by Kelly Rimmer
Unable to confirm due to decomposition of body.
I fold the paper carefully and set it down on the floor beside my legs. I’m dizzy and confused, not sure what to make of my discovery. It was obviously some time before Grace’s body was found. This definitely doesn’t fit Dad’s story about a car accident, but it also doesn’t indicate that she died by suicide. Unless she ran away somewhere before she ended her life...?
Another wave of nausea hits me. Poor Dad. My God. Poor Dad.
The room is spinning so I close my eyes, trying to calm myself down. Just then I hear a sound in the hallway and I realize that Hunter is probably done for the night. He was already hesitant about me cleaning out that attic, even just upon a single glimpse of the mess. If he sees this mind-blowing discovery, maybe he’ll try to insist I leave the job to my siblings. He loves me—he’s trying to protect me—but more than ever, I need to get to the bottom of this.
I stuff the ring box and the album back into the bottom of the chest and slip the base back in place, and despite my shaking hands, finish closing the lid as Hunter returns to the room.
“Want to watch a movie?” he asks me, sniffling a yawn. “I don’t feel like working tonight after all.”
“Sure,” I say. My heart is racing and my palms are sweaty, so I scramble to my feet and flash him what I hope is a convincing smile. “Let me just go wash up. I’m all dusty from cleaning this thing.”
Grace
January 9, 1958
When I went into labor with Beth, I tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. I stayed at home as if that would stop the inevitable—but I was foolish, because of course, a baby doesn’t care if the mother is in a birthing room at the hospital or in her own laundry. When she is ready to be born, she will be born.
When the urge came to push, I panicked, because I was at home with Tim and the twins. I called out for help until I realized it was pointless: the McClarens on the west side of our house wouldn’t come even if they knew I was being murdered, and even though Mrs. Hills isn’t quite as deaf as her husband, her hearing isn’t as sharp as it once was.
In the end I sent Tim next door to Mrs. Hills, despite the fact I had no idea if my two-and-a-half-year-old son would successfully make that journey or get lost in attempting it. I sat the little ones in front of the television and told them not to come into the laundry.
By the time Mrs. Hills came, I was sitting on a towel beside the washing machine, and Beth was already in my arms. My third birth happened all by myself, on a floor I hadn’t cleaned in forever because my belly was so big. Even so, my third birth was my best birth, because yes, I was alone and scared, but no doctor cut my body to ease her entrance, and no doctor was pulling my legs apart and yelling at me, and no nurse was holding me down, forcing me to lie on my back.
Instead, I let instinct call the shots. I squatted and I breathed and I let my body take over, and then I guided her into the world myself, then I lifted my beautiful little girl up onto my breast and I sank back onto the floor in shock. She had a thatch of dark hair slicked against her head and the biggest, bluest eyes I’d ever seen. She cried until I cuddled her, and then she settled and stared up at me with wonder in her gaze.
It was all so peaceful. It was certainly still painful, but the pain was bearable—perhaps because I could shift myself around when I felt the urge. Once Beth had settled in my arms, I felt an astounding euphoria rise and by the time Mrs. Hills arrived, I was weeping tears of pure joy. That birth was one of the best experiences of my life, at least in part because for the first time, I was in complete control of my body.
Even so, Mrs. Hills was horrified and she chastised me for not calling Patrick—what if something had gone wrong? I guess it was risky and silly to delay the hospital visit, especially when we had no phone...it had been cut off months earlier because we hadn’t paid the bill. Mrs. Hills called an ambulance, and as Beth and I were swept away to the hospital, I let myself hope. Her birth had been so much easier, and those precious early minutes felt like bonding. Maybe this time would be different?
The optimism lingered that first week in the maternity ward, because it seemed I’d produced the world’s most relaxed infant. Beth slept when I needed her to sleep; she fed on a reasonable schedule right from birth; she was content to be ignored for a little while if she was in my room during the day and I didn’t scoop her up right away. Even once we went home, Beth settled right in. I was now in the tenuous position of having four children under three, but at first, it was almost okay. I established something of a routine with the oldest three children when my mood was good, and now that Beth had arrived and proven herself to be the kind of easygoing baby that every mother dreams of, I thought I had a shot of getting through the first twelve months unscathed.
By then, I should have known that however confused my mind became in the months after childbirth, it was a temporary torture. I had emerged from the fog twice, and so I should have known that if I got sucked back in, all I had to do was hold on and wait. Even so, when Beth was six months old and I felt the tide of misery seeping back, I couldn’t think about how this too would pass. All I could think about was the stretch of hopeless days that I knew I’d have to march through.
I feared it would be bad—but I had no idea just how bad it would get. Some combination of the monotony, the endless demands, the loneliness, the isolation and the exhaustion left me feeling like I was standing outside my body, watching another woman fail the world’s most wonderful children, again and again and again. When the dark thoughts began, and the swirling torrents of torment started, and when the exhaustion seemed irreparable rather than something easily fixed by a stretch of decent sleep, I convinced myself that the only way forward was to find an escape.
I don’t remember picking up the keys to Patrick’s car that night, and I don’t remember walking out of the house. I don’t even remember reversing out into the street or driving away. The first I really remember, I was standing on a bridge over water. It was deathly dark—hours still before dawn, and I was miles and miles away from home, at a place I knew on some level was the Aurora Bridge. I had zoned out, and taken myself automatically to the a place in Seattle infamous for suicides.
I wasn’t consciously thinking of what would come next. I was calm as I walked along the pedestrian path, marveling at how quiet the road was at the early hour. My feet moved without permission. They carried me right to the edge of the path and over the handrail...to the very edge of the bridge, slippery from the rain. I stared down into the dark water and it called to me, promising peace and rest.
I knew what I was about to do was a mortal sin, and I had a desperate urge to explain myself to God. I was simply going to tell Him that I couldn’t go on—that I’d reached the absolute end of my rope and besides, Patrick and the children would be so much better off without me. For a moment, I felt utterly certain that any reasonable person or deity would agree with me—that it was all too much, that I was failing too miserably, and that the water offered the sensible path forward. But as I opened my mouth to speak to the endless nothingness of the night, I suddenly realized how close I was to that drop into the water and how close I’d come to my worst mistake yet. I panicked, and I clambered over the rail and threw myself forward in my panic. I hit the concrete path as a dead weight, breasts and stomach and knees and elbows and shins colliding and skidding over the rough surface, winding and bruising and scratching me. And even though the concrete path had caused me such pain, I clung to it as if it was my savior. The physical pain was intense enough to penetrate the fog in my mind—the first feeling other than frustration and sadness that I’d been conscious of in weeks.
And when my breath returned, it came in desperate gasps between huge, rolling sobs that went on and on—tears that burned as they cleansed. The sobs were cathartic—the relief that I hadn’t jumped without even thinking reminded me that I did desperately want to live, and that the
way I’d been thinking about my death was yet another lie that my mind was telling me. I was glad to be alive, and in the momentary joy of the close call, promised myself I’d remember that moment forever.
I cleaned myself off. Shaking with fear and cold and confusion, I went back to the car. I knew that even if I made it home before sunrise, before Patrick even noticed I was missing, I would have to explain the drained gas tank in the car and the mess I’d made of my body. My chin was scratched raw, as were my hands, knees and forearms, and I had bruises everywhere.
Even so, I had faced death that night, and I had found the strength to refuse it. I told myself that despite the misery I had been ambling through for months, there was some bravery left in the depths of my soul, and I must never again forget that. If I had the courage to pull away from that water, I surely had the courage to face another few months of the depression until it lifted. As I drove home that night, I made myself a solemn vow: I would never again fall pregnant. Every time I’d faced the depression it was worse than the last, and a fourth bout would surely kill me. The years of helplessly bearing child after child had taken something from me, some last reserve of inner strength that was now all but gone. I had to protect that last sliver of myself, and if that meant never returning to Patrick’s bed, he and I would simply have to pay that price.
I made it home just as the sun breached the horizon. Tim was already awake, playing with a wooden train on the floor of the living room. Patrick he was asleep in our bed, and the younger children were asleep in their beds, and somehow, they had all survived without me.
When Patrick woke and stumbled into the kitchen seeking coffee, his face puffy from sleep, a crease from his pillow over his chin, I felt my heart beat faster—both from fear, and from love. I wasn’t afraid of Patrick, rather, his reaction to my physical injuries, and the desperate love I felt for him right from that first day at the window seat seemed to breathe fresh life into my tired, aching body.
Patrick noticed the bruises and scrapes right away. He kept asking me what happened, and although I’d come up with what I thought was a convincing story about slipping on the back steps in the night, he wasn’t buying it, and it didn’t explain the empty gas tank.
Maybe he’d been useless to me over the lonely months that had passed before, but that morning gave me hope. He prepared the children’s breakfast, then led me away to the living room and sat too close to me on the couch. His hands shook as he brushed the hair back from my face and then he pulled me into his embrace and begged me to tell him what had really happened. I cried, and although the best I could do was to tell him that I had been feeling so lost and lonely, it seemed to be enough for him to understand that we had come very close to losing one another that night.
“I’ll do better,” he promised as he cupped my face in his hands and he kissed me around my injuiries. “I’ll do better, Grace. I promise I’ll do better.”
And for a while, he did. I saw frequent flashes of the man I always hoped he could be for a while. He came home on time and he didn’t complain when I fell behind with the laundry. He was drinking less, so we had the money to catch up on some of the bills. But of course it didn’t last, and by Beth’s first birthday, he was coming home late every night again, and the milkman was angry because we hadn’t paid him for weeks and the roof was leaking again but Patrick never seemed to have the time to fix it.
These days, he’s back to the man my parents think he always will be, and at long last, I’m starting to feel resentful. Funny how we can’t afford to have a phone anymore, but Patrick can afford to go out for beer with his friends almost every night. It’s funny how the money he gives me for housekeeping keeps shrinking and the bills go unpaid, but we’re never too short for a bottle of whiskey each week.
He says he’s stressed and he needs time to himself. He says he misses his freedom and I need to let him be for now. He says I shouldn’t question him. After all, he’s the man in this household, and he’s working so hard supporting us all.
I haven’t written to Maryanne in months because I haven’t had the energy to pretend things are okay, but if I did find the courage to write her and tell her the truth, I know that Maryanne would insist that things don’t have to be this way. She’d say they need to change, but she may as well be asking for the moon. It seems that this is the natural order of things: women are born to nurture and to care for the home, and men are born to lead and dominate. I love Patrick with a depth that still surprises me, but I’m not sure he has the capacity to love me back the same way.
The only thing I can’t decide is whether it makes me an optimist or a slow learner that I’m only just figuring out that I care about Patrick a lot more than Patrick cares about me.
NINE
Beth
1996
I try to consider every possible explanation that night when I finally give up on sleep.
In her note Grace talks about Dad being unreliable, but the Dad I know has never been unreliable in his life. Maybe her perspective was warped. She was probably seriously depressed. Maybe she had a serious mental illness. A delusional disorder? Manic depression?
It does look like Grace was suicidal when she wrote that note. How does that tie in?
Oh, my God. If the date on the death certificate is correct, she wrote that note just weeks before her death.
I can’t think about that now. I need to think about something calming. Maybe try to visualize those moments when she held me in her arms—
But did she hold me in her arms? How could I remember if I was only eighteen months old when she died?
This is it, Beth. This is the moment when you lose your mind altogether.
When Hunter climbs out of bed for his shower at six, I’m still every bit as awake as I was when I got into that bed eight hours earlier. I don’t think I’ve closed my eyes for more than a minute. I’m so exhausted now that I’m battling tears as I try to get ready to drive Noah to Chiara’s house for the day.
“Beth,” Hunter says, abruptly breaking a lengthy silence as we eat breakfast in the kitchen. I drag my gaze from my untouched toast to his face. His lips are pursed, so I know he’s about to say something I won’t like. “I don’t think you should go to your dad’s place today. Stay here and try to rest.”
I know his suggestion comes from a place of love, but it feels paternalistic and I bristle. I try to take some deep breaths to stop myself from snapping at him, but anger and irritation are fierce beasts, just waiting for a chance to pounce. I open my mouth, but he holds up a hand before I can even say a word, and now Hunter is impatient. “Will you please just listen to me for once? I’m worried about you, Beth. You’re wound up like a spring. Packing up your dad’s house can wait one more day.”
I’m gearing up to push back, even though I know I’m going to make a meal of this and I’ll have to face his hurt and resignation when I do. But Noah, who has been happily sitting in his high chair, chewing on a teething biscuit, makes a gagging sound and then a sickly, constricted cough. Hunter and I both react before I even have time to acknowledge what’s happening. We shoot to our feet and we run, coming to a stop on either side of the baby. My heart is racing and my hands shake violently as I grab the biscuit and dump it onto the tray of the high chair.
My thoughts are a turbulent torrent, instantly bombarding me with worst-case scenarios and the most tragic of outcomes. It’s only when Hunter laughs softly and picks up Noah that I see the stunning disparity in our reactions.
“Silly bubba,” Hunter chuckles, nursing Noah against his cheek and rubbing his back to comfort him. “You can’t put the biscuit all the way down your throat, no matter how delicious it is.”
“He could have died just now,” I cry, staring wide-eyed at my husband.
“What? No, he just got a bit too enthused about the biscuit. He’s fine,” Hunter says, and he brings Noah with him as he walks around the high chair to ru
b my back. My husband’s lack of panic is as confusing as it is frustrating.
“You’re not taking this seriously enough!” I exclaim, stepping away from him. “He could have choked!”
“On a biscuit? Seems unlikely.” Hunter motions toward the biscuit on the tray table of the high chair. “There’s no way he could have kept that whole thing in his mouth long enough to obstruct his airway. He gave himself a fright, that’s all.”
But I’m staring at the same object, and I see all kinds of possibilities that very much feel like probabilities. He could chew on it for so long that it dissolves, but not all of it dissolves, and what if a hard bit gets stuck in his throat and he can’t dislodge it? How do you even do first aid on a five-month-old baby? Why haven’t we done a first aid course together? What if something happens to him and we don’t know how to help him? What if we’re not paying close enough attention and something bad happens and he’s hurt or he dies?
I only realize I’ve voiced these thoughts aloud when Hunter carefully sets the baby back in his high chair and takes my shoulders in his hands to stare at me intently.
“Beth,” he says gently. “Look at him.” I glance down at the baby. He’s calm but determined, his grubby little fist already reaching for the biscuit. Hunter squeezes my shoulders. “See? He’s totally fine.”
Hunter pulls me against his shoulder and I all but dissolve into him, sobs bursting from my lips as I struggle to dismiss a sudden and intrusive daydream of Noah blue-faced and choking, right there in front of me, while I watch on, helpless. The incident didn’t play out that way. Things weren’t as drastic and terrifying as all of that. But they could have been.
“Babe. You need to sleep,” Hunter says. His brown eyes are fixed on me, his concern palpable. I’m sobbing hard now, even as I shake my head and prepare to argue with him some more. But it turns out that I can’t even find the energy for fighting now, and I let Hunter lead me back to our bed. He arranges my limp limbs against the pillows and covers my body with the blankets. He tugs the blinds closed and quietly, gently, closes the door behind him.
