The Liberation of Ravenna Morton

By Suzanne Jenkins

Less than a two hour train ride away from Chicago, visitors approach the cabin with wonder; have they just stepped back in time? Smoke curls up from the stone chimney, the smell of wood burning in the air. A cast iron water pump with a tin bucket next to it has a place of honor in the front of the cabin, while in the back, an old outhouse tilting to the side is surrounded by geraniums that have survived the first frost. Fog lifts off the slowly moving river, and the songs of an ancient people sung by a woman weaving baskets float on the surface.

Ravenna Morton is a Native American woman living a very old-fashioned life in a primitive cabin at the edge of the Kalamazoo River. She faces modern problems when her lifelong affair with a Greek artist is closely examined by their children after a child she gave up for adoption dies. Esme Wynd, her granddaughter, travels to meet Ravenna and accidentally uncovers a web of betrayal and crimes that were committed against her. The Liberation of Ravenna Morton captures the small-town dynamic of a family’s private secrets being exposed to the world. A poignant look at the melding of two Americanized cultures observed under a microscope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne Jenkins
• Release date: Oct 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310272653

Suzanne Jenkins

A retired operating room nurse, Jenkins lives in Southern California.

Book preview

Part I

Chapter 1

Esme Wynd looked out the plane window as it prepared to land in Grand Rapids, thinking, I hope I’m not making a big mistake. She’d walked away from her life in New York, shocking friends and family, who were worried she might be having a meltdown because of her mother’s death. It was because of it, but not the way they thought. The view out the window was like other generic landscapes; farmland juxtaposed against urban sprawl, relatively flat compared to New York. But the topography wasn’t what was worrying her.

The flight attendant reminded passengers to remain seated until the plane came to a stop at the gate, but the people around Esme ignored the warning, unbuckling their seatbelts and gathering up belongings. She felt a little anxiety about getting off the plane; it would mean facing the unknown. After everyone seated behind her had passed by, she got her carry-on bag out of the overhead bin. In the baggage compartment down below stowed the remainder of her life: two large suitcases and a box with her files. Everything else she owned she’d given away save the few things that were too cumbersome to bring, like her sewing machine, which her father promised to ship once she settled in.

The hallway to the baggage compartment was one one-hundredth of the length of the shortest concourse at JFK. The few people walking from the gate were smiling and polite.

I’m not in New York anymore, Esme whispered. Reaching the baggage claim, an older man with white hair and a bushy white mustache stood near the exit with a sign hand-printed in big black letters: WIND. It had to be for her. She approached him, smiling. I’m Esme Wynd.

Welcome to Grand Rapids, Miss Wynd. I’m Magnus Johnson, but call me Magnus, he said. Let’s get your suitcase, and we can be on our way. Your coach is waiting right outside these doors.

She followed him to the carousel to wait for her baggage. I also have two suitcases and a box, she explained.

He smiled at her, raising an eyebrow. Staying a while?

She just raised her eyebrows and smiled. She didn’t know for sure what she would ultimately do and didn’t feel like going into too much detail with a stranger.

My daughter owns the Green Leaf Inn, he said. We’re the best place to stay in town—the best beds, the best location, and the best food. You picked the right place. After a short wait, Esme’s bags arrived, and they managed to drag everything outside with no catastrophes.

You weren’t kidding about a coach! Esme exclaimed when she saw the classic Lincoln at the curb.

It’s a 1941, Magnus said. I’m the original owner.

No way!

What do you drive? he asked.

Nothing. I don’t even have a license, Esme said. No need where I come from.

"Well, that may not work for you here, if you decide to stay, Magnus said. He lifted the last suitcase in the trunk. Hop in, miss. Front seat would be fine. Then I can point out landmarks to you as we go."

Esme did as he suggested. The interior of the car smelled like old leather and motor oil; taking a deep breath, there was something reminiscent about the smell, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. A combination of exhaustion from traveling all day and anticipation fogged her mind. She struggled to keep her eyes open as Magnus steered the car onto the highway. As though reading her mind, he opened the air vent up. They drove for miles in silence.

We’re going through Holland now, he said. There’s not much to see from the highway, but the town is lovely. Mind if I ask why you’re here? The dreaded question. And then an innocuous, Vacation or business?

I don’t need to read more into what everyone is saying. Oh, just a chance to get away, I guess, she said. What could she say to him? That her mother had made a deathbed confession? That her mother’s siblings, six adults she’d never have the opportunity to meet, had made a feeble attempt to contact her, only to discover she was dying? Truly, she didn’t really know herself why she was here.

A wild-goose chase, her father had said. How do you know those people don’t want something from you? She wasn’t worried about being taken advantage of, but leaving her job and a comfortable life because of a dream may have been a mistake.

Shortly after her mother died, she’d wake up screaming in the middle of the night. She wasn’t afraid, and nothing frightened her in her waking hours. She had no idea why she was doing it. Finally, after a few months of scaring her father to death every night, she went to her friend Beth, who was also a therapist.

What changed after your mother died? Beth asked.

Esme knew the answer right away. A month before, her mother, Maria Wynd, had discovered she was adopted, when April Freeman, a birth sister, contacted her. Maria refused to talk to her when April called, horrified to discover at sixty-two years of age and dying of lung cancer that Penny and Gus Patos were not her real parents after all. If the shock precipitated her death, no one blamed April. Esme and her therapist decided the night terrors were a combination of sadness and regret; regret that her mother died not knowing who she really was, and for Esme, that meant not knowing who she really was, too.

April wrote Esme after hearing the news that Maria had died. She was apologetic, saying her brothers and sister were devastated. It would be too late to have a family reunion, but maybe not for Esme.

Magnus said, This is a good place to get away. Or to hide, if you’re lookin’ to do that. He smiled at Esme. In spite of his encouragement, she wasn’t going to divulge her reasons for being there. The car pulled off the highway onto a road that appeared to wind through a pine forest.

This is the edge of the Allegan Forest, Magnus said. See that high point? He pointed in the distance to a ridgeline high above. The river carved out a nice basin to flow through. Saugatuck’s built on the harbor. You’ll see. It’s magnificent.

As they approached the town, Esme could see what he meant. Although it was autumn, there were still sailboats in the water. A large, lighted sign, Saugatuck, with an artist’s palette in neon, guarded the entry to the town. The large car wound around the serpentine road leading to the town center. Summer cottages lined the road; the homes on the river side with docks and boat slips, those on the opposite side with wooded yards. Built at the foot of what was known as the Hill, treacherous-looking driveways went up the hill on scary angles.

How do they get cars up that hill in winter? she asked.

Oh, Michiganders don’t let a little snow keep them down. Many of these homes are occupied year round now, although just a few years ago it was a sleepy town after Labor Day.

Esme looked out the window, thinking the little town reminded her of many of those on the East Coast but without the quaint factor, happily. She didn’t see one chain restaurant, either. Magnus followed the road through a flashing traffic light, the only one in town, and around a bend that matched the curve of the river. He came to a brick driveway between two Victorian homes, whose lower floors were a gallery and a restaurant respectively. Going through lovely, wrought-iron gates, Esme glanced up at the ivy-covered structure. This might be her home for the time being, and her first instinct was that she’d picked the right place to stay. Magnus instructed her to go to the desk to register, and he’d get her things up to her room.

The desk clerk, an attractive woman about Esme’s age, was waiting for her. I see Magnus found you! I’m Rhonda. How was your flight?

Just fine. Magnus gave me a great introduction to the area on the way here, Esme said. Are there any good places to eat? She was tired and hungry, and it was making her edgy.

We have a dining room. The menu is limited now that the season is over, but I’m sure you’ll find something you like. Would you like to wait to see your room?

Is my starvation that obvious? Esme laughed. The room first is fine.

Rhonda came out from around the desk and led the way up a wide staircase. Esme looked around the large reception area; it was comfortable and welcoming, with overstuffed furniture, books and good reading light, just what she was hoping. Her room was nice, simply decorated and clean, with an iron bedstead and a handmade quilt covering it. A large, welcoming window called her to see that it overlooked the Kalamazoo River, autumn sunlight at just the right angle dappling on the water’s surface. A small writing table and chair positioned in front of the window invited contemplation; Esme knew she’d be spending a lot of time sitting at the desk, writing or not. Rhonda regarded the large suitcases and box Magnus left.

If you need any storage, there are locked closets out in the hall. Because you’ve taken the room for a month, you can use one free of charge. She glanced around the room to see if everything was in place. If you think of anything you need, just call the desk. There are extra pillows and blankets in the wardrobe. It gets chilly at night, although Indian summer is upon us now. People are still using the pool, so it’s open for the time being. It’s too cold for me. Once the leaves start to fall, that will be it for the season.

Esme appreciated the information, but she wanted to unpack and settle in. She didn’t engage Rhonda but smiled in appreciation.

Okay, well, if you’re all set, I’ll leave you be. The dining room serves until eight.

Thank you, Rhonda, Esme said.

After she left, Esme sat on the bed. Although the pleasant surroundings and kind people calmed her anxiety a little, there was still a nagging worry permeating her thoughts. She went to the writing table and set her computer bag on it, removing her pencil jar, phone and a small china owl. It was already feeling like home. But she wanted to call April Freeman before doing anything else. Getting out her phone, she keyed in the number, and April answered on the first ring.

Oh, I am so happy you called me. I can’t believe you’re really here. How was your flight? They made small talk for a few minutes and then got down to business. Are you too tired to meet with me tonight? April asked.

Esme was tempted to say yes; tiredness would be a good excuse for not going through with what she was afraid might end up being life changing. Emotions on a roller coaster, she knew she was being fickle, so she agreed to meet April after dinner, at a coffee shop around the block on Hoffman.

Esme freshened up her makeup and put a brush through her hair. Though she’d made peace with her looks years ago, their origins were not what she had originally thought. Scrutinizing her reflection in the mirror, she looked like other Greek women because she looked just like her mother, although aunts and cousins ranged from slender, athletic types to voluptuous earth mothers. Esme’s appearance fell somewhere between those two extremes. Maria and Esme had darker skin than anyone else in the family, who had to keep under cover because light olive skin burned easily, while theirs turned toasty brown in the sun.

You look like a Mexican, an old boyfriend once said to her, or someone from Peru. She had high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. Now she knew why. She was one-quarter American Indian. She could very well fit in with a Mexican family or someone from South America. Without meaning to, she started to cry. It wasn’t from sadness, although she was sad her mother couldn’t have shared this with her. It was partly joy, having discovered something about herself that would help lead to completion. She knew who she was.

She thought back sadly to her mother’s last days; Maria Wynd had always known there was a missing piece to the puzzle of her life. The Patos family had been wonderful to her. But she didn’t look like her parents, and that always bothered her. Although they would deny it, her grandparents and relatives treated her differently. It gave her a sense of shame she couldn’t find the source of, a sense of never belonging. That her parents had adopted her never crossed her mind. When the truth was revealed, she thought, Of course! It was so simple, yet so maddening. That was why Maria couldn’t talk to April again. She didn’t have the time to resolve anything; the little energy she had left, she wanted to spend telling her husband and daughter how fabulously in love with them she was.

She gave Esme a final edict: "Find out what you can. If you think it’s worth the effort, tell them about me. But more importantly, find out about you. Then Maria made a confession. I didn’t know who you were when you were born."

Esme was confused. Mom, what does that mean?

I knew when I saw you, right after you came out of my body, that you were of some genetic material that was unfamiliar to me. I almost wondered if there had been some kind of miracle. Maria began to weep. I always knew I was different from the rest of the family, but I didn’t trust my own inner voice, my own intellect. Whom can you trust if you can’t trust yourself? And now I know the truth. She fell back against the pillows. I didn’t investigate because I was afraid. You know the life we led.

Esme knew what she meant. They were from an insular family. If it wasn’t Greek, it wasn’t a consideration. They were almost a sect, the isolation was so intense. When she made the decision to work in Manhattan, she thought her father would have a heart attack. Her mother insisted that they allow her the freedom to commute into the city every day and even move there if she wanted. But Esme was a little too dependent on her family to make that final move, so year after year she became more integrated into the structure of the family. She’d be the unmarried daughter who would live at home until she died.

Last year, her mother became ill. A nebulous complaint of shortness of breath when she was gardening was the first sign. I must be developing hay fever, Maria said.

Then she started to lose weight, although she looked at that as a boon. Oh my God! Could I finally be getting hold of my appetite at this late stage? A routine chest X-ray done before she had her bunions removed revealed what the real problem was; she had a tumor. The doctors removed it, leaving her with a six-inch scar that wound around her flank. She had two rounds of killer chemotherapy. Her luxurious dark brown locks with just a hint of gray fell out, leaving her completely bald. She looked like a tiny, baby bird. Her mother, who had been statuesque, big hipped and busted, was now the size of a ten-year-old. She took to wearing the terry athletic suits Esme bought, her favorite a bright, baby pink, so Esme bought her several more. After the chemo, her energy returned, and her hair gradually grew in, like white down. She’d gone gray overnight.

Then, they found out the cancer had spread throughout her body, and she had just a few months of life left. Esme was furious with the doctors. They said there was nothing they could do. Esme thought a few classes in therapeutic communication might have helped, but realized she was lashing out. They couldn’t save her mother, and therefore, they were to blame for the hopelessness.

John Wynd stayed in denial. He wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about it. So Esme stepped in. As much as it hurt, she wanted to be with her mother. She wanted Maria to be free to speak every thought and feeling, to make every second they had together count.

When she took family leave from her job as an editor at one of the largest publishing companies left in the country, she knew she wasn’t going back. How could she? If her mother died, life in White Plains no longer existed for Esme, either. It would be as though they both had died.

Now, in the foreign land of Saugatuck, Michigan, Esme Wynd prepared for an audience with her mother’s sister, April. Aunt April. She ran down the staircase to the dining room and was led to a table overlooking the beautiful river. The sun was down, and the light was the opalescent gray of dusk in the fall, when the angle of the sun permeates every surface and seems to last long after its descent beyond the horizon. Enough light shined from buildings along the other side of the river that she could see it clearly. In the tourist book left for her in the room, she read that there were two methods to get over the river: a ferry that was propelled along by a chain that lay at the river bottom, and the Blue Star Highway. She made a promise to herself to hire Magnus to take her to what the locals called the beautiful Oval Beach.

After dinner, she walked around the block to the coffee shop. A tall, attractive young woman was waiting there for her, and Esme recognized her right away. April went to her, and she grasped her hands, seemingly unable to speak. Esme didn’t know what she expected, but the beautiful, professionally dressed April Freeman was not it. She was younger than Esme thought; they might be the same age. Maria was almost sixty-three when she died. Secondly, they looked alike. Anyone would say they were related, even sisters. They had the same small mouth and almond eyes. Their noses were the feature they liked least, small but slightly beaked. Maria used to say to John, Where did that nose come from?

Oh my God, now I know where I got my nose, Esme said, refusing to succumb to tears. She was grateful April didn’t hug her; that would have pushed her over the emotional edge.

We are definitely related, April said. You look every bit Ojibwe.

Not sure what April was referring to, Esme asked her to clarify what she meant.

From the Ojibwe tribe, April said, smiling. We’re Ojibwe.

Trying to take what she’d just revealed in, Esme wished Maria was alive to hear it. We look so much alike, it’s a little scary. I guess I must be more Indian than I thought, Esme said.

Well, I’m Greek, too, April said.

Esme sat back in her chair with her mouth open. "How many Greek/Native American families are there in Saugatuck?" she asked, shocked.

Just one. April laughed. We are Greek/Ojibwa. Anyway, Freeman is my married name. My husband is Ojibwa. My father’s last name is Hetris.

He’s my mother’s father, too? Esme wasn’t aware that she’d started shaking. Could her grandfather be alive? He was her grandfather, although she’d called Maria’s father, Gus Patos, papou, Greek for grandfather.

April nodded her head. And he wants to meet you. Everyone does. She got up to order from the counter. Decaf?

But Esme was still at he wants to meet you, unprepared for this news.

April brought back two paper cups of hot coffee and went back a second time for a plate of sugared pastries. I’m sorry, can’t resist. They bake these every day.

How many others are there? Esme asked.

April reached across the table and grasped her hand again. It’ll be okay; you’ll see. You don’t need to be frightened. There are six kids and our mother and father.

Esme couldn’t believe her ears. "Your mother is still alive too?" Shocked, unable to keep the tone out of her voice, Esme fought to remain in control. Maria’s mother was alive all along; she’d outlived her daughter. Maria didn’t know her birth mother was still alive, the saddest thing of all.

She was only thirteen when your mother was born. She’s a young seventy-six. They aren’t married, you know. Just so you won’t be shocked. It’s really pretty scandalous around here.

I don’t know anything, Esme said. My mother only knew what you told her. That she was adopted and had six brothers and sisters who wanted to meet her. Why didn’t you tell her that her mother was alive? That could have been the game changer. Not meaning to challenge the stranger, Esme could feel something building in her, some powerful emotion that she couldn’t pinpoint, either anger or extreme sadness or a renewed grief. She took a deep breath. She certainly didn’t want to direct any negative emotion toward April.

We never got that far in our conversation. I knew it would upset her to hear the news. We always knew about your mother. Our parents made sure she was part of our lives. But we had to wait for her adoptive parents to die before we could approach her, she said, taking a sip of coffee. It was part of the deal that was made when she was born and the Patos family adopted her. When Gus died last year, we were finally able to come forward.

You’ll have to forgive me. I feel irrational right now. My mother’s only been dead a few months, so maybe that has something to do with it. Esme willed the tears to stay behind her eyes, but one snuck out and tried to roll down her cheek before she caught it with a paper napkin.

Oh, I am sorry. It must be awful. We feel terrible about everything; believe me, April said. My mother is heartbroken. It is so unfair that they couldn’t meet before Maria died. She wants you to come to see her tomorrow if you can. I have court, so I won’t be able to come with you, and my sister and brothers all work during the day, too.

Esme sensed April’s regret and her compassion, but she would never know what it was like to lose her mother and then find out later that not only were her mother’s birth brothers and sisters looking for her, but her birth mother and father as well. Wanting to leave the coffee shop to either run back to White Plains or to get into bed and pull the covers over her head, she decided to stick it out with April and let her guard down as much as she was able.

It’s so sad. Her birth mother, alive! I had no idea, or I would have insisted that she talk to her at the very least. Would she have? Or was this wishful thinking? Maria could be as narrow-minded as her husband and the rest of the family. They all thought the same way. Moreover, talking about painful topics was at the top of the list of things to avoid. It could be stifling. And to discover her mother was half Ojibwa Indian? Esme gave out a laugh and then had to explain.

"I’m thinking of what this news will mean to the rest of my family. I’m a quarter Ojibwa. Not one hundred percent Greek. It will mean something to them, trust me.

I think I just had a breakthrough. Maybe this is how I should be thinking, not how this news would’ve affected my mother, which means nothing now, or what the family back East will think. I should only care how it affects me. It’s what my mother would have wanted.

Wow! April exclaimed. If you’re able to do that, it would be wonderful.

Esme wasn’t sure she’d be able to accomplish it, but recognizing this experience boiled down to her alone took some of the pressure off.

Coffee finished, they made the move to get up. I’m not really ready to call it a night. There’s so much I want to ask you about your mother. Are you up for it? April asked.

"What do you have