by Kelly Rimmer
the bed and pick up the phone.
But half an hour later I’m still sitting on the bed staring at
the handset. I just need to dial a number I’ve known by heart
for years and years and I only need to say two simple words. It
should be easy. I am genuinely sorry I messed up Chiara’s sched-
ule, and I only need to dial and tell her that.
So why does that tiny task feel as challenging as tackling a
marathon on a day when I lack even the energy to climb stairs?
I put the handset back on its cradle, turn off the light and
stretch out on the bed in the darkness, knowing that I’m not
going to sleep.
Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 93
8/23/19 8:20 AM
Grace
December 28, 1957
Patrick seemed so confused about my attitude toward Timmy, and that
made two of us. He seemed to think telling me this was supposed to be the happiest time in our lives would help. He was constantly pointing
out what a beautiful baby Tim was or reminding me that this is exactly what we talked about; a family of our own, a child born of the love
that we shared.
Sometimes I felt that Patrick assumed that childbirth had left me quite stupid and in need of someone to point out the obvious. Other times I was bewildered by the way that he seemed cheated by how much I was struggling to adapt to early motherhood. When I tried to talk to Patrick, he’d make my confused sadness all about him. All of his insecurities had come to the fore: Wasn’t he providing enough luxury for me? Did I miss the gilded cage of my parents’ home? Did I wish I’d married one of the rich boys from the bank? Why couldn’t I just be happy with the humble
life he was trying to give me?
One day I tried to explain that I was happy, that I was just overwhelmed and tired. That wasn’t strictly true and I didn’t like lying to him, but I was also trapped, because I had to say something and I couldn’t exactly explain what was really going on. I did love Tim, but some days I felt such an emotional distance from him, as if I loved him in an impersonal way, as if I loved him through glass.
Patrick and I were supposed to be partners in the big picture of our
family life, but our roles were completely distinct: his was to earn the money, and mine was to raise Tim and keep the house. There were clear, stark boundaries between those roles and that meant that at all times, Tim was my responsibility, and the weight of that was more than I’d ever ex-Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 94
8/23/19 8:20 AM
Truths I Never Told You
95
pected to bear. If Tim had a bad day, I had a bad day, and the inverse was equally true. But if Patrick had a bad day at a building site, he’d have an extra beer at the bar during the six o’clock swill, and the world would be righted for him by morning.
I was utterly alone with Tim all the time, because the worse I felt, the more I began to withdraw from the shaky social circle we’d established since we moved to Yesler Terrace—mostly the wives of Patrick’s work
friends, all women who seemed to take to motherhood like ducks to water.
I couldn’t manage to get myself and Tim dressed and out the door to the park, especially when we were to meet those women. I’d show up—
stains on my blouse, hair half-done, too poor to buy makeup, and I’d look at those women with their perfectly coiffed hair and beautifully dressed children and feel small and insecure. I became increasingly nervous about my unstable composure—imagine if I cried in front of them ! I couldn’t stand the idea of it, and so I stayed home. I’d wait for the mailman with a mix of hope and trepidation. More often than not, he’d deliver an overdue notice or a bill and the mail delivery would only worsen my sadness, but I watched for him anyway, because every few months, he’d bring me
a letter from Maryanne.
That year was the first time I lied to my sister.
Timmy is growing so big now. He’s such a smiley child
and his whole face lights up when Patrick comes home. I
know Mother and Father were horrified when we moved
into public housing but it’s not so bad. The women here
are so kind to me and I’ve made such good friends in the
community. Patrick is such a doting father, too. Mother-
hood is everything I hoped it would be, and so much more.
I was too stubborn and proud and cowardly to put the truth onto paper.
And in those days I still hoped I could outrun it. I still hoped I could fix Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 95
8/23/19 8:20 AM
96
Kelly Rimmer
it. And writing down the reality of my thoughts would have made them
concrete and real.
Maybe you were right. Maybe this life isn’t for me. I don’t
know how much longer I can live like this. I’m trapped here
and I don’t know what I’ll do if it’s too late to save myself.
I thought having a baby would be my contribution to the world. I
thought it would be my way of expanding the world and making it a
better place. Instead, the birth of my child had narrowed my existence, until that screaming baby was all that I thought about.
When Tim was three months old, Patrick asked me to come back to
our bed. I couldn’t bear the thought of him touching me—sometimes he’d hug me and I’d feel such irritation that I’d snap at him. I feared so many things—would it hurt after the trauma my body had been through in that delivery room? Pregnancy and childbirth had changed me so much—would
he still find me attractive once he saw me without my clothes again?
Would I be able to stand to have so much skin against mine, when sometimes even holding my baby seemed to be too much?
And most confusing of all, why was I avoiding intimacy with Patrick
with every ounce of energy I had, when I felt so utterly alone, and his touch might offer comfort? My mind was a mystery to me. I just floated through the days in a miserable haze of self-inflicted loneliness, misery and shame.
After only a few weeks of resisting Patrick’s invitations, he looked at me with such sadness and longing in his eyes that I knew I could hold out no longer. When he kissed me that night, I was comforted by the sweetness of his love, and I was glad to have acquiesced. I was still tired and confused and sad, but as I cuddled in his arms afterward, I felt less alone, at least for a little while.
Besides, I thought at the time, it was far too soon for me to fall preg-Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 96
8/23/19 8:20 AM
Truths I Never Told You
97
nant again and my life was so devoid of pleasure in those days, I should let myself enjoy Patrick’s attention. At least while I was in his bed, I felt like less of a failed mothering robot, and more of a woman again.
It turns out there’s no such thing as too soon to fall pregnant .
Within no time at all, the undeniable baby bump had returned…and
this time, it was twins.
Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 97
8/23/19 8:20 AM
7
Beth
1996
Chiara couldn’t take Noah today. Hunter said she had a doc-
tor’s appointment, but he was so cagey when I asked if she was
okay that I’m pretty sure she’s just angry with me about yester-
day. I guess that’s fair enough—especially since I still haven’t
called to apologize.
I’ll do it today. I’ll definitely do it today…later.
Chiara’s sudden unavailability means that Noah is with me
today. He’s lying in his playpen in the attic at Dad’s house, kick-
ing his chubby legs, staring up
at the ceiling as if it’s fascinat-
ing. I had to kick clear a space for the playpen. It’s windy again,
and I left the windows open all night to air the room out. The
smell is much better now, but even though I’ve had the win-
dows closed and the heat on for hours, it’s still cold up here.
We’re both bundled up and Noah seems content enough, but
every now and again I worry that he’s too hot or too cold, and
I hover over him, unsure of how to be sure. I keep coming to
the same conclusion: I’ll know he’s uncomfortable if he cries.
Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 98
8/23/19 8:20 AM
Truths I Never Told You
99
It’s just that I hate it when he cries.
I’m not altogether sure that having my infant in this dusty,
filthy space is safe. In fact, I’m fairly sure it’s a bad idea. But I’m also too impatient to wait to keep looking for notes, and I don’t
have an alternative for childcare.
I force myself to stop fussing over the baby and get to work
on clearing the space beside him. I’m cursing the stairs as I sprint
to ferry trash down to the enormous dumpsters Ruth had deliv-
ered onto the front yard, and cursing the stairs again as I sprint
back up to check on Noah. Every second I’m away from him
feels wrong— my heart races, and I have to remind myself that
he’s in a playpen, that I haven’t seen any rodent droppings, that
there’s no way he could hurt himself up there.
It’s uncomfortable and stressful, but this is the best I can do
given Chiara has taken herself out of service today.
There are several large piles of assorted chocolate bar wrap-
pers in the attic—Dad’s sweet tooth must have kicked in earlier
than we realized—and today’s goal is to completely clear them
out. I’m scooping handfuls of crinkly plastic into a trash can, and
soon making good progress. The bin is almost full when I hap-
pen to glance down between armfuls and see, crushed among
the pile, the same shade of yellowed paper as the first note.
I’m immediately panicked at how close I came to missing it.
Another second or two, and that note would have been com-
pletely buried in plastic.
I drop the armload of wrappers back to the floor, then I dive
toward the bin to retrieve the note, but I’m clumsy in my haste
and my elbow collides with the steel of the trash can. Between
the sharp clang of elbow versus trash can and the loud curse that I shout as the pain rockets up my arm, sound echoes all around,
suddenly shattering the silence in the room.
Noah gives a squawk, then a cry, which quickly becomes a
bellow. I know exactly what needs to happen here: I need to
tend to Noah and to fetch that yellowed paper from the bin and
Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 99
8/23/19 8:20 AM
100
Kelly Rimmer
check if it’s a note and I also need to take the trash can down-
stairs to empty it into the dumpster. But I don’t know what to
deal with first, and my heart is now thumping painfully against
the wall of my chest as I stare down another nothing decision—
the kind of thing that should be easy to organize in my mind.
It’s really a very simple exercise in sequencing, but I just can’t
figure out what is the right order for those tasks, and because I don’t know where to start, the decision seems to swell in my
mind until it looms ominously at the forefront of my thoughts.
It’s a confusing form of procrastination for tasks so minor I
should be able to complete them all without a single conscious
thought.
“Just shhh,” I plead with Noah, who only bellows louder in
response. I bend down to tip out the trash can onto the floor,
and the note falls out and blessedly lands near the top of the pile.
I snatch it up and smooth it out, then peer down at that beauti-
fully scripted handwriting:
Loneliness is so much worse than sadness, because loneliness, by
definition, cannot be shared. I am alone in a crowded family these
days. Tonight there are four other souls in this house, but I am un-
bearably isolated…
The letter is dated April 14, 1957. I might not know how to
soothe my son or clean up trash efficiently, but I do still have a
mind for numbers and I know without checking that this very
same date is on one of the canvases. I also have more evidence
here that Grace Walsh wrote these notes. Four other souls? Was
I one of them? And maybe that’s why I can’t bring myself to fin-
ish reading. I sit the letter down on the floor beside the trash
can and I walk out of the attic, down the stairs to the kitchen.
Noah’s cries seem much fainter from down here, but I can still
hear them, and even with the distance, the sound grates on me
until my ears ache. I can’t stand it. I just can’t stand that sound
Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 100
8/23/19 8:20 AM
Truths I Never Told You
101
right now , and I’m panicking as I fill the kettle and set it on the stovetop. The faint sound of the gas heating the water drones
out the baby’s cry a little more, and as I sink into a chair at the
dining room table, I hold my head in my hands.
I’m losing it. That’s what this is. It’s a panic attack, or maybe
a good old-fashioned nervous breakdown, and maybe I’m hal-
lucinating those notes. I do feel a little disconnected from the
world, and hallucinations are as good an explanation as any.
I’m going to have to leave Noah with Hunter and go into a
hospital before something unthinkable happens. Crazy. It’s an
awful word, one I’d never, ever let myself use to describe an-
other person. But I feel crazy right now, and I’m so ashamed
that I start to cry.
The letter needs my attention and the baby needs my atten-
tion and the canvases must match notes from her and all of this
obviously means something and the attic is a mess and Dad’s
really going to die. It’s all just too much.
Breathe, Beth. What would you tell a client?
The kettle is boiling now, and I rise to flick the gas off. As
the sound recedes, I hear Noah’s cries, draw in a deep breath,
and rush back up to tend to him. His face is red and purple and
there are tears all over his cheeks, but when I peek over the edge
of the playpen, he quickly calms, so I know it wasn’t anything
too serious. By the time I’ve scooped him back up and into my
arms, his sobs are fading to shuddering whimpers.
“I’m sorry,” I say numbly as I pick my way across the mess,
back towards the trash can, where the letter rests on the floor. I
remember seeing an ornate wooden chest nearby, one I vaguely
recall Dad used as a coffee table in the living room for a while,
one I’m pretty sure he told me he built himself. It’s buried be-
neath a stack of drop sheets, so I kick my way toward it and use
the side of my foot to clear the sheets from the top, then I sit
heavily on it. Noah is fumbling at my tank top, and
it occurs to
Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 101
8/23/19 8:20 AM
102
Kelly Rimmer
me that he’s probably hungry, so I set him up to nurse and then
I draw in a deep breath and read the letter.
I am alone in a crowded family these days, and that’s the worst
feeling I’ve ever experienced. Until these past few years, I had no
idea that loneliness is worse than sadness. I’ve come to realize
that’s because loneliness, by it’s very definition, cannot be shared.
I’m shaking so hard I can barely continue reading, but I force
myself to persist. When I finish, I look down at Noah. I real y
look at him, maybe for the first time in weeks. His eyes have
fluttered closed, and his hand has curled into a fist against my
skin. I stare at him until my vision blurs, but the whole while,
I feel numb.
But she held me like this. She dreaded my cry, just as I dread
his. Maybe she felt numb, too. She certainly seemed to think
about running away, just as I have.
Perhaps some people would be upset to know that their
mother struggled to care for them, but I’m nothing like upset.
More than anyone, I understand that a mother can love a child
desperately, and simultaneously find themselves broken by the
endless demands of parenting.
I actively seek ways to avoid my son because I just don’t feel
I’m up to the task of nurturing him the way he needs and de-
serves to be nurtured. Not only have I never said that aloud, I’ve
also never even let myself think those words explicitly before.
I look back to the letter, and I see my struggle reflected in
the beautifully scripted handwriting of a woman who’s been
gone for decades. Until five minutes ago, all I had left of her
was a handful of precious moments that I replay in my memory
when I’m feeling lost.
But for the very first time since Noah’s birth, I don’t feel iso-
lated. I didn’t just discover a letter from the past. I found a voice
that expresses what has been caught in my throat for the past
Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 102
8/23/19 8:20 AM
Truths I Never Told You
103
five months—emotions and thoughts that were shapeless spec-
