by Kelly Rimmer
“I did. I do.”
“But this feels shameful,” I whisper, looking away. “Six years,
Hunter. Six years of trying to have a baby, and then we finally
get one, and I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.” I exhale
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shakily, then admit, “Some days I hate it. I feel so overwhelmed.
I’m terrified of letting him down and letting you down. And
I can’t help but think he deserves a better mother than I know
how to be.”
“Beth,” he says very gently. “We do have a safe, open relation-
ship, and that’s why I should have known something was going
on when you pulled away from me. Since when do we discon-
nect in the tough times? We only made it through six years of
trying to become parents because we leaned on one another.”
“You know, I always thought that a psychologically unwell
person would feel like something was wrong. I never really thought about it as such, but I guess I assumed that the negative feelings would feel distinct from typical feelings, so people
would know they need help. But this hasn’t felt like something
in my mind wasn’t working the way it should. It actually feels
like I’m reacting in a typical way to the circumstances, so I’ve
convinced myself the circumstances are the problem. I’ve felt
frustrated and inadequate, and I’ve been thinking that was just
because I am inadequate. Even as a psychologist, I didn’t con-
sider the possibility that those feelings were symptoms, and not
a reasonable reaction to—” an awful, bewildering, messed up “—
an extraordinary set of circumstances.”
“When I suggested you talk to someone, you were concerned
that it would negatively impact your career. Do you really think
that’s a possibility?” Hunter asks me quietly.
I rub my forehead, suddenly weary.
“Yeah. I actually think Alan will be okay.” Alan is my su-
pervisor, and he’s incredible—empathetic, gentle, supportive.
But he’s not the only boss I have, and I have to be smart here.
“I don’t know how the higher managers might deal with this,
given that I work with kids. They’re understandably cautious
about child therapists being in a good place emotionally them-
selves. That’s why when I decided to take the extra leave, I just
told them I was enjoying my time at home. There really is a
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stigma attached to mental health treatment, and it’s still strong
even in my profession. Maybe even more so for psychologists,
which is silly, but there seems to be an expectation that we can
just handle ourselves and that makes us immune to this kind of
thing. I need to think this through…maybe get some advice.”
Hunter gets out of his chair and crouches beside mine. He
turns me gently to face him, and then stares into my eyes.
“I never want you to feel you have to shoulder something
like this on your own. I won’t judge you. We’re in unchartered
territory—as parents, yes, but also as partners. What’s worked
for us in the past has been communicating, and I think that’s
what’s going to get us through this, too. Can you promise to
try to keep talking to me?”
“There are things I’m not ready to talk about yet,” I whisper,
thinking about the attic and the notes and the death certificate
I found in the bottom of that wooden chest.
“Do your best, Beth. That’s all I’m asking.”
I let Hunter talk me into taking another sleeping pill and
catching up on some more sleep, but as a compromise, he and
Noah move back into our bedroom.
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12
Beth
1996
My siblings and I all qualified for “lapsed Catholic” status when
we reached our teens. Dad let us decide for ourselves whether
we’d continue to go to weekly church services, and we each
gradually decided we’d rather sleep in. Even so, events at the
St Louise’s Parish Church still seem to mark every important
milestone in our family life. The sacraments are signposts for
all of the major events in our lives: baptisms for infants, confir-
mations for the children, weddings and funerals for the adults.
Sunday morning ten past ten, Hunter and I are tiptoeing down
the aisle of the church to take the seats Tim and Alicia reserved
for us. We’re late, and everyone else is already safely seated in
the pews, ready to play our part as witnesses in Ruth’s eldest
son’s confirmation service.
St Louise’s isn’t a big church, and the pews are short and so un-
comfortable Ruth and I used to wonder if they’d been designed
to keep the parishioners from nodding off. Confirmation ser-
vices like this are big events in the parish and are well attended
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by the wider community, so we all cram in like sardines. Now
Hunter is holding Noah on my left, Alicia is on the other side,
Tim is at the end of the pew beside Dad, who sits in his wheel-
chair in the outer aisle, Ruth and her family are in front of us,
and Chiara and Wallace are behind us.
“Remember that day?” Hunter whispers to me suddenly, dur-
ing a particularly dry patch of the homily.
“Which day?” I whisper back. He gives me a pointed look as
he says, “The day we met.”
I quickly do the math—over eleven years have passed since
I met Hunter in this very church. I was living in Ballard at the
time, having just finished my post-grad qualification and work-
ing in my first supervised position as a psychologist. I came home
for Christmas, and Dad dragged me along to the Christmas Eve
candlelight service. We had just taken our seats when I noticed
the tall, extremely handsome man sitting with his parents right
beside me. He flashed me a smile, and I smiled back, but then
we discovered that our side-by-side seating arrangement was
no happy coincidence.
“Wallace, Chiara,” Dad had said cheerfully, leaning across me
to greet the man’s parents. “Fancy seeing you two here. This
must be Hunter.”
“Why, yes it is, Patrick,” Chiara had said, a picture of in-
nocence. “Lovely to bump into you. And this must be Beth.”
It turned out that Hunter and I had been floating around in
the same circles for years, even though we’d never met. Our par-
ents were all active in the congregation at St Louise’s, and while
mingling after the liturgy one week, Dad and Chiara cooked
up a scheme to introduce us.
Somewhere between “Silent Night” and “O Christmas Tree,”
Hunter and I bonded over a mutual determination to teach our
parents a lesson by not getting along we
ll at all, but by the time the candle in my hand had melted down to a stub, I was smit-ten. But I was desperate to avoid encouraging Dad’s meddling,
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Kelly Rimmer
so at the end of the night, I said a polite goodbye to Hunter
and marched away before any of the parents could say some-
thing awkward.
“What do you think of Hunter?” Dad asked as soon as we
were alone in the car.
“He was fine,” I said, shrugging, feigning nonchalance, even
as I kicked myself for not getting Hunter’s number. “Not my
type, but fine.”
When the phone rang late on Christmas Day, Dad answered
it, and he was grinning like an idiot when he brought me the
handset.
“Sorry to call your dad’s house,” Hunter said. “I real y don’t
want to encourage any more parental meddling, but I also
couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least ask you out.”
We arranged a date for when we were both back in the city
a few days later, and that was it: we were inseparable from then
on. We married in this very church eight years ago, and moved
back to Bellevue a few months after that.
“Of course I remember.” I smile to myself as nostalgia washes
over me. Hunter leans low toward my ear and murmurs, “That
was the day my life began.”
I flash him a small smile, then rest my head on his shoulder,
turning to face the priest. This is Father Jenkins and he’s been
our parish priest for years—he’s one of those compassionate
types who seems genuinely overjoyed to see anyone at church
and probably wouldn’t care if Hunter and I had a chat during
his homily, but I like to at least look like I’m listening. Thirteen years of Catholic education instilled a quiet terror of the clergy,
and I guess old habits die hard.
“It hasn’t been the happily-ever-after we thought it would be
when we made our vows though, has it?” I whisper to Hunter. I
was thirty-one when I married Hunter, but in some ways I was
still a child, still thinking of marriage like a solution to some
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problem I hadn’t quite identified. On some level I really believed
that from our wedding day on, life would be smooth and easy.
Every now and again my siblings tease me about being the
spoiled baby. I’ve never felt like I was, but at times like this I
know that there’s at least an element of truth in the accusation.
“I didn’t want or expect happily-ever-after and I don’t think you
really wanted that, either. I wanted a partner—someone to share
my life with. And I found the best woman on earth for the job.”
“You still think that?”
“I still know that.”
I brush my lips against his, a chaste and innocent expression
of affection. There’s a rap against the pew behind us, and when
Hunter and I glance back, Wallace is giving us a pointed look
through the thick lenses of his glasses. He points to the priest
as if we need to be reminded that Father Jenkins is still there,
but just as I turn to look away, I see my father-in-law smirk-
ing to himself.
When the service finally ended, Ruth and her family had
the requisite photos taken on the church steps with Andrew in
his suit, and then we all piled into the cars and came back to
Dad’s house. Ruth’s sons Andrew, Mathew and David have all
changed into casual clothes and are tossing a football around
with Ellis and Jeremy in the backyard, apparently immune to
the icy wind. Tim, Alicia and Dad are sitting at the beautifully
decorated dining room table, and I can’t help but raise my eye-
brows when I see Tim and Alicia holding hands.
“What’s up with you two?” I murmur under my breath when
Tim gets up and approaches me to take Noah from my arms.
“Marriage counseling,” Tim says wryly. “That’s what.”
“Really?” I say, surprised.
“God, Beth. You of all people should know that sometimes
you just need a little outside perspective.”
“Me of all people?” I repeat, scowling. He blinks at me.
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“Because you’re a psychologist? What else would I mean?”
“Oh.” I wince. “Of course. Well, good for you.”
Tim stares at me thoughtfully, then nods toward Dad and
Alicia.
“Dad’s a bit of a mess today.”
“He is? I haven’t had a chance to talk to him.” I swallow the
lump in my throat. That’s at least in part because I’m avoiding
him. I feel like I need to ask him about that death certificate,
but I know he won’t be able to answer me, and I know it’s going
to be upsetting for both of us. “Is his speech worse?”
“His speech is fine. Well, no worse than it usually is. But…
look at him, Beth. Really look at him.”
I drag my gaze to Dad and force myself to focus on him.
He’s engaged in a conversation with Alicia. She’s talking qui-
etly, her hands flying this way and that, and Dad is wearing that
quiet smile that suggests he might not be following the detail
of whatever it is she’s saying, but he’s happy to be talking to her
anyway. He’s slowly unwrapping gold-wrapped candies as he
listens, and there’s a growing pile of wrappers on the tablecloth
in front of him.
But his skin has taken on an awful gray pallor, and he’s so
puffy today…his eyes look like they could disappear into the
swelling. He’s wearing lounge pants that I know used to be
baggy, but are stretched around his swollen ankles—so tight I
know they must be painful. Even seated with the oxygen sup-
plementation, he’s visibly panting. The dry, rasping cough he’s
had for months surfaces regularly between breaths. That cough
has a rhythm of its own now. It’s like the ticking of a clock—
the audible mark of his last days counting down.
“He has ups and downs,” I say, fumbling for optimism.
“Sure. But there’s a trend here we can’t ignore, and there’s
no point kidding ourselves.” Tim draws in a deep breath, then
murmurs gently, “He just doesn’t have long left with us, Bethie.”
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“Today is about Andrew’s confirmation,” I cut my brother
off abruptly. “I don’t want to talk about this today.”
“Make way, you two,” Ruth calls, and we shift aside as she
bustles past us. She’s donned an apron since I saw her at Mass,
and now she’s carrying a huge tray of bread rolls. After she
breezes back past us, Tim tickles Noah under the chin, then
flashes me a sad look.
“Beth. I get it—it’s hard to talk about. It’s just… I’m just wor-
ried that we’re
not prepared.”
He’s not talking about funeral arrangements, and I don’t even
think he means it when he says we. He’s prepared. Maybe Jer-
emy and Ruth are even prepared. But as for me…
“I can’t prepare, Tim,” I whisper back, looking over to my fa-
ther. The tired smile is still fixed on his face, and the little pile
of candy wrappers in front of him is growing by the second as
he empties out the bowl. I move to intervene and suggest he
eat something healthy, maybe redirect him toward some fruit
or something, but then I stop myself, because for the first time,
I really understand that it’s too late for such tiny decisions to
have any impact.
He just doesn’t have long left with us, Bethie.
“Dad,” I blurt, and I leave my son with Tim and walk hastily
across the room to his wheelchair. “Daddy, can I talk to you?
In private?”
The room has suddenly fallen silent, and the pause feels des-
perate and awkward. Everyone is staring at me. Dad wheezes.
He coughs. Then he nods.
“Beth—” Hunter starts to protest, but I shake my head at
him, and I take the handles to Dad’s wheelchair and guide him
out from the living area. I lead him all the way down toward
his bedroom. It’s still a mess, and the last place in the world I
ever intended to take Dad today. But he’s a long way past man-
aging the stairs, and this is the closest room to the stairwell, so
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his bedroom is where we go. I park the wheelchair beside his
bed and give him a pleading look.
“Just wait here, okay? Just for a minute.” I’m crying, and
wipe hopelessly at my cheeks, hoping he won’t notice. But Dad
catches my hand, and he’s suddenly frowning.
“Maryanne,” he rasps. “Don’t cry, Maryanne. I’m sorry.”
“Daddy,” I choke, “It’s Beth, Dad. Just wait here. I need to
get something from upstairs.”
I gently release his hand and sprint up the stairs to the attic. I
scoop up the clipboard with the two notes on it, and run back
down the stairs, almost tripping in my haste to get back to Dad
before the rest of my family comes to investigate. I close the
door behind us this time, and I sit on the piles of clothes on
Dad’s bed and rest the clipboard on his lap.
“Did Grace write these, Dad?”
