After choosing a simple khaki skirt, white sleeveless sweater, and hemp espadrilles, I quickly shower and blow-dry my hair. While examining my face in the bathroom mirror, I decide that a little concealer and foundation will only help, and might possibly camouflage the exhaustion that shows on every line of my face, not to mention, the matched set of baggage under my eyes. While I dot my face with the concealer, I struggle to remember the last time I had a good night’s sleep, but I am fairly certain that was back before Tripp left, so it’s been quite a while.
I made the decision earlier to make the most of this beautiful day, so I called Jenn and Wendy. After I torture myself with Mother Tidwell, I am meeting the girls at Buck’s for coffee and scones. After that, we are going to hit the Memorial Day sales at Jolene’s and AnnaWear. I am hoping to score at least three new pairs of shorts, since the ones in my closet seem to be a little bigger than they were last year. Our last stop will be Cyrano’s, our local bookstore. I love to see what new releases will be stocked because the owners love to support local and regional authors. I am always finding new reading material for those times that I want to feel an actual paper book in my hands. I am actually really looking forward to spending some happy time with my girlfriends.
Having given things a lot of thought this morning, I decide to just show up at Mother Tidwell’s house and pray that the element of surprise works in my favor. If she knows ahead of time that I am coming, she will have the chance to either make other plans, or gather more instruments of torture to use against me.
My thoughts keep whirling around in my head. You’ve got this. She’s just a bitter, angry old woman. She’s probably lonely, too. Of course, you’d be lonely if you were as mean and hateful as she is. Wrynn, straighten up. Find something good. There has to be something. Think. So much for encouragement. I still don’t know what to say when I face her.
It has always been my personal goal to find at least one good thing in every person I meet. In all the years that I’ve known Mother Tidwell, I have struggled to find even one. When Annie was born, she showed up at the hospital and was like a bull in a china store. Things got so bad at one point that my mom refused to come see me until Tripp brought me home. Since Mother Tidwell wouldn’t dare step foot in an Army hovel, I didn’t have to worry about her after that. I don’t know about every woman, but when this girl has a baby, she wants her mama. She wants someone who will nurture and comfort, not criticize and cause tension. Unfortunately, the same thing happened when Bekah was born. I am thankful that, with the circumstances surrounding Maggie’s birth, my father stepped in and said something. His firm stance created a permanent rift between my parents and Tripp’s mother, not that their relationship was all chocolate and roses to begin with. More than once, Mother Tidwell spoke and Daddy lost a client. She has that much power around here. She is the puppet master and the business people are her marionettes.
At times, I feel like David facing Goliath. All I have to fight with is one small stone and a slingshot. Unlike David, my shot never seems to hit the target. I always imagine a kill shot, only to be hit by the recoil of the stone myself. At times, I wonder why I even try to fight back. Surely, if I just laid my slingshot down and forgot about fighting then life would become easier all around. Somehow, though, surrender seems so much harder to grasp. If I could know for certain that my family wouldn’t pay the price, then I would gladly lay it all down because, quite frankly, I am tired of all the fighting.
So, what do I do? I straighten my spine, push back my shoulders, and hold my head up high. Grabbing my purse, I head out the door, imagining that just this once the battle will end in my favor.
I make my way through the downtown traffic, wondering just where this day will end, and wishing that I could somehow avoid this confrontation, but also knowing that it really needs to happen. As I pass the Old Edwards Inn, I can’t help but notice the beautiful flower boxes that line the patio of Madison’s Restaurant. The beautiful red, white, and blue petunias spill out over the walkway. The menu board is out on the sidewalk advertising the daily lunch specials and the holiday weekend hours. The signs of life in my little town are only a hint of what is to come this tourist season.
Memorial Day acts as a call for the locals to stop and remember those from our community who serve, have served, and most especially have died in service to our great country. While my family has always remembered and honored these brave men and women, my girls and I are still adjusting to our own unwanted but newfound celebrity status. Not a month goes by that some kindhearted soul doesn’t stop us and pay for our supper if we happen to be eating out, or a sweet neighbor delivers yet another chicken or potato casserole.
Don’t get me wrong, these sentiments are more than appreciated, but sometimes, we would like to mourn our loss in private. If nothing else, Memorial Day will bring everything right back to the surface, not that it is ever far from our thoughts.
This is the main reason that I asked to be scheduled to work on Monday. Tourists don’t have a clue what is happening or has happened in my life. Seriously, I am over the parades, banners, and the speeches. I work as much as I can, trying to keep myself in an exhausted frame of mind. If I’m too tired to think, then I’m too tired to remember. If I’m too tired to remember, then I am too tired to imagine the way things were before.
My life is divided with a very certain line between yesterday and tomorrow. Yesterday is where I want to be, where my mind tries to exist, where I can be whole again. Tomorrow is the place where life takes over and I make new memories to replace the old ones. Tomorrow is the place where the holes in my heart begin to mend themselves, and I allow myself to start over again and move forward with my life.
Today is the bridge between the two, that period of time when the supposed healing begins. For me, it is when I have to force myself to let my babies out of my sight. It is when I worry that someone I love isn’t going to come back home. It is when it takes every fiber of my being to get out of bed to do normal things like shower, eat, attend the occasional parent-teacher conference, and worship with my family at church on Sunday. I beg for more hours at work, not for the paycheck, but for the escape from reality. Today is also the time when I grit my teeth and lock my jaws against all the well-meaning but sickeningly sweet platitudes. The words seem to be vomited from the mouths of little old ladies, nosey old biddies, and supposedly caring friends who have NO IDEA just how much I wish that ‘this too shall pass’, ‘life will go on’, ‘it will get better’, and my all-time favorite, ‘your time for mourning has passed’ would finally come true.
If I sound bitter, there is a reason. I am bitter. My yesterdays are what others dream of having. Tripp and I were the best of friends before we even thought about love. I’ve had the fairy tale life, where like turns into love, and love becomes happily ever after, only my forever love ended much too soon. My one plus one should equal five, not four. If I still had my yesterdays, I wouldn’t be on my way to visit the one person who lives to make my life miserable. If ever there were a person who derives extreme pleasure and joy from others’ problems and weaknesses, Mother Tidwell is definitely that person.
I reach the gated community on the outskirts of town and stop at the guard shack, hoping that she’s not had me banned from entering the development. When I roll down the window, I can’t help but notice the tiny lavender flowers blooming on the hedge of rosemary, and the fragrance scenting the air. The creeping phlox completes the picture of tranquility with its rainbow of colors that draws the eyes.
Mr. Jasper makes his way from the guard shack, walking ever so slowly with his shuffled gait. I swear that man is as old as God’s dog. For years, he was the custodian at the public school I attended, but when he slipped on the wet floor one evening and broke his hip, his doctor strongly recommended he leave the school because of the strenuous nature of his job. Thankfully, when Highlands Estates began developing around ten years ago, Mr. Jasper was able to find a job in the guard shack.
The smile that greets me shows only pleasure, so I breathe deeply, trying to relieve some of the tension that has settled into my shoulders. “Mr. J, how are you doing on this beautiful May day?”
“Is 'at Wrynn, mah wee songbird? Lassie, yer a richt fine secht fur these auld eyes. How’s life treating ye?”
I don’t know if Mr. Jasper ever lived in Scotland, but his thick Scottish brogue is and always has been music to my ears. To see him in a kilt while playing “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes is not something that a soul is likely to forget.
“Well, Mr. J., you’re a right fine sight, too! I guess I can’t complain. As you’ve always said, what good would it do me?”
The lines around his eyes show that he loves to smile. His face is rarely seen without one gracing it. “Richt ye are, lassie. Richt ye are. Here te slay yer dragons t’day?” He gives me a big wink and a cheeky grin, and I feel my own lips curve up in answer. “I’ve not seen ‘er leaving, so ye should fin ‘er either at home or at th’ clubhoose.”
Well, I guess that answers my question about being banned from entering. “Thanks, Mr. Jasper. I’ll check back with you on my way out and you can put salve on any burns I might get during the battle.”
He reaches through the open window and places a gentle hand on my arm. “I’ve bin praying for ye, lassie. I dinna care whit onybody says. Ma Gertrue, God rest ‘er soul, she’s been gone nearly twenty years noo, an I still find myself telling ‘er stuff. Dinna be letting onybody try te tell ye yer heart is wrang. The heart kens, lassie. The heart kens.” He gives my arm a little squeeze and then backs away from my car.
The heart knows. I see the glistening sheen in his eyes, and realize that Mr. Jasper understands exactly how I feel because he has been right where I am. I give him a small smile, and drive through the gates towards Mother Tidwell’s house.
Before I feel even remotely ready, I find myself standing outside Mother Tidwell’s front door. I often wish I felt comfortable enough to just walk in and announce myself, but she and I have never had that sort of relationship.
As I raise my hand to ring the doorbell, I catch a slight tremor and know that I have to calm my nerves. Mother Tidwell loves to prey on my weaknesses, and timidity would definitely qualify as one. Deep breathe in. Deep breathe out. You’ve got this, my little Wrynn. For just a moment, I swear that I can hear Tripp whispering encouraging words to me. Like any other time I imagine him with me, I close my eyes to draw him closer for as long as I can hold onto him.
“What in Heaven’s name are you doing? Are you trying to embarrass me in front of my neighbors? You look like an idiot. Get inside before someone sees you and I have to explain what your problem is.”
Hmmm … nope, that is definitely not Tripp’s voice that I am hearing now. That familiar feeling of dread starts at my toes and slowly works its way up my body. By the time I blink, I know that my face is beet red because I can feel the heat coming off my cheeks. There she is, standing right in front of me.
“G-g-good morning, Mother Tidwell.” I pause to clear my throat, praying for saliva because my mouth is suddenly bone dry. “How are you doing on this beautiful May morning?”
“Did you really come all the way out here to ask stupid questions? Now get in here before I change my mind.” She turns away from me without another word and walks back into the foyer.
I wouldn’t put it past her to slam the door in my face, so I quickly take the three steps that are necessary for me to cross the threshold into the house. I hesitate before turning to shut the door, wondering—and not for the first time—if I am safe being alone with her.
“Well, come on in. Spit it out. I don’t have all day to mess with you. If this is your idea of crawling back, then you definitely need to work on your approach. I am aware that school ends in a week or so, and I confess, I really thought you would have come around sooner. Surely you need help this summer with those three brats of yours.”
Wow.... Just, wow. For just a moment or two, anger rears its ugly head, but blind rage goes against everything my parents taught me. If I lose my temper and just rip into her, then I am no better than she is. I refuse to stoop to her level and allow her to change the person that I am; the person that Tripp fell in love with. I reach deep for the strength that at times eludes me, remembering that I must do this for Liam.
I look Mother Tidwell in her crazed eyes. Something is seriously wrong with this woman, and I forget all about the reason I came here in the first place. I finally voice the question that has been in my mind for years. In a quiet voice I ask, “What have I ever done for you to hate me so much? Seriously, I’ve been nothing but kind and respectful to you in all the time we’ve known each other.”
I see the anger brewing in her eyes, but there’s something else there. Something I don’t recognize. “Hate? I don’t hate you, child. I loathe you. I loathe that good-for-nothing brother of yours, your common, backwards parents, and those three sniveling brats.”
Stunned to the core, I can do nothing but stare at her with horror written on my face. I attempt to speak, but as my mind spins in confusion, I only manage stutters and half questions. “L-l-loathe? W-w-why w-w-would you … I don’t, I don’t … why?” Why is the only word that is playing through my brain on repeat. It’s like an old record with a scratch, and the needle keeps catching it, playing the same thing, over and over again. WHY? I have never given her a reason to detest me this much.
“Why? I marry that old tightwad, and what happens? He dies on me and leaves me with only a modest monthly allowance to live on. I raise his ungrateful bastard as my own, and Channing repays me by taking up with commoners. Thankfully, no one other than Mister Tidwell and myself even knew about Channing’s trust, or you would have latched onto it and ruined that for me, too. I sacrificed my life for him, and what do I get from it? Nothing, I tell you. Nothing. Until he died. Now, it’s all mine.”
Tightwad. Allowance. Bastard. Trust. Died. What is she talking about? What do those words mean? I feel off balance, as though I should know what she is saying, but I just can’t quite grasp the meaning of the words in my shocked state. “I-I don’t understand. W-what exactly do you mean?”
“It’s easy, but I guess even easy is difficult for you. Mr. Tidwell’s family was very rich. Mr. Tidwell himself was worth millions. Did he share that with me? No. When he was alive, he controlled every dime that came in, and every penny that I spent. If my monthly allowance was gone, I had to beg for more money until my next allotment was due. Do you have any idea how it embarrassed me to beg the man I slept with for money to buy a new dress or to have my hair styled? It is very difficult to keep up appearances when your husband is a cheapskate.”
I can see that this conversation is just making her angrier. It’s almost as if she is talking to herself, as if she has stewed and brewed over these thoughts for years. I can’t leave until I get some answers. She opened this can of worms, and I need to understand exactly what she is saying before I leave. I take a few seconds to gather my thoughts because in my heart, I hope this is the last time I am ever alone with this woman. I can’t help but think that there is something seriously wrong with her. The wild look in her eyes can’t just be from her anger with me.
“Mother Tidwell, I don’t understand what you’re saying. You said bastard child. Who are you talking about? Tripp?”
“Don’t call him that foul name. Your family took all the efforts I made to mold him into a respectable person and completely ruined him. When Mr. Tidwell died, I finally had my chance to get that boy away from my meddling in-laws.” She turned from me, and I almost thought she was walking out on the conversation. After taking a few more steps, she whips around and the depth of fury pouring from her eyes causes me to shrink back, and again, I cannot help but wonder if she’s a danger to me. “With Channing’s trust money, I could have finally made something of myself rather than being a lap dog who pants for something more. All of my dreams are within my reach now. With Channing dead, his trust reverts
to me on his thirtieth birthday. I’ve tried to get that date changed because I deserve it now with all that he put me through, but the trust details cannot be changed.” Her words seem once again as if she’s completely forgotten that I’m here.
That bit of information slowly seeps through my brain and I struggle to grasp the significance of what she is saying. So many things are crowding my brain trying to get first place in my thoughts. Oh my gosh. I think I have it, but do I really want to know what she’s implying? “Are you saying that Tripp isn’t your son? And because he’s dead, you will get some trust payout that he didn’t even know about?”
“Mr. Tidwell was involved with a commoner, a low class secretary that he worked with before we met. She became pregnant, and there were complications. She was helpless, and couldn’t do anything right, so he hired me to be her nurse. When the time came for her to deliver the child, she was too sick and weak to do it correctly. She started hemorrhaging and the doctor couldn’t stop the bleeding. When that boy was taking his first breaths, she was taking her last.” The rapid-fire change of emotions that roll across her face have me, again, wondering if Mother Tidwell is losing her mind. “It was very simple task to convince Mr. Tidwell that he needed me, that I could help him raise the boy without anyone being wise to the fact that he had strayed from the path his parents would approve of. Lord knows, he always had to have his mama’s approval for everything. I finally had my ticket to bigger and better things, and no one could stop me.”
Lord have mercy, how in the world has she kept all this bitterness locked up inside her for so long? I can feel the venom in her words. What benefit did she have by holding her tongue? Tripp has been gone for almost three years, and I am just now learning all of this? She has hated me all these years, but there has to be a reason that she has kept coming around since we got word of his death.
Searching for Tomorrow (Tomorrows) Page 7
