Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  Grammy shrugs. “Okay.”

  “Thanks!” I remove the lens from my camera. “Ready?”

  She finger-combs her silver curls, then sets her hands in her lap. She stares at me but doesn’t smile. That makes me happy because a smile would’ve been phony. These pictures should reflect who she is . . . or who she’s become, anyway. That sober face is honest, and more than anything else in my life, I need truth.

  When I zoom in, I notice our similar noses. How else might we be alike, and would we have been close if I’d grown up in this town? There’s something about Grammy—something repressed but strong—that makes me curious. When I finish, I cover the lens.

  “Are your albums in this cabinet?” I set the camera aside, crouching down to hunt for them before she answers, but looking over my shoulder.

  “I guess.” Grammy’s face pinches.

  I hesitate. Old pictures could bring up a lot of memories. Is that good or bad? Not sure, but it might help me solve “the big mystery” my mom is curious about.

  Three fat albums sit at the bottom of Grammy’s entertainment center. They’re old-school—leather bound, worn, pages stuck together from lack of use. The top book is recent enough that I recognize my mom as a child. She was cute in her own weird way—all curly haired and wide-eyed. Pop-Pop looks nerdy. His hair was fuller back then, but he had the same faraway look on his face that he still wears most of the time.

  “What was my mom like as a kid?” I ask.

  A little smile pulls at Grammy’s thin lips. “Sad for a while, of course. Losing your mom that young . . . That hit her hard. But she was sweet, like Lonna. Considerate. Sensitive.”

  “So basically the same as she is now?” I’m not sure what to think about that. If we don’t change much as we age, that means that I’m always going to be a mess.

  “Not exactly. She had big goals back then . . .” Grammy trails off, shaking her head. “I thought she’d be different from me, but she turned out the same that way.”

  “How do you mean?” I stare at Grammy.

  She turns her head. “It’s not important. You two are happy, and that’s what matters.”

  Hmph. If she only knew. But I won’t upset her when she has almost nothing to be happy about these days.

  There’s a wedding photo from my mom and dad’s small affair. All I know about that day was that they got married by a justice of the peace in Virginia, with two college friends as witnesses. Dad’s parents didn’t support a big party because they weren’t eager to “trumpet” the unwed pregnancy. But after the wedding, Pop-Pop met my other grandparents at a private celebratory dinner at their country club, and Gram gave my parents the first and last months’ rent on a cheap apartment as a wedding present.

  A little shiver runs through me as I trace the image. I was there that day, too. Hidden beneath Mom’s loose-fitted peach dress and a bouquet of white roses. Dad is looking at her like she’s everything. I scowl and almost rip the page from turning it too fast.

  There are only two pictures of my mom’s mother in the album, but we have more of those at home. Some of these people must be Lonna’s kids and their families. In any case, Mom can definitely identify most of these people for me. What I need to find is the really old stuff that only Grammy will know.

  I drag the most beat-up album to the top of the pile.

  “Can you tell me a little about these people?” I point to a vintage black and white of a family with a Christmas tree in the background. Grammy looks to be about ten, and Lonna might be two. I point to the stern-looking man in a suit. “Is this your dad?”

  “Yes.” Grammy is stone-faced. “Dr. Lewis Robson. And that’s my mother, Marjorie, and my sister, Lonna.”

  “Must’ve been nice to have a doctor for a dad,” I say.

  “He was a proud man,” she concedes. “That’s not always good, you know.”

  She’s looking at me accusatorily, like I’m proud or something. Or maybe she’s mad at my dad, who is also proud. The iciness of her voice tells me something bad went down between her and hers. “Your mom is pretty.”

  She stiffens. “Pretty, but weak. She never stood up to anyone.”

  My mom likes to smooth things over, too. I used to think that was weak, but now I don’t think that’s always true. She didn’t abort me. She doesn’t use me to get back at Dad like Ashley McAfee’s mother does. She stood up to Lauren and Dad for me, and she’s handling everything else I’ve thrown at her without totally losing her shit.

  Absently, I touch my scar. Luckily my short sleeves hide it from Grammy.

  Dr. Grant says honesty matters, but she also says that looking for something positive in a bad situation can keep you from feeling hopeless. The only real mistake is to pretend not to feel what you really feel before you try to see it from a different perspective.

  “Do you have any pictures of your grandparents in here?”

  I’m thumbing through the pages, and she stops me. “That’s Granny Alma and Pop-Pop Karl Busch. They came over from Germany after the Great War, when my mother was twelve.”

  “Cool.” I stare at the unsmiling blond couple.

  Grammy shrugs. “Life was harder then. People too.”

  Must be why no one in pictures from that era is ever smiling.

  “They’re all dead.” Grammy’s expression is distant, like she’s off in thought. The more she tells me, the more her sad, isolated life breaks my heart. If Dr. Grant can’t help me, I could end up like her in seventy years.

  “I wish I had a sister.” I don’t know where that came from, but sometimes I’m jealous of bigger families. Maybe this divorce wouldn’t be so bad if there were more than just the three of us. But I can’t imagine ever feeling close to Zoe and Brody. Not when I hate their mom so much, anyway.

  “Lonna was okay, but we were nothing alike.”

  “My friend Jen fights with her little sister, Bridget, all the time.” I nod.

  “Lonna blamed me for a lot of the tension in our house.” Grammy sighs. “I caused some of it, but my father—he never listened to my opinions. He always thought he was right, right up to the day he died. He never apologized, not even after what he did.”

  “What did he do?”

  Her gaze is so far away—hollow-like. “He killed Billy Tyler.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MARIE

  “What do you mean?” Katy asks, eyes wide, snapping me out of my hot haze. “Like malpractice or something?”

  This is a pickle.

  “Figure of speech.” I turn away and stare out the window, hoping she’ll drop it. At least I didn’t blurt that my father nearly killed me, too. Strictly speaking, he isn’t directly responsible. But Billy Tyler wouldn’t be dead if it weren’t for my father’s rigidity. And I might not have all these memory problems if his response to my grief had been the least bit compassionate.

  That grief is pulling at me now. My chest aches, but I let the memory come.

  From my bedroom in Angie’s apartment, I heard Ben vrooming his toy truck in the living room. The clock read 11:20 a.m. Angie’s footsteps lumbered across the apartment—presumably to answer the doorbell—as she mumbled something to her son. Rolling over to cover my head with the blanket, I then stayed in bed with the blinds pulled—as they’d been for two weeks—and sniffed the sheets for any trace of Billy.

  My eyes watered spontaneously while I clutched the cotton. That was all I’d left. Those sheets, the few shirts in the closet, the ring on my finger. I squeezed my eyes shut against the memory of our snowy January wedding day—me in my simple green silk dress and roses, and Billy’s butterfly kisses, Angie and Ben and the somber justice of the peace.

  Billy had wanted us to wait for my parents’ approval, which he assumed he’d get after basic training. But after the argument with my father, I’d made good on my threat to move out, determined not to let him control my life. My mother had cried; my friends had distanced themselves from their “fallen” friend. I wouldn’t live in sin
with Billy, though, so we’d married right away. I’d thought he’d change his mind about the army after that, but becoming a husband had only made him more determined to prove himself worthy and provide for me. By early February, he’d left me with Angie and gone to Fort Knox, Kentucky. At that time, I was still finishing high school and missed Billy something awful. I couldn’t wait to be reunited—if briefly—on his graduation day. But right after that, he’d been sent to Japan. I’d still had another month until graduation, and my parents and I had remained in a standoff despite my suspicion that my mother would’ve come to me if my dad hadn’t forbidden it.

  Nothing about life with Billy had turned out as I’d envisioned. All I knew of Japan was kamikaze pilots, and images of the reconstruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and of repatriated soldiers being welcomed home by people who looked and dressed so different from anything I knew. Worse, I was not at all as brave as I’d thought. Still, I’d promised Billy that after my high school graduation, I would join him. He’d said we would find a photographer there to train me and I could take pictures of the country’s recovery.

  Billy had written letters telling me about rice paper walls and “honey buckets” and the “Red purge.” He’d sent me a beautiful red silk scarf with Mount Fuji and cherry blossoms and promised that there was so much to see that I’d never run out of material. He’d sounded both dazzled and proud of himself, which gave me faith. The adventure I’d always wanted was on the horizon.

  In June, I’d discovered that I’d gotten pregnant the night of his basic training graduation. I’d been shocked, and sad to be alone that day—except for Angie, of course. It had seemed as if I’d been swept into a swift current—everything kept moving whether I was ready or not. The baby had complicated everything, and yet it was a miracle. A little part of Billy had been growing inside me. I’d written to him, wondering about traveling safely by ship. We faced many issues but had thought we had time to figure them out.

  Neither of us had foreseen the start of the Korean War.

  Then Billy was gone—his smile erased forever.

  The cavern in my heart expanded.

  I started at the knock on my door.

  “Marie?” Angie’s gentle voice called.

  “Go away, please.” I couldn’t face her. She’d lost her brother because of me and my family, but she was too kind to turn me out when I’d nowhere to go.

  Ignoring my command, she opened my door. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  I whipped the blanket off my head and sat up, about to bark that I didn’t want visitors, when my father stepped into view. My body quaked as my heart pounded. Each beat splintered my stone-cold chest like the surface of a frozen pond. All that pain was his fault.

  Daddy clasped his hands in front of his hips. “Marie.”

  I stared at him, unblinking.

  There wasn’t a spark of warmth between us. No fondness or happy memories could rise above my pain. Only anger. Only blame. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  He muttered something to Angie, who shot me an apologetic glance before leaving us alone.

  I flopped back onto the bed and yanked the covers over my head, curling onto my side and around a pillow.

  My father’s footfall approached before the mattress depressed. From the edge of my bed, he sighed. “Marie, you need to get out of bed.”

  Like a child playing hide-and-seek, I kept silent and stiff, wishing he would disappear.

  “Your sister-in-law called us out of concern. She says you won’t eat and haven’t showered in days.” When his hand gripped my calf, I flinched and stuffed a corner of the pillow into my mouth to keep from screaming.

  “You can’t hide in this room forever,” he said. “I’m sure this isn’t what he would want for you.”

  That did it. I shot up and shoved my father’s arm. “Don’t talk about Billy like you knew him. Not when you refused all his attempts to get to know you. If you would’ve just tried, he wouldn’t be dead. This is your fault. It’s all your fault!” Hot tears streaked my cheeks. My throat ached. I hugged myself, dropping my head to my knees before rolling back onto my side. “Just go away, please.”

  “I can’t, Marie. Your mother and I are concerned.” A long pause ensued. I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking, but the urge to kick him off my bed throbbed in my legs. “Your mother wants you to come home. You can’t burden Angie anymore. She has enough on her plate.”

  I snorted. “Why would I come home after the way you cut me off?”

  He stared at the floor. Cheeks red, voice roughened by emotion. “Perhaps we’ve all made mistakes, but it’s time for our family to come together.”

  “Don’t you get it? You’re not my family anymore. Billy was my family. Angie and Ben, they’re my family now.” My voice scraped my throat raw.

  To his credit, he didn’t argue. “Angie’s worried about your mental state and knows she can’t give you the proper care.” There was another pause and attempt to avert his gaze. “She told us about the miscarriage.”

  A knife to my gut. I could almost feel blood spurt from my mouth. My baby—the one I’d never known I wanted—gone within a week of losing Billy. The doctor couldn’t tell me why. “Sometimes it’s God’s way.” I gulped for air.

  Daddy stood and began opening my dresser drawers. “Come on. You can’t go on this way. Go shower, and I’ll organize your things. We’ll check you into Allcot for a few weeks of rest and therapy, and reevaluate everything after that.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do.” I folded my arms, scowling.

  “If you refuse to cooperate, you’ll only make it harder on everyone. Hasn’t there been enough pain? Whatever has happened, you are my daughter. If I must, I’ll force you.”

  “You’d have me committed after everything else you’ve done?” My ribs constricted around my lungs.

  “Regardless of your take on these past few months, your mother and I love you and want you to get well.”

  “Get well?” I heard Ben crying in the background, probably upset by our raised voices. “You can’t force me into a hospital just because you don’t like the way I’m grieving.”

  He continued to empty my drawers and neatly fold my clothes, unfazed by my shouting. I jumped out of bed and pounded on his back. “Stop it. Stop! I’m not going with you. You can’t make me. Just leave. Leave!”

  He grabbed my fists and tried to hug me, but I wrested myself free and backed into the corner like a mouse facing a hungry cat. We stared at each other—him calm and certain, me quaking.

  “It’s clear to me that you are having a breakdown and need help, Marie. But how you get that help is up to you. I won’t drag you out by your hair, but if you don’t come home within the next day, I’ll return with your mother.” He nodded and turned around, leaving me alone in the room.

  The walls—covered in faded green floral wallpaper—closed in inch by inch. I sank to the floor, nauseous, and cried while his footsteps receded and the apartment door closed.

  A moment later, Angie poked her head into my room. “I’m sorry, Marie. I had to call your family. I’m very worried about you.”

  Traitor. She knew how they had treated her brother. How they’d treated me.

  “I’ll leave, don’t worry. You won’t have to deal with me.” I pushed myself up and continued the packing my father had started, numb and clueless about where I’d go next. Maybe Susie’s family would let me stay there for a week.

  She crossed the room and clutched my arm. “Marie.”

  We stared at each other, both of us with watery eyes. She tugged me into a sisterly hug, patting my head. “I know it’s hard, but I would’ve given anything for my parents to come to me in my grief. To offer support and a safe place. Don’t follow in my footsteps. Go home. Heal. Move forward. That’s what Billy would want for you. You know I’m right. He never wanted to come between you and your family.”

  I eased away, embarrassed. Worse, ashamed. She was grieving, too, and my b
ehavior wasn’t making that easier for her. After everything I’d cost her, I couldn’t add to her worry. “I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble, Angie.”

  She squeezed my hand. “I know the pain of a loss so big you think you can’t go on. My brother helped me when I needed him, and I’m helping you by making you go home as he would want. Trust me, Marie. When you’re doing better, come visit me and Ben. We’ll miss you, of course.”

  I nodded and watched her leave my room. It was so quiet. Nothingness. I closed my eyes and wished I could fall into that empty void and sleep forever.

  Within thirty minutes my bags were packed. I stared at Billy’s clothes, the flag from his funeral, the medal. A tangle of angry tears and self-loathing knit in my gut. Symbols of a life cut far too short. Of a brave, bold man who, for a brief time, had loved me completely. But I couldn’t take them with me when my impetuousness was why they existed. They belonged with Angie and Ben.

  I stripped the bed and remade it with fresh sheets—not as well as Billy, who’d been neater than I. And kinder and more forgiving. Who’d valued family above all else.

  I squeezed the ball of sheets and took one last deep breath, filling my lungs with that faint hint of my love. Maybe the only thing I could do was accept the punishment for my pride and my mistakes. Reunite with my family, like Billy had always wanted. Do as I was told without fighting it.

  I didn’t deserve to be happy anyway.

  “Grandpop looks psyched in this picture, Grammy.” A dark-haired girl is pointing at the black-and-white wedding photo of Martin and me taken in his family’s living room in front of those ugly floral drapes. I married Billy in a simple day dress, but my parents bought me a lace gown with sheer nylon sleeves and a matching veil for my wedding with Martin. Anyone paying attention to my smile would’ve noticed my eyes weren’t ecstatic. Martin was, though. Look at him—dashing in a suit with a white carnation boutonniere.

  “No boy has ever looked at me like I’m all that,” the girl says. She’s family . . . I think. I should know her name. What is her name?