The April Second Special Guest is Cheryl Kaye Tardif

You can visit Cheryl at: http://www.cherylktardif.com

SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET
by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

Many families have secrets. Shameful events formed from deception, humiliation or guilt. Some have buried their secrets where no one will ever find them. Some have spun a web of lies so convincing that even they start to believe them. Others hold onto their shame and wrap themselves in it, like a protective fur coat. Every family has "skeletons in the closet," and I was about to unearth mine.

On this auspicious spring evening, I had parked my car in front of the behemoth grand manor that had been the family home for four generations. The house sat regally atop Hallowed Hill, just four miles north of the city. It was constructed from dull gray brick and small windows. Overall, a cold, dreary welcome. Even the thunderous skies that boiled overhead seemed to be warning me away. I turned deaf ears to it. Maybe I should've listened.

I used the key Grammy had given me and the front door squealed in rebellion. I entered the family home with a sense of excitement that wouldn't last long.

"Some doors are never meant to be opened."

I wish I had listened to Grammy's wise words, but the self-assured adult I had become shrugged off the advice. Funny how we think we know better than those who have lived far longer and seen much more.

After a quick tour of the lower floor, I was satisfied to see that everything was in its place, exactly as I remembered it. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, I sighed. My eyes were drawn to the upper landing. For a minute I thought I saw someone crouched near the rails.

"Hello?" My voice echoed through cavernous walls. "Is anyone here?"

No reply.

Laughing at my paranoia, I headed upstairs and followed the hall to the room at the end. Grammy's room. I reached out and a visible spark flew from the shiny metal knob to my fingertips. I jumped back, startled and slightly breathless.

"Jesus!" I covered my mouth with one hand.

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain, Emma." I could hear Grammy's voice so clearly in my mind it was like she was standing right behind me.

My eyes darted guiltily down the hall. There was no one around, no one to hear my slip. But one could never be too careful.

"Sorry," I said, feeling like a child again.

I looked at the antique keys on the tarnished silver key ring in my hand. Grammy had given me the keys at the hospital. She'd told me to go check out my inheritance. Told me to stay out of her bedroom closet. Just like she had so many years ago when I had visited her in the house at the top of Hallowed Hill. A house that I had once sworn was haunted.

"Emma…"

I jumped, certain I'd heard the deep voice of my grandfather, the one I recalled from my youth. His voice made me think of lollipops and pony rides. That's how I remembered him. How I wanted to remember him.

Grampy had been a war hero. When I was about six, he'd sat me on his knee and told me how he'd rescued his buddies in Vietnam after their chopper was shot down by enemy troops. Grampy had flown in, dangling on a line suspended over the heads of the Vietcong, all the while dodging bullets and machine gun spray.

Whenever I thought of Grampy, I pictured him hanging in the air.

Suspended.

When he'd returned home, he wasn't the same man. That's what Grammy always told my mother. He started drinking and fighting with other war vets in bars. He'd also broken bones and bloodied noses of those who were against the war. Grammy said he always walked headfirst into a fight, with his big mouth flapping and his fists up and ready.

I'd never seen that part of him. Only the aftermath.

Too many times, my mother had gone out in the middle of the night to pick him up, half-carrying him inside. I woke up on these nights, troubled by Grampy's loud slurring and my mother's chastising anger. When I saw Grampy the next morning, he always smiled at me and called me his "Punkin". He'd take me out back where I'd watch him polish and repair one of his old cars, while I handed him the tools. We were both covered in grease by the time he was done.

Grampy was my hero.

Until he disappeared a week before Christmas. I was eighteen. He left my poor Grammy heartbroken, my mother without a father and me without my favorite person in the whole world. That's when I started resenting him. I couldn't help it.

"Emma…"

There was a cool draft in the hall and I blamed it for my imagination running wild. The house was empty. Except for me.

Wasn't it?

I turned the knob and stepped into my grandmother's room.

The master bedroom appeared to be never-ending, a series of three rooms connected by wide archways and stone pillars. This room was a mystery to me as I'd never been allowed inside whenever I'd visited. It had been Grammy's private sanctuary. Still was.

"Grammy?" I whispered. I almost expected her to answer.

I entered and flipped on the light. A warm golden glow shone down on me as I stepped into the floral sitting room, which held a mahogany bookshelf, a flower-patterned sofa and matching high-back chair with ornately carved arms and padded rests. There were tables of all sizes and heights, stained in shades of warm oak and many adorned with crystal bowls and vases. Grammy had once told me that Grampy had brought back much of the wood furniture and crystal from places like Italy, Germany and England.

I passed through the archway at the opposite end and entered Grammy's bedroom. A canopy bed sat regally on a raised platform in the middle of the room. The ceiling in this section was about fifteen feet high, with elaborate crown molding and inset ceiling tiles from Italy. A pathway covered in thick, lush carpets completely framed the floor around the bed.

I followed the carpet path, admiring numerous pieces of furniture and artwork that I suspected were originals and valuable, but it was the bed that really intrigued me. Larger than any other I'd ever seen, it seemed fit for a king.

Or a queen.

Elegantly draped fabrics in gold and crimson tones hung from carved posts and swayed from one top corner to the next. Embroidered bedding in matching tones covered the bed, and I stared at it, wondering what it must be like to sleep in such luxury.

I resisted the urge to throw myself onto the bed. It wasn't easy.

The scent of perfume lingered in the air. Chanel No. 5. Grammy's favorite. Every Christmas since the late 1930s, Grampy would buy her a new bottle.

Grammy's warning in the hospital came back to me.

"Stay out of my closet, Emma."

I glanced at the closet door. It was plain and uninteresting, no etching, no fancy design, just solid wood, iron hinges and a lever handle instead of a doorknob. I shrugged, wondering why Grammy had been so adamant about me not going in her closet. What was the big deal?

"Maybe that's where she's hiding her stash of medicinal marijuana," I muttered, though I doubted she'd ever tried the stuff.

I let my fingers drift over the surface of the furniture as I strolled around the room. I left a clean trail in the dust on the surface of everything I touched.

The colonial oak dresser at the far end of the room displayed various family photographs. I picked up a photo of Grammy and my mother, when she was a teenager. They both looked happy and carefree. I put it back, my attention drawn to a baby picture. Me, when I was two. I was a chubby baby, with squinty eyes, sausage links for arms and legs and three chins. Scowling, I set the photo down on the dresser, backwards. The other photographs revealed family members I couldn't identify. There wasn't one picture of Grampy.

I looked at the closet door again. Was it open a crack?

I approached it, telling myself I'd make sure it was closed, just as Grammy wanted. When I'd seen her in the hospital, she told me she'd made arrangements for someone to pack up all her personal belongings, including whatever was in the closet.

"When that's done," she'd said, "you can do whatever you want with the room. With the whole house. It's yours."

I reached for the handle and opened the door.

The design of Grammy's bedroom closet was early walk-in style. Extra wide, extra deep and very dark. I reached for the light switch and flicked it on. The light bulb flickered and hissed. Then it died.

I was thrown into partial darkness, the light from the bedroom casting a pale slice about halfway inside. The far end of the closet was submerged in shadows.

I sniffed and scowled. A musty smell lingered in the air.

"You could use some Febreeze in here, Grammy."

I took in the colorful clothing that lined one wall of the closet. Grammy had her own flamboyant style. Wearing flowing jackets, caftans, silks from China and India, all in bright colors and patterns, she liked to stand out in a crowd.

On a shelf above the clothing were six mannequin heads with various colored wigs, from blond to auburn. They were remnants of Grammy's battle with cancer―one she'd beaten with finesse.

I fingered the shoulder length blond wig. It reminded me of my mother, whom I hadn't seen in a while. She'd taken off on an around-the-world tour. She sometimes sent me postcards from one exotic place or another.

"Why did you leave me here all alone, Mom?" I asked the mannequin head. "Why did you make me responsible for Grammy?"

I resented my mother. But I loved her too. Sometimes when I thought of her, I missed her so badly I wanted to curl up and cry my heart out.

I took a few steps into the shadows. Somewhere over here was the old trunk that Grammy was adamant about moving to her new home. Another step into the dark brought me up against the trunk. I wondered how heavy it was.

Before I changed my mind, I yanked on the corner of the trunk and was surprised to find it moved quite easily. Sliding my hands around it, I discovered handles on both sides. The trunk was too wide for me to carry, so I dragged it across the floor until it caught on a floorboard. I heard a soft cracking sound and gave another sharp pull.

The trunk slid into the light.

There was a large keyhole on the front. Was it locked?

I pushed the lid. It didn't budge. I tried all the keys on the key ring.

Nothing.

Peering over one shoulder, I examined the room.

Where would Grammy hide the key?

Her dresser beckoned me. There were three drawers down each side and two cupboard doors in the middle. I opened each drawer and felt around underneath Grammy's clothes. It was a bit uncomfortable searching through her undergarments, especially when I came up empty. I opened the doors. Two shelves of sweaters. Nothing else.

I was about to walk away, when I noticed a small groove on the strip of wood that ran above the cupboard shelf, just under the dresser top. I hooked my fingers in the groove and tugged. A hidden drawer slid out.

And there it was. The key.

"I just know you're the right one," I murmured.

Walking back to the trunk, I pushed the key in the lock and turned it. There was a quiet click. The lid popped open a quarter of an inch.

"Okay, Grammy," I said, exhaling. "Let's see what you've got in here that's so important."

Papers. The trunk was filled with all kinds of papers. Envelopes, some old and some unused. Stacks of letters bound by elastic bands. A pile of photographs and a small box, which when opened revealed postcards.

Probably from my mother.

A black leather folder caught my eye. My name was on it.

"Looks like I've got some reading to do."

I grabbed the folder. As an afterthought, I took a stack of letters and the box. Placing these on the bed, I decided I'd spend the night reading.

Okay, I was snooping. But she was my grandmother after all.

An uncomfortable feeling swept over me. I was invading my grandmother's privacy. Logically, I knew I should put everything back and forget about it. But something illogical urged me on.

I plumped up the pillows on Grammy's bed, turned on the lamp and settled into the softness of duvets and feathers. I placed the box in my lap, opened it and splayed out a handful of postcards. Photos of familiar and unfamiliar worldwide landmarks greeted me. Paris, Italy, Germany, Spain…the destinations were varied.

"Definitely from my Mom." I gritted my teeth. "So let's see what she had to say to you, Grammy."

I turned over a postcard. It was blank. Frowning, I turned over another. Blank too. I flipped over the pile in my hands and fanned them. Not a word or signature on any of them.

It didn't make sense.

I dropped the cards back in the box and reached for the letters. Removing the elastic band, I examined the top envelope. It was addressed to Marilyn Ingram, my grandmother. The sender was R.V.P.H., with an address about five miles out of the city. A charity perhaps?

I opened the letter, dated in December of the previous year.

Dear Mrs. Ingram, the letter stated. I hope this Christmas season finds you well. With regards to the resident, she has been showing signs of severe emotional distress, just as we predicted. This seems to be the most stressful time of year for her, and so we'd advise against your monthly visit. However, if you do decide to come by, please be aware that we've had to adjust her medication so she may not be fully alert or even aware of your visit. Also, please note that she still insists that she's traveling through Europe and is unaware of her actual surroundings. At this time, we cannot recommend her release.

I stared at the letter. "What the hell?"

The word resident jumped out at me. And the word medication.

"She still insists that she's traveling through Europe," I read aloud.

Oh. My. God. My mother was insane.

I ripped another letter from the stack. The date was January 15, 2010.

Dear Mrs. Ingram, the resident is still unaware of her situation and she insists she's visiting Scotland. The staff feels confident that she will regain both her memory and her sanity. She did appear less confused after your last visit. We look forward to seeing you again.

I swallowed hard and tasted bile. Blinking back tears, I stared at the envelope. R.V.P.H. was some kind of Psychiatric Hospital.

I flipped through the envelopes, reading the postmarks. They dated back to March of 2005.

With my heart pounding, I strode to the trunk and removed the other letters. Again, I checked the postmarks. These dated back to 2001, the year Grampy had disappeared. Was there a connection?

Something sparkled on the floor of the closet.

Thinking Grammy had dropped a piece of jewelry, I entered and crouched low, my hand grazing the rough wood floor. "Ouch!"

A splinter stuck me on my palm. I plucked it out and sucked at the wound. Then I caught sight of the sparkle again. Something had fallen into a hole in the floorboard, a hole I'd created when I'd dragged the trunk across the floor.

I tried prying the board with my fingers, but I wasn't strong enough.

"Hammer," I muttered. I'd seen one earlier, under the bathroom sink.

Returning from the bathroom with hammer in hand, I used the clawed end to pry up the loose corner of the board. The overpowering scent of mothballs made my eyes water. Coughing, I wiped my eyes and continued working on the board. A few minutes of prying resulted in success, but before I could lift it, I heard a door slam downstairs.

"Emma?"

It was Grammy.

A surge of red hot heat flared through my cheeks.

What was I doing? Not only had I disobeyed Grammy's request to not open the closet, I'd read her personal letters, ones that weren't meant for my eyes, and now I was ripping up her floor.

Guilt rebelled against resentment.

How could Grammy keep this from me? How could she hide what my mother was? A nutcase in some psycho hospital. What right did Grammy have to keep that from me?
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Shit! I had to put the trunk back. And the letters.

With my heart racing, I tossed the letters in the trunk, along with the box of postcards. I dragged the trunk into the closet.

"Emma? Are you in here?"

Wiping a dusty hand against my brow, I emerged from the closet, only to be confronted by my grandmother. Her snow white hair was pinned into a bun, accentuating her gaunt appearance. Wire-rimmed glasses had slid halfway down her matriarchal nose and she pushed them up with a boney finger. She puckered her lips, reprimanding me wordlessly from a distance.

In her hand was the black leather folder I'd left on the bed.

"You shouldn't be poking around in someone else's belongings," she said, resting heavily against her cane. She frowned. "You scratched the floor."

I didn't know what to say. Two fresh gouge marks marred the hardwood floor, disappearing into the closet.

"We need to talk, Emma." She held up the folder. "Did you peek?"

I shook my head and held my stance as she squinted at me and tried to determine if I was lying.

"Let's make a pot of tea," Grammy said in a tired voice.

In her world, a pot of tea was the solution for everything.

I followed her down the stairs, pausing with her as she caught her breath every so often. A million questions swarmed through my brain, and I wanted to bat them away. I knew that once I'd opened Pandora's Box and asked those questions there would be no turning back. No more living in denial.

Grammy puttered around the kitchen, filling a tarnished kettle with water and setting it on the gas stove. She set two tea cups and saucers on the small table in the corner, then gathered a silver serving tray with cream, sugar and two spoons.

She waved me over as the kettle whistled. "Have a seat, dear."

I sat down across from her.

She placed the folder on the table, centering it between us like a barrier. Then she ignored it and went about preparing the tea. "You still like yours weak?"

"Yes, Grammy."

She poured my tea and waited her usual three minutes before pouring her own. I silently added a dose of cream and a spoon of sugar to my cup. I needed all the fortitude I could get.

"Did you snoop through anything else in my trunk?" she asked.

"I didn't snoop―" I caught myself in the lie. "Okay, sorry, I did. I found the letters and the postcards."

Grammy blinked a few times and turned away. When she spoke, her voice was strained. "Did you read them?"

"Yes." I took a sip of the tea. It scalded my tongue.

"So you know…"

"That my mother is a nutcase?"

Grammy's head shot up. "Don't say that."

"I know, Grammy. I know that my mother isn't traveling around the world, living her easy breezy carefree lifestyle. She's locked up in some hospital because she's crazy. With a capital C."

"Emma!" A tear rolled down Grammy's cheek.

"You don't have to pretend anymore. I can handle it."

"Can you?"

"I'm not a child. I can handle the truth."

Grammy leaned forward and placed a frail hand on the folder. "If it's truth you want, it's all in here. But I have to warn you, you won't like what you find." She hitched in a breath and wiped her eyes. "It's not what you think, Emma."

"Nothing's what I think anymore, is it?"

Grammy slumped in the chair, her shoulders deflating. "No, it isn't."

"What I don't get is why you waited so long to tell me."

"They told me to wait. Until you started asking questions."

"Who told you?"

"The doctors."

I allowed this to sink in. My mother's doctors knew she had a child, but thought it better to wait to let me in on the big secret until I started wondering what the heck was going on. Nice doctors.

I reached for the folder and for a moment I wasn't sure Grammy would release it. But she did. Begrudgingly.

"After you've read that," Grammy said, "I know you'll have questions. I can stay here―"

"No." When I realized how ungrateful that sounded, I softened my voice. "I'm sorry, Grammy. I'm really tired. I'll read it in the morning and call you right after."

"Are you sure, dear?"

I nodded, part of me wondering whether I was making a mistake in letting her go before I'd learned the whole truth. And nothing but the truth, so help me God.

When we were finished our tea, I escorted Grammy to the door.

"Make sure you call me tomorrow morning," she said, "as soon as you read it."

"I will. I promise."

I watched her walk down the sidewalk to the awaiting taxi. Once the taillights faded, I closed the front door and rested my back against it. Exhaustion had set in. I felt it in my bones and even my teeth. My body ached to curl up on a soft mattress and sleep. But my mind was all chatter.

What's the scoop on my mother? How crazy is she? What will I find in that folder? Don't I want to look now? Why wait until morning? Go on, read it now.

I grabbed my head with both hands. "Shut up!"

I returned to the kitchen and approached the table. The folder lay there so innocently. Papers and words. That's all it was.

And truth
.
"If it's truth you want, it's all in here," Grammy had said.

"I want the truth," I said to the empty room.

I sat down. I inched my fingers toward the folder. When I touched it, it seemed hot.

You're imagining things.

Though I'd told Grammy I'd read the documents in the morning, there was no way I could wait that long. I had to read them now. I had to know.

I opened the folder, drew out the first page and read it. Then I read the next sheet. And the next. With each page, my confusion grew. Terror set in.

Oh my God.

I read every page twice, pinching myself occasionally to make sure I wasn't dreaming. This was real. This was the truth.

I stood up, my legs trembling. Even my hands shook. Leaving the folder open on the table, I wandered into the den. I needed something stronger than tea and I knew where Grammy kept the good stuff. Her bourbon collection was the talk of the town.

Two glasses later, I felt calmer. I brought a third glass into the kitchen and stared at the file, willing it to burst into flames. I considered destroying it, but I suspected there were other copies.

I picked up the final page and read it once more, allowing every word to sink in. I was desperate to remember my mother's face. That last day. The day when tragedy had struck…

A glimmer of a memory surfaced and I hissed in a breath. My mother had gone out late that night to bring Grampy home after one of his late night binges at the local bar. When they'd returned, they'd woken the entire house. I remembered the loud voices and vicious words. They scared me.

I massaged my forehead, struggling to recall what had happened next.

I'd gotten out of bed and was heading down the upper hallway when I heard my Grampy roar. It was the one sound that made everyone nervous.

Though I was eighteen years old at the time, fear reduced me to a quivering child. I crept to the landing and peeked over the rail. Grampy and my mother were fighting, pushing each other. He was trying to leave the house again and my mother wouldn't let him. He smacked her hard against the face. I sucked in a shocked breath. My hero was beating on my mother.

My mother hit him back. A few feet away, Grammy cowered against the wall, trembling with fear. "Stop it, Walter! Leave her alone. She's just trying to help you."

"I don't need her help," Grampy roared, his fists lashing out at my mother.

Terrified, I sobbed on the landing above them. My head felt like someone had taken a jackhammer to it. Panic robbed me of breath and my vision grew blurry.

Now as I recalled this fateful night, my head started to hammer.

The scene in my mind switched. I saw Grampy. Lying on the floor. Soaked in blood. Unmoving.

Dead.

"Oh, Jesus," I whispered. "It can't be true."

The vision grew more defined and I saw my grandfather's pocket watch. It lay next to him, also covered in blood.

The vision faded and I stared up at the landing, picturing a scared teen, her face between the rails, watching the violence below.

I plodded up the stairs.

Entering Grammy's bedroom, I went to the closet and yanked the trunk along the floor, anger surging within me. Again, the trunk caught on the loose floorboard and it cracked and lifted.

The glimmer drew me closer.

Crawling on my knees, I waved at the cloying scent of mothballs and ripped up the remainder of the board. I tossed it aside. The space beneath was large, and it wasn't empty. My grandfather's pocket watch rested on top of a four foot wide blanketed shroud. The shroud, about six feet in length, was surrounded by mothballs.

I picked up the watch and stared at the shroud.

Grampy hadn't left my grandmother for another woman. He hadn't left Grammy at all.

"Grammy, what did you do?"

"I did what I had to, Emma."

I turned.

Grammy stood in the doorway, tears pouring down her cheeks. "I couldn't leave you tonight. I knew you'd never wait until morning to read the reports."

"I'm starting to remember."

"I figured you would one day."

I flicked a look at the shroud beneath the floorboards. I knew what it was. Who it was. With gentle moves, I pealed back the blanket, carefully pulling it away from the skeletons that rested within its cocoon.

Grampy and my mother. She was wrapped lovingly in his arms.

They looked peaceful.

"He killed my mother," I sobbed.

"I tried to stop him," Grammy said, hobbling over to me.

I reached for her, hugging her tightly. "I know. But he was drunk. He didn't know what he was doing. She was dead before she hit the floor at the bottom of the stairs."

"I thought you'd die too," Grammy said, gulping in breaths of strained air.

"I didn't mean it."

"I know, dear." She stroked my hair. "It was an accident."

Grasping her hand, I led her to the bed and we sat down as the past washed over us, all of its terror and guilt finally setting us free.

I reached in my pocket and pulled out the last page from the folder.

"When I found the letters and the postcards, I thought I'd figured things out," I told her.

"I did what I had to do to keep you safe. I didn't want you taken from me too." Grammy took a deep breath. "I wrote the letters that were supposed to be from your mother because the doctors thought it best. At least until you started remembering."

"But it took so long."

"I know. Sometimes I thought you'd never remember. Then I could take this to my grave. All of it."

"Grampy pushed my mother down the stairs."

My heart was heavy with the burden of truth.

"I didn't even know you were awake," Grammy said quietly. "I saw you charge at him when he reached the top."

"And I pushed him down the stairs," I said, shaking my head slowly.

"You were upset that he'd hurt your mother. It was an accident, dear."

I gazed into her eyes. "You hid their bodies. Lied about where they were. To everyone. Even my doctors."

Grammy looked away. "I'm not proud of that. I wanted to tell your doctors the truth. In the end, I didn't have to. You refused to speak to anyone. Refused to eat." She took my hands and kissed them. "I had no choice, Emma. To keep you safe―to help you―I had to lie to them and hide the truth. I didn't realize the damage I'd done until it was too late."

I watched her, knowing that in her heart she thought she'd made the best decision. I knew that her choice was dependent on two factors. She feared what would happen to me if my guilt were to be known and she was deathly afraid of being alone.

I thought back to earlier in the week. I hadn't gone to see Grammy in the hospital, like my deluded mind had led me to believe. She'd come to check me out and bring me home. I was the patient. Every paper in the folder had my name on it, not my mother's. I'd been a resident of River Valley Psychiatric Hospital for the past nine years.

Everything shifted into place, like the magical brick wall from Harry Potter. Like a hazy fog being lifted from my eyes. What was once a fantasy world was now a reality far different than I could ever imagine.

"I'll make arrangements to have them buried," Grammy said, interrupting my thoughts. "Private arrangements. No one besides us needs to know what happened. I'll take care of everything."

I nodded. As I watched her make a phone call, I thought of how good Grammy was at taking care of things. She'd looked after me for nine years.

Now it was time for me to take care of her.

"I love you, Grammy."

"I love you too, dear."

Yes, many families have "skeletons in the closet," and on this day I learned that mine was one of them. Literally.

Cheryl Kaye Tardif is an award-winning, bestselling Canadian suspense author of various published novels, including Whale Song, which New York Times bestselling author Luanne Rice calls "a compelling story of love and family and the mysteries of the human heart...a beautiful, haunting novel."

Besides her novelette Remote Control and novels Whale Song, The River and Divine Intervention, Cheryl penned Lancelot's Lady under the pseudonym Cherish D'Angelo, and she has two new novels slated for release in 2011: Children of the Fog, and Divine Justice (book 2 in the Divine series).

Booklist raves: "Tardif, already a big hit in Canada [is] a name to reckon with south of the border."

Cheryl's website HERE.
Official blog HERE.
Twitter HERE.

See all of Cheryl Kaye Tardif's books HERE.