by Kelly Rimmer
After that, I waited until my parents were settled in front of the evening programming on the television, and I went into Father’s study to use the phone. Women knew these things in those days. We talked about abortion and clumsy contraceptive methods in whispers, but everyone knew the codes.
After several careful phone calls with girls I’d been to school with, I had the name of a man in the city who would help us. He was reported to be an unregistered doctor who would perform the procedure at a secret location.
“It’s all very cloak and dagger,” my school friend warned me, dropping her voice. “You call him to arrange it, and he gives you a meeting place, then someone picks you up to take you to his clinic. They don’t let you see where you’re going because it’s all top secret.”
“How much did it cost?” I whispered back, only hoping I’d scammed my father out of enough money.
“Five hundred dollars,” she said, and I gasped. “It’s a lot, I know. I heard of a woman who does them in her kitchen and it costs less, but it’s so much more dangerous—my friend ended up with sepsis. The doctor I saw really seemed to know what he was doing.”
I knew I couldn’t ask Dad for more money. I had some savings, about eighty dollars in the bank, but we were still going to be one hundred and twenty dollars short. I just had to hope that Grace could come up with the rest herself.
When I finished with my calls, I emerged to find Mother at the small table in the kitchen, sitting before a pot of tea in her nightgown. It was a similar gown to Grace’s, only Mother’s was, of course, in pristine condition. Her hair had been recently set and even at eight o’clock, she had a full face of perfect and expensive makeup.
“I visited Grace today,” I blurted. Mother looked up at me in surprise, then her line-thin eyebrows knit.
“But you said you were at the university doing research.”
“I finished early.” Lies upon lies. “Mother, have you seen her house?”
“Not in the last year or two,” Mother said stiffly. “Father is desperately displeased with Patrick.”
“Why? What happened?”
“We never liked him. Right from the beginning.”
“I’m aware, Mother, but you seemed to tolerate him for a while.”
“Well, we tried to give him a chance to prove himself, but he blew it. He always wanted money. The phone bill. New work boots. Formula for the baby. The refrigerator shorted out. It was endless, and it was obvious from the outset that he’d only married her because he’d seen this house and he knew we were well-to-do.”
I was hardly Patrick’s biggest fan myself, but even so, I could see she was being unfair. I’d seen them on their wedding day, and the love between them had been so palpable, I might even have felt the tiniest bit jealous. “They were obviously in love in the beginning.”
“Well, the final straw was when Patrick borrowed money from us for the phone bill that last time. The very next day, Father saw him out at the bar drunk with his friends. And Grace called us several days later to ask for money for the bill, she didn’t realize Patrick had already borrowed it from us and drank it away.”
“That’s hardly Grace’s fault. She seems to be dreadfully isolated.”
“When she’s ready to leave, we’ll help her. I’d love to see the children more—I mean, heavens, I’ve only met the littlest one twice. But we can’t condone her decision in standing by him.”
“She needs us,” I said. My heart ached for my sister—to see the innocence and optimism I’d so loved about her swamped by so much pressure and responsibility. “You’re blackmailing her into making a decision she’s not ready to make.”
“I learned that tactic from you, Maryanne,” Mother said with a shrug. When I gaped at her, she stirred her tea and gave me a mild look. “You were determined to go to college. Father was determined to stop you. You found a way to go, and then you refused to speak to him until he was ready to support you. And now look at you. He wouldn’t even pay your way to California four years ago, and after just a few months of you ignoring him, he’d changed his tune. And how much money has he given you since? Another three hundred dollars tonight. Sometimes the only leverage you have over people is their presence in your life.”
“That’s cold, Mother.”
“Perhaps, but you can’t deny it’s true.”
“Grace’s situation is entirely different. That house needs so much work, and she’s just not strong enough to change her lot in life right now. She just needs a little help until she’s back on her feet.”
“I’ll give her all of the help she needs,” Mother snapped. “But only once she decides to leave that reprobate.” She stood abruptly, and I noticed the way her hand shook as she reached up into the cabinet over the refrigerator to withdraw a small box of pills. She popped two out onto her hand, and swallowed them dry.
“Are you sick?” I frowned. She pursed her lips and shook her head.
“I’ve been under a great deal of stress lately. The doctor has given me some pills to help me cope.”
“Stress over what?”
Mother stared out the window into the darkness for a long moment.
“Well, one of my daughters is disgracing the family name by choosing a life beneath her,” Mother said very quietly. “And the other is married to a man who is beneath her. You have no idea the unkind things people say to me.”
“Who cares what people think of us?”
Mother huffed impatiently and drained the last of her tea, then shot me a withering look.
“You never did understand, darling. All a woman has in this life is her reputation.”
I probably understood that better than she realized. It was exactly why I was so determined to build a world where a woman could have something more.
Beth
1996
“How are you doing, Beth?”
Ruth decides it’s intervention time again after lunch, probably because I’m acting like a crazy person. The kids and our husbands and brothers are all watching a movie in the family room. Alicia is in there, too, sound asleep on a sofa. Dad’s half-asleep, sitting with his eyelids drooping in his wheelchair, just a few feet away from me and Ruth.
The dining room table and kitchen look like a party has just finished, and I guess it has. There’s half-eaten food on every conceivable surface, empty wine bottles and beer bottles, and when the boys came in for lunch a cold breeze blew all of Dad’s gold candy wrappers off the table, and they’re now littered all over the floor.
I shouldn’t have pushed Dad the way I did. He’s so drained now, and it was all for nothing anyway. I feel like shit about it, and the last thing I want is Ruth to put me on the spot again.
“I’m fine. Doing better, talking to Hunter, thinking about seeing someone.”
“And the antidepressants?”
“I have the prescription. I’m still considering my options,” I say, glancing at Dad. His eyelids flicker a little, but he doesn’t seem to react. Still, I drop my voice to a whisper and I add, “Ruth, I really don’t want to talk about this now.”
“What was all that with Dad about before?”
“Do I need some high stakes reason to talk to Dad?” I ask flatly. She sighs and raises her hands in surrender.
“I don’t understand why you’re so defensive about everything. I’m trying to help you.”
I force myself to draw in a slow breath before I say, “I know. I’m sorry. I’m...everything feels very—” Urgent. Awful. Hopeless. “—strained.”
“What does it feel like?” Ruth asks. I turn to face her, frowning. “I don’t understand, and I want to. Are you sad all the time? Or is it more complicated than that?”
“It’s so much more complicated than that,” I say, battling to keep the defensiveness out of my tone. “Don’t you think I’d have realized what was happening if I was suddenly sad
all the time?”
“So...? Explain it to me.”
“I just feel overwhelmed. On edge. I don’t know... I just feel like everything is too much for me. And I’ve felt isolated.” She opens her mouth to speak, but I lean toward her and add, voice fast and low, “Yes, I know if I’m isolated, I’ve done it to myself, but that wasn’t intentional. I just felt like no one could understand, and I was embarrassed to be struggling to care for Noah the way I have been. Like everyone was judging me for being an awful mother. I know that wasn’t really happening, but it felt...feels really real to me.”
I settle back into my chair, but as I do, I glance at Dad. I’m horrified to find him staring right back at me, a concerned look on his face.
“I thought you were asleep, Dad,” I say, my voice artificially bright. “Did you want to take a nap? Alicia is napping in the family room, maybe we could go in there where it’s warmer, hey?”
Dad shakes his head and purses his lips. I glare at Ruth, and she rises and walks to Dad’s wheelchair.
“Dad, I need some help with dessert. That’s your specialty. Why don’t you come and help me whip the cream?”
I think we’ve effectively distracted him. Ruth pushes Dad into the kitchen and he holds the electric beaters for a minute or two, starting off the whipped cream, but he tires quickly and she has to take over. I clear the kitchen table and reset it for dessert, and soon enough, we’re all seated for round two of “food we’re already too full to eat.” Dad picks that moment of rare quiet to look right at me and announce, “I don’t want you to...” He points upstairs vaguely. “The mess. Behind the floor.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” I wince. “It’s okay. We’ve got it under control.”
“Time got away from me. The mess. I was going to clean it.”
“I’ll sort it out,” I promise him.
“We will sort it out,” Ruth corrects me.
“But the letters. With the scissors,” Dad says, staring right at me. He’s gasping for breath between words and his face is beet-red. “She wrote the letters with the scissors.”
I hear Jeremy drop his voice to ask Ruth, “What on earth is he talking about now?” and Ruth replies with equally failed subtlety, “I have no idea.”
“Dad, it’s fine,” I say firmly. “Everything is fine. You really don’t need to worry about it.”
“I wanted to paint the letters. And...the pictures.” He raises his hand and indicates his forehead. “I kept the letters to remember. To do better. And then I could see the pictures when I read the letters. See her, so beautiful with the belly. I painted the letters so I could see the beautiful curve.” A new thought seems to strike him, and he brightens for a moment. “The ring. Did you see the ring?”
“I saw it, Dad,” I say softly. “It’s a beautiful ring, and the painting is beautiful.”
“I can’t remember the word,” Dad says, and he points to his head, visibly frustrated. “The colors. In my head.” His voice has dropped to a hoarse whisper, and then he looks around and starts to cry.
“Right! That’s enough,” Tim exclaims, and he pushes himself to his feet, then kneels beside Dad. He adjusts the cannula in Dad’s nose, fiddles with the oxygen tank, then scowls at the rest of us. “I don’t know what any of this shit is, but he’s sick and everyone needs to back the hell off!” He turns to Dad and softens his tone just a little as he adds, “You need to rest now, Dad. I think we should take you back.”
“No.” Dad wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and then he points at me. “You...” He licks his lips, swallows and then clears his throat. “You...”
“She’s Beth, Dad,” Ruth gently prompts him. My gaze drops to the table.
“Beth. I wanted to...what’s the word? I was going to...with the trash can.”
“Throw away?” Ruth guesses.
“Throw away the letters. Paint the colors, throw away the letters and clean up the trash. But I lost the time and now it’s too late.”
“I’ll throw them away for you, Daddy,” I promise unevenly, forcing myself to raise my eyes to his again. “And if you don’t want me to read them, I won’t.”
“What’s this about letters?” Jeremy frowns, but Dad’s gaze is locked with mine, and now I’m only vaguely aware of the audience. Everything disappears but my wonderful, fragile father.
“I took her away. She would have helped you,” Dad whispers. Another tear slips onto his cheek. “Write them.” He shakes his head, then clenches his jaw. “Read them. Read them.” He chokes on a sob, and he stares right into my eyes as he whispers, “Beth, loneliness is worse than sadness.”
That’s when I know he did hear and understand my conversation with Ruth earlier. I rush toward him and nudge Tim out of the way so I can take Dad’s hands in mine.
“I’ll be okay, Dad. You don’t need to worry about me, I promise. But how did she die, Dad? If you can just tell me that—just that.” He shakes his head, and then his distress mounts as he stares at me. His breathing is harsh now, labored breaths between that awful, tortured cough. I’m crying as I squeeze his hands. “Please, Dad. Can you tell me anything?”
“I’m sorry.” Cough. Wheeze. “I didn’t know what I was doing.” Wheeze. Cough. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Beth, this isn’t helping anyone.” Tim’s trying to nudge me back out of the way, but I stay stubbornly in place.
“Dad,” I whisper. “Was it suicide?”
There’s a chorus of gasps and confused questions behind me, but I’m staring hard at Dad, and I barely even register the sounds.
“Beth,” Tim says flatly, resting his hand on my shoulder. “For God’s sake. Stop this.”
Dad releases my hand and reaches forward to gently push a lock of my hair behind my ear. He’s wheezing and coughing, but he offers me a gentle, calm smile.
There’s chaos all around me—family members trying to distract Dad and even me, trying to defuse the oddly intense moment we’re sharing. But Dad and I ignore them—and we stay right there, staring at one another. He won’t let go of my gaze, and I can’t make myself look away.
“You’re a good girl, Beth.”
I choke on a sob.
“I know, Dad.”
“A good mom,” he whispers. “Like she was.”
It’s just too late.
He can’t explain, and I can’t keep asking. All I have are the notes.
FOURTEEN
Maryanne
1958
I stopped at a pay phone on the way to Grace’s house the next day and dialed the number my friend provided. The call was short and simple—all of three minutes from start to finish. I gave him a false name and pretended to be seeking the procedure for myself. He didn’t give a name at all—only instructions.
I had to wait for him alone on a road downtown at noon on Friday. I was to come alone and bring cash, sanitary pads and a large bottle of disinfectant. The procedure would take two hours, and he would return “me” back to the same spot. I asked him what his training was, and he explained to me, in a thick accent I couldn’t place, that he’d been a doctor back in Europe and he’d done thousands of these procedures.
“Why aren’t you registered to practice medicine here?”
“English not good enough yet. I learning.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Is very safe,” he told me, his tone curt and dismissive.
“But where will you take me?”
“Police watch all the time. Clinic location is secret.”
“Will it hurt—?”
“You want abortion, you come to the city on Friday. Is no skin off my nose if you don’t.”
Then he hung up. I scrawled the address down on the paper and continued to Grace’s house.
* * *
“We still need one hundred and twenty dollars,” I told Grace
miserably when I was finished explaining. “Do you have any money?”
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I could ask Patrick to ask his boss for an advance.”
“Could he do that?”
“We’ve done it before. We just finished paying the last one off, actually, a few months back. I would have to explain to Patrick why I need the money, though.”
“Gracie, can you really not just tell him the truth?” I asked her hesitantly. “It’s so unfair that you have to deal with this alone. He’s the one who got you pregnant.”
“I didn’t have to go back to his bed,” she said weakly. “It wasn’t like he forced me.” She straightened, then pursed her lips. “He won’t like it. I know he won’t. He wouldn’t even agree to use rubbers. I know he’s not going to agree to this. But it’s me who has to pay the cost if I follow through with this pregnancy, so it should be up to me what happens next, right?”
“I’m right with you there. I just think that he should help you deal with the situation he created.”
We sat in silence for a moment. In the backyard I could hear Ruth bossing Jeremy around, Jeremy getting angry and Tim playing mediator. Grace glanced toward the window a few times but didn’t rise from her chair.
“I can’t think of any other way,” I admitted eventually. “I do think you need to ask Patrick for the money.”
“It’ll be so hard to convince him to ask Ewan for money again,” Grace said, rubbing her forehead. “It was such a struggle for us to pay the loan back last time. I just don’t know...”
“I’ll pay it back for you,” I said, brightening. “I could send you what I have left over for the next few months. That’ll sort it out.”
Grace gave me a sad look.
“I can’t let you do that. You’ve done enough already.”
“If that’s the way we get the money, Grace, then tell him you need the money to help me, and tell him I’ll pay you back. At least think about it. You don’t have a lot of time.”
