Whisper Me This

by Kerry Anne King

  So many things I might have done, I suppose. In fairness to myself, I’m going to remind myself of a few facts. They do not excuse me, but maybe they explain.

  Fact: I was only seventeen and had never been around babies. My heart was full of love for these small creatures, but I was terrified by the amount of care they required.

  Fact: I’d had a C-section. My dream that as soon as they were born, I would be light and free and have my own body back was pure fantasy. I was still heavy. My belly hurt where they’d cut me. My breasts were hot and swollen and ached. I was bleeding. Just walking down the hallway from my room to the nursery took all the energy I had. Tears were flowing nonstop. The nurses cooed over the babies, petted me, told me it was just baby blues and I would be fine.

  And Boots. The nurses all adored Boots.

  He would come in, golden and beautiful and unmarked by any physical change. He brought me flowers. Every day a new bouquet. Stuffed animals for the babies. Chocolate for the nurses. I should have wondered where he got the money, but I was too overwhelmed to ask questions.

  “You’re a wonder, Leah,” he said to me. “Look what we’ve done, the two of us. We’re a family now.” He said that word, family, with reverence. He kissed me so tenderly. Held me gently.

  I believed him.

  The moment when we walked out of the hospital together, each of us carrying one baby, holding hands. The moment when I buckled Maisey into her little seat while he did the same with Marley. The moment when he opened the car door for me, all gentleman, and helped me buckle up my own seat belt.

  Believing him was my greatest sin. Because in all that came after, I had so little choice.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  She’s here.

  My sister. My Marley. She came to the funeral after all, in spite of everything.

  I can’t tear my eyes away from her face, and my feet, unattended, tangle up with each other. For a shattering instant, I think I’m going to fall, right there on the platform with everybody looking at me. Elle and Dad anchor me just enough to let me correct my balance.

  An usher materializes and offers an arm to me and one to Dad, assisting us slowly and cautiously down the steps, Elle trailing along behind. He stops at the end of the family pew and signals me to walk in and sit.

  The organist stops midsong, now that we’re all seated, and shifts her pages around. A slow hymn signals Pastor McLean and Edna Carlton to come in. He approaches the pulpit and clears his throat. Edna takes a seat.

  “Let us begin with a hymn,” the pastor says. “We’ve chosen one of Leah’s favorites today, ‘Amazing Grace.’ Let’s all stand, shall we?”

  The organist plays an introduction, and everybody starts to sing. At first I only mouth the words, but then memories hit me. My mother singing this song as a lullaby when I was a small child, at church on Sundays, humming it in the car, chanting it while making breakfast as if the eggs sizzling in the frying pan are an incarnation of the grace she has come to amazingly see.

  Beside me, my father’s quavering tenor wanders in search of the tune. I grab his hand and try to give voice to these words for my mother, who can no longer sing them herself, but my voice keeps breaking. I can’t help wishing Marley stood on the other side of me, can’t help wondering how it would be for the two of us to sing together.

  The rest of the service inches by in a slow torment.

  It’s all I can do to keep my eyes forward and not look back over my shoulder for my sister.

  Mrs. Carlton delivers a eulogy that seems to last for hours. A quartet sings a hymn. Pastor McLean talks about how short our lives are on this planet and the importance of living right since we never know the day or the hour.

  And the whole time, the coffin is open up on the platform. My mother is in that coffin, or at least an approximation of her, a waxen effigy lacking all the endless energy and force of will that defined her. She was a believer in family sitting together, and I have never sat in a pew in this church without her beside me, ready to pinch my arm if I fidgeted too much or fell asleep.

  I find myself missing her with an astonishing depth of passion.

  All the years I’ve been away, I’ve rarely given her a thought outside of our regular phone calls. But then, I haven’t been sitting in church with the rest of the family. Where is she now? Can she see us sitting here? Would she be glad that Marley has come, for whatever reason?

  My head aches.

  The minutes tick by.

  At long last we all stand up to sing a final hymn and then wait as the pallbearers pick up the coffin. Our usher appears discreetly at the end of the pew, signaling that we are to get up and follow my mother down the aisle and out to the waiting hearse.

  Marley is gone.

  The spot she had occupied at the end of a pew is now empty. She’s not in the crowd at the back of the church. She’s not in the parking lot. She’s nowhere to be seen at the graveside ceremony, where the sound of the first clods of dirt hitting the coffin do something to my knee joints and nearly drop me.

  Dad’s mind goes soft again about halfway through.

  “Why are we standing here?” he whispers in my ear. “I’m thirsty. Can I get a drink?”

  “It’s the funeral, Daddy. This is Mom’s grave.”

  All I want to do is take him home and put both of us to bed for a nap, but there’s still the potluck to navigate.

  I catch a glimpse of Tony with his mother. She stands with her head leaning against his shoulder, his arm around her waist. Mia catches my eye and smiles, a ray of light that I cling to while counting the minutes of yet another little sermon, a song, a prayer.

  Greg’s mom is there, in a wheelchair. She nods at me, but doesn’t smile. She never did think I was good enough for her beloved son, and when I had the gall to turn down his proposal, her disapproval shifted into outright enmity. I let my eyes move away from her sanctimonious face, scanning the crowd for signs of Marley, but she’s as absent as my mother, vanished just as suddenly and with as little explanation.

  No warning. No good-bye. Just—poof!—gone.

  The funeral potluck is held, not at the church, but at Edna Carlton’s house. The good news about this is that it’s right next door to home. The bad news, besides having to deal with Mrs. Carlton, is also that it’s right next door to home. People wander in and out of both houses, as if Edna’s is a buffet and ours is a museum, some sort of open-admission tribute to my mother’s life.

  When a breathing space presents itself between hugs and well-meant condolences, I escape to Mom’s kitchen to scavenge for ibuprofen. Two women and a man, all balancing paper plates, are standing there, examining the floor by the island.

  “Do you think this is where she fell?” one of the women asks in almost a whisper, eyes wide with fascination.

  The man, middle-aged, short, with a monk’s tonsure balding pattern, unloads his potato-salad-laden fork into his mouth and then uses the fork as a pointer. “Of course it is. You can still see bloodstains.”

  Both women bend their heads, peering down at the floor. “Are you sure? There’s a rust color running through the tile.”

  “Surely the daughter has scrubbed it by now.”

  I have so many choices in this moment. Leave it be, Maisey, I tell myself. Walk away. As usual, I ignore my own advice.

  “You’d think, wouldn’t you?” I say, matching their tone. “But you know what they say about the daughter. The woman might like blood on the floor, for all we know.”

  All three of them stare, first at me, then back at the floor. The man’s right cheek bulges with unchewed food, giving him a distorted, gnome-like expression.

  None of them are wearing church-goer funeral clothes. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt that proclaims he’s a Budweiser man—his belly offering proof. The women are in tank tops and capris; one of them wears flip-flops.

  “You think?” the flip-flop woman whispers.

  The second woman sets her plate on the island, bends over, and runs
a finger across the tile. “It’s clean.” She sounds disappointed, but then perks up. “Let’s go look at the bedroom. I hear he kept her in the bed for a week.”

  The man laughs, as if this is a big joke. The flip-flop woman elbows him in the ribs. “Save it, Bernie. Let’s go.”

  None of them recognize me. I could tell them to clear out of the house, that this is not a museum, but I’ve lost my ability for speech. I melt backward against the counter, watching them go.

  They don’t get far. Tony stands in the hall, blocking it. He doesn’t step aside.

  “Are you folks looking for something?” he asks politely enough, but his voice holds an edge.

  “Just looking around,” the man says.

  “This isn’t a museum,” Tony says, his voice still deceptively pleasant. “People live here. In fact, I believe Mr. Addington might be having a little nap.”

  “We won’t wake him.”

  “Of course you won’t. Let me walk you to the door.”

  “Oh, do you live here?” Flip-flop woman puts her hand on his arm. “Could you just answer some questions? We are dying of curiosity.”

  “I’m afraid there’s no cure for that disease,” he says, still politely, then takes her arm and propels her toward the entry.

  I hear the sound of the door closing and locking. Tony’s footsteps. I still can’t move.

  “Rubberneckers,” Tony says, coming back into the kitchen. “If they drive by an accident, they’ll stop in the middle of the road and cause another accident, just to get a glimpse of the tragedy. I’d blame reality TV if it wasn’t for history. Roman Colosseum and all that.” While he’s talking he grabs a glass out of the cupboard, fills it with water, and holds it out to me.

  My hands are shaking again. This is getting to be a habit. I really need to get checked for all the shaking diseases. Maybe I have an aneurism, like my mom’s. Would it cause these symptoms? Maybe I should call Dr. Margoni.

  “Maisey,” Tony says.

  I blink. He’s still holding out the glass of water.

  “I thought they were from the funeral. Those people.”

  “Doubt it,” he says. “Should have called the cops and had them arrested for trespassing. Drink up. Edna Carlton is asking where you got to. I’m the reconnaissance man.”

  “Thank you.” I try to drink, but after two swallows my stomach squirms in disapproval. I set the glass on the counter. “I’ve never been rescued so much in my life.”

  “You’ve never been in a mess like this before. I doubt you’ll make it a habit.”

  “I’m a little worried, frankly,” I tell him.

  He laughs. “You don’t strike me as the damsel-in-distress sort of gal. Shall we?”

  I take the arm he offers, then hesitate. “I should check on Dad . . .”

  “He’s actually still next door. I was just trying to instill a sense of shame in the lookie-loos.”

  Making sure I actually have the key, this time I lock the house door behind us. “How did they know? Those people? About what happened, about my mom?”

  Tony sighs. “God. I was hoping you wouldn’t ever know. There was an article in the newspaper. A little lurid in the speculation department, asking questions about your dad’s mental health and talking about the way he kept your mom here.”

  “It was downright creepy,” Mia says, coming up the sidewalk to join us. “I know better, having met your dad, and the article still gave me the chills. Whoever that reporter is should have somebody check their freezer for bodies.”

  “Mia!” Tony exclaims. “Not. Helpful.”

  But it is helpful. Mia’s account takes the sting out of the encounter, helps me put it in perspective. I initiate a hug and she returns it with enthusiasm. “Mom has plans to barge into the newspaper office first thing Monday morning and give somebody a piece of her mind. You can bet your booty it won’t be the calm and rational piece.”

  “Mia!” Tony warns again, but by now I’m actually laughing.

  “Maybe I’ll go with her,” I say. “Maybe I’ll get Greg to sue them for defamation of character or something.”

  “That Edna woman keeps talking about your absence. And some guy just showed up asking about you.”

  I sigh. It’s pleasant outside, peaceful with just the three of us. The sun is warming the chill in my bones. But funerals are social events, as much as anything, and the role of grieving daughter belongs to me.

  So I take Mia’s hand, and the two of us brave the fortress side by side, Tony behind us as bodyguard. Once again I find myself in Mrs. Carlton’s plastic-covered living room, only this time the game has morphed into something I don’t even recognize.

  Dad sits on the couch beside Mrs. Medina. Mrs. Carlton, ramrod straight, her mouth set all prim and prosy, her nose tilted up at an angle that signals disapproval of the highest order, presides from the armchair. And on the love seat, my daughter perches on the edge of her father’s lap, chattering a mile a minute and punctuating every other word with hand gestures.

  Greg.

  Here.

  Impossible.

  I stop so short Tony runs into me from behind and grabs my shoulders to steady both of us. Mia looks from me to Greg and back again. Her mouth opens and shuts.

  “Oh,” she says. “I didn’t . . .” Her face flushes, and she spins around and bolts out of the room.

  Greg dislodges Elle and gets to his feet. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to.” His words are directed at me, but his eyes are not. He’s got Tony locked and loaded in his sights.

  “What are you doing here?” I manage to gasp. “I just talked to you last night.” All the things I said to him on the phone crash over me, a cascade of falling bricks that makes me want to hide behind Tony.

  “You sounded so lost,” he says, crossing the small space to pull me into his arms. “Such an incredibly difficult time for you. I thought I should be here. Sorry I couldn’t make it in time for the funeral.”

  Greg doesn’t look like a strong man. He’s thin, medium height, and starting to bald. Bifocals and a precisely buttoned-up shirt and perfect tie complete his professional business look. Next to Tony he looks like the stereotypical math whiz. But his arms around me are bands of steel, nothing soft about them at all or about the way he holds me.

  For one thing, he hasn’t hugged me since before Elle was born. My last memory of his hands on me is of violence and shock and pain. I want to thrash against him, pull away, ask, What the hell are you doing?

  Only there are people watching. Elle is watching. It is my mother’s funeral, and I’ve been hugged today by people I don’t even know. It’s what people do when somebody dies. They hug you. They offer comfort. I’m being paranoid again.

  I almost convince myself that my mother’s death really is the point of Greg’s appearance and his physical contact.

  Almost.

  I know better, and all my usually subterranean knowings seem to be surfacing today. When Greg keeps one arm around my waist, pulling me in close beside him and turning me so we’re both face-to-face with Tony, memories bubble up like swamp gas, one bursting into my awareness and leaving a stench behind.

  The time Greg brought Elle home after a visit and found me sharing a bottle of wine with an architect I’d been dating. A nice guy. Very cerebral, but kind and cute in a dorky sort of way.

  The door opens and the two of them come in. Elle, five or six and half asleep, is snuggled up against Greg’s chest.

  “What’s the matter? Is she sick? I thought she was spending the night with you and Linda.” I get up to take her from him, but he doesn’t release her.

  “She said she wanted to come home. She’s been crying for an hour. But if you don’t want her, I can take her back.”

  “Of course I want her. Come here, Elle Belle. What’s the matter?”

  “I just missed you.” She wraps her arms around my neck, and for an instant, too long, Greg continues to hold her, the three of us a human chain with Elle as the central li
nk. I can smell the cinnamon gum Greg always chews, mixed with a hint of cologne, before I bury my face in my daughter’s hair and drown out all other scents with healthy child sweat and shampoo.

  Greg lets her go, and Elle wraps her legs around my hips and lays her head over my heart, too sleepy to even comment on my guest.

  “Thanks for bringing her home.” I beam out thought signals at him to leave now, to go back to his house and his wife, but he moves toward the table instead.

  “Oh, you bought the good stuff. Mind if I have a glass?”

  Yes, I mind. I mind a lot. But before I can bring myself to say anything, Lenny sets down his glass and shifts his chair.

  “I should go,” he says.

  “No need for that.” Greg goes directly to the cupboard and fetches himself a glass, as if he’s the host and this is his house. He pours both for himself and my date, but not for me. “Maisey will be right back as soon as she puts our kiddo to bed.”

  Lenny accepts the drink, but I can see that I’ve lost him. He’ll be out the door as soon as he can do it politely, and he won’t be calling me later.

  Elle is the weight of love in my arms, though, and I keep breathing in the scent of her all the way down the hallway and even after I tuck her into bed.

  “I’m sorry you were sad, sweetheart,” I tell her, tucking her hair behind her ear, pulling the blanket up under her chin.

  “I wasn’t sad,” she whispers, eyes already closed.

  Her eyelashes are dry. No tearstains on her cheeks, no stuffy nose. Kids recover fast, I tell myself. I wish I could be that unmarked by an hour of crying.

  Walking back toward the kitchen, I hear Greg in full mansplain about my situation.

  “I hope you’ll make allowances for Maisey. She’s a good little soul, but it’s not easy being a single mother. I help where I can, of course, but the bulk of the responsibility is hers. I’ve always felt that was why she’s not been more successful, as far as a career. Great mother, though, as you see.”

  “Did you save a glass for me?” I ask, pulling up the chair between them and reaching for the bottle.