by Kelly Rimmer
I barely looked at one another as we made our vows. I just kept
thinking of the children—there was no doubt in my mind by then
that I was doing the right thing, even if I was still a little unnerved
by the responsibility I’d willingly put on my shoulders. The girls
in the residential hall back in California had packed up my things
and they’d soon arrive by courier, and my old life was gone for-
ever—replaced by this new one where so many unknowns still
remained. In the days before the wedding, I had started inquiring
about work as a professor’s assistant at the universities in Seattle,
but the response so far had been lukewarm. I had half a master’s
degree under my belt, and a million ideas for things I wanted to
learn and say and do, but the professors I’d met so far had all been
skeptical that I could balance family life and paid work.
Even so, I knew I’d find a way. I always had in the past.
“…you may now kiss your bride, Patrick,” the celebrant
beamed, and Patrick and I exchanged a horrified, awkward
glance. He bent and kissed my cheek, and Ewan and Jean and
the celebrant all clapped politely. We paid our fee on the way out
of the courthouse, and then standing in the crisp morning light, I
linked arms with Patrick and posed while Ewan took the photo.
“There, happy?” Ewan laughed.
“Absolutely. Could I please have a copy of that when you de-
velop the film?”
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“You’re sending that photo to your parents, aren’t you?” Pat-
rick asked, amused.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” I smirked. My parents seemed
to have given up on their quest to take the children from Pat-
rick. We hadn’t heard a peep from them since I’d informed Fa-
ther of our impending nuptials, but I didn’t need to speak with
them directly to know they were intensely displeased.
By lunchtime, I was home with the children, and Patrick had
changed into his work gear and left for a job site with Ewan.
I was now the second Mrs. Patrick Walsh, and officially a step-
mother. As I formally adjusted to those roles, I was convinced
the change was simply practical.
I was already somewhat used to my new responsibilities; now
I just had to find ways to balance them with my true call-
ing—my work. I knew there’d be barriers, but even so, I was
determined that my new titles would never slow me down in
achieving my goals.
“Professor Jackson?”
“Mrs. Walsh, nice to see you again.”
Professor Jackson’s expression and accelerated pace suggested
it was anything but nice to see me again, so I knew he was just
being polite. I chased him along the hallway at Seattle Univer-
sity’s social studies department, clutching my satchel to my hip
as I ran. I’d met him several times over the previous months,
and Professor Callahan had sent him a personal recommenda-
tion about my work ethic and skills.
Jackson made it clear he was willing to accept my transfer
into his master’s program, but that wasn’t quite enough. I also
needed paid work, because without it, Patrick and I would never
afford the cost of a babysitter. This was my fourth visit to the
university, and each time, I’d sought Professor Jackson out to
inquire about a tutoring position.
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“I just wanted to talk to you about the possibility of work
with your department—”
“As I told you last time, Mrs. Walsh, I don’t hire married
women as a general rule, because married women tend to have
babies and leave me in the lurch. And you are not just a married
woman, but rather, a married woman who is already responsible
for a rather large brood of very young children.”
“Professor, with all due respect, my family responsibilities are
my problem, not yours. And if you give me even a little work
as a tutor, then—”
“You told me last time you were here that you’d recently
married a widower, correct?”
“That’s correct, Professor, but—”
“Mrs. Walsh,” Professor Jackson interrupted me, finally stop-
ping his frantic pace so he could face me. “You have young
children at home who have lost their mother. Your job for now
should be seeing to the best interests of those children, should
it not? What exactly would you do for childcare if you found
yourself a job?”
“We’d hire a babysitter,” I sighed halfheartedly. “We’ve
thought of all of this, Professor. It’s not an insurmountable ob-
stacle.”
“So you will outsource the care of the children you have
agreed to raise, in order to fulfil your own ambitions?” Profes-
sor Jackson’s tone left no doubt as to how he felt about that ar-
rangement.
“Are you suggesting that because I’m married, and have step-
children, that I should give up my plans for a career?”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“But you have plenty of female students—”
“We have female academics, too—several of my tutors are
women. I’m actually supervising a very promising PhD candi-
date at this very minute who happens to be a woman. But you
won’t find any female academic staff in my department, or any
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others that I know of, who have a husband and young chil-
dren at home. This is the way of the world, Maryanne, and so
it should be. Society prioritizes the welfare of children over the
ambitions of self-focused young mothers.” His lips were pursed,
and the deep wrinkles on his forehead turned down, too. He
looked incredibly displeased, and I finally admitted to myself
that this door wasn’t just closed, it was locked.
“Self-focused?” I repeated, but I was almost too disheartened
to feel outrage. Instead, I felt worn down.
On each of my visits to this university, I’d had pretty much
the same conversation with the librarian and the staff in the ad-
ministration unit. I’d had the same kind of response at Wash-
ington University, and an even icier response from the staff at
Seattle Pacific. Plenty of women had jobs in those days, but even
with employers who didn’t have a formal “marriage bar” policy,
women with office jobs tended to resign once they were mar-
ried, and always once they had children.
“I apologize if I’ve offended you, Mrs. Walsh.” Professor Jack-
son said. “But I won’t change my stance on this.”
The irony did not escape me. I had married Patrick at least in
part because it was considered unacceptable for an unmarried
woman and man to live together and if I was going to help him
with
the children, I’d have to live in his house. But that marriage
had become an insurmountable barrier to the career I’d long
dreamed of, and without work, I couldn’t even afford to study.
Society seemed absolutely determined to define me as wife,
and in doing so, to lock me in the cage that had driven my sis-
ter all but insane.
“So that’s really it?”
“There’s nowhere else to try, Patrick.”
“And you’re just giving up? Really? That’s not like you.”
We were sitting on the porch one night after the children
went to bed. Patrick was sipping a beer, and I was nursing my
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fourth sherry. He didn’t want me to give up with my quest for
academic employment. But I had been looking for work for
months by then, and I’d come to accept that I’d accidentally
backed my way into a corner. I was trying desperately to keep
my chin up. I didn’t exactly regret agreeing to stay, but I was a
little panicked at the thought that I’d just destroyed everything
that mattered to me.
I was trapped. I’d spend hundreds of hours looking for that
note from Grace by then, trying to protect my career. All the
while, I’d blown up my career anyway.
“I’m not giving up forever,” I assured him. “Just until Beth
starts school. That’s only two years away, and I guess by then
you’ll have finished your foreman training, and you’ll be able
to afford a babysitter even if I can’t find work. Right?”
“Right…”
Two years felt like an eternity, and I was miserable about
it. I’d seriously considered seeking work and not mentioning
the young family I had at home, but I knew inevitably that
I’d need some degree of flexibility when emergencies arose.
I knew women hid their marriages all the time so they could
keep jobs they enjoyed, but hiding four small children was a bit
of a stretch, even for me.
“I know I seem to say this a lot,” Patrick said, tilting his head
at me. “But I don’t understand you. I keep thinking about the
fact that you had an abortion because you didn’t want a child,
presumably because you were determined to have a career in-
stead. And now here you are, assuming responsibility for my chil-
dren, even though it effectively means your career has stalled.”
Panic swelled, as it always did when I thought about Pat-
rick finding Grace’s notes. We had, against the odds, become
something like friends over the months since our wedding and I
couldn’t bear the thought of how hurt and furious he’d be if he
ever found me out. And, yes, maybe my career was temporar-
ily on hold, but with every day that passed, I loved those chil-
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dren more and more. I was painfully aware that if Patrick ever
found out the truth, this fragile truce we’d built for the children
would be undone in an instant. But the panic faded, as it always
did. I’d looked everywhere, and if I couldn’t find the notes, there was surely no way he’d accidental y find them.
“Your children are an immense blessing, Patrick. I’ve come to
love them very deeply and I can’t even imagine my life without
them. But that doesn’t change the fact that a pregnancy isn’t al-
ways the best thing for a woman. Child rearing is almost entirely
a woman’s responsibility, and pregnancy is entirely a woman’s domain. For this reason alone I am absolutely convinced that a
woman should have complete control over what happens to her
if she falls pregnant. I don’t think I should have to justify my
decisions to you, or anyone else, for that matter.”
Patrick sighed and ran his hand through his hair.
“What about the father of this baby? What were his thoughts
on the matter? Did he approve?”
In this I could, at least, answer honestly, and I answered for
Grace as much as anything.
“He didn’t know. It wasn’t his place to decide.”
“There’s at least one thing you’ve taught me in the five months
since we got married,” Patrick said after a pause. He glanced at
me, then laughed softly. “I now know you don’t have to agree
with someone to form a very successful partnership with them.”
Patrick was right—our partnership was a resounding success.
We’d settled into a new life together, and career struggles aside,
it was a life I was coming to love.
Beth
1996
It’s not hard to track down Maryanne Gallagher’s office now
that I know she’s a professor at Seattle University. Just after nine
o’clock the next morning I call their switchboard, ask for her,
and seconds later I’m speaking to her assistant.
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“Professor Gallagher has office hours Tuesday afternoons,”
the young man informs me by rote.
“It’s a personal matter. Is she available? I’d really like to speak
to her.”
“Oh.” Maryanne’s assistant sounds stunned, as if he’s never
had to deal with a personal call for his boss before. “Who’s calling, please?”
“This is Bethany Evans. Er…maybe tell her it’s Bethany
Walsh.”
“Hold, please.”
The tinny hold music comes down the line, but only for a
few seconds before Maryanne picks up.
“I had a feeling you’d call me today.”
“I’m really sorry about last night.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Beth.”
“I was hoping you’d be available for lunch today. I know it’s
late notice, but I’d really love to talk to you, if you can spare
me the time.”
“I’m…”
“Just me, Aunt Maryanne. Not the others.”
Maryanne sighs heavily.
“I never could say no to you. Where and when?”
We make arrangements to meet at one of the cafés near her
campus, and after I hang up I pause, wondering if I should call
Chiara and ask her to babysit. After a moment, I set the phone
carefully down onto the cradle and go to pack the bag so Noah
can join me.
I have no idea why I’m voluntarily dragging my son on an
hour-long drive across the city, and risking taking him along
for what’s bound to be an uncomfortable lunch, but for some
reason today, I just don’t want to be apart from him.
I’m a full half hour early, but it turns out, so is Maryanne.
When I get to the café to look for a table with space for Noah’s
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stroller, I immediately see her in the corner. There’s a book on
the table, but she’s staring at the flower arrangement in front of
it, a vaguely distant expression on her face.
wearing a navy blue dress in a stiff fabric, with a square neck
and hugely dramatic bell sleeves.
I know you. I definitely know you.
I draw in a deep breath and check on Noah in the stroller,
just to buy myself some time before I approach her. But when
I look up, she’s already seen me, and I have to force myself to
walk across the room.
“I didn’t have a migraine,” she says, giving me a ruefully sad
smile.
“I know,” I say. My mouth is suddenly dry, and my heart’s
racing in my ears. I sit heavily, and blurt, “I have the most beau-
tiful memories of my mother. When I was a kid, those memo-
ries seemed like some extraordinary gift from the universe, like
some consolation prize because I had to grow up without her.
I missed her, you see. I didn’t miss the idea of having a mother.
I missed her. ” Maryanne swallows and looks away, and I reach into the stroller beneath my sleeping son. “And I’ve missed her
more than ever since Dad got sick…ever since Noah was born.
I’ve thought about it all the time. And then when I was clean-
ing out Dad’s house, I found these…”
I pull the jewelry box out from the stroller, and Maryanne
tilts her head at it.
“Does this look familiar?” I ask her.
She frowns, then shakes her head and reaches to pick it up.
As soon as she opens it, she bites her lip.
“Oh, that sneaky man,” she whispers, then she blinks rapidly
before she meets my gaze. “I didn’t think we could afford this
ring. He must have gone back to get it to surprise me.”
“There’s more,” I say, then I pull the photo album from be-
neath the stroller and open it carefully up to the first page of
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Grace’s letters. I expect Maryanne to react with shock, but in-
stead, she gives me a sad smile and reaches into her handbag.
She withdraws a plastic sleeve and rests it on the table beside
the album.
I recognize immediately the yellowed paper and beautifully
flowery script of the page beneath the sleeve.
“That’s Grace’s note from April 14?” I whisper.
“It is,” Maryanne says, eyebrows lifting. “And how did you
know that?”
“It’s a long story,” I laugh weakly. “How did you get it?”
“Your father gave it to me,” she murmurs, then she gives me
