Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  “Exactly.” Katy nods.

  Annie shoots her a look I can’t read. “I just want to make sure the people I love are safe and happy.”

  “Good luck with that,” I mutter, knowing that we are ultimately responsible only for our own happiness and have very little influence on someone else’s.

  Katy laughs, drawing a sharp look from her mom.

  There I go causing trouble, like always. Throughout my life I’ve inadvertently hurt the people I care about and the people who care about me.

  Distracted by Katy’s giggling, Annie ignores me while speaking to her daughter. “Go ahead and laugh, but maybe if you’d consider some of the good advice you’re given, you’d be happier.”

  “’Cause you’re so happy,” Katy mumbles.

  “Don’t be sassy,” I cut in to undo the damage I started.

  “Sorry,” Katy says. “But it’s true. You’re not happy, Mom.”

  “I think I’m doing pretty well under the circumstances—and doing it without insulting others. You know, if you started helping other people out instead of always thinking about what’s not going your way, you’d get a new perspective on your own problems.” They exchange another look I can’t read.

  I’m too old for family feuds. It’s exhausting. I’m getting fidgety. It’s almost time for Jeopardy!, and I miss my easy chair. “I’m tired.”

  The girls stop bickering.

  “Would you like me to take you back?” Annie asks.

  I nod.

  “Katy, please clear the table. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.” Annie tips her head.

  Katy springs from her seat. “Sure.”

  “Are you ready?” Annie asks me.

  “Yes. Thank you.” I push up from the table.

  “Bye, Grammy.” Katy collects the plates. “See you later.”

  “Bye now.” I wave and then let Annie help me down the walkway and back to her car. I can tell she has a lot on her mind. About Katy. About me. Maybe even about what comes next for her.

  As we pull down the street, she asks, “Gram, do you remember what you told me earlier today?”

  I shrug, having no memory of anything before dinner. I don’t want her to know that. It’s embarrassing to forget so much all the time.

  “Well, I just want to say . . .” Annie’s voice sounds strained. “I want to thank you for how you and Grandpa took me in all those summers.”

  I wave my hands to stop her. Thank me? Pish. “I did what anyone would do.”

  “That’s not true. You made a big commitment at a time when you could’ve been free. It can’t have been easy to entertain a sad, young girl for three months at a time year after year.”

  Could’ve been free. My throat hurts. Could be phlegm, but I doubt it. “You were always a good girl.”

  “I wish I’d known more about your life when I was younger. Understood your passions. Your past.”

  My past. I’d hoped to bury the last of it with Martin, but it never dies.

  “And I’m sorry that I haven’t visited you more often these past few years. You shouldn’t have had to spend so much time alone.” Annie reaches across to squeeze my hand.

  “I’m not your responsibility.” I pat her hand.

  “That’s not the point.” She shakes her head. “You gave me love and stability when I needed it most. You kept me safe and busy, and filled me with shortbread cookies.” She winks.

  Oh, those cookies! They were good, but now I don’t have a kitchen.

  “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry I’ve been absent. I want to do better. I know life always didn’t go where you’d wanted, but for what it’s worth, I’m glad you met Grandpa, had my dad, and took care of me. I love you, Gram.”

  I don’t understand why she started this conversation. “Okay, Annie. I love you, too.”

  She smiles before biting her lip. “Can I ask a question?”

  I sigh. She’s full of energy tonight, but I am not. “Yes.”

  “If you could go back in time—to my age or even younger—what’s the one thing you would do different?” She holds her breath.

  I have no idea why that matters, but it seems very important to her that I tell the truth. The whole truth, even if that isn’t easy.

  “When I was young, I thought my bold ideas—at least by that era’s standards—made me special. But ideas without action are just . . .” I twirl my hand in the air. “Instead of making a plan, I reacted to the forces around me. That cost me a lot, so then I lived scared. Made safe choices.” Like a strobe light, pictures from my past flash before me—Billy’s funeral, Bobby’s birth, my thirtieth wedding anniversary. “Martin was a good man. Kind. Loved me despite my flaws, which was a gift. I was grateful, and blessed with Bobby and you, but a homemaker’s life wasn’t easy for me. Although there were high points, I’d get restless because it wasn’t what I’d envisioned for myself. What-ifs can be like poison. In the end, I never did the one thing I wanted—leave town and become a professional photographer.” I stare out my window because I don’t want to see her eyes.

  “It’s not easy to be bold when your whole world gets ripped away.” Annie isn’t talking to me, I don’t think.

  “You’re upset.”

  She nods. “We’re struggling—Katy and me. Nothing about coming back here is what I thought it would be.”

  “Most things aren’t.” I clear my throat, reflecting on my past advice. I don’t want Annie to have my regrets or to believe motherhood makes it too late to chase a dream. “Life’s going to drag you down a bumpy road. You’ll stumble and get hurt. But once in a while it’s flat and wide-open—exhilarating and drenched in sunlight. If you play it safe, you won’t get hurt as much, but it won’t be exciting, either.

  “The happiest time in my life was when I saw that open road ahead. I let early mistakes hold me back. Then when I was older, I decided I’d missed my chance, but that was wrong. Until you’re old and sick like me, it’s never too late.” I turn to Annie. “Let go of the life you made with Richard and build a new one on your terms. Let Katy learn to navigate the bumps. You’re a better mom than I ever was, but don’t lose yourself in that role, either. Decide what makes you happy and go after it, otherwise you’ll have regrets. You hear?”

  She glances at me, nose red as her eyes. “I do, Gram.”

  “Good girl.” I nod, glad for the chance to set her on a better path. I stare at the road ahead, which is bathed in the glow of a harvest moon.

  Like a heavenly light.

  There was a time when I wanted to die to be with Billy. Then I scraped together enough happiness to keep going. Now I don’t want to see Billy or Daddy or Martin in the afterlife. Please, God, let heaven be simply a place of freedom from regrets so I can rest in peace.

  I never lived in a city—never made a name for myself—but I made a home, and a piece of me lives on in Bobby, Annie, and Katy. If my mistakes teach them to do better, then I’ve accomplished something worthwhile before I die.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ANNE

  I’m at the dining table, mainlining coffee and making a grocery list, when Katy slings her backpack over her shoulder and calls out goodbye as she heads off to school.

  “Have a good day,” I say as she’s closing the door.

  Another swig empties my cup.

  It’ll take the entire pot to get me moving after spending the night processing my grandmother’s attempted suicide, stint in a sanatorium, and ECT. Researching 1940s mental health care and electroshock had brought no comfort. In fact, one of the YouTube videos uploaded from that era reappeared in a nightmare that woke me at three o’clock.

  I scrub my hands over my face.

  Her current memory loss is likely related to the treatments. The one bright spot is that she didn’t seem to recall telling me everything. The stigma she must’ve faced in the fifties is probably to blame for why she never wanted her son or me to learn about it.

  Grandpa had known, though. My respect f
or him is only deepened from knowing that his love saved her from utter isolation.

  It would be easy to blame my great-grandfather. To hate him, even, for being cruel. But what would I do if Katy attempted suicide? I would listen to medical professionals and try anything that I was told would save her. I wonder if he, like me, second-guessed everything he ever did as a parent.

  That makes me shudder.

  Now I can only hope my and Katy’s presence these past months has brought Gram some comfort and that her parting advice last night gave her closure. Not only did Gram’s thoughts align with Dr. Grant’s theories, but they made me realize that my acting from a place of fear, and reacting to Richard’s and Lauren’s and Katy’s behaviors and expectations, gives me less hand in my fate than that of a leaf floating down a stream.

  The time to set a clear vision of the life I want is now. I tear the grocery list off the tablet and write “Life Goals” across the top of the clean sheet of paper. That’s the easy part. Tapping the pencil against my lips, I consider what brings me joy.

  Art

  Family

  Love

  That’s the bottom line: a creative outlet, healthy relationships with the people I love, and romantic love are what I most crave.

  Is it possible to create a plan to achieve those broad things? With respect to family, I suppose the plan is to continue working with Dr. Grant to learn better ways to communicate with Katy and Richard. Organizing a family reunion to reconnect with extended family and surround Gram with hers before she can’t recognize anyone is another step to take. And maybe once I inform my dad about his mom’s young life, it will soften him.

  I underline “Art.” It’ll take time to work back to the skill level I once had, let alone improve upon it. But it’s not too late for me to be a professional artist, especially when my expectations are more realistic than they were at eighteen. Am I brave enough to submit something to Trudy’s local artist show without worrying about whether it is my “best” work? I scrunch my face, then dial my new friend.

  “Hello?” Trudy answers.

  “Hey, Trudy. It’s Anne.”

  “Oh, Anne. What’s up?”

  “Well, Dan converted my old shed to a little studio, so I’ve dusted off the old tools and am painting again.” I flush from head to toe but force myself to keep going. “I’m wondering about the submission deadline for your December show.”

  “That’s excellent! November fifteenth is the deadline, but if you tell me the size of the canvas and style of the work you plan to submit, I can plan for it and give you a little extra time. I’ll be doing the installation of everything on November twenty-ninth and thirtieth.”

  Mid-November gives me a few weeks. It’s doable. “Let me think about it and get back to you.”

  “Terrific. So was the shed Dan’s idea? What a great use of dead space.”

  “It was my idea, but he took it to a new level.”

  Trudy chuckles. “Dan has a tendency to go all-out when he gets excited about something.”

  I smile, then frown because I miss him around the house. “Must be why he’s so successful.”

  “Mm-hmm. Hey, I am about to run some errands before the gallery opens. Are you free for a quick lunch later? We can chat more about the show.”

  “Sounds great. Text me where and when to meet you.”

  “Done. See you later!”

  We hang up, and I sit back staring at the last item on my list. Love. Such a fragile, vulnerable thing. My heart is still weary from Richard’s infidelity.

  Pushing the pad aside, I then take my empty mug to the kitchen. This fabulous kitchen. The pop of turquoise makes me smile every single day. Dan did an outstanding job.

  A slideshow of images flash—him with his brow furrowed, measuring a wall, him carrying boxes of tile to the master bath, him kissing me good night.

  I pull out my phone and open my favorites list, then pause. I’m not ready. Not yet. Katy is far from out of the woods, and now I’ve committed to painting something for the art show. Those two things must take precedence, or I’ll fail at everything.

  After I have a little success of my own, I’ll reach out to Dan. Hopefully he’s as patient as he seems.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  KATY

  When I get home from soccer practice, my mom’s not in the kitchen, but I smell a roast in the oven. She’s probably in the studio, where she’s been spending more time these past few days. I grab a bottled water on my way outside.

  When I reach the shed, Mom’s back is to the door. As I step inside, the scent of oil paint takes me back to the days when I’d color at my dad’s feet while he was studying for the bar exam and she was working on her art. Dad laughed a lot more back then. Mom too. Maybe if she hadn’t quit working and painting, they would’ve stayed in love. And if I’m the reason she gave up art, then I’m also the reason everything fell apart.

  She glances over her shoulder with a smile as I sneak up behind her. I’m surprised she heard me because she’s so intent when she paints.

  The painting is haunting. Abstract impressionism—her favorite. To me it resembles a dark forest broken up by points of gold and orange shining through the “trees.” No pathway to follow, though. Just the hope of something better on the other side of the woods. “How long have you been out here?”

  She glances at the clock. “On and off all afternoon.”

  “What inspired this?” I point at the picture, assuming it’s a message for me.

  “Nothing. Everything. Something Gram said . . .” She swivels back to her painting.

  Before we worked with Dr. Grant, she’d hit me with a thousand questions about my day, soccer, friends . . . anything and everything. She’d backed off a bit when we’d first gone to Dr. Grant, but then after I cut again, she hovered more. Since our fight earlier this week, though, she’s given me a ton of space. “I told Tomás he could come use the studio tonight. His small house is chaotic with all his siblings.”

  I brace for her to say something more about my dropping out of the art show.

  “That’s fine.” Nothing more. Is this a trick, or is her getting back to painting meant as a subtle nudge for me to pick up the camera?

  My stomach growls. “When will dinner be ready?”

  She glances over her shoulder again, eyes going round. “Actually, it might be overcooked!”

  I frown. “Mom, what’s going on?”

  She puts down her paintbrush and turns in her chair. “What do you mean?”

  “Since we argued, you haven’t asked about the art show even once. If it’s some kind of reverse psychology to get me to submit something, it won’t work.” I cross my arms and stare at her, but my chest is heavy.

  She rubs her thighs with a little huff. “Is that supposed to be an apology for all the rude things you said to me in front of my grandmother?”

  I flush from my head to my toes and fiddle with the rubber band. “Sorry.”

  Mom grabs my hand. “I know.” She nods toward my desk chair. “Sit for a second so we can talk.”

  Dr. Grant encourages me to listen without feeling attacked or judged, so I sit.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot these past few days—about Dr. Grant, Gram, you, and me.” Mom blows out a breath. “I wasn’t much older than you when I got pregnant, but I was determined to be the best mom—like I remember my mother. I had visions of me knowing you better than you knew yourself, and you adoring and respecting me.”

  Her resigned tone hurts my heart because she thinks that I don’t feel those things, but that’s not true. I just lash out when I’m upset.

  She continues, “I was certain I could teach you to be wiser than your age and keep you from making mistakes. But Dr. Grant is right. You can’t learn from my mistakes—you need to make your own so you learn how to pick yourself up and go on. And I can’t be a perfect mother because there isn’t any such thing. Every mother is different and human, and we make mistakes just like you. We have baggag
e, like you. We get it wrong and have to start again, like you.”

  “You’re not a bad mom. You’re a great mom most of the time.” My face and arms grow tingly.

  “Thank you.” She stands and pulls me up into a hug. “I love you. I’ll always love you. And if you need me, you have only to ask for help. But I finally understand that the longer I run your life, the longer it’ll take you to be comfortable doing that for yourself. So if you don’t want to be in the art show, that’s your choice.”

  I nod, but it feels like the ground is moving beneath me.

  She steps back and drops her chin. “There’s more.”

  Oh boy, another tectonic plate shift makes me nauseated.

  “Your father and I have been talking about what a hard time you’re having down here. We want you to wake up happy and look forward to your day. To school. To your future, Katy. So, if you want to go back to your old school with your old friends, then you can move in with your dad and finish high school at Prep, and stay with me on the weekends and summers.”

  “You don’t want me anymore?” My ribs pinch my lungs.

  “Of course I want you with me, but this place is my dream, not yours. I forced you—selfishly—to come with me. Maybe a little part of me was afraid that if you stayed with your dad, you’d leave me behind, making all the years I’d given you seem like a waste of my life. But that’s not true, or fair to you.

  “I gave you everything I had because I love you and it made me happy to be with you—not so that you would owe me your life in return. In the end, everything I did was done so you would flourish. I have to let go now so you can do what you need to do to be happy.” She blows some curls from her eyes. “If you do stay—which I would love—it’ll be different around here because I’ve also realized some things about myself. I’ve been a wife and mom so long I hardly remember who Anne Sullivan is. So while you’re figuring out your stuff, I’ll be figuring out what I need to be happy, too. It’s not fair for either of us when I tie all my joy to you.”

  Shit, this is scary. When I snap my rubber band a few times, her gaze drops to my wrist before meeting my eyes.