Somehow, two of the doves outlived her. We found the others, the dead, during the expedition to save those that remained and to unearth long forgotten papers – titles and wills and all those things that are only important when someone has ceased to be.
When my mother breached the threshold of the Airstream called home, I thought I was there just because I didn’t want to miss anything. I wanted to be part of the story. I couldn’t have known at the time that I was trying to make sense of Eleanor’s story. I was so excited when my mother pulled out that blue tub full of tenderly wrapped parcels. In my experience, treasures were wrapped and stored in that way. Porcelain knick knacks or glass trinkets. Christmas ornaments. Fine china. Family heirlooms. I looked on expectantly. What was dear to her? Birds. Dead birds – individually wound in death shrouds made of toilet paper in the way that I wrapped my favorite fragile things.
Other than dead things, garbage, and the legal papers that spurred our intrusion in the first place, there was nothing left of this woman except some books, her notebooks and papers, and the flag from her husband’s casket. These are the things that I pulled from the black garbage bag on Christmas Eve 2012. I suddenly needed some answers as to why. This bag that had been occupying my floor space and perfuming my home with the smell of decay contained the last remaining pieces of her consciousness – of her life – yet I could not find the words to explain why this thing that looked like garbage was so important to me. Maybe I thought if I could find one piece of paper that made some sense I could say “Look! There was a reason!”
If you have ever handled something that has sat derelict for a time, you are familiar with the particular odor that paper acquires. Musty books are famous for this – handling them leaves your hands feeling chalky and unclean, as my hands did when I looked through what was left of Eleanor’s life. I waited more than half my life to find the courage for this moment. I thought I might find some insights on her offbeat interests, some reflections on her relationship with my family, or some vaguely logical reason for her dying the way she did. I needed a reason why she stayed in that gleaming metal tube long after the electricity and plumbing had stopped working. Why she stayed even as smoke hung heavy in the air from the fires that threatened to consume us all.
I pulled out a notebook and began to read and in that beautiful, delicate hand there were pages and pages of the same things.
Over.
And over.
And over.
“A woman on Star Trek – not ever part of me.”
“The Jews are behind the AIDS virus.”
“To live this way, one must have faith in God”.
There were around 20 or 30 thoughts or variations on those thoughts. They were written repeatedly, frantically, obsessively on page after page of tablets, notebooks, and various sundry scraps of paper. I dug through the bag, searching for some coherent thought. Some idea as to why she chose to live the way she did. There was none.
There were thoughts on faith, rants on esoteric religious orders, and musings on new age philosophy. There was little to no variation in the sentences; the same sentence written in 1979 would appear in a notebook dated 1991. One sentence would repeat until it filled an entire page, or several pages. Letters were written and re-written, and written again, with almost no variation. I had seen this in movies, but I thought it was exaggeration. Artistic license. Cinematic hyperbole.
This cannot be real.
But there it was.
I dug through and began to scrutinize everything I found that said “1998.” Maybe there was something. There had to be. In April or May she apparently ran out of paper and took to writing notes on a 1998 calendar. There was very little at this point, and as time went on the writing deteriorated in both substance and style. What was once merely mental illness had, through the heat and living conditions, deteriorated into something else - dementia? My name was a footnote across the twelve years I had existed. L. Ron Hubbard’s Dionetics (a copy of which I found in the bag with her writings) got more mention in her notes than I did. My name appeared once.
Throughout the years I must have thought that when I finally found the courage to look through the bag I would find some sort of justifiable reason for her actions. Maybe it was a religious thing, like the Christian Scientists. She put her faith in God, but she forgot that He only helps those who help themselves. I thought that in solving the mystery of her life and death, I might have some closure, and that I might also learn something about myself.
Conceited though it may be, I wanted to see myself through her eyes. I was the only person who did not shy away from her – the only person who genuinely enjoyed and even sought out her company, and I barely warranted a mention in her delirious compositions.
***
I sat in the floor for hours that night, moving paper, reading, leafing, searching, and soon I was surrounded by the remnants of a lonely life tragically ended. All that was left of her are words and the smell; these remain with me. I was surrounded by words, and yet I could find none to express what this all meant to me and what it should mean to anyone else. She listened to me when I spoke, and I listened to her – but in sitting among her thoughts I realized that perhaps we had both listened without understanding. I thought I knew her best and I found that I knew nothing.
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