by Kelly Rimmer
At least by then I had Mrs. Hills. She would hardly be my first pick for a stand-in mother figure. She has a voice like nails on a chalkboard and what she called a “bung hip”—I’m still not exactly sure what that means except that she walks with a cane and a pronounced limp. Her husband, Mr. Hills, seems to be perpetually close to death—he’s rail-thin and weak and quite hard of hearing. Mrs. Hills is all loud opinions and she seems to know everything happening in the entire neighborhood, which I think is necessary because she’s made a full-time job out of disapproving of everyone else’s decisions.
But after Mother left, something inside me seemed to break. Several more days blurred past where I just could not motivate myself to get up out of bed. I wasn’t even sure why I was crying, except that the babies were all crying and Patrick was never home. Things got worse and worse, until Mrs. Hills caught Patrick by the ear one night and told him I had to see a doctor immediately. The next day he took me into the clinic and I sobbed as I explained to the doctor that I didn’t mean to cry and that I was trying my hardest but that I just couldn’t keep up with everything that was happening in our lives.
“What did you expect, Mrs. Walsh? That these days would be easy? You have three young children and a husband to care for. You simply have to pull yourself together.”
I resolved that I would indeed “pull myself together.” I promised myself I’d do better. I made a decision that I would no longer cry and that I’d keep the house tidier and I’d go to the park with the other mothers again and that I’d give Patrick and the children all of the love and care they deserved.
Patrick dropped me home so that he could go to work. But once I was alone in the house with the children again, all of that firm resolve disappeared. I think I spent most of that day sitting on the floor in the laundry, locked away from the children so that I could think, barely registering the sounds of their cries. The whole time I wondered if there was some way—any way—that I could run away from it all and be free. It was a fantasy—I had an open door at Mother’s house, but even as I daydreamed about escape, I knew I’d never leave. I simply couldn’t, because Patrick would never cope without me.
That’s how the rest of that year went. I have no idea how the children survived—I gave them all the bare minimum. Patrick was always frustrated at the mess in the house and he’d complain about the children crying and I’d wonder, does he think I like living like this? But I was so miserable I couldn’t even argue with him—I floated around the house a shadow of my former self, trying to do just enough to keep us all alive.
The twins turned one and I baked them a cake and Timmy and I made a little party for them in the backyard. And ever so gradually, the sun came out from behind the clouds, and I again found the energy to read the children stories and to walk them to the park and to smile again.
I promised myself: no more babies. I told Patrick as much, and he seemed bewildered. But we wanted a large family, he said. I know, I told him, but that was before I knew what it was like. Besides, I asked him, do you really think I’m doing a good job? He told me I was doing fine. Contraception is a sin, he reminded me, as always, deeply religious but only when it suited him. Besides, we couldn’t afford rubbers or a diaphragm even if we could figure out how to access such a thing. Given that, how could we avoid another baby? Did I intend to stay out of our bed forever?
I missed him, and now that I was feeling alive again, I wanted to move back to his bed. We went back and forth on all of this for days, and what started out as frustrated squabbling soon became more urgent. We wanted to reconnect so badly, but I knew that if I gave in, another pregnancy might just kill me. This was the one aspect to my life I was both desperate and determined to control.
In the end, Patrick came up with a solution: I’d come back to our room, but he would be sure to finish away from me. This was still sinful in the eyes of the church—but as Patrick grudgingly acknowledged, the church wasn’t going to feed and clothe another baby if we did have one, so surely God would forgive us.
I went back to Patrick’s bed that night, and we lived through another of those honeymoon periods when things were peaceful and blissful. I managed better, I smiled again, I’d laugh at Timmy’s antics and the twins’ growth began to delight me, and instead of Mrs. Hills bringing baked goods to our door because she pitied me, I grew a garden and repaid the favor.
In those months I finally discovered that the love I have for my children is the most powerful thing on earth. It’s fierce and determined and an absolute force to be reckoned with. I would do anything for them. On a good day I know that I am far from a perfect mother, but I am all they have, and all I can do is to make sure that I expend every breath trying to do my best.
But the bad days seemed to stack up in a row after I give birth, and when that happens, the same powerful force of love turns inward. All I see are my failures, and it paralyzes me. The love I feel for the children and the perfection I wish for them become a force of destruction and my mind becomes clouded with lies, until I see my existence as a liability, not a strength.
Just as the love I have for my children is a powerful force, the relentlessness of nature cannot be controlled and it will not be denied. Patrick and I are drawn together, and there’s life and love in our union.
I realized I was pregnant again when the twins were thirteen months old. Whether I liked it or not, our family was about to expand again. I was going to face another storm in my mind, this time with four tiny children in tow.
EIGHT
Beth
1996
I call Jeremy as soon as I get home, partly to ask about the art supplies for Dad, partly because I can’t stand the silence in my house. He rambles for forty-five minutes about some research results that I can’t even begin to understand. I try to make noises at the right times, but mostly I’m just glad to have his voice in my ear.
“I better go,” he says eventually, sounding pleased by my interest in his work.
“Oh,” I say, disappointed. “Right. There was something else...”
Jez is happy to take painting supplies on his way to the nursing home tomorrow, but he probably won’t have time to go all the way to Dad’s house to get them, so he’ll just stop at a store near his campus. Then he asks about the house, and I tell him I’m making progress. When he hangs up, I call Chiara immediately, unthinkingly, just to fill the silence. It’s only when she answers that I remember she’s angry with me.
“I’m sorry,” I say as soon as I’ve identified myself.
“Beth, of course I forgive you,” my mother-in-law coos, because she’s a living saint. “I’m just worried about you. It’s not like you to be absentminded. Are you quite sure you’re okay?”
“Just a lot happening at the moment,” I murmur. My eyes still feel puffy from my crying at the nursing home. It feels like every corner of my brain is full of worries, and I’m worn out by the bombardment. It’s hard even to summon the energy to dismiss Chiara’s concerns.
“I know I’m your dreadful monster-in-law,” Chiara says after a pause. She’s trying to make me laugh. It’s not funny at all, because she’s perfect, and if anyone is the monster here, it’s me, but I force a chuckle. “After all these years, I also hope I’m your friend, and I love you like a daughter. If you need to talk, I’m here. Anytime. Day or night.”
I mumble another thanks and get off the phone as fast as I can. I take a similar approach to Hunter when he comes home. He’s pleased because I apologized to his mother, and he’s animated because he had a win today in a messy custody case. Hunter suggests we watch some television together but I have a sudden urge to retreat from him—he’s in such a good mood and I know that my bad mood will sour him if I don’t leave. I tell him I’m tired and turn in for an early night but I’m still lying wide awake when he joins me in bed at eleven. I pretend to be asleep as he wraps me in his arms. At first, I’m comforted by the warmth of
his body against mine, and for a while I feel sleep softening the edges of my consciousness.
But it’s not long before Hunter’s breath is deep and even in my ear, and rest is eluding me. I really thought five months of parenthood had taught me what sleep deprivation felt like. Since Noah was born, I’ve survived on short stretches of rest, which of course is far from ideal, but I’ve always managed just enough sleep to function.
Now, though, when I close my eyes, Dad’s paintings appear and the images chase away sleep altogether. The colors cycle through my brain, the imagery flickering through shades, but always vivid. The shape of the motif represents intrigue and mystery and a puzzle my mind seems convinced it can solve if I just focus on it hard enough, and so I concentrate and I wonder and I analyze. The hours tick by, but even though I drift toward sleep, I don’t sink beneath it. My mind is too active and I can’t shut it down. I’m completely stuck on the notes and the paintings and hard as I try, I cannot think of anything else.
I get up for a cup of tea, feed Noah, and then return to bed. It’s now 3 a.m. and I can’t even close my eyes. I’m wired as if I’ve had ten cups of coffee, so wound up I can’t lie still. Images again take shape in the darkness above me, but this time it’s not Dad’s paintings I see. Instead, I’m replaying memories of Grace.
It makes sense that my mind would go here when I’m agitated. The mere thought of her has made me feel safe and secure in a way that’s hard to replicate in the adult world.
I’m small all of a sudden, small enough to curl up on her lap and stretch my hand up to touch her dark hair. It’s soft against my fingers, and I love the way she smells—like flowers and cake and sunshine—like all of the best things in life. She finishes the story and I beg her for another, and she laughs to herself and reaches for another book, and another, and another. And of course she does, because I know that this is our pattern each night. Just one story, sweet girl, she tells me, but it’s always five or six or if I’ve been really good, more.
Then she’s tucking me in, and she bends to kiss my forehead, and maybe I almost drift off to sleep then—but in a heartbeat I’m startled awake again. Am I here, or am I there? The line between the vision and dreams and my reality becomes thinner.
Now I’m standing with my siblings in the cold morning light of a living space I don’t know, but I do know it’s ours, because the heavy chest from Dad’s attic is there, and Dad is sitting atop it. Jeremy and Ruth are sobbing and so am I, but Tim is gone—I think he’s hiding behind the sofa. I throw myself at Dad at the same time Jeremy and Ruth do. Dad’s crying along with us, and I sense his panic as he tries desperately to comfort us. He’s holding me awkwardly—I’m half across his lap, squished beside Ruth, and now my hands are resting on the carvings on the top of the wooden chest.
I can feel that wood beneath my hands. I run my fingers through the engraving, tracing patterns and shapes. I miss Momma so much, I don’t think I can survive it. Where is my safe place now? The entire world has changed simply because she is gone.
I startle and then it’s gone—all of it is gone, and I’m staring at my ceiling in the predawn light, bewildered and more than a little unnerved. I tell myself I was just dreaming, but those moments I relived were real moments. Can you dream your memories?
Maybe not, but you can definitely hallucinate them.
The more I think about that, the more distressed I become.
“Hey,” Hunter murmurs sleepily in my ear. “Are you cold? You’re shaking.”
“Can you meet me at Dad’s after work?” I blurt.
“Sure?”
“Maybe Wallace could come, too. There’s something I want to bring home and we’re going to need help carrying it.”
* * *
I leave Noah with Chiara this next morning and get back to work on the attic, but despite making some small headway in the chaos, I don’t uncover more notes. I do, however, organize things so that we can get the chest out. I can’t lift it on my own—it’s far too heavy—but I clear a path so that by the time Wallace and Hunter arrive, they are able to get into the attic and lift the chest out, without climbing over piles of trash to do so.
“You should have told me how bad it is up here,” Hunter mutters as he passes me with the chest.
“I told you it was a mess,” I protest. He gives me a pointed look.
“This isn’t a mess, Beth. This is a disaster. You shouldn’t be doing this on your own.”
Wallace withholds comment, but he’s a softhearted guy and he and my dad have been close friends for years, and I’m not surprised to see him on the verge of tears as he looks around. They manage to get the huge chest down the stairs with a bit of persistence and patience, and Wallace then drives it back to our place in the back of his SUV. Hunter puts it right into place in the center of our living area and comments that it fits beautifully.
“When did he build this?” he asks.
“Long before we moved to Bellevue. It’s been in our house for as long as I can remember.”
“He was an artist long before he learned to paint, wasn’t he?”
I think this is why I simply had to retrieve this chest today. It’s a piece of Dad’s talent, something physical I can touch that ties the memories of my childhood to my present. After we’ve eaten and put Noah to bed, Hunter retires to his study to catch up on some work, and I get cleaning supplies out.
I wipe the layers of dust from the intricate carving on the lid, oil the hinges and polish the outer wood back to its once-gleaming shine. I have no plans for the chest beyond cleaning it up, so I open it and peer inside, wondering what I might store in there. The obvious options are blankets or maybe Noah’s winter clothes once it warms up, and so although the inside isn’t particularly dusty, I decide to clean it out, too. As I’m wiping inside, I feel the base give a little against the pressure of my hand. When I press harder, the base pops up, and I can lift it out of the chest—revealing a cavity beneath. I’m frowning as I stare down at what I find: a beige photo album and a blue velvet ring box. I reach for the ring box first, and open it to find a tarnished pair of rings—both silver, one adorned with a chip of a stone, the other plain.
It’s the first ring that catches my eye, and I shake it out of it’s box and into my palm. It’s hardly an elaborate piece of jewelry, but it is somewhat unique. The setting is simple, four prongs that hold the stone against a rounded band. I polish it on my clothes, and hold it up to the light. As I turn it so that I’m staring at its side, I suddenly realize I’m looking at the very object Dad’s tried to capture in the last painting in his series—the one from 1961. From the side, the ring is simply a round circle with a blue burst of light at the top. All that’s missing from my view is the silvery gray of his background, but there’s no denying that this was his inspiration. It has to be my mother’s engagement ring, and I feel an awful, miserable clench in my chest at the thought of Dad keeping this for all these years, locked away where it was safe.
The album is plain and I have to guess which side is the front. Before I open it I know that it will be full of photos of Dad and Grace, and when I turn the face page, I see that I’m right. It’s snaps from a simple wedding ceremony. Dad is instantly recognizable, as is my mother. She’s reed-thin, wearing a long-sleeved wedding gown, with an illusion neckline and collar, and overlain with lace detail. There’s a lace cap pinned into her dark hair, with a long veil trailing off, falling around her shoulders.
Both Grace and Dad look far too young to be married—but their expressions are joyous, the shining hope in their eyes almost painful to think about when I consider they had only a handful of years together, most of which were focused on us kids. They were probably short on money when they married—the last few photos have them cutting a homemade cake in what looks suspiciously like the church vestibule, and there’s only a handful of guests.
Wedding photos only take up a few pages, and th
en I turn the page to find a yellowed piece of paper has been folded and placed loosely against the next page. I open it and nearly drop it when I discover it’s my mother’s death certificate. There are so many fields—most typed, some scrawled in ink. My gaze flies over the page, soaking in the details.
Grace Vivienne Walsh—nee Gallagher.
Mother’s name: Vivienne Mary Gallagher.
Father’s name: Francis Ian Gallagher.
Spouse: Patrick Timothy Walsh.
Mother of Timothy, Ruth, Jeremy, Bethany.
Date of death: Undetermined. April 1958.
That simply cannot be right. How on earth could the date of death be undetermined if she died in a car accident? And if Grace died in 1958, I was only eighteen months old when we lost her and it is highly unlikely I’d remember her at all. But I do remember her. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can summon the feeling of being held in her arms. My God—the thought that I’ve manufactured those memories leaves me feeling physically ill.
Those memories are a part of how I understand myself. I was loved by Grace. I was nurtured by Grace. On some level, I know myself as someone who began her life in the arms of a woman who adored her.
What if I made it all up?
I don’t believe it for a second—the memories are far too vivid. I’m about to fold the paper and to set it aside when a new thought strikes me, and I scan down the page again, looking for a cause of death. I fully expect to be at least partly reassured by the words motor vehicle accident or something similar, but that’s not what I find.
