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Arms of Freedom

By Kathleen Neely

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Lights peppered the skyline of New York City as the plane began its descent. Miriam Gentry managed to doze between Heathrow and LaGuardia. Dalton Designs’ corporate jet had not been available, so Miriam’s assistant, Lacey, had arranged for them to board the commercial jet. They slipped unnoticed into their seats before other passengers entered, thankful for the privacy dividers provided in first class.
The speaker crackled with audio feedback followed by the pilot’s words, smooth as velvet in his British accent. “Thank you for flying with Global Airlines today. We’ll be touching down in LaGuardia in the next ten minutes. The weather in New York City is sunny and 72 degrees. At this time, please turn your electronic devices off, return your seats to their upright position, and keep seatbelts securely fastened.” The rehearsed words arrived polished and melodic despite the amplification.
Miriam scooted forward in her seat to retrieve her sunglasses and ball cap. The photo shoot in London had been exhausting, and a few weeks ahead with no assignments sounded like heaven. She craned her head to look down upon the city emerging below. “Who’s picking us up?”
Lacey’s seat clicked into place as she moved it upright. “I asked for Rudy. They’ll allow us to de-plane first. We’ll be picked up at the gate, then a transport will take us to the car.”
Miriam had gone through three assistants before finding Lacey. The first one didn’t want to travel with her and assumed an assistant could arrange everything from the office in New York City. That clearly didn’t work. The second one thought her job was to give the orders instead of taking them. The third one liked to talk to the press. Lacey was a keeper. She effectively managed every detail of Miriam’s life, a necessity since she’d become the Face of Dalton three years ago. As Dalton Designs grew to giant proportions in the fashion industry, so did Miriam’s modeling career.
The wheels touched down with a slight bounce, and she felt the pressure of speed as it taxied on the runway. “Good. I’m bone weary and ready to be home.”

~~*~~

Miriam welcomed the respite of the Manhattan townhouse after being surrounded by people in a frenzy of activity day and night for the last three weeks. Photographers, designers, models, stylists, make-up artists. Merely thinking about it fatigued her. The new line of clothing would launch next month, and an air of secrecy bordering on paranoia kept the designers tense. With the competitive market, everyone wanted to showcase something unique, something announcers would namedrop at the Grammys or Oscars or some high-brow social event.
Nellie, Miriam’s live-in housekeeper, had her own quarters, but magically appeared on the penthouse balcony with breakfast. After placing the tray on a table, Nellie quietly disappeared back to the kitchen. Miriam had no need of live-in help, but when she set out to hire someone to come in a few times a week, the agency had Nellie, sixty-something whose husband left her in need of a place to live. Something tugged at Miriam’s conscience, a kinship to abandonment. The agency told her that very few opportunities surfaced for live-in help. So Miriam hired her. The split bedroom floor plan allowed privacy for each of them.
Bypassing the breakfast, Miriam reached for the cup of green tea. London had been difficult with too much food and too little exercise. Miriam refused to sweat in a public gym where photographers competed to capture pictures for any scandal magazine willing to pay their price. She scanned the breakfast, quickly dismissing the toast. No carbs today. Instead, she opted for the celery sticks, spreading them with unsweetened yogurt.
The morning routine included HIIT – high intensity interval training in her private exercise room. Jump rope, crunches, push-ups, squats, and sit-ups. Thirty-second rest intervals kept the cardio intense. After the HIIT routine, she’d pull on the gloves to meet another opponent—a heavy boxing bag. Her mother loathed the punching bag. Eleanor deemed it the most unladylike method of weight control. But Miriam found it to be a sweet release of frustration. It had become various people at different times in her life, usually her father, although the bag wore her mother’s face a time or two as well.
Energized, she showered, dressed, and began to brush her silver, blonde hair. The hair always gave her away in public. Her stylist called it diamond blonde because it reflected light like the facets of the gem.
The time had come to fulfill her daughterly duty. With a press of the intercom, she spoke. “Nellie, will you please order a car? I need to see my mother. I’d like to leave in thirty minutes.”
Nellie’s voice responded through the speaker. “Yes, Miss Miriam. I’ll call you when the car arrives.”

~~*~~

Eleanor gave Miriam an obligatory hug when she entered, a little shoulder squeeze that didn’t require touching faces. Her mother loathed touchy-feely. “When did you get back?”
Light poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows high above the city. Her mother’s not-so-subtle eyes traveled toward her midriff, hips, and belly, before craning her neck to the buttocks. Nothing got by Eleanor. She’d know if an extra pound went on. Miriam set her handbag on the entry table and walked past her mother into the living room. “Last night around seven. It felt good to sleep in my own bed.”
She sank into the feather soft sofa across from her mother’s chair. Eleanor took her seat, lifting her legs onto the ottoman. “Did you watch?”
Less than two minutes. She wasted no time asking. “Watch what?” Miriam knew exactly what her mother was talking about, but feigned ignorance.
Eleanor’s face stiffened with annoyance. “The pageant. It aired last night.”
“No, Mother. I stopped watching those years ago.” Ten years had passed since her last beauty pageant, and her mother still couldn’t get over it. She had Miriam enrolled in her first pageant at age seven. Initially, it felt like playing dress up, a step into a world of make-believe. It didn’t take long for the tedium to set in. The girls in the pageant longed to be kids—playing, giggling, and running around. But the moms—take any soccer mom and multiply the determination by a thousand, and you still haven’t reached the fervor of a pageant mom. The girls had to sit prim and proper like little princesses until their turn arrived.
“You had every possibility of winning state and going on to Miss America. I don’t know why in the world you had to quit after all we put into it.”
“Really, Mother?” Even when Miriam was a child, Eleanor didn’t want mom or mommy. She wished to be called mother or Eleanor. “All we put in?” Miriam laughed out loud. “You mean weeks teaching me how to walk correctly when I should have been learning math?”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “And don’t tell me that hasn’t benefited you now.”
Miriam crossed her arms at the chest. “Singing and dancing lessons when I couldn’t carry a tune and had no sense of rhythm?”
Her mother stood and headed toward the kitchen. “I don’t want to argue. You made your choice. I’m just saying, you could have won.” She re-entered with two bottles of sparkling water and set one before her daughter. Eleanor thrived on the competition. It was all about the win.
“Are you aware I made the list of top ten models in the world?”
Her mother waved a dismissive hand. “Barely. You were number ten. Be careful or you’ll be off the list next year. There’s always someone younger and prettier coming up.”
Clearly, that level of competition didn’t excite her as much as a crown and floating confetti. Miriam’s anger reached the surface. “I earned over $15 million dollars last year. You’re living in Manhattan because of me. When will it be enough to satisfy you, Mother?”
“I said I don’t want to argue.”
Finishing her water quickly, she stood up to go. She had fulfilled her responsibility and a driver waited at the curb. “I’m leaving for Pittsburgh tomorrow. I wanted to stop and see you before I go.”
Her mother’s sharp eyes softened for a moment. “Will you see your father?” They’d been divorced for five years, but Eleanor had not gotten over her husband leaving her for a woman fifteen years younger.
“No.” The word forcibly spit from her mouth, leaving a sour taste behind. A bitter herb too pungent to swallow. Eleanor was aware of the wall that had been erected between father and daughter, but never asked why. Miriam wanted to believe she didn’t know. Her knowledge and silence would be indefensible. “I’m visiting Nana.”
A scowl replaced Eleanor’s moment of nostalgia. “Of course. You’re always visiting Nana. You should see your father. Marriage didn’t work for us, but he loves you. At least call him.”
Miriam offered no response. That would not happen. Ever.
Eleanor lifted her chin and put on her wounded look. “I’d have gone with you. I still have friends there, too.”
But she didn’t. Her friends were pageant moms. Competitors. All of their energy went toward pageant preparation. Her mother had obsessed with the best of them. At fifteen years old, Miriam said no more pageants. Her mother begged, pleaded, and cried. Then she threatened, playing the guilt card.
“Where would you be if I hadn’t rescued you from an orphanage? I pushed you to make something of yourself.”
It was clear why her mother had chosen her over the others at the orphanage. Silver blonde hair and bright blue eyes were exactly what she needed for a pageant daughter.
Where would I be? A question she’d pondered a thousand times over. If she’d had a normal childhood. If she had gone to school instead of the sham her mother called homeschooling. If her childhood hadn’t been spent parading around a stage in high heels and make-up. Where would she be today? If is a complex word.

~~*~~

The Roswell House Assisted Living offered the best nursing care in Pittsburgh. Miriam had vetted them carefully. She parked her rental car and strolled the brick path bordered by fragrant lilacs. Another garden area could be seen through an ornate wrought iron rail. Miriam scanned the wheelchairs to see if her grandmother was among the other elderly residents enjoying the sunshine, but caught no glimpse of her. Either way, she had to enter and sign in.
“Hello, Miss Gentry.” The receptionist greeted Miriam as she signed the visitors’ register. “I believe Miss Lillian is in the great room.”
The staff knew her by name. She suspected she was Nana’s sole visitor, even though her father lived a mere five miles away.
“Thanks. I’ll find her.”
The great room served as an area where some residents liked to interact with people. For others, the lounge became a place where they could sit in solitude without being alone. Miriam was glad to see Lillian among the social group. She shared a table with three other women, with her oxygen suspended on her wheelchair. Nana had the ability to walk, but it taxed her heart.
“Hi, Nana.” Miriam leaned in close and planted a kiss on her cheek. Her grandmother reached for Miriam’s hand and held it in her own silky, translucent hand, as delicate as a bird’s bone. Blue veins protruded, forming their own unique topography.
She turned toward her friends. “I believe you’ve met my granddaughter.”
An overlap of greetings sounded around the table as Miriam tried to remember each name. Her grandmother attempted to push the large wheels of her chair backward. “Excuse me, ladies. I’m going to go spend some time with my granddaughter.”
Miriam helped her steer the chair clear of the table, then pushed her back to her own room. When she settled her grandmother and covered her legs with a lap quilt, she reached into the oversized tote bag. “I brought you something.” She lifted the picture out and held it high. The framed painting portrayed the front porch of her grandmother’s home, two rockers with the familiar flowered cushions, and Buster, her long-deceased cocker spaniel, curled on one of them. “I painted it from an old photograph.”
Her grandmother took the picture and held it an arm’s length away. Tears beaded the rims of her eyes. “Oh, Annie. It’s beautiful.”
Annie. Only Nana still called by her real name. Dalton Designs had insisted on the name change. Peter Dalton claimed Miriam had more zing, something people would remember. He was right. She had become one of those famed celebrities known only by her first name. With Miriam splashed across the cover of a magazine, it needed no explanation.
“I’m glad you like it. Sorry it’s been so long, Nana. I’ve been away on a photo shoot for most of this month.”
“Where did they take you this time?” Her grandmother spoke with her eyes fixed on the painting.
“London. Muggy and rainy.” Miriam exhaled an audible sigh.
“It doesn’t sound like you enjoyed it.” Nothing escaped her grandmother’s notice. It never had. Her wise eyes wore a question.
“I’m just tired. Everyone thinks it’s a glamourous lifestyle, but it’s exhausting. The glamour died long ago.”
Nana’s heart had weakened over the last two years, but her mind was razor sharp. “So why are you doing it?”
Miriam fidgeted with her tote bag, hanging it over the back of her chair. “What else would I do?”
“What else would you like to do?”
Another weary sigh escaped. “I have no idea. I don’t need the money, but I can’t sit around doing nothing.”
Nana’s eyebrows arched as she looked at the painting, a suggestion written in her eyes.
“Paint? I’m not sure I’m good enough to actually sell paintings. I certainly don’t need any more myself. I’ve run out of wall space.”
The aged hand wrapped itself around hers. Silence stretched between them as they examined the picture. “I can see Buster’s soft fur. It makes my skin long to feel it again, to stroke that thick coat. His eyes are looking up right at me, like he’s waiting for me to bring him a dog biscuit. And my old rocker, why the cushion has shadows and fringe making it look so real. I see dew on those hanging fuchsias and can almost breathe in their fragrance.” Her eyes pivoted from the picture to her granddaughter. “You’re good enough, Annie. Don’t question yourself.”
Her art instructor told her she had talent, but of course he’d throw compliments her way. He knew her as Miriam. Knew her fame and no doubt, her net worth. The internet offered no privacy. “I don’t know, Nana. New York’s a competitive art hub. That world would eventually be the same stressed lifestyle as modeling. I can barely step outside my apartment now. I need a disguise so people won’t rush me for autographs.”
“So why do you choose to live there?”
Typical Nana. Always asking logical questions, tactically throwing in words like choose to remind her that she had a choice. The circumstances of her life were the results of her own decisions. “That’s where Dalton Designs is located.” Not exactly an answer, but it was the best she could come up with.
Nana’s eyes drilled hers for what felt like an eternity. “I have something for you. I’ve been waiting for the right time. Maybe this is it.” Lillian wheeled her chair in a circle and over to the drawer of her nightstand. She opened it and pulled out a metal container with a key inserted in the lock.
“Nana, I don’t know what you keep in there, but it’s not really locked if the key’s left in the keyhole.”
She swished her hand to dismiss the concern. “If it’s not in the keyhole, it’d be loose in the drawer. I don’t have a lot of options.” She leafed though some papers and retrieved what she looked for. Then turned and handed it to her granddaughter. “Do you remember my house in South Carolina? The one where I lived before your grandpa died?”
“Vaguely. I was only about five or six when that happened.”
She nodded her head to the envelope in Miriam’s hand. “Open it.”
Miriam lifted the prongs on the clasp and pulled a page from the envelope. Her eyes widened in surprise as she scanned it. “This is the deed. You still own the house?”
“Your dad wanted me to sell it. Actually, he pressured me. I grew weary of hearing him yapping about it, like he thought he’d get the money or something. I finally told him I’d disposed of it.”
Nana, telling a lie? That was so out of character. Miriam barely suppressed a chuckle. “You lied? Shame on you, Nana.”
“I did no such thing. I signed the deed over to you years ago and kept paying the taxes. It’s sitting here waiting for your signature. It’s written in my will that the house goes to you, but I signed this over so there will be no question in case my old ticker decides to quit.”
Miriam’s eyes widened. “To me? Why in the world would you do that?”
“Because I knew you were the only one who’d value it. My son would have sold it faster than a freight train, and your mother—can you imagine your mother in Hickory Falls, South Carolina? It’s yours, Annie. You need only sign the papers.”
Her head reeled with the thought. “Do you mean it’s been sitting vacant all these years? Is it falling apart?”
“No, child. I’ve had a property manager who rented it out and sees to the maintenance.”
Why did her grandmother want her to own a house so far from all she’d ever known? She knew no one in South Carolina. She barely remembered being there. “What in the world would I do in Hickory Falls?”
A smile filled with Carolina memories and a touch of mischief wrinkled her grandmother’s face. “Live. Paint. Make friends. Mow grass. Plant tomatoes. Sit on the wraparound porch and sip sweet tea. All the things I loved and miss.”
Miriam’s head flew up to see Nana’s face. “It has a wraparound porch?”
Her grandmother laughed. “That’s the part that caught your attention? Go see it, child. I promise you’ll love the house. Maybe even fall in love. Might be time for settling down.”
Miriam shook her head. “No, Nana. That’s never going to happen. When you live like I have, you can never trust romance. Unless it’s someone with his own big bank account, and in my experience, those aren’t the kind of men I’d want.”
“You overthink things. It’s doubtful people in Hickory Falls would even know the name Miriam. Maybe it’s time to go back to your roots and be Annie again.”
“Nana, I’ve been on the cover of People, Glamour, and Vogue. Even the rural south has seen those.”
She ignored the concern. “The house sits right on Main Street. I’ve had more offers than I can remember. Most people are wanting it for commercial use. It would be a great setting for something like … let’s say, maybe an art gallery?”
An art gallery. In small town USA. A place where no one knew Miriam. It all had such appeal. “But how could a small town support an art gallery?”
“It’s been over twenty years since I lost your Grandpa. I sometimes regret my decision to move, but your dad’s my only child, and you were the sweetest little thing. It seemed right at the time. I suspect the town’s grown some. Even so, it sits between Greenville and Asheville, an easy drive to Charlotte and not too far from Atlanta. People will drive for good art.”
Was it possible to live there without people recognizing her, knowing her fame and fortune? Another thought inched its way into Miriam’s head. “Nana, would you come with me?”
A look of longing fleeted across her face. “Oh, I’d love to set my eyes on the old house again, but I’m afraid my weak old ticker wouldn’t cooperate. I feel secure having a nurse right here when I need one.”
Miriam’s rising excitement couldn’t be stifled. “I can hire a nurse, a live-in, someone full time. I’ll look for one specifically trained in cardiac care.”
Her grandmother rested her head on the back of her chair. Quiet surrounded them, both lost in a world of dreams, weighing the cost of chasing them. Lillian broke the silence. “I’m growing tired, Annie. Will you help me to the bathroom, then into bed? I think I’ll nap for a while.”
Miriam helped her stand and walk to the bathroom, rolling her oxygen with her. A slow amble back to the bed served as a reminder of how weak Nana had become. With her grandmother tucked in for a nap, she leaned close and placed a kiss on her cheek. The delicate hand lifted and rested on her shoulder. “You go see it first. The thought of that trip makes me tired. If you aim to settle there, I’ll think about it. But I best tell you this—those walls hold secrets. Secrets that need to be set right. That’s another reason why I wouldn’t sell the house.”
That didn’t sound like her grandmother. She hadn’t shown signs of confusion as many elderly people had. Perhaps her oxygen level was low. “Secrets? What do you mean by that?”
“Small towns are steeped in history. It’s not all pretty.”
“But these are secrets you know?” She remained skeptical about her grandmother’s clarity. “Can you tell me?”
“I know some. I suspect there’s lots more. Wait till we get down there and I’ll tell you what I know.”
We? Nana might actually come. How had a routine visit with her grandmother turned into a long-distance move?

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