Tuesday's Gone

My sister Tuesday was the most beautiful woman I have ever met. She drew the gaze of every man whenever she walked into a room. The problem was that not only did Tuesday realize this about herself; she seemed to live for it. Father Grant used to talk a lot about the folly of vanity, especially when it came to women. Tuesday had vanity along with all of the trappings he made us fear.



When Tuesday was two years old, our family [which included Mom, Dad, Puck [11], me and River [9], Sky [7], August [4], and Tuesday] joined the Christian Purist movement, started by “Father” Grant Taylor. We lived isolated from the rest of the world with two other families on a compound dubbed “Westfield Manor”. The summer that I was fourteen and Tuesday was seven, three very important events took place:

1)          Our oldest brother, Puck Ryker West, died of pneumonia at sixteen. If we had been allowed to take him to a doctor or hospital, he would more than likely have lived, or so I have been told.

2)          The Morris family [consisting of Emily Morris and her sons Jericho and Josiah] welcomed a new daughter into the world, Elizabeth Emily Morris. This child was the daughter of Father Grant Taylor, despite the fact that Father Grant was married and had four children with his wife.

3)          Father Grant attempted to marry me off to his son Perseverance “Percy” Taylor. I rebelled, my family revolted, and we left the commune with Jericho Morris [my best friend and future husband] in tow. Jericho’s mother, brother, and baby sister stayed with the Taylors and Jericho was lost to them forever.



Until Elizabeth was born, Tuesday was the youngest child at Westfield Manor, which did not assist in creating a pleasant disposition for her. All of the older children doted on Tuesday, who never had to lift a finger to do anything for herself. Puck loved Tuesday dearly and would carry her on his shoulders to give her what he called a “better view of the world”. I would watch them, Puck tall and gangly like a young colt and Tuesday’s golden hair curling around her curious face, her hand blocking the sun from her bright blue eyes.



Once our family left Westfield, our lives were difficult for a while. Westfield had been our home for nearly five years and all of our lessons and socialization had taken place among our very small population. Without Puck, the rest of us banded together against the outside world that we had been trained not to trust. Tuesday was taken care of as if she had been a much younger child than she actually was and school was a nightmare for her. For the first time, she was expected to think for herself and do things by herself, which proved overwhelming for her. Until she was in middle school, one of us had to spend each evening with her re-teaching everything that she had learned in class in a way that she could understand.



By the time she was in high school, Tuesday amazed all of us. She had finally hit her stride and blazed through school with fantastic grades. She shocked all of us when she announced that she was going to fulfill Puck’s dream and become a lawyer like he had wanted. We watched her through college and law school, but by then the rest of us had started moving on with our lives. Tuesday moved to California where she nearly ended up in a terrible marriage and entertained a string of monogamous relationships. As I told Mom several times, Tuesday was too pretty and too helpless for her own good.



What happened was my fault, really. I tried my best to undo the damage of Tuesday’s self-centered attitude that had been ingrained in her from a very early age. Every time that I had a chance to talk with her, I gave her solid advice [which was generally not taken] and tried not to take care of her problems for her. I did not think that she heard me or listened to me ever, but it turned out that I was wrong.



Below is the transcript of a letter that I received a week ago today. If I had received it only one day earlier, everything would have ended differently.          



My Best Beloved Willow,

         This is your dearest sister, Tuesday. Do you remember when Father Grant used to make us write letters every day? I sometimes wonder if you remember Westfield Manor at all. You never talk about it. Though of course, that could be because of Puck. Or Percy. Or Father Grant and what a terrible person he was.

         I actually was talking to a director friend of mine [you don’t know him yet, but one day he will be well-respected and make me a star, but that is an entirely different story] about our experiences at Westfield. While our entire family is depressed by the very words “Westfield Manor”, Hollywood creative types simply start salivating. The idea that a family can be sucked in to such an obvious cult is not just Made-for-TV Movie fodder, but it could possibly be on the Silver Screen. I, of course, have insisted that I help write the screenplay [to make sure that it stays fairly accurate and not too sensationalized] and I am planning to be featured in the film as well.

         I know what you are thinking, Willow. You think that I am being vain and selfish and foolish. You do not want anyone to make money off the story of our family and what we went through. This is such a good story, though. I mean, honestly, it would be good for more people to be wary of men like Father Gra          



My Best Beloved Willow,

         I found a letter that I started to you a few months ago. Since I have never sent it, I thought that I would continue. You know me and how scatter-brained I can be. I was working on getting our story about Westfield Manor made into a movie. After several meetings with a team of screenwriters, it has still not taken off. I seem to be a much worse storyteller than you, Will. I miss you a lot. California is warm, but the people here are strange, stranger than even Father Grant and the Taylors. I miss you and the boys, and Mom and Dad.

         Every time someone asks me if our parents were hippies, I think of you. I imagine you standing next to me and rolling your eyes because that is the least original thing that we have ever heard. I’m also getting used to “What’s your sister’s name again? Wednesday?”.

         We have a cat now. Her name is Menorah, after Puck’s cat from when were young. She is gray and tiger-striped, so she could not look less like the original Menorah, but they are quite similar in temperament. I got a letter from Auggie the other day. His congregation is growing quite nicely and from what I understand, he has finally found a nice girl with whom he can settle down. She is the daughter of a famous preacher of some sort and from what he tells me, she is able to withstand the pressure of being married to a pastor. I find it interesting that Auggie still wanted to be a pastor after our brush with “religion”. He still does not want to give up on converting the rest of us over with him.

         I wanted to talk to you about something else important. John has asked me to marry him and I am not sure what I should say. I love him, but I do not know if I am ready to marry. I know that you love Jericho and you were married at 18, but [and I am sure that you would agree] you were much more mature at 18 than I am now at 28. I want to pursue my career as a lawyer as well as finally getting my break as an actress. Does that make me self-centered? Should I just get engaged and make Mom and Dad happy?



My Best Beloved Willow,

         I am so bad when it comes to sending letters. I told you at Auggie’s wedding that I had some not-finished letters for you, and now I have found them. You were absolutely right, I should have said yes to John. I have been very lonely these past few months. It was so nice to see you ... I don’t even think that I can explain how good it was for me. Sometimes I feel very lost without you.

         The screenplay is getting off the ground, finally, but the screenwriters are taking things in a little bit of a different direction. They seem to have fixated on Father Grant’s attempt to marry you to his son Percy at the tender age of 14. I tried to explain to them that of the three reasons that our family decided to leave Westfield, your impending marriage was only one, but they seemed to think that it allowed for the greatest sense of drama.

         I know that you would not want the focus of the story to be on you, but there is not much that I can do. Mom and I talked on the phone the other day and she agrees that as long as we can prevent another family from ending up in the same situation that we were in, it is worthwhile. Willow, you are more than likely yelling at this letter right now because you do not share our view on this. I understand your reasons. You and Jericho have a family now and you want to focus on what you have now rather than what happened in the past.

         I am not going to try and convince you that I am right. I am, however, going to remind you that I am your little sister and I love you and I do not want you to be disappointed in me. There are some things that you can talk me out of [among those are regrettable tattoos, a poorly thought-out marriage, and adopting top hats as my new fashion trend], but this is not one of those things.



My Best Beloved Willow,

         I think it is funny how these letters keep piling up. It has been a year to the day since I started the first letter in this chain. I will send these to you, I promise, but it seems like even if I do not send these to you, I get a chance to talk to you anyway. Thank you so much for letting me and Menorah stay with you for a few days. She loved the kids and Emily asked me when I left if I would make you get them a cat of their own.

         I have never really wanted children, as you know. You were always the Mothering type, which I suppose is fairly natural when you have three younger siblings. Speaking of your siblings, I got a call from Sky last week. He is doing as well as can be expected. The last time I saw him must have been Auggie’s wedding, but you know that he was looking tired and old then. Audrey is still sick, but it seems like Sky is getting some help from Hospice with her.

         They say that a trauma like Audrey’s cancer is actually harder on the people around her [namely, Sky and Camilla], so I wanted to make sure that Sky knows that we are all here for him and that we love them. He told me that Auggie calls and prays for them once a week, as well as having his Prayer Warriors add Audrey to their list. Sky also told me that you call him at least every other Wednesday just to listen to him vent. I don’t know if he told you or not, but he really appreciates you taking the time. River stops by and visits with them sometimes and takes Camilla out on day trips, but he is busy too. I got a letter from River last month talking about a book that he is working on about Religious Manuscripts and their impact on Churches or something along that line. He wanted to know if I had my texts from the Christian Purist classes that we had to take. I do not have mine, but I know that you have held on to pretty much everything from those days.

         Speaking of which, do you still have those portraits that Puck did of us that last summer? I remember that Mom said you had them in your attic and I was hoping to have mine. I want to frame it and hang it in my apartment as a remembrance of someone who saw my beauty before I saw it myself. My apologies, that makes me sound vain.



Willow,

         The screenplay is done. I am finally going to send this letter. As I told you last month at Audrey’s funeral, I do not have a part in the film. Apparently, I do not have the “look” necessary for our family. The screenwriters sensationalized your almost-marriage to Percy as well as adding in several nasty little scenes that never happened in real life. You do not need to worry about having flashbacks when you see the movie ... it now has no relation to our actual lives.

         Thank you very much for giving me the portrait that Puck drew of me when I was seven. That summer was the worst time of our lives, but when I look at the drawing, I can see myself for how he saw me. Puck saw my potential, my determination. He drew it all in my face. Even at seven, you could tell that I would dream big. Well, the time for dreaming has come to a close.

         I am 29 now and the chances of my starting a career at this age are about the same as me stepping out into the street and being hit by a crashing plane. I am not going to be credited as a screenwriter for the movie, but I will get an Associate Producer credit, which is something of a joke in Hollywood. Even my law degree is not serving me very well. My job at the Public Defender’s office does not pay well enough for me to stay out here for much longer and I am tired of working long hours and not getting anything out of it. My life is far from what I imagined it would be.

         Tuesday West at seven was a beautiful dreamer. She did not realize that her life would turn upside down when her brother died and her family pulled themselves out of the only world that she had ever known. Tuesday West at nineteen was a beautiful dreamer. She planned to go to law school and move to California to make something of herself, to show her “hippie” parents that living up to your potential is not a bad thing. Tuesday West at twenty-nine is not a dreamer anymore. She understands the reality of her circumstances and is ready to do something about it.

         If I do not have good odds of walking out into the street and being hit by a crashing plane, maybe I will just have to exit the building from a higher floor.

         I love you Willow, my best beloved sister. You are one of the best things in my life and I miss you. I will miss you. I will always love you.

Tuesday

It would be tempting to think of this letter as an empty threat. I called her immediately after I received the letter, thinking that I could talk her out of what she was suggesting. When she did not answer her phone, I called her neighbor Mrs. Thompson, who was frantic and grateful that I had contacted her.



When Tuesday jumped, she had taken her phone with her and Mrs. Thompson could not find an address book or list of phone numbers in Tuesday’s apartment. If only Tuesday had waited another day, I would have received the letter. She must have thought that I did not care or that I did not believe that she was serious. It is also possible that she knew I was the only person who could talk her out of what she had planned. Whatever her reasons were, I would never know. She had gone out of my life forever, leaving a strange hole – not a cartoon-like hole in the shape of Tuesday herself, but a gaping hole that seemed to cover my soul entirely.



I was directed to call the Police Station, who asked me some questions and transferred me to the Coroner’s Office, who asked for me to fly out to California to identify my sister’s body and collect her and her belongings to transport them home. I would have gladly passed this task onto our parents, but since Puck’s death, my Mom had not been able to handle anything of this nature. Audrey’s funeral had pushed her close enough to the edge and I did not want Tuesday to be that final step that would send her careening over.



At her apartment, surrounded by the pieces of her life, I started to understand my sister for the first time. In my head she was always a little girl and every time I saw her I was shocked by how old she was. The Tuesday that I saw in my mind when we would talk on the telephone was either toddler Tuesday with the golden curls or child Tuesday with her three braids hanging down her back [she was always an individual] or young teenager Tuesday with her bobbed hair slicked down like a flapper. I never saw this woman, the one in the professional headshots framed on the walls. This Tuesday was hardened, the sparkle gone from her eyes.



In contrast with the stoic and sometimes inappropriate photographs of this Modern-day Tuesday, the gentle sketch of seven year old Tuesday was also framed and hung by itself on the wall over her couch in the living area. Puck was so talented, and in a place where photography was banned and mirrors were removed [to discourage vanity] it was nice to know what we looked like at that time in our lives.



As Tuesday’s Menorah snuggled in my lap, purring contentedly, my mind went back to the other Menorah who was so devoted to her master that after Puck died, she ran away into the wilderness. We tried to find her when we were leaving, but she was nowhere to be found. The fact that Tuesday named her cat after something so devoted to our brother hammered home that though we all though Tuesday too young to be affected much by Puck’s death, she truly loved and mourned for him.



While I sat there, sifting through the memories and the clutter, I realized many things. Tuesday was very sentimental, even more than I was. She kept everything that she could to remind her of her family, though she was so far away from them. I found all of the cards and notes we had ever sent her tied up with a ribbon in a drawer, as if Tuesday had been saving letters from a lover long gone. Photographs [all of which were taken before or after our time at Westfield, leaving an interesting gap] were arranged by the year and [when possible to determine] month that they were taken. I tried to flip through them to see if I could watch us age, but it did not work very well. One of Puck’s shirts, his favorite blue one with some long-forgotten cartoon character on the front, was wrapped around more breakable mementos. Shells from when we took our only family vacation to the beach; a glass ballerina ornament that Mom bought for Tuesday on our first Christmas after Westfield; the porcelain doll that had belonged to me at one time and when she was passed down her name was changed from “Maggie” to “Riannica”; the small jewelry dish that Jericho made for Tuesday [I was given a matching one] in a Ceramics class in high school; Dad’s class ring that Mom had worn on a chain around her neck while they were dating; Sky’s first camera; August’s first real Bible [not the Christian Purist Book of The Lord]; River’s notebook full of poetry from when we were at Westfield where he waxed on about his love for Mercy Taylor, Father Grant’s daughter; and the small ornament that I gave Tuesday when she became an Aunt for the first time, after the birth of my daughter Emily.



As much as I had tried to be the historian of our family through my ability to tell our stories, Tuesday had painted a much brighter picture with the few items that she had in her museum. She understood each person in our family and what made them unique while I only saw that our common history tied us together in an inexplicable way. I misunderstood her, and it was far too late for me to apologize to her.



         I collected Tuesday and her belongings [including Menorah, who was excited at the prospect of playing with four children] and boarded a flight heading home. As I looked out the window towards the east, where I belonged, I thought about my sister and why she had done what she had. Was it sadness? Was it this project that slipped from her control? Or was it something else entirely? My sister understood the world much better than I could ever hope to. Perhaps it was too much knowledge that pushed her over into the abyss, to the place where even I could not help her. Unconsciously I reached out as if to catch her while she was falling, the same way that I had done in her childhood when she tripped. I could not quite grasp her, though, and this time she fell delicately, almost gracefully through my fingers and into the beyond, where Puck waited to greet her and swing her up onto his shoulders to offer her a better view of the world.