by Kelly Rimmer
4:30 p.m. Oh, shit.
“I lost track of time,” I exclaim, skipping down the stairs to the hallway. “I was supposed to be back at Chiara’s by—” I trail off when I finally reach the hallway and see Ruth standing there with my son on her hip. “Oh, no. Was she mad?”
“She missed Tia’s recital. She convinced herself that you’d slipped and banged your head and knocked yourself out cold or worse. She called Hunter at work in a panic, because she doesn’t have a car seat in her car so she couldn’t come check on you herself. Hunter was in court and couldn’t come home, but his secretary got a message to him, so he panicked, too. Chiara then called me because she’d run out of other options. And yes, I’m mad at you, too, because I tried to call you, and you ignored my calls as well.”
“I didn’t hear the phone,” I protest, craning my neck to peer toward the living area. The answering machine is flashing a bold angry 18 messages on the screen, and I groan. “You know it’s hard to hear the phone up there. I’m really sorry.”
Ruth passes Noah to me, then runs her hand over her hair in exasperation before she points at my chest.
“Bethany Evans,” she says abruptly. “Take your son and go home. Get a good night’s sleep, and if Chiara ever agrees to babysit for you again, take the goddamned cordless phone upstairs with you.”
“I will,” I promise. She still looks a little frantic, and I take a step toward her to rub her upper arm gently. “Honestly, I’m sorry to scare you.”
“It’s not just me,” Ruth says, abruptly pulling away. “Chiara is worried about you, too. See? It’s not just me being paranoid. We can all see something is up with you. When you didn’t answer the phone today...”
I frown at her, then my eyes widen as I long jump to a conclusion, the note upstairs too fresh on my mind.
“Seriously? You thought I’d killed myself?”
“What?” Ruth gasps, hand flat against her chest in horror. “Have you thought about doing that?”
“No! Of course not! I just...why else would you all be so worried?”
“Jesus.” Ruth slumps a little, then shoots me a fierce look. “Because you’re acting weird, Beth. You won’t tell us what’s really going on, and we’re all trying to keep an eye on you until you’re ready to explain. So be more careful.”
“I will. I’m sorry.”
“I have to go,” she sighs.
“Sure,” I say, motioning toward the doorway. I want her to leave before me, mostly because I don’t want her to go upstairs and stumble upon the note. “Go ahead, I’ll lock up. Talk to you soon.”
“Talk tomorrow,” Ruth corrects me, still frowning. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
When she leaves, I leave, too, locking the door behind me. But before I start my car and pull out of Dad’s street, I peer up at the windows that lead to the attic, wishing I could go right back to untangling its secrets.
* * *
By the time Hunter gets home, I have Noah bathed and in bed, and I’m busily cooking pasta for dinner.
“You really scared Mom today,” Hunter says as soon as he steps into the house. He sounds pissed, and that’s not an easy feat. My husband is so laid-back, it’s rare for him to react with anger to anything. Even so, I’m distracted, and only half paying attention to him as I stare down at the pot I’m stirring.
“I know, Ruth told me. I don’t know why she overreacted like that. I just forgot she had to go out, and I didn’t hear the phone,” I murmur.
The note. Did she really write the note? It has to be her. Who else would talk about “Patrick” like that? Why was Grace so distraught? Did she actually kill herself? Would Dad have lied to us? Is it too late to ask him?
“Mom didn’t overreact, Beth,” Hunter says abruptly. “You went AWOL on her and she had no idea where you were. Anything could have happened to you, for God’s sake! You knew she had something important on. Shit, the whole reason she panicked was that she assumed for you to be late like that, something drastic must have held you up.”
I wince, shaking my head.
“I know. I didn’t mean it like that. It was just... I just spoke without thinking.”
Hunter scoops up a slice of tomato from the salad on the table and pops it into his mouth, then raises his eyebrows at me.
“So I assume you’ve called her to apologize?”
“You always take her side,” I blurt. His eyebrows draw in and his mouth opens in surprise. It’s kind of true—Hunter does adore his mother and he’d defend her to his last breath, but it’s also not at all true, because Chiara and I get along and I’m a peacemaker by nature, so even when she’s a little pushy, we never argue. After eleven years, there’s been no real cause for him to take sides at all. I feel my face flush, because I have no idea why I just said that. I just feel so defensive, and I don’t really understand why they all panicked just because I lost track of time. “Just... I’ll call her. Okay? Christ.” I drop the ladle heavily into the sink, spin on my heel and leave the room.
“Where are you going?” Hunter calls incredulously.
“To bed,” I snap. “Don’t worry. I’ll call your mother first.”
I slam the door to our bedroom. I flick the lamp on, change out of my clothes and into pajamas, and then I sit on my side of the bed and pick up the phone.
But half an hour later I’m still sitting on the bed staring at the handset. I just need to dial a number I’ve known by heart for years and years and I only need to say two simple words. It should be easy. I am genuinely sorry I messed up Chiara’s schedule, and I only need to dial and tell her that.
So why does that tiny task feel as challenging as tackling a marathon on a day when I lack even the energy to climb stairs?
I put the handset back on its cradle, turn off the light and stretch out on the bed in the darkness, knowing that I’m not going to sleep.
Grace
December 28, 1957
Patrick seemed so confused about my attitude toward Timmy, and that made two of us. He seemed to think telling me this was supposed to be the happiest time in our lives would help. He was constantly pointing out what a beautiful baby Tim was or reminding me that this is exactly what we talked about: a family of our own, a child born of the love that we shared.
Sometimes I felt that Patrick assumed that childbirth had left me quite stupid and in need of someone to point out the obvious. Other times I was bewildered by the way that he seemed cheated by how much I was struggling to adapt to early motherhood. When I tried to talk to Patrick, he’d make my confused sadness all about him. All of his insecurities had come to the fore: Wasn’t he providing enough luxury for me? Did I miss the gilded cage of my parents’ home? Did I wish I’d married one of the rich boys from the bank? Why couldn’t I just be happy with the humble life he was trying to give me?
One day I tried to explain that I was happy, that I was just overwhelmed and tired. That wasn’t strictly true and I didn’t like lying to him, but I was also trapped, because I had to say something and I couldn’t exactly explain what was really going on. I did love Tim, but some days I felt such an emotional distance from him, as if I loved him in an impersonal way, as if I loved him through glass.
Patrick and I were supposed to be partners in the big picture of our family life, but our roles were completely distinct: his was to earn the money, and mine was to raise Tim and keep the house. There were clear, stark boundaries between those roles and that meant that at all times, Tim was my responsibility, and the weight of that was more than I’d ever expected to bear. If Tim had a bad day, I had a bad day, and the inverse was equally true. But if Patrick had a bad day at a building site, he’d have an extra beer at the bar during the six o’clock swill, and the world would be righted for him by morning.
I was utterly alone with Tim all the
time, because the worse I felt, the more I began to withdraw from the shaky social circle we’d established since we moved to Yesler Terrace—mostly the wives of Patrick’s work friends, all women who seemed to take to motherhood like ducks to water. I couldn’t manage to get myself and Tim dressed and out the door to the park, especially when we were to meet those women. I’d show up—stains on my blouse, hair half-done, too poor to buy makeup, and I’d look at those women with their perfectly coiffed hair and beautifully dressed children and feel small and insecure. I became increasingly nervous about my unstable composure—imagine if I cried in front of them! I couldn’t stand the idea of it, and so I stayed home. I’d wait for the mailman with a mix of hope and trepidation. More often than not, he’d deliver an overdue notice or a bill and the mail delivery would only worsen my sadness, but I watched for him anyway, because every few months, he’d bring me a letter from Maryanne.
That year was the first time I lied to my sister.
Timmy is growing so big now. He’s such a smiley child and his whole face lights up when Patrick comes home. I know Mother and Father were horrified when we moved into public housing but it’s not so bad. The women here are so kind to me and I’ve made such good friends in the community. Patrick is such a doting father, too. Motherhood is everything I hoped it would be, and so much more.
I was too stubborn and proud and cowardly to put the truth onto paper. And in those days I still hoped I could outrun it. I still hoped I could fix it. And writing down the reality of my thoughts would have made them concrete and real.
Maybe you were right. Maybe this life isn’t for me. I don’t know how much longer I can live like this. I’m trapped here and I don’t know what I’ll do if it’s too late to save myself.
I thought having a baby would be my contribution to the world. I thought it would be my way of expanding the world and making it a better place. Instead, the birth of my child had narrowed my existence, until that screaming baby was all that I thought about.
When Tim was three months old, Patrick asked me to come back to our bed. I couldn’t bear the thought of him touching me—sometimes he’d hug me and I’d feel such irritation that I’d snap at him. I feared so many things—would it hurt after the trauma my body had been through in that delivery room? Pregnancy and childbirth had changed me so much—would he still find me attractive once he saw me without my clothes again?
Would I be able to stand to have so much skin against mine, when sometimes even holding my baby seemed to be too much?
And most confusing of all, why was I avoiding intimacy with Patrick with every ounce of energy I had, when I felt so utterly alone, and his touch might offer comfort? My mind was a mystery to me. I just floated through the days in a miserable haze of self-inflicted loneliness, misery and shame.
After only a few weeks of resisting Patrick’s invitations, he looked at me with such sadness and longing in his eyes that I knew I could hold out no longer. When he kissed me that night, I was comforted by the sweetness of his love, and I was glad to have acquiesced. I was still tired and confused and sad, but as I cuddled in his arms afterward, I felt less alone, at least for a little while.
Besides, I thought at the time, it was far too soon for me to fall pregnant again and my life was so devoid of pleasure in those days, I should let myself enjoy Patrick’s attention. At least while I was in his bed, I felt like less of a failed mothering robot, and more of a woman again.
It turns out there’s no such thing as too soon to fall pregnant. Within no time at all, the undeniable baby bump had returned...and this time, it was twins.
SEVEN
Beth
1996
Chiara couldn’t take Noah today. Hunter said she had a doctor’s appointment, but he was so cagey when I asked if she was okay that I’m pretty sure she’s just angry with me about yesterday. I guess that’s fair enough—especially since I still haven’t called to apologize.
I’ll do it today. I’ll definitely do it today...later.
Chiara’s sudden unavailability means that Noah is with me today. He’s lying in his playpen in the attic at Dad’s house, kicking his chubby legs, staring up at the ceiling as if it’s fascinating. I had to kick clear a space for the playpen. It’s windy again, and I left the windows open all night to air the room out. The smell is much better now, but even though I’ve had the windows closed and the heat on for hours, it’s still cold up here. We’re both bundled up and Noah seems content enough, but every now and again I worry that he’s too hot or too cold, and I hover over him, unsure of how to be sure. I keep coming to the same conclusion: I’ll know he’s uncomfortable if he cries.
It’s just that I hate it when he cries.
I’m not altogether sure that having my infant in this dusty, filthy space is safe. In fact, I’m fairly sure it’s a bad idea. But I’m also too impatient to wait to keep looking for notes, and I don’t have an alternative for childcare.
I force myself to stop fussing over the baby and get to work on clearing the space beside him. I’m cursing the stairs as I sprint to ferry trash down to the enormous dumpsters Ruth had delivered onto the front yard, and cursing the stairs again as I sprint back up to check on Noah. Every second I’m away from him feels wrong—my heart races, and I have to remind myself that he’s in a playpen, that I haven’t seen any rodent droppings, that there’s no way he could hurt himself up there.
It’s uncomfortable and stressful, but this is the best I can do given Chiara has taken herself out of service today.
There are several large piles of assorted chocolate bar wrappers in the attic—Dad’s sweet tooth must have kicked in earlier than we realized—and today’s goal is to completely clear them out. I’m scooping handfuls of crinkly plastic into a trash can, and soon making good progress. The bin is almost full when I happen to glance down between armfuls and see, crushed among the pile, the same shade of yellowed paper as the first note.
I’m immediately panicked at how close I came to missing it. Another second or two, and that note would have been completely buried in plastic.
I drop the armload of wrappers back to the floor, then I dive toward the bin to retrieve the note, but I’m clumsy in my haste and my elbow collides with the steel of the trash can. Between the sharp clang of elbow versus trash can and the loud curse that I shout as the pain rockets up my arm, sound echoes all around, suddenly shattering the silence in the room.
Noah gives a squawk, then a cry, which quickly becomes a bellow. I know exactly what needs to happen here: I need to tend to Noah and to fetch that yellowed paper from the bin and check if it’s a note and I also need to take the trash can downstairs to empty it into the dumpster. But I don’t know what to deal with first, and my heart is now thumping painfully against the wall of my chest as I stare down another nothing decision—the kind of thing that should be easy to organize in my mind.
It’s really a very simple exercise in sequencing, but I just can’t figure out what is the right order for those tasks, and because I don’t know where to start, the decision seems to swell in my mind until it looms ominously at the forefront of my thoughts. It’s a confusing form of procrastination for tasks so minor I should be able to complete them all without a single conscious thought.
“Just shhh,” I plead with Noah, who only bellows louder in response. I bend down to tip out the trash can onto the floor, and the note falls out and blessedly lands near the top of the pile. I snatch it up and smooth it out, then peer down at that beautifully scripted handwriting:
I am alone in a crowded family these days, and that’s the worst feeling I’ve ever experienced. Until these past few years, I had no idea that loneliness is worse than sadness. I’ve come to realize that’s because loneliness, by its very definition, cannot be shared.
Tonight there are four other souls in this house, but I am unreachably far from any of them...
The letter is dated Sept
ember 14, 1957. I might not know how to soothe my son or clean up trash efficiently, but I do still have a mind for numbers and I know without checking that this very same date is on one of the canvases. I also have more evidence here that Grace Walsh wrote these notes. Four other souls? Was I one of them? And maybe that’s why I can’t bring myself to finish reading. I sit the letter down on the floor beside the trash can and I walk out of the attic, down the stairs to the kitchen. Noah’s cries seem much fainter from down here, but I can still hear them, and even with the distance, the sound grates on me until my ears ache. I can’t stand it. I just can’t stand that sound right now, and I’m panicking as I fill the kettle and set it on the stovetop. The faint sound of the gas heating the water drowns out the baby’s cry a little more, and as I sink into a chair at the dining room table, I hold my head in my hands.
I’m losing it. That’s what this is. It’s a panic attack, or maybe a good old-fashioned nervous breakdown, and maybe I’m hallucinating those notes. I do feel a little disconnected from the world, and hallucinations are as good an explanation as any. I’m going to have to leave Noah with Hunter and go into a hospital before something unthinkable happens. Crazy. It’s an awful word, one I’d never, ever let myself use to describe another person. But I feel crazy right now, and I’m so ashamed that I start to cry.
The letter needs my attention and the baby needs my attention and the canvases must match notes from her and all of this obviously means something and the attic is a mess and Dad’s really going to die. It’s all just too much.
Breathe, Beth. What would you tell a client?
The kettle is boiling now, and I rise to flick the gas off. As the sound recedes, I hear Noah’s cries, draw in a deep breath, and rush back up to tend to him. His face is red and purple and there are tears all over his cheeks, but when I peek over the edge of the playpen, he quickly calms, so I know it wasn’t anything too serious. By the time I’ve scooped him back up and into my arms, his sobs are fading to shuddering whimpers.
