The Remedy for Regret

by Susan Meissner

  “I’m so sorry I waited so long to find you,” I continue. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me because… because my mother died after giving birth to me and I know it was very hard for you and your mother…”

  Tears have sprung to my eyes and I look down at my empty hands. I’m aware that Fiona has put an arm around me.

  When I look up at Martin the tears in his eyes are now unmistakable.

  “Oh, Tess,” he says, and it sounds like it hurts him to say my name. “It was hard losing her. But it was doubly hard losing you, too. My mother and I… We didn’t treat your father very well when he brought Madeline’s body back to be buried…”

  “Martin,” Fiona says gently.

  “No, it’s true. You know it’s true, Fiona. You said it yourself back then when it happened,” Martin says to Fiona, but then he turns to me. “We were awful to him, Tess. We were so angry and sad about losing our Madeline, we took it all out on him. And he must have been hurting like we were. God, it was awful.”

  He stops then to chase away those horrible memories.

  “When my mother finally got over her grief, she wanted very much to see you, Tess, she did,” Martin says when he is able to continue. “She tried to contact your father in the Azores but he would never return her calls. He sent back her letters unopened. She sent packages to you but they all came back. I tried, too. I even got a hold of him by phone one day at the hospital. I begged him to let us come to see you, but he wouldn’t agree to it.”

  Martin stops again and I try to focus on what he is telling me and not how much it is hurting me.

  “A couple months after that, your father was reassigned back to the States. We didn’t know where he went. No one on the Azores would help us find him because he left orders not to give out his forwarding address. I gave up then, but my mother kept trying. When she died five years later she knew you were both stationed in Maine. She was trying to make arrangements to come see you. She had even written your father, and this time the letter had not come back unopened. She was still trying to convince him to let her come when she died of an aneurysm. I wrote your father when she died. I thought he might come then. But he didn’t.”

  It is more than I can bear. I let my body fall against Fiona’s and I just let the tears come. Martin has moved from his chair to sit beside me on my other side and he drapes his strong arm across my back.

  It doesn’t make any sense. So many wasted years. And for what reason? These three people loved my mother—Martin, my grandmother and my father. They intensely loved her. In their grief they loved her. And look what their crooked kind of love did to all of them.

  To me.

  This is not how people—especially family members who are bound by bonds of love and blood—should treat each other.

  This is madness.

  It stops now. I will stop it. I will stop it for all of us.

  Twenty-six

  I ended up staying the night with Martin and Fiona without so much as a toothbrush or clean pair of underwear. But I didn’t care. It was long into the night before we finally felt able to rest from filling the space the lost years created.

  I slept in a bed that belonged to my cousin Julia, who Martin told me is now living in London with her husband, Nigel. They have two children, Max, who is three, and a new baby named Thea. Julia is two years younger than me. I have another cousin, too. Colin is a mechanical engineer and lives near Birmingham. He is twenty-three and single.

  As for other relatives, the Bowker family is small. Martin and my mother have an aunt who lives in a nursing home near Leeds and she has three children who are my second cousins. One lives with his family in Liverpool, another with his family in York and another somewhere in Devonshire.

  We talked and cried and looked at photo albums until nearly two in the morning, Martin showed me pictures of my mother when she was little, and of he and my mother together, and of the grandmother who died while trying to find me. I had a hard time turning the pages in the photo albums because each picture seemed like a part of my own life. I wanted to memorize each image.

  We didn’t spend much time talking about my dad, although Martin asked about him. I told him and Fiona that after a long while, my father did find love again. I showed them a picture of Zane. I said nothing of the difficult history my dad and I share, but I did remind them—and myself—that my father profoundly loved my mother, that losing her was too much for him in many ways. Despite my Dad’s many faults, he did adore my mother.

  Martin and Fiona wanted to hear all about my childhood, of course; where I lived, where I went to school, where I now work. I told them I am engaged to a wonderful man named Simon. And I told them about my recent trip to Arkansas and Tennessee; how Blair, Jewel and I had sought and found the little boy whom we discovered on a church doorstep the summer we turned thirteen and how we gave him back the things that belonged to him.

  At a little after two, when Fiona went to turn down a bed for me and I closed the last photo album, Martin had turned to me.

  “Did your dad give you my address?” he said, out of the blue.

  “He did not give it to me, but I found it at his house, Martin. He had kept it.”

  “Did you tell him you were coming here to find me?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “What did he say?”

  I had thought carefully for a moment before answering.

  “He was worried that I might be disappointed.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “That I might get my feelings hurt, Martin. That you might not want to see me.”

  “I don’t think your dad and I ever really understood each other,” he had said, shaking his head.

  “It’s not too late to start,” I had said.

  He had looked up at me in awe and surprise.

  “That is something your mother would have said,” he whispered. “You look so much like her. I knew the second I saw you that you were Madeline’s child.”

  “Martin,” I had said next.

  “Yes?”

  “I want to see where she is buried.”

  He had nodded.

  “I will take you there tomorrow.”

  When I come into the kitchen in the morning, Martin is on the phone with his employer, a telecommunications firm, telling his manager that urgent family business has come up and he needs to take a few days off. Fiona is at the stove, frying eggs. Martin hangs up.

  “I hope this won’t cause trouble for you at work.” I take a chair at the kitchen table.

  “It will be fine,” Martin assures me. “I’ve been with the company twenty-five years. I know too much. They won’t fire me. How about you, Fiona?”

  “Today is good, but I will have to go in tomorrow. I can have Friday off, though. We should have a big to-do here over the weekend so Colin and Julia and Nigel and the wee ones can meet their cousin Tess.”

  “That would be wonderful,” I say.

  “Very nice, indeed,” Martin says.

  “I called them both first thing this morning. They can’t wait to me you,” Fiona says happily.

  We enjoy our breakfast and then we climb into Martin’s little Vauxhall. We stop at the hotel first so I can change into clean clothes. Once back inside the car, I decide I want to bring flowers to my mother’s grave. I ask Martin to take me by the little flower shop on High Street.

  “You’ve been to The Secret Garden?” he says, turning his head around to look at me.

  “Well, yes. The flowers I brought for Fiona came from there,” I answer. “Martin, is that the shop your mother owned?”

  “Yes,” he says, turning back around. “It was. I sold it when my mother died.”

  “Do you want to go to a different flower shop? I can find some flowers in the covered market, I’m sure.”

  “No. It’s fine. It’s perfect.”

  There is nowhere to park in front of the little shop, so Martin drops me off and circles the block while I am inside. The woman at the cou
nter recognizes me.

  “Well, hello again,” she says.

  “Good morning. I’d like another one of those bouquets.”

  A few minutes later I am standing outside the shop with a familiar bouquet in my hand. Soon, the little red Vauxhall comes into view. When Martin stops in front of me, I quickly get in.

  “Wolvercote Cemetery isn’t far from here,” Martin says as we head down a busy thoroughfare.

  We arrive at the grounds of Wolvercote Cemetery in about fifteen minutes. The May sunshine is bright and vibrant and Martin parks his little car under the shade of a tall willow.

  I get the feeling as Martin ambles up a path on a little hill that he knows the way very well, but that he does not come here often. Fiona and I follow in silence.

  Martin walks by perhaps twenty or so graves and then stops beside a trio of black granite headstones. One belongs to Martin and my mom’s father, Albert Bowker, who died when they were in their teens. Another belongs to Anna Bowker, Martin’s and my mom’s mother—my grandmother. The third one bears my mother’s name—Madeline Bowker Longren. Underneath her name are the words Beloved Daughter.

  Martin sighs next to me and I think I know why he does not come here often. His parents and his sister, essentially his whole family, lie under the grass at our feet. I kneel down by my mother’s headstone and trace my finger across the letters in her name.

  “Let her have a few minutes alone,” I hear Fiona whisper to Martin and I am aware of them walking away.

  I know my mother is not really resting in the earth beneath my knees. I know that all that is underneath me is a wooden coffin that holds a mere shell. But I keep my palm against the headstone anyway and I begin to whisper.

  “I’m here, Mom. It’s me. Tess. I have finally come. I am sorry it took so long… I saw your baby pictures yesterday. They look sort of like mine. I stayed the night with Martin and Fiona. They were so happy to see me, Mom. And I am going to see my cousins on Saturday. I bought some flowers for you at your old shop. It looks beautiful and it smells so sweet inside. I love this place where you were born and grew up, Mom. I love Oxford. I sat in the meadow at Christ Church yesterday. It was so peaceful. And I went inside the cathedral, too. It was like sitting for a few minutes in heaven. I will have to bring Simon here one day. I am getting married! As soon as I get back to Chicago. You would love Simon. He is very gentle and wise. He’s my best friend. I wish you could meet him. Mom, I miss you so much. I always have and I always will. I have a mannequin named after you at work. She’s my favorite one. She gets to carry the purse… I wish you could come to my wedding… I am so sorry I waited so long to come. I am so sorry…”

  At some point in my murmurings I begin to weep. I am not sure when. And I am not sure when it is that Martin returns to me but I know that when I can no longer speak, he is crouched beside me, letting me lean on him as he holds me.

  We stay like that for quite awhile, until my legs and knees are stiff and sore. But I do not want to move from this place. I feel that at last I am sitting, whole and complete, on the other side of my beautiful gate. The good side. I don’t feel anymore like someone who has been crippled since birth. The crooked things that were in my power to straighten have been straightened. I leave the rest, including my crooked soul, to God to fix. Martin, next to me, makes no move to rise to his feet.

  “Thank you for bringing me here,” I finally say to him. “Thank you for everything, Martin.”

  “We never forgot about you, Tess,” he says softly.

  I lean into his shoulder and rest there for few more minutes.

  “I just want to stay a little bit longer.”

  “Take all the time you need.”

  He rises and walks slowly back down the path, leaving me alone, but not alone.

  “Thank you,” I breathe to the One who has been pursuing me—who, like Martin and Fiona, also never forgot about me.

  I lay the flowers at the foot of the stone that bears my mother’s name and the tips of the longest petals caress the words below as a gentle breeze stirs them.

  Beloved Daughter

  Beloved Daughter

  Beloved Daughter

  Epilogue

  Chicago, Illinois

  If I concentrate on just one thing; if I block out all other sounds and sights in this room where I lie, I am able to withstand the pain. It is more powerful than I thought it would be. I shift my weight, close my eyes and turn my thoughts toward my happiest moments in the last year and a half.

  The best memories begin with the three weeks I spent with my family in England. It still seems odd to me that I can say that about Martin and Fiona and my cousins—that they are my family. I divided my time between staying at the Randolph Hotel and staying with Martin and Fiona. Some nights, if we were up late talking or playing cards, I would just stay the night in Julia’s old bed.

  After I met my cousins that first Saturday, I couldn’t wait to spend more time with them. Julia invited me to stay a few days with her and her family in London. I took the train, which I was able to stay awake while riding this time. Julia and Nigel’s kids, Max and Thea, were fun to be with and Max welcomed me like I was a favorite aunt. Colin came for the weekend. We spent a whole day walking around London, visiting the places I had only ever read about—Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, the Tower Bridge and Trafalgar Square. We watched the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace and then had a cream tea in St. James Park while Max fed the ducks. Julia took me to Harrod’s, just for fun. All we bought was some tea.

  When I got back to Oxford, Martin took a few more days off work and we visited Warwick Castle and Stratford-Upon-Avon and Blenheim Palace. He drove me past the air base were my father once worked and took me to some little villages in the picturesque Cotswolds where it seemed time itself has simply stood still.

  It was hard to say goodbye when the time finally came, but the nice part was, I knew it wasn’t going to be for forever.

  When I returned to Chicago, Simon moved in with his brother and we began to plan our wedding in earnest. Antonia was hopping mad when I finally showed up for work nearly six weeks after I left her after originally thinking I was only going to be in St. Louis for just a couple days. But the temporary help had worked out fine. She really had no reason to complain. She just likes to. Her anger lasted a day. Then she proceeded to daily deride me for deciding on marriage.

  My dad seemed quiet and moody on the phone when I returned to the States and called him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was disappointed I had had such a wonderful time. I think hanging onto his anger all these years made it easy to keep his distance when it came to my mother’s family. I could sense disappointment in his tone that the reason for his anger no longer existed.

  Simon and I were married the third week in August at the Church of the Beautiful Gate and Samuel Mayhew performed the ceremony. Dad and Shelley were a little put out that the wedding wasn’t held in Dayton, but I could think of no better place to have it. Antonia wouldn’t come and she pretended like she didn’t care that I was marrying the man of my dreams, but she sent two beautiful matching silk dresses for Blair and Jewel to wear as my matrons of honor. Simon’s brother, Paul, was the best man. Simon also asked Tim Penney to stand in as groomsman. Tim and Simon had started emailing each other after I got back from England and had struck up quite a friendship. Chloe and Leah were my flower girls and Matthias, Jewel’s oldest son, was our ring bearer. Despite what anyone might have thought—no one actually said anything derogatory—I had magnolia blossoms in my bouquet. I think Corinthia understood why because she was the only one who said it was a beautiful choice.

  The wedding itself was rather small since I don’t know anyone in Blytheville except for the Mayhews. But with all of them and all their children, plus John and Patricia Penney, Penny Mollet, the Taylors from Paragould and Carol Ann Marker—all of whom Corinthia wisely invited—all the pews were nearly full. It was amazing to me to see Noble and Rena all grown up. I had n
ever been able to picture them as adults. Noble, his wife, Jocelyn, and his two little girls live in Dyersburg, Tennessee now, but they made the hour-long drive to my wedding, as did Rena, who is engaged and living in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. Shepherd and his young wife, Tabitha, live in Florida and were unable to come.

  As thrilling as it was to see Noble and Rena again, I was more enthralled that Martin and Fiona were sitting in the pews that day. My father simply had no choice but to swallow his pride and to talk his former brother-in-law. By the end of the day I could see that the ice was beginning to thaw. For both of them.

  But even that wasn’t the most amazing part of the day. Martin had found his mother’s wedding dress in the attic of his home a week after I returned to the States. He had it professionally cleaned and then sent it to me. I had nearly fainted when I opened the box and saw the note describing whose dress it had been. It is beautiful; made of creamy colored organza and French lace. I wore it the day I married Simon.

  For our honeymoon, I took Simon to England and I showed him all the places where I had found healing for my heart, including the grassy knoll where my mother is buried. Blair insisted we use the remaining week she had paid for at the Randolph Hotel. The rest of the time we spent in London, seeing the sights and visiting with Julia and Nigel, and Colin on the weekend. One afternoon back in Oxford, Simon and I loitered around the train station until a familiar-looking taxi driver pulled up into the rank of cabs awaiting fares from the station. Tony was understandably surprised to see me. It took some doing but he finally agreed to bring his wife over to Martin and Fiona’s that night for supper. It was important to me that Tony understand he had been a link in the chain that had brought two hurting families back together.

  Two months after we returned from our honeymoon, Simon completed his own pilgrimage to peace by starting to speak at high schools about safe driving habits. By the end of the first semester of school, Simon had spoken to seven different high school drivers’ training classes. I’ve lost count how many he has done now. He always starts his presentation by placing a beautiful portrait of Brian Guthrie’s wife and daughter on the podium he stands at. The teens always think the same thing; that Simon must have lost his wife and daughter to a drunk driver. The presentation will be just another plea to not drink and drive. They are usually surprised to learn Simon was partially at fault for the deaths of these two people, who were actually the wife and daughter of a now-grieving man. They are surprised that a simple thing like fiddling with a cell phone and not looking over your shoulder when you pass another car can end a life. Or two lives.