What's a Picture Worth?

I never would have dreamed that a $15.00 thrift store painting would forever change my life, but it did. It happened about 2 years ago. I can remember it like it was yesterday. My husband and I went to the local charity thrift shop, Treasures -n- Such, not for anything, just to see if there was anything there of interest.

Thrift shopping was nothing new to us. We were on a tight budget, him being an artist and my being a writer and part time teacher. Almost everything we bought was second hand. We were saving what extra cash we had for a small house outside of town.

Treasures -n- Things was a tiny hovel of a place, behind the local food bank. It was stuffed to the gills with clothing, furniture, and various household items. The place was a mess, but there were often bargains to be had.

Almost immediately upon entering I spotted a painting on the wall with an exquisite frame around it. The price tag read $20. I took it off the wall and examined it. The frame was made of solid wood and had what looked to be hand carved designs all around it. It was painted gold. It would be perfect for one of Bryan’s paintings. I was sure he had at least one that would fit it. The painting inside the frame was another matter. It was both compelling and repulsive at the same time. I couldn’t look away, but I didn’t like it one bit. It was of a girl, maybe 6 or 7, with shoulder-length blonde curls, a long dress, standing beside a chair with a completely blank look on her face. No expression, nothing, and vacant eyes, painted completely black that seemed to follow even my slightest move. It was creepy. In the righthand corner, panted in red cursive was the artist’s signature, Vivian LaCrosse. “Hmm,” I thought to myself, nothing the slight coincidence, LaCrosse was my birth mother’s surname. I knew nothing of her, except that she died under circumstances seemingly unknown to anyone shortly after I was born, and her name was Sarah Jane LaCrosse.

I carried the frame over to my husband, “hey Bryan,” I smiled, “twenty bucks, whaddya think?”

He rolled his blue eyes at me, “it’s hideous,” he replied flatly. His response didn’t surprise me, he said that about most art that wasn’t his.

I shoved it at him, “not the painting,” I continued, “the frame. It would look great on one of your paintings.”

He nodded, took it from me and carefully looked it over, “yeah,” he hesitated, “but twenty bucks?”

He was right, it was a lot of money for us. “How about I see if they’ll knock 5 bucks off?”

“Sold!” he laughed.

I took it up to the register and asked the clerk on duty if she’d take $15.00 for it, she agreed and rung me up while Bryan continued to browse for a few more minutes before deciding there was nothing he wanted.

When we got home, I began immediately looking around the walls of our tiny apartment for a painting that would fit in the frame. There were 2 that were exactly the right size, 24x30”, but one stood out to me. It was of a man, standing, waiting in a cityscape at dawn. The background had hints of yellow and orange that would look spectacular against the frame’s gold paint. I called to my husband, who, by this time was in the other room, painting.

“Bryan, what about this city one?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, will you come here and look?” I asked, a little more impatiently than I’d intended.

“Can’t, busy,” he answered, “if you like it, fine just take that awful thing out and put my painting in.”

I sighed. I didn’t want to fool with the frame. I wanted him to do it. After all, he’s the artist, but I couldn’t wait to see how it would look. I turned the frame over to look at the back. It was covered with thin brown paper. I tore it off, exposing the back of the canvas and the tiny bent nails holding it in place. Along the back of the canvas were 4 envelopes, one against each stretcher bar, each with a piece of old tape on them. The tape was yellow and dry and no longer secured the envelopes.

I picked one envelope up, thinking I might find a note from the artist, maybe a story, something to explain the hideous painting. I peered inside then set it back down, certain I hadn’t seen what I thought I’d seen. My hands trembled as my heart began to race. I picked it back up again and dumped the contents onto the back of the canvas. It was a stack of bills, all $100s. “Bryan!” I yelled, my voice cracking with a mix of excitement, fear and confusion.”

“Busy!”

` “Get out here, now!” I ordered, my voice stronger. I counted the bills, there were 50 in all. My mind raced as I grabbed the second envelope, finding the same thing, then the third and the fourth.

“What?” Bryan stood over me, annoyed.

“Look,” I pointed to the pile of money, but this time the colour had drained from my face and I was sweating as butterflies took over my insides.

“Where did that come from?” he asked, confused.

I told him about the brown paper, the envelopes and the tape. I’m sure he understood none of it. I could hear my words racing out of my mouth, the frantic chatter flying faster than anyone could comprehend. He bent down beside me, and we counted it, there was $20,000 in all.

“Should we call someone?” I asked, “the shop, or something?”

Bryan laughed, “no, we bought it, cash and all, this money is ours.” He stood up quickly waving his arms around, “it’s ours, the money is all ours!”

His words began to sink in and along with it, the realization that our lives had just changed. I jumped up and joined him. We hugged and kissed excitedly, danced around the room and talked over each other, coming up with extravagently brilliant ways to spend the money.

After the excitement died down, we decided not to do any of the things we’d come up with. Instead, we got caught up on our bills, bought a reliable used car and put the rest into savings. It was a wonderful feeling to have that tiny bit of security for once in our lives, to know that there was a little something to fall back on.

At some point during the hoopla, I must have tossed the painting of the girl inside the hall closet. I didn’t think about it for months. It wasn’t until my 30th birthday came around that my curiosity about my birth parents resurfaced and I began to feel that nagging loneliness of not knowing where I came from or why I was the way I was. It was, in many ways, as if I were an alien, dropped here to live among the inhabitants of this planet. The name on the painting re-entered my mind and I decided to investigate. I knew it was a longshot, but it was the only shot I had. I took a photo of the disturbing artwork and posted it on social media, with the name of the artist and asking anyone with any information to contact me.

I heard nothing. I posted it a couple more times over the next few months, still nothing. In fact, so much time had gone by, I had forgotten about it until I received a message from a woman in Savanah named Sue-Ellen LaCrosse-Danby. She said the artist was her late sister and wanted to know my interest in the piece. I explained how I came to acquire it and what my mother’s maiden name was, my birthdate and how although I was sure there was no connection, I had to explore the possibility.

Her response left me stunned, saddened, and elated. The artist, Vivian, was my birth mother’s identical twin sister. I had found my aunt! We wrote back and forth for weeks, me telling her about my life and her telling me about my mother. She shared countless pictures of her with me. I can’t describe what it was like, the first time I saw her picture. For the only in 30 years, I made sense, my blonde curls, my tall, slender frame, my mouth that turned down instead of up at the corners. I could look at someone, finally and say, “yeah, that’s where I get it.”

She invited us to come to her home in Georgia. She had things she wanted to show me and something of my mother’s she wanted to give me. She felt it was inappropriate to send it in the mail. I was eager, in fact, I was desperate to go. But I didn’t want to spend anymore of the $20,000 than we already had. Bryan insisted we go, reasoning that this was more important than money, so we did.

Sue-Ellen’s home was beautiful, and she was a wonderful host. It was instantly like visiting family. She led me to her attic where she showed me about 2 dozen paintings, all of the same girl, all with the creepy, blank stare and black eyes. In some pieces, the girl was standing, others she was sitting or looking out a window, but they were all just as disturbing as the one I had.

Sue-Ellen lowered her head and explained, “Vivian and your mother were the best of friends. They were inseparable and when your mother died,” she paused, the sorrow evident in her voice, “poor thing, she lost her mind. She became a recluse and spent her days painting these mournful things. I can’t bear to look at them, but I can’t bear to part with them either.”

“What happened to her?” I asked my aunt gently.

“Vivian found she couldn’t live in a world without her twin, and thought it best to join her, on the one-year anniversary of her death.”

My heart broke and tears welled up behind my eyes.

Sue-Ellen abruptly clapper her hands in an attempt to change the mood, “enough of that, come, I have something for you.”

Bryan and I obliged and followed her downstairs. We sat in the living room and Sue Ellen grabbed a small black notebook and passed it to me. “Your mother was beautiful, a free spirit, she felt and thought deeply and was very independent. She had wanted to be a writer, but she fell when you were about a week old. She hit her head and must have laid down for a rest. She never woke up.

I gingerly opened the book, it was filled with her words, my mother’s words! Poems, musings, random thoughts, just like so many notebooks I’d had my entire life. I trembled and wept as I read, turning each page with care, discovering who she was, and who I am. It was overwhelming, the phrasing, the penmanship, all oddly reminiscent of my own. I was acutely aware of her presence and absence at the same time.

Both the money and Sue-Ellen are gone now, the money long spent and my aunt succumbing to pneumonia just two months after our visit. But the gifts I received from each, the gifts of identity and the knowledge that I did, and do belong somewhere, will live on forever in me and now, in my new baby daughter, Sarah-Ellen. She has her grandmother’s grin and feisty spirit, and even though she’s only 4 months old, I swear she has the family’s love of the written word. I often take out that little black book, and I read her grandmother’s words to her. She stares up at me, eyes bright and wide almost as if she understands, and someday, she will.