my decision. We spoke at length, and then shed tears without saying a word. You packed your bag and then mine.

I left while you were still sleeping. I didn’t have the heart to lie to you and say we might see each other again one day, and I simply couldn’t bear the thought of having to say goodbye for good.

I left all the bonds on the nightstand so you could build a new life from the ashes of the one I had destroyed. The child you now carry, my love, may not be of my own blood, but he carries with him part of my story, a past I’ve now left behind. The day will come when you will need to tell your child the truth.

Don’t worry about me, my love. There’s someone I know in London who I can count on, or at least I hope so. I think you know who he is. It’s his fault you had to listen to those Beatles records around the clock, which I know must have been torture for such a huge Stones fan.

This is the last time I’ll be able to write to you. I don’t want any more secrets or lies, or any more cheating. If the man in that faraway land can bring himself to forgive me for being away such a long time, I will devote my life to his happiness, giving him every last ounce of love I still have left in my heart.

I hope that you, too, will have a happy life together. Fill your child’s life with the joy I know you can bring. Some of the best moments of my life have been spent by your side. No matter what becomes of us, you will be in my heart for the rest of my days.

Sally-Anne

It was the very last page in the diary. Day was breaking. George-Harrison handed me a sweater and jeans, and the two of us went out for a walk in the forest.





39

ELEANOR-RIGBY

October 2016, Magog

I called to check up on Michel, missing him more than ever at that moment. I managed to slip in a question, asking if Mum had ever mentioned a bank where she might have hidden a painting. Michel was confounded, finding the whole thing nonsensical. Why store a painting in a safe, when it was meant to be hung on the wall? My explanations just weren’t up to snuff. He asked if I’d be back soon, and I told him I would come as soon as I could. Then, Michel asked if I had found what I was looking for. Yes and no, I told him, smiling as I looked to George-Harrison. Maybe, as it turned out, I had found what I wasn’t looking for. Michel confirmed he had read that such things were known to occur. Many scientific discoveries were a simple matter of chance. Although chance, in and of itself, was not scientific at all, he clarified. Michel then told me there were two people visiting the library, and with that kind of “crowd,” he should probably get back to work. He promised he’d send Maggie and Dad my love, then made me swear that I’d call up and do it myself anyway.

George-Harrison stood waiting for me in front of the pickup. We closed up his studio and hit the road again, making it to the outskirts of Baltimore by nightfall.

First thing the next day, we paid Professor Morrison a visit and upheld our end of the bargain. We filled him in on all we had discovered—or at least all the news that was fit to print, since the rest was just for us. We tried asking subtly if he had any leads for tracking down the bank my mother might have used to store the painting. Morrison didn’t even blink an eye at the question, taking on his normal crabby disposition and shoving his manuscript at us like we were fools.

“See for yourselves! It’s written right in here, if you had bothered to pay attention. The Stanfields were major stockholders on the board of the Corporate Bank of Baltimore, an establishment still in existence today, I believe. I trust you’ll be able to procure the yellow pages and look it up yourselves? Now, once more: Do I truly have your consent to publish this book?”

“Yes, as long as you can answer one final question,” I told him.

“Well then, for goodness’ sake, ask away!” he said, flustered.

“Are you the one who wrote the anonymous letters?”

In response, Morrison pointed toward the door.

“Out! Just get out. You two are absolutely out of your minds!”



We arrived at the bank and were received by a cold, no-nonsense teller. Before he could confirm or deny the existence of the safety-deposit box, we had to prove that we were the rightful owners. I tried in vain to explain that it had belonged to my mother, who had recently passed away, but the man wouldn’t budge. He asked for proof that I was the legitimate next of kin. As soon as I showed him my passport, everything spiraled into a Kafkaesque merry-go-round. My last name was Donovan . . . Mum had opened the safety-deposit box under her maiden name . . . which she’d changed when she moved to England . . . Even if Dad had sent me an original copy of their marriage certificate, it wouldn’t have been enough to convince the overzealous gatekeeper.