Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  I shake my head. “You’re here with me every day for the next two years. It’s important that you stay connected to your dad. Even when you’re mad at him.” I abhor the parallels between her and Richard and my father and me. At least I had my grandparents’ affection. What man can Katy count on to embrace her just as she is? “Speaking of your dad, he’s waiting to hear from you.”

  She throws her head back and flings her arms over her eyes. “This sucks so bad.”

  “You know what I always say . . . Do the sucky thing first so you can relax the rest of the evening. Call now. I’ll give you some privacy.”

  She stares at her phone while I take her half-eaten bowl and rinse it in the sink, giving her some privacy.

  Instead of cleaning up, I exit the house through the french doors and squint in the face of an orange sun hanging low in the sky. A cool breeze feathers across my skin, teasing the hairs on my arms. After gathering some dried leaves and brush, I grab a few fatwoods from the bin and select three nice logs to tent above it all.

  Before I go inside to get a lighter and the marshmallow sticks, I give myself a moment to cry. Warm tears flow, carrying the fear that seized me when I found that knife, the acidic burn Katy’s spilled blood imprinted on my heart, the exhaustion of trying and failing to be a good mother.

  The forested back edge of the property shrouds me in privacy with an added magical quality, as if woodland fairies are lurking, whispering secrets I’ll never understand. Gram’s secrets. Secrets about life and love and parenting. Secrets about happiness. I wipe my cheeks dry. Behind me, the babbling fountain helps me to relax.

  Landscape lighting will turn on soon, highlighting an abundance of ornamental grasses, goldenrods, irises, peonies, gladiolas, and hydrangeas that furnish a riot of colors and scents that rivals any resort. It may not be the grand three-acre lot and massive gunite pool we left behind, but this space gives me peace.

  Feeling stronger, I duck inside to grab the s’mores supplies, shaking them in the air to entice Katy outside after she’s finished her conversation.

  Thank God for fatwoods. Within a few minutes, a healthy fire blazes in the firepit. Later the fireflies will glow like festive golden Christmas lights floating around the yard. With each chirp from the cicadas, my muscles relax enough for me to stretch my legs out in front of the fire. The smoky aroma lulls me.

  Memories from youth arise—time spent sketching back here. The pounds of burgers Grandpa, Gram, and I ate. The times I’d argued the genius of Alanis Morissette or taught them the Macarena.

  They were always good dancers, and I could tell Alanis’s lyrics intrigued Gram, although she wouldn’t admit it. Another secret facet of Gram I never took the time to understand.

  Earlier today she’d remembered me. I’d almost asked her about Allcot, but then she’d looked at me with such affection I couldn’t bear to ruin the beautiful moment between us. It might be one of our last.

  I blink back the tears brimming and stretch again.

  So much history in this yard. If the trees could talk, what story would they tell? What did they witness as they stood sentry, watching over generations of Robsons and Sullivans? Could that history teach me anything about how to navigate this frightening time in my life, or am I doomed to end up like my father and Gram, alone and not all that happy?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ANNE

  My eyes burn from too little sleep.

  I dribble syrup over the stack of toaster waffles and set them in front of Katy, suppressing the urge to tear her robe off and check her arms and legs for more damage. The knife is hidden, but after spending hours scouring the internet last night to research cutting, I learned that she can use dozens of household items—thumbtacks, pen caps, razors, carpet staples—to do the job. At some point today I need to collect as many of these items as possible to remove the temptation.

  Whenever I close my eyes, I’m bombarded by the images uncovered during my research. So many children. So many scars. So many chat boards stuffed with messages from frantic parents seeking help.

  I count myself lucky to have caught this at the beginning, and to not have a demanding career splitting my attention now. Preventing my daughter’s further self-harm is my absolute priority. Yet I long to return to those pleasant hours yesterday when I’d shopped and met new friends and daydreamed about painting. That glimpse of what my life could be—the mirage—has all but vanished.

  Katy needs me more than I need those things right now.

  “What would you like to do today?” I sit beside her with my coffee and gently sweep one hand over her head. Research taught me that distracting cutters with pleasant activities is a useful tactic. “We could go shopping—I found some cute stores in town. Or we could go to a hip little coffee shop I tried yesterday. If you’d rather stay home, maybe you’d like to start working on your project for the art show? We could dig around the attic looking for old photo albums.”

  “I don’t want to do anything.” She doesn’t look at me, choosing to focus on the stack of waffles. A million questions about what she said to Richard yesterday crowd my thoughts, but I won’t pry.

  My muscles and brain ache from the weight of worry that has been building since finding that bloody blade on her desk. “Sweetie, it’s a gorgeous fall day. Let’s find one activity that gets us out of the house for a bit.”

  She closes her eyes with a sigh. “I just want to be alone for a while.”

  It’s humbling to want to spend time with someone who’d be happier if you’d disappear. I am sixteen again, sitting at the dinner table, trying to hold my father’s attention. Or, more recently, thirty-six and seeking to recapture Richard’s.

  Yesterday Katy begged me to let her feel however she felt. I could test that out—leave her alone to wallow or think or zone out. God, that feels wrong, but maybe I’m what’s wrong.

  I sit back, staring at my plate, debating with myself. It’s like running a gauntlet. Does she really want me to go, or is she pushing me away to test my love? I can’t tell. In fact, I don’t know anything right now except that my head aches. “You could . . . or maybe we could do some yoga first?”

  Katy sips the milk I poured. She slants me a look. “Being stared at and pretending to be in a good mood doesn’t sound relaxing.”

  “That’s not what I’m suggesting. But can’t we find something to smile about?”

  She sets down her silverware and frowns. “Why is smiling better than feeling what I feel? Yesterday sucked. Lauren sucks, too. I never want to see her again, so tell me how lattes, shoe shopping, or old photos will change that, or how faking happiness will make Dad dump Lauren.”

  Her anger paralyzes me. The more I encourage her to let it go and forgive, the worse her mood becomes. It’s fricking disheartening, that’s what it is. She wants to be treated like a grown-up? Fine. “Okay. Pout and grumble and scream every ugly thing you can think of to say about them. You’re entitled to your feelings and to act on them however you want. But just know that nothing you do or don’t do will make your father leave Lauren. For what it’s worth, I don’t think plotting some kind of sabotage is healthy.”

  “But it’s fair. After what she did—to you and by invading my privacy—she deserves it. I thought about it all night, and it still makes me so mad.” Katy wraps a white-knuckled fist around her fork, so I lay my hand on hers to get her to relax.

  “Who ever said life was fair?” Certainly not my parents or grandparents. Frankly, they preached the opposite.

  Katy’s eyes practically pop out of her skull. “You’re always telling me to be fair.”

  I shake my head, thinking about how to parse my words. “Having integrity and learning to compromise isn’t a promise that the world will be fair, but at least you’ll always respect who you see in the mirror. That’s priceless.”

  An eye roll so dramatic it might’ve stripped paint from the ceiling quickly dashes any motherly pride I got from sharing that nugget of wisdom.

 
We’re both irked at this point, so I might as well go for broke. “I did some digging last night and found a good therapist in Morningside. I’ll speak with your father today to get his schedule so I can make a family appointment.”

  Katy’s shoulders fall and her brows bunch together with a scowl. “Why do we have to make a whole thing out of this? I swear I won’t do it again. Please, Mom. Dad will hate wasting his time on therapy.”

  “Your well-being isn’t a waste of our time. It’s our primary goal, for God’s sake.” If Richard could only hear the dread his disapproval inspires.

  “Maybe I wouldn’t be a basket case if you didn’t hover all the time. Did you think of that?” she barks.

  “Stop it, Katy.” My voice remains steady even though I’m shaken. Jesus, she’s like Richard with her sharp, shrewd mind. “You might be right, but that doesn’t mean you should be disrespectful or use it to manipulate me into blowing off what happened yesterday. If anything, you should be glad we’re all going for help. Maybe the therapist will help me parent you better.”

  Katy shoves back from the table, glaring at me while she snatches her plate and proceeds to stomp upstairs to her room. A slammed door punctuates her unspoken sentiment.

  I sink my forehead to the table with a thud. Can I acquire a whole new set of parenting tools this late in the game?

  Many years ago, my dad warned that parenting is a thankless job. It insulted me at the time, but now I get it. You do the best you can in any given moment, having no idea if any of it is working or will turn out all right in the end. End? There’s no finish line, and no one is handing out gold medals.

  Katy’s resentment hurts. Her perceptions might not be 100 percent correct, but her feelings matter. They’re her experience, and I don’t want to do anything that makes her life harder. Which leaves me up in the air. I am crushed to discover that, in addition to needing to figure out how to be a single, middle-aged woman, I’m not nearly the parent I’d hoped to be.

  Despite the mess on the table, I refill my teacup and take my phone outside to the patio, where the sunshine and birdsong might lift my spirits. With great effort, I consciously relax the muscles in my face to erase my scowl.

  I need advice but can’t count on Gram to be lucid. If my mom had lived, she would probably know what to do. She was wonderful . . .

  With more hope than expectation, I dial my father.

  “Hello?” Now that he’s sixty-five, his deep voice is accented by a slight warble.

  “Hey, Dad, it’s me.” I prop my feet up on the table, crossing them at the ankles.

  “Oh, hi, Anne. How are you?”

  If only he wanted to hear the truth. This is a mistake. Suddenly aware that I might start to hate him if I tell him about Katy’s pain and he remains as disinterested in consolation as he was with me at her age, I don’t give him the chance to let me down. “Fine. You?”

  “Fine.”

  A pause.

  Conversations like this make me curious about what made my mom fall in love. Sure, he’s attractive and smart. He’s enjoyed a steady career, and my mom never suffered the indignity of a husband’s wandering eye and restlessness. But Dad doesn’t do sparkling conversation or warmth—at least not that I remember.

  When he doesn’t ask a single question, I say, “I’ve visited Gram a couple of times.”

  “That’s nice of you. The cleanliness of that facility impressed me when I checked her in.”

  “It’s antiseptic.” I twist my teacup in a circle on the table, frowning. “She’s confused me with Lonna at times.”

  “Well, that’s not a surprise. Dementia is tricky.”

  “Hmm.” He sounds like we’re discussing a distant cousin’s welfare, not his mother’s. “You know, you should come see what I’ve done to the old house. You could catch one of Katy’s tournaments, we could visit Gram . . .”

  “Maybe. I’ll look at my calendar.”

  “Oh, Dad.” I pull a Katy and roll my eyes. “Do I have to beg you to find some time? There’s been a lot of upheaval in my life, in Katy’s, and in Gram’s.” My stomach clenches in the face of his indifference, then drops when it occurs to me that pleading for paternal support might be part of what Katy hoped to kill by cutting herself. I curl forward, sickened that my daughter is following in my footsteps. What’s becoming clearer is that I need to make many changes before I can think of helping my daughter.

  “Sorry, Anne. You handled a bigger loss than Richard at a much younger age, so I’ve assumed you were pushing through this divorce just fine.”

  Pushing through is not the same as thriving. I don’t know that I’m fine at all, or if I’ve ever been fine since they covered my mom’s casket with earth. I’m shaking with frustration. “What about Gram? She’s losing touch with reality every day. Don’t you want to see her before she has no idea who you are?”

  He sighs sharply. “I don’t think my mother ever knew who I was, nor I her. She was better with you than she ever was with me. I’d rather keep my few good memories than end our relationship on a sadder note.”

  That comment flattens my heart.

  “Maybe Gram wasn’t the ideal mom for you, but she showed up every day and raised you. She did her best. Doesn’t that count for anything?” I stop short of throwing his old warning about the thanklessness of parenting in his face.

  It makes me wonder, though, if it isn’t so much about the things you do as a mother, but the way they are received. Gram seemed like a great parent to me, but maybe she and I were a lot alike, so I understood her motives. Likewise, my parenting might work for some kids, but sadly not my own.

  So where does that leave me? Do I need to change everything about myself to be a good mother for Katy, or is there nothing I can do that will make her like and appreciate me and my intentions? I’m so damn confused at this point I can hardly breathe.

  There is an interminable pause before my father speaks. “I’ll check my calendar. Promise. But I do have other commitments—out-of-town seminars and such.”

  “I’ll text you Katy’s art show date. At least promise to come for that.” I shake my head, doubting I’ll get a call unless I follow up. “Before you hang up, I have a question. Did Gram ever mention the name Billy? Or Allcot?”

  “Not that I recall. Why?”

  Damn. I fudge a little, preferring not to hit him with theories about first loves and hospitalization without facts. “These names have come up when I’ve visited. I know it could be nothing, but they sound important to her. I googled Allcot. There was a sanatorium by that name that closed down in the late seventies.”

  “Not ringing a bell.”

  “So you never heard anything about Gram going there, or saw her take medication?”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “When I was young, she’d lapse into moodiness and forgetfulness. My dad would tell me to be patient because she’d been through a lot. But he never gave me details, so I stopped asking.”

  If Gram was moody, she’d hidden that from me. Or, rather, maybe by the time I came around, she’d gotten over whatever it was that had troubled her when she’d been younger. I wish I had a diagnosis to share with Katy’s therapist.

  “So you’ve never learned more?” I prod.

  “You can only knock at a closed door so many times . . .” He sighs. “Maybe Emily knows more.”

  Emily is one of my father’s cousins—Lonna’s eldest daughter, with whom Lonna was particularly close. I haven’t seen or been in touch with Emily or the other relatives since the family celebrated Gram’s eightieth birthday. “Does she still live in Florida?”

  “Far as I know.”

  I swallow my frustration, but only because I, too, could’ve kept in touch if it’d been important to me. The truth is that Emily can be a ferocious braggart, especially about her kids and grandkids. Still, it’s discomforting to realize I’m a little bit like my dad when it comes to keeping in touch with family.

  “Well . . .” I fish for something neutral to talk
about. “What’s going on with you? Thinking of retirement yet?”

  “No.” He chuckles. “What would I do with myself?”

  He enjoys his work. It defines him in every way. Much like Richard. If I’d chosen to be like them instead of emulating my mother and Gram, would Katy be better off now? Would I?

  “Golf? Travel? Maybe date around?” He’s had two girlfriends since my mother died. Lynn had coaxed a ring from him, but then she backed out in the eleventh hour. Years later, he met Didi, who became a nice companion for another decade, but then she moved to California to be close to her grandkids. My father has been alone since then.

  “Eh, I like to be productive.”

  That’s the truth, although he’s also pretty frugal.

  “Well, I’ll text you that art show date. It’s important to me, Dad. I’d like us to rally around Katy. She’s having a hard time with the divorce.” There. I’ve laid myself bare. I want my dad to show up for us this one time.

  “Okay, Anne. I’ll be sure to come for that.”

  I release my breath. “Thank you.”

  “Sure. Take care.”

  Take care. Not love you, miss you, can’t wait to see you.

  I stopped expecting hugs and teasing from my dad by the age of ten, yet sometimes I still yearn for a show of affection. Richard isn’t stoic like my father, but his way of loving can feel conditional. I’ve worked hard to offset that for Katy, but it doesn’t seem to have made a difference. It didn’t help my relationship with Richard, either. And the fact that I’m stewing in regret on my patio by myself proves it didn’t do me any favors.

  I stand and stretch, but nothing releases the weight in my chest. For all I know, Katy is inside right now finding some other instrument to carve up her skin. Happiness seems so out of reach in the face of all the changes we must make.

  Effective therapy will require our full participation. Richard can’t cooperate begrudgingly. Biting the bullet, I dial his number.

  “Good morning, Anne. How’s Katy?”

  “Bitter. Unhappy. Challenging . . .” But snark doesn’t make it less real.