“What’s the father’s name? On the birth certificate?”
“Alexander Garrison.”
“Hmmm. There are a bunch of Alexander Garrisons. Who knows which one it is? But maybe Marley could tell you about him. We are going, right? To the concert?”
I need to tell her no. No, we are not going. But I’m so sleepy now that it’s hard to form words. Her chatter is familiar and comforting. I let it circle around me, just the cadence and the music of it, taking pleasure in her enthusiasm without latching on to the meaning. I’ll worry about Marley and the concert later.
The next thing I’m aware of is Elle shaking my shoulder. I mumble something and try to roll over. My tongue feels hot and dry, stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“There are people here. You have to wake up!”
“What people?” At least that’s what I meant to say, but I hear it come out as “Mmm?”
“You’ve been sleeping for hours. And I’m hungry, and we’re out of pizza. Mom!”
This time, the shake of my shoulder is energetic enough to hurt. My eyes blink open and then squint against the light directly overhead. I bring up my forearm to shield my eyes. In my entire history I’ve been hungover exactly once, and it’s manifestly unfair that I feel that same way now but haven’t had the benefit of a single drink. Inventory of my body isn’t promising.
Mouth: fuzzy.
Stomach: rebellious.
Brain: sluggish.
Head: pounding.
“Mom. Seriously. You have to get up. There are church ladies in the living room. They are asking an awful lot of questions.”
Rolling over onto my side, I push up into a sitting position and sit there, blinking at Elle. She goes in and out of focus, but it’s impossible to miss the exasperation. Hands thrown up in the air and that toss of the head are pretty much a universal language.
When she stalks out of the room, I let my throbbing head drop into my hands, rest my elbows on my knees, and try to engage my wayward brain.
Much as I would like to escape out the bedroom window, I need to deal with this.
Elle, still stiff with disapproval, returns with my hairbrush and a dripping washcloth. She holds the cloth out to me, and while I scrub it over my face, she starts brushing out my tangled hair.
“You’re a good kid,” I mumble, and it’s true. She’s a great kid, in fact. I don’t deserve a kid like this. “Okay. I guess I should go face the music.”
“Clothes.”
“Elle. It will be fine. What makes you think they’re church ladies?”
“They said. They have casseroles. They asked for coffee.”
“Oh God.” I change into a clean pair of jeans and a nice shirt. It’s wrinkled from the suitcase, but there’s nothing to be done about that. In the living room, the two armchairs are occupied by Elle’s church ladies. One of them is thin, perfectly coiffed, and dressed in a tailored jacket and a pair of gray pants. The other wears a ball cap over shoulder-length hair, a T-shirt, and grass-stained jeans.
Safe-deposit-box Bethany perches on the edge of the couch. The instant she sees me, she’s up onto her feet, clacking across the floor on high heels to envelop me in a hug. “You won’t tell anybody, will you?” she whispers in my ear. “That I broke the rules about the box?”
“Our little secret,” I whisper back, thanking the goddess of silence. I don’t need anybody speculating about Mom’s advance directive or anything else that might have been stashed in that box.
The woman in the ball cap is waiting for her turn at the hugging. I can’t place her at first, and it takes me a minute to peel back the layers of memory and see her as younger, slimmer, and dressed for church. Alison Baldwin. She used to play the piano for church services. Taught a Sunday school class.
Alison’s hug is bony but heartfelt. She smells of sweat and fresh-cut grass and gasoline.
“You poor dear. So tragic. Were you able to say good-bye? You got here in time?”
“Yes, I was with her when she died.”
Talk about evasions. I was with her, all right. Saying good-bye wasn’t exactly what I was doing.
“I apologize for my appearance,” Alison says. “I was out working on the lawn when Nancy came by for me. I’d completely lost track of time.”
Nancy must be the name of the other woman. I still can’t summon up a memory of her. She’s got a timeless face and style and was probably wearing a skirt and jacket when she was twelve.
“Your mother was an admirable woman,” Nancy says, getting up much more slowly from her chair and not attempting the hug. “A fine Christian and such a strong and giving person. We won’t know what to do without her. She will be irreplaceable.”
“Truth,” Alison says. “Head of the clothing drive. Church board member. She’d recently begun playing piano for the choir. Which reminds me—what are we going to do? There’s the July Fourth concert coming up, and we’ll have to find someone to fill in.” Her gaze swings round to me and lights up. “What about you? You had piano lessons.”
I had piano lessons, all right, but even my mother recognized the futility of that endeavor and they were short-lived.
I snort. I don’t mean to, but it just happens. It’s an unladylike pig snort, and all eyes in the room land on me at once. There’s a little dampness on my upper lip on the side of my left nostril, and I hope to the God I don’t quite believe in that I haven’t ejected a spray of snot. I cross the room for a tissue, which gives me the opportunity to hide my face.
“Not a musical bone in my body. I’m sorry. What about Bethany? You were always much better at piano than me.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly! It’s been years and—”
“I didn’t know you played the piano!” Alison exclaims. “What a precious gift from the Lord! Why did you never say anything?”
“Like I said, I don’t even have a piano and—”
“You could practice at the church,” Nancy cuts in. “That piano doesn’t get played enough.”
“How’s your dad doing?” Bethany asks me, a little desperately.
Her ploy works. “Yes, tell us all about your poor father,” Alison says. “How is he holding up? This must be so difficult for him.”
“Life is truly a vale of tears.” Nancy shakes her perfectly coifed head, but her eyes are sharp with curiosity, not soft with grief, and I am on my guard.
“How about I go make us some coffee and put the casseroles in the fridge?” Bethany asks, brightly, and vanishes before anybody has a chance to object or bring up the piano again.
“Where is your father?” Nancy cuts her eyes around the room, as if expecting to see him hiding behind the recliner or the drapes.
“In the hospital. He’s been very . . . confused . . . since Mom died. The doctor wants to put him in a facility.”
“Oh, surely not!” both women exclaim at once.
“Jinx,” Elle whispers, but either they don’t hear her or have no idea what she’s talking about.
“I heard—forgive me if this is difficult, but I heard that the police were involved?” Alison’s eyes have an avid gleam of curiosity that wipes out my polite conversation circuit.
“Mrs. Carlton called them. From next door. I’m sure she’s told you all about it.”
The quick flush rising to Alison’s cheeks tells me I’m right. Conjecture and gossip will have run through the church like wildfire in a drought and spilled over into the rest of the town. I wonder whether they all believe the tales about Dad or if there is a stream of sympathetic church ladies flowing into his room up at the hospital.
“Well, now, that’s just unfortunate,” Alison says. “Such a nice man, he’s always seemed. I’ve not seen any symptoms of confusion. Have you, Nancy?”
Nancy shakes her head slowly. “He’s always seemed fine, the little I’ve seen him. He’s not as faithful in his attendance as Leah. But then, remember Don Plummer? He’d been deep in dementia for years, and we never knew. He could still shake hands and say, �
��Good morning, God bless.’”
Alison can’t stop herself. “Are they . . . going to send him to jail?”
“He hasn’t been charged. Just to set the record straight, Mom had a known aneurism. She fell. He knew she wouldn’t want to be kept artificially alive, so he didn’t take her to the hospital.”
Alison gasps. Nancy blinks. “I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t have told us such a thing. We could have helped in so many ways.”
Which is exactly why she didn’t tell you, I think but do not say. Because she would have hated your sympathy and your pity and your help.
“What’s going to happen with your dad, then?” Bethany asks, coming back from the kitchen. “You can’t take care of him. I mean, you don’t even live here. Do you have room for him back in Kansas City? If he’s not able to be home alone, then a facility is the only way. My mom’s at Parkview. She loves it!”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Of course not,” Nancy says, taking charge of this conversation and getting back on track. “You have a great deal to think about. We are here to discuss the funeral plans, if you’re up to talking about that? Edna called us for help, and we need some biographical information for the eulogy.”
“We need to pick a day—next Saturday, we were thinking, if that’s okay with you. You are having the funeral in the church, of course.”
Alison says this as if there is only one church in town, and I suppose, for my mother, this is true. And if they want to plan the funeral, that’s also fine with me. Mom’s eulogy, her memorial, all should be for the woman the church and the town believe her to be.
Any extra biographical material I may have uncovered or will uncover in the next few days will be off the record.
I haven’t talked to anybody other than Mrs. Carlton about funeral planning, but I’m willing to bet there’s a message on my phone, along with several messages from Greg. I fumble for the damn thing. Sure enough, Greg times six.
I look at my daughter. “Have you talked to your father today?”
“He called.”
I recognize that tone. “Did you answer?”
Her lips press together into the Line of Stubborn Resistance.
“Oh, holy shitmeister. He’ll be having a royal cow.”
My exclamation is punctuated by an audible gasp from Nancy. Alison tugs the brim down lower over her eyes as if to block out the sight of me, or maybe she is thinking she can cover her ears. Bethany winks, as if my language is a part of the secret between us.
At least my indiscretion has served to break up the logjam, and the three of them drift toward the door.
“Don’t forget about the casseroles,” Nancy says, turning heroically back as if it might be worth braving a few demons in order to save the food.
“Thank you so much. Why don’t you just connect with Edna about the funeral, and I’ll get the details to her? Perfect.” I keep talking, herding them toward the door. “I’ll tell Dad you said hello.”
“Tell him we are praying for him.”
“Of course.”
“And for you. And your daughter.”
“Right. Thank you.”
The door closes between them and me, and I lean my forehead against it, just breathing. Part of me, albeit a small part, is appalled by my own behavior. Mostly I’m just grateful to have that out of the way. They can catalogue me as the apostate I am, and maybe they will leave me alone.
Elle is giggling maniacally. “I can’t believe you said shitmeister in front of the pastor’s wife!”
“Elle. You can’t—”
“Where did that word even come from?”
“I am a bad person and a terrible mother.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just—incorrigible.” And then she bursts into giggles again.
Her laughter is irresistible. I catch myself smiling, despite my confusion and grief and anger and everything. Laughter follows, and I let it happen, bubbling up and cleaning out emotional toxins. A few real tears follow the laughter tears, but that’s okay. I get another tissue and wipe my eyes.
“The church ladies are good people,” I tell my daughter. “They mean well. I don’t want you to think—”
She hugs me. “I know, Mom. I know.”
Leah’s Journal
And now you know about Marley. You were never meant to have this information, and you didn’t even get it from this journal. Maybe I’ll stop writing and burn the whole thing now, as it certainly didn’t serve its purpose in helping me keep my mouth shut. All these years I’ve kept that secret close, but I hadn’t thought I might blab her name during my sleep.
And then when you asked me, in the middle of the night while I was shaking from the nightmare, “Who is Marley?” I told you the truth of her. Yes, Marley is real, not an imaginary figment of Maisey’s active mind. She was my child. Is my child. Maisey’s twin. And yes, I left her behind.
You think differently of me now that you know. I see it. You love me yet, my Walter, because you are a loving man. You want to make excuses for me, but I have refused to give you any material to build them out of. This is a torture for you, and I see that, but there is nothing I can do.
You want me to find her, reach out to her. We actually fought about this—you, who have never really fought with me on anything. Oh God. You can’t know how this tears me apart. Do you know how much I want to see the girl? To try to explain to her what happened and how a mother could do such a heinous thing? But I can’t. I can’t even explain it adequately to myself, or to you.
Thank God Maisey and Elle are well away. I’m going to die anyway, so my safety is a small thing. But you, Walter. I won’t allow my past to hurt you, if I can stop it.
That’s why I went to town today and bought a gun. Who knew it could be so easy? The nice man at the pawn shop showed me how to use it. How to load and unload. How to aim. Tomorrow, while you’re at work, I’ll go to the shooting range and find somebody to teach me.
Chapter Fourteen
Tony stands in place at the shooting range, ear protectors on, his Sig held loosely in both hands. He doesn’t shoot. Not yet.
He’s waiting for the flashback to hit and clear before he starts his practice. It will come. It always comes. Sometimes it’s slow, and he thinks it’s gone and not going to happen. This is something he dreads more than the flashback itself.
The memory is his punishment, purgatory, and salvation. It keeps him on the straight and narrow. Reminds him of the price he’s sworn to pay and the path he is set on. If the memory doesn’t hit him hard enough to shred his guts and threaten to drop him, then he knows he is in danger.
Every Sunday afternoon he comes to the shooting range to go through this ritual. It’s been ten years now, once a week, fifty-two times a year. All the other regulars know his routine. They assume he’s meditating before he starts to shoot. They think he’s a badass for this, a sharpshooter. Some of them think he was a sniper in Iraq.
Nobody knows the real reason he comes here, regularly, every week. Nobody asks.
Once, there was a new employee, a little too nosy, who started in with questions.
“Hey, buddy. Whatcha doing? Praying your shots don’t miss?”
“Tallying my sins,” Tony says. “Making peace with my dead.”
And the guy had laughed, as if this was high humor and Tony was a joker. But the next week when Tony came in for his ritual, the owner walked over and told him the kid had been fired. “Not a place for asking questions,” he’d said. “My apologies.”
Today the free fall into memory is delayed. Instead, Tony remembers a different gun and a pair of wide eyes not quite blue or green, as if they can’t decide what color they ought to be. God have mercy. He has no space in his life for this, for the way a small thought about Maisey accelerates his heart and sends his blood rushing to places it has no business. And now his brain has followed, and he wrenches it back.
Here. Now. The gun in his hands.
As if it is aware of
his betrayal of attention, the memory ambushes him from behind and very nearly drops him. One ragged breath gets away from him before he’s back in control, because that is part of this exercise.
To let the onslaught take him back to that day, that hour, that minute, that second when his finger pulled a trigger. It is his penalty to himself to relive it, fully and completely, once a week for the rest of his life.
His awareness fragments into two: the man standing here at the shooting range and the child he once was in another place far from here.
To his child-self, the gun is heavy, an unfamiliar weight. His hands are shaking, heart pounding, but he knows what he’s doing. Knows, when he pulls the trigger, what will follow.
And still. His finger tightens, curls back toward his thumb. There is a recoil. A sharp crack that hurts his ears. His eyes are clamped shut, so he knows only what his body feels and what his other senses tell him. Shrill voices screaming. A gasp. Moaning. The weight of something heavy hitting the floor.
Hands trying to pry the gun from his locked fingers. Fingernails tearing at his skin. Frenzied. Frantic. His mother’s voice.
“Give me the gun, Tony. Give it to me. Let go. It’s over.”
The gasping, whimpering, pitiful, blubbering breaths of a dying man. The stink of gunpowder not quite overpowering the tang of blood, the putrid gaseous stench of shit and piss.
I did this, he reminds himself. I pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him. He is dead.
Whisper Me This Page 14
