by Kelly Rimmer
heart, but it was your family I loved. I’ve missed you all dread-
fully and your sister’s call felt like a dream come true, but even
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in my heartbreak, I wasn’t about to go tie myself to another man
in order to replace you.” She shrugs in a way that reminds me of
Jeremy when he’s feeling self-conscious, and adds quietly, “The
thing is, Bethany, if I couldn’t be with you and your family, I
had little choice but to go back to Plan A—change the world.
And that’s exactly what I did.”
Maryanne tells me about her amazing experiences in the 1960s
and 1970s, earning her doctorate and fighting for women’s rights.
She tells me about landing the job she’d always dreamed of, and
explains how her time with my family softened her once very
rigid opinions on the dynamics between men and women and
their children. She tells me about her work campaigning for
abortion law reform, and her pride that in 1970, a referendum
to legalize abortion passed with a 56% majority, enshrining the
right to safe, legal abortion in Washington State law years be-
fore Roe vs Wade.
But most of all, Maryanne tells me about my mother, about
a woman who struggled against the darkness just as I have, but
who had to face those demons alone, again and again. The idea
of this chills me to the bone, because even with the support I’ve
had this year, I’m increasingly aware that I’ve only just made it
through.
“It’s hard to believe how different things were for her. I mean,
I’ve been sexually active for…” I pause and do the math, then
grimace, “God. Over twenty years. I was on the pill for more
than half of that time, until Hunter and I started trying to con-
ceive. It was actually quite easy for me to avoid a pregnancy
until I was ready.”
“Society moved on so fast. That’s what we wanted, of course,”
Maryanne says and sighs as she pats my son to sleep. With her
other hand, she smooths down her wind-ruffled hair. “But
there’s a cost in rapid progress like that, because women your
age don’t always understand how lucky you are. Don’t want a
baby? Go to the doctor and get contraception that’s cheap and
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reliable, or go to the damned corner store and buy a packet of
condoms for a handful of change. Develop depression? Take
some Prozac, see a therapist. For your generation, these prob-
lems have names, and because they are defined, solutions can
be found for them. But for my generation, we didn’t have ac-
cess to those solutions and it made life endlessly complicated…
and for women like your mother, endlessly cruel.”
Two weeks ago I stuffed a script for Prozac into my tote bag,
and it’s still there—resting between baby wipes and spare paci-
fiers and my purse. I clutch the strap tighter in my hand.
“Do you think it’s that simple?” I ask her, my voice uneven.
“Things like tackling depression, I mean?”
“Of course it is,” Maryanne says dismissively. “If your mother
was born now rather than then, she wouldn’t have died at the
hands of strangers. She could have accessed contraception and
planned out her family. If she fell pregnant anyway, she could
have accessed a safe, legal abortion. She’d have given birth to
you children when she actually wanted to. I know she’d still have
developed postpartum depression—because it’s pretty clear that
my mother suffered from it, too, and there was some genetic
predisposition. But if she was facing that challenge now, she’d
have been able to access treatment for it. She’d have been able to
control her destiny…and that’s all my generation dreamed of.”
Sometimes moments of change happen during quiet conver-
sations like this, when a simple shift in perspective empowers
you to make a choice you just haven’t been able to make be-
fore. I know in this instant that I’ll wean my son, and I’ll take
the damned antidepressants, because I want to feel better—for
Noah and Hunter, but also, for me.
I don’t want to live like this, and more importantly, I don’t
have to. I wanted to be strong enough to overcome this illness.
I finally understand that in this case, being strong means accepting help to find myself again. With a little support, maybe I re-
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ally can become the mother I always thought I’d be…the kind
of mother Maryanne once was for me.
“I’m really glad we found you, Maryanne,” I whisper, star-
ing at her.
She smiles kindly, then reaches to gently pat my back.
“I’m really glad you did, too, sweet girl.”
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Epilogue
Beth
May, 1997
A wise man once told me that everything changes. He’s gone
now, but his spirit lives on in the evolving patterns of our fam-
ily life. Today is our second ever Walsh Family Sunday brunch.
Jeremy and Fleur are back together, so last month we met at their
new house in Pullman. But this month it’s my turn. Hunter and
I have been cooking all morning, and we couldn’t be prouder
to play our part in maintaining the tradition Dad started all of
those years ago.
In the end, we sold Dad’s house—it was much harder to jus-
tify keeping a connection to it once we’d completely cleared it
out. Besides, Jeremy decided that he wanted his share of what
was left after Dad’s care fees for a deposit, so that he could set up
his own nest with Fleur. Not one of us could have begrudged
him that.
It’s a beautiful spring morning outside—the air still bitter, but
the sunshine gloriously bright. Outside, Ruth’s kids are playing
tag, and from Hunter’s arms Noah is watching his older cous-
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ins make mischief—one of his favorite things to do. The rest
of us—the sensible ones—are all enjoying the relative warmth
of my living room.
There’s change everywhere I look these days. It might still
be cold outside, but emotionally, my family has marched into
spring.
“I think this brunch arrangement is going to be good for us,”
Ruth murmurs, walking up to hand me a glass of champagne.
Family brunch will happen once a month now, and it will ro-
tate through each of our homes. I’m relieved that something
of our old tradition exists, less worried now that I’ll drift apart
from my brothers. Jez set up email accounts for us all, and be-
tween those messages and phone
calls, we’re still in reasonably
frequent contact.
“Yes, I think it’s going to be great,” I agree, knocking my
glass against Ruth’s. “We only have to cook and clean up once
every five months.”
Ruth grins and sips at her champagne.
“I already miss drinking,” Fleur sighs beside us. Jeremy slides
his hands around her waist and pats her nonexistent belly as he
grins. “Only eight months to go!”
“It’ll be over before you know it,” I tell them, and I mean it.
Time flies by so fast at the best of times, somehow even more
so when there’s a baby involved. Then again, my experience has
hardly been typical. My first five months of parenthood were,
in hindsight, something close to hell, and I’ve spent the past few
months focusing on getting better. I still see a therapist every
week, and once we got the dose right, Prozac has made a world
of difference to my life and my parenting. Just like Grace once
said, the dawn has come and the night is fading. It’s fair to say
that accepting the help I needed to get through that stage of my
life completely changed my relationship with my son.
“Here’s Mommy,” I hear Hunter say from the doorway, and
then my boys are approaching me—both sets of cheeks rosy
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Kelly Rimmer
from the cold, both of them beaming big, cheeky grins. My
heart just about melts whenever Noah’s face lights up like this,
especially when I know that enormous smile is just because he’s
seen me. It hasn’t been an easy road from where I was months
ago to where I am now, but I’d walk it again in a heartbeat to be
able to wake every day and enjoy the way this gorgeous, cheeky
face beams at me.
“Maryanne’s here,” Hunter tells me, as I take Noah from his
arms.
“Where is she?” I ask, peering back toward the door.
“She’s playing chase with the boys.”
“Seriously?” I say, then I pass Noah right back to Hunter
and Ruth, Jeremy, Fleur and I all bolt for the window, catching
sight of my senior citizen aunt just as she tackles Andrew, who
is laughing so hard he’s almost in tears.
“Should I go out there and tell them all to calm down a bit?”
Ruth asks uncertainly. “I’d hate for her to get hurt.”
“I think we all know Maryanne can take care of herself,” I
say wryly. She playfully tickles Andrew one last time, then rises
and dusts off her black dress pants and sweater, before smooth-
ing over her hair and carefully rearranging her fuchsia scarf. She
sees us watching through the window and flashes us a wink.
Tim and Alicia arrive last. He’s come straight from a night
shift, and there are shadows beneath his eyes and a scruff on his
cheeks. He scoops up a handful of crackers from Fleur’s cheese
platter before he approaches us. There’s a manila folder tucked
under his arm, but that’s not what we’re all staring at.
“Timothy Walsh, are there blond tips in your hair?” Ruth
asks, eyes wide.
“That was my idea. They look amazing, don’t they?” Alicia
interjects, and Ruth and I both tense with the effort it takes
not to laugh.
“I think he looks younger,” I force myself to say.
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“I think they really suit you,” Ruth says in an admirable at-
tempt at politeness.
“Timothy, they do not look ridiculous, and you definitely do
not look like a forty-three-four-old man fighting off his midlife
crisis,” Jeremy says, and Ruth and I thump him. Alicia laughs,
then rolls her eyes. These days she gives as good as she gets—
and I know part of the reason why she’s so much more relaxed
around us is that we’re all making an effort to include her, even
in the good-natured ribbing. Right on cue, she raises her eye-
brows at Jeremy, and says drily, “We’ll all come to you for fash-
ion advice, Professor Walsh, when you manage to buy an item
of clothing that’s not brown or beige.”
“Those colors bring out the sparkle in my eyes,” Jeremy says
defensively. “Fleur always says so, don’t you, honey?”
Fleur grimaces, and we all laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Maryanne asks.
“Just our usual childish banker,” I tell her.
“In that case, I’m sad to have missed it. How is everyone?”
Maryanne moves around the circle of my siblings and their
spouses, planting a quick kiss on each of our cheeks, then slips
right into the group. We’ve come a long way since that awk-
ward dinner at Dad’s place last year. Maryanne is as much a part
of this family now as I am.
“Let’s get the kids settled and take a seat,” Tim says. “There’s
something I want to show you all.”
Ruth and Ellis set their boys in front of the television while
I fix a bottle for Noah, then the adults of the family meet back
at my dining room table. I’ve made Dad’s apple cake for des-
sert, and the air is heavy with cinnamon and apple. Between
the noise and the crowd and the scent of that cake, it feels like
Dad’s spirit is alive in this house today, and I love it.
Hunter and Maryanne playfully fight over who’s going to feel
Noah, but inevitably she wins, and she grins at me as she sits
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down to give my son his formula. Noah is old enough to hold
the bottle himself these days, but he seems delighted to lie back
and let Maryanne feed him instead. I chuckle at the blissed out
look on his face as he nestles into her and starts to gulp, then
chuckle again at the matching look of contentment on Mary-
anne’s face as she stares down at him.
Tim opens the manila folder, revealing a thick stack of bank
statements. He’s highlighted some lines and Post-its are attached
to some of the pages. Tim smooths his hand over the papers,
then pushes the folder into the middle of the table.
“You can look through this yourselves if you’re interested in
the details, but I wanted to let you know that I found out where
Dad’s money went.”
“Oh, God,” Jez groans. “I’m scared to ask.”
“No need to be scared,” Tim says, then he smiles. “He do-
nated it. All of it, it would seem—to Planned Parenthood. There
were small amounts going back as far as I could find, but since
he retired, more and more money every year.”
“Wow. That’s so sweet,” Ruth says, eyes wide.
“Wait—do you think this means he felt guilty for all of those
decades? Was he trying to make atonement for what happened
to Mom?” Jeremy asks, frowning.
I shake my head.
“You read the notes. He probably did feel guilty, but I don’t
that defined his life, and I
don’t think that’s what this is about.
I have a feeling that these donations were Dad’s way of honor-
ing Mom, and his way of quietly trying to make things better.
For us…and for all of the women who come after her.”
Maryanne looks up at me, and a gentle smile transforms her
features. In this woman, I’ve found my mother—not just be-
cause of my childhood memories of her or because she can share
her own memories of Grace with me, but because of who she
is to me now. She’s a living example of the kind of bold, brave
woman I want to be.
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“A beautiful gesture,” Maryanne murmurs now. “From a
beautiful man.”
“I miss him,” Ruth says softly. There are quiet murmurs of
agreement from around the table.
“Everything changes,” Tim says quietly.
“You’re right about that. The whole family changed this year,”
Jeremy remarks.
“But can you imagine us any other way now?” I ask, and one
by one, they all shake their heads.
If there’s one thing I’m sure of these days, it’s this: our chaotic,
quirky family was built with love, and whatever comes next for
us, that love will continue to grow.
That’s the way Dad raised us, and I like to think that some-
how, he knows we’re continuing on in his honor.
* * * * *
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