After the wake, a few of us went back to our sister-in-lawâs house. A question tap-danced in my brain: now that my husbandâs brother was dead, was his widow still our sister-in-law or will she eventually be erased from the familial slate, ties severed, connections lost?
The room which they call âthe officeâ was a confusion of books, photo albums and memorabilia piled high like Babel.
Flipping through yellowed snapshots, we spotted her, the widow, in every image âŠ. halcyon days when we all spoke the language of youth and happiness âŠ. and my question was answered.
It had been eighteen months since Jeanâs parents were killed in a skiing accident in Utah. Their deaths left her alone with no family except for her mother’s estranged younger sister Gloria who lived halfway around the world. When the accident happened, Jean thought of reaching out to Gloria in Australia but she had no way of contacting her. Besides, too many years and no love lost between her mother and aunt dissuaded her from even trying.
Jean could no longer put off the job of cleaning out her parent’s house. She packed up all their clothes as a donation to the Salvation Army and arranged for a pick up. On the floor of her motherâs now empty bedroom closet she discovered a large shoe box; it was full of old family photos.
Jean ignored the box for a few days until curiosity got the best of her. She carried it into the living room, poured herself a glass of wine and started going through the photos. There were the typical family images of her grandparents, her parents and herself  â nothing terribly special or interesting.
Jean was about to put the cover back on the box when she noticed a manilla envelope at the very bottom. She pulled it out, unwound the string that kept it closed and emptied the contents onto the coffee table. All that slipped out was a clear plastic sheath from a photo album. There were six pockets on both sides of the sheath and each pocket contained a photo. Twelve images were visible â six on one side and six on the other.
Sipping her wine, Jean examined the photos. The first one was of her mother and Gloria; the remaining photos were only of Gloria. Jean didnât recognize the place where the photos had been taken and no one else was there. It didnât take long for Jean to notice that Gloria was pregnant; in each photo her belly appeared larger and larger. The final two photos were of Gloria cradling an infant in her arms. Something made Jean remove those two photos from their plastic covering; written neatly on the back in her motherâs handwriting was âGloria with her daughter, Jeanâ.
Jean slowly placed her glass on the table. Of course! It all made sense. That would explain why there were never any photos of her own pregnant mother, no photos of her proud father with his hand on her motherâs expanding belly, no photos of any other children. And, of course, there was the sudden disappearance of Gloria. Jean was an only child and Gloria â the woman she believed to be her aunt â was actually her mother. And who was her father? Jean was sure it could not be the man she thought of as her father; she always believed she never bore even the slightest resemblance to him. She was the spitting image of her mother and her aunt but now, looking at these old photos, she wasn’t so sure. Her whole life felt like a lie.
Jean was reeling with this new information. She paced the room thinking of what she should do next. She briefly wondered what time it was in Australia; she didnât care. She needed answers. She searched through her mother’s address books until she found a listing for Gloria; who knew after all this time if the number was still the same? It had been 24 years since those photos were taken; she hesitated for a second, then dialed the number.
The Elephant's Trunk 