The skeletons come dancing out of the closet

Crazy Aunt Bunny Episode 3

The skeletons come dancing out of the closet, the bedside table, and from behind framed photos.

Like I said before, there were subtle warning signs about Crazy Aunt Bunny. At the time, I didn’t give much credence to them.  Her email comment that “We are a family of devious secrets” might have raised a red flag at the time, except for the fact that I was consumed with anticipation and excitement at the possibility of finding out more about my birthmother and biological family.

During one of our first phone conversations, Bunny explained why she had sounded more than a little freaked out when I called her and introduced myself as her mystery niece.

“Do you know where I was when you called me the first time?” she asked.

“No. I just knew that you had said that you weren’t at home in Chicago. I thought you might be on a business trip or vacation. I was just relieved that you promised to call me when you got home.” I replied. I mean, really, how could I have known where she was? She hadn’t told me at the time.

“Well, I was sitting in the living room of your mother’s house in Oregon” she said. “I was on my third trip from Chicago to clear out her house and get it ready for sale. I’m the executor of her will.”

I felt my skin starting to get goosebumps.

“I was sitting there, alone in Suzanne’s almost empty house, when my cell phone rang. I answered the phone, and heard ‘Hello, my name is Suzanne. I have reason to believe we are related.’”

Oh fuck. That is spooky as hell. Yeah, I’d be freaked. Cue the intro music for the Twilight Zone.

I didn’t know what to say. Other than “Holy shit. Seriously?”

“Yes. You could understand if I sounded skeptical,” said Bunny. “The timing was almost too perfect.”

No wonder her attorney had told her to ask me for proof of my identity, the adoption, and the details of my search. There she was, a widow in her seventies who had lost her only sister just months before, believing that she was now alone in the world. She would have been ripe for a scam artist to come along.

“Anyway”, she went on, “after talking to you and reviewing all the information you sent, and especially after seeing your photos, I realised that you really were Suzanne’s daughter, and my niece. So, as I was sorting through Suzanne’s things, I started to put things aside that I thought you might like to have.”

“Please tell me you have photos of Suzanne. I’ve never seen a photo of someone who looks like me. You said, ‘you are your mother’s daughter’ after you saw my photo.”

“Yes”, she said “I have so many photos of her. There were other things there too that I shipped home to Chicago that I thought you might want. I’m going to pack them up and ship them to you.”

The first box containing pieces of Sue’s life arrived in early January 2012.

I picked up the box in town and brought it home with me.

Gary and I stood looking at the box on our dining room table. Pieces of my identity were in that box. We decided that I would sit at the table, he would open the box and start handing me things.

He opened the box, and the ripe aroma of stale cigarette smoke and mildew filled the room. Each item was wrapped up separately. He started handing me things.

There were dozens of photos of Sue, Bunny and my maternal grandparents Eleanor and George Queen.

One Betty Boop bobble head doll.

One Betty Boop alarm clock.

A maroon tulle veil which was Sue’s wedding veil when she married Eric in 1981. Despite the smell of cigarette smoke and mildew, I put it on my head.

A ceramic “Garfield the cat” coffee mug with “Sue” glazed on the side of it. A note was attached that explained that Eleanor had made the mug for Sue.

A tie dye T-shirt, wrapped around a framed photo of Sue (wearing the shirt) and Bunny. The note attached identified that it was taken on their visit to Hearst Castle a few years ago.

Gary’s response to the shirt was priceless.

“Holy shit Suz! Your mother just sent you a tie dye shirt from beyond the grave!”

At the time, I was too excited to note that the glass on the framed photo was so filthy that I had to clean it off to get a clear vision of it. That didn’t work out all that well, so I took the photo out of the frame to get a better look.

There was an envelope with black and white photos of a man, taken in the 1950’s. Some of the photos were of him in Navy uniform; others were of him in swimming trunks. Yet more were of him sitting or reclining in a T-shirt and jeans, with a wide smile for whomever was taking the photo.  The attached note from Bunny read: “These are the photos that I found in your mother’s bedside table. Whoever this is must have been important to her for her to keep them so close. I don’t recognise him. He is not one of your mother’s husbands. I wonder if this is your father.”  

I knew that my biological father was in the Navy, was 42 years old when I was born, and had not been married to my birthmother. In fact, she was separated from her second husband when I was conceived and born. Yes, this may be my biological father.

And there was a framed wedding photo of Suzanne and her (fourth or fifth) husband, Eric.

I have a habit of removing photos from frames. People tend to hide things behind photos. I have found some real treasures. In fact, I have an interesting story of finding a photo of myself hidden inside a framed photo of Great Uncle Arthur Littlewood, who was deceased long before I was born. But…that is yet another story to be told.

I took the wedding photo out of the frame and discovered a hidden 8 x 10-inch photo of the same man who was in the smaller black and white photos. It’s a professional head shot portrait, taken in black and white and then colourised, of him in Navy uniform. A very faint inscription in the corner read: “With Love, Your Guy”. On the back of the photo, written in pencil, is the name “Gibbon”.

I don’t know about you, but if I kept decades old photos of a man in my bedside table and had hidden a portrait of him behind my wedding photo, that would imply that a) he was important to me, and b) it was a secret. The more I learn, the more questions I have, and more mysteries arise.

Which brings me to what became a mantra in the coming years: “Embrace the mystery”. It is a more positive mantra than my previous one of “Murder is wrong”.

Another hint about Bunny emerged from the box that I did take time to ponder:  A ceramic mug covered with photos of a chihuahua. The note attached from Bunny read: “I had this made for your mother. This is Chico, her most recent dog. It still had dried on coffee in it when I found it.”

Wait…. what the actual fuck?? She packed up this dirty mug, shipped it to herself in Chicago and then shipped it to me.

Really -- who doesn’t want a coffee mug with dried up coffee in it as part of your legacy?

Now personally, I would have washed the mug before shipping it to myself. If I didn’t think of doing it then, at least I would have washed it before sending it to my only niece as a remembrance of her mother.

How was I supposed to feel about that mug? Was I to treasure the dried-on coffee dregs? What the hell?

But wait…. there’s more.

The next installment will be about my first meeting with Bunny. At Sue’s house in Oregon.

Stay tuned.