by Kelly Rimmer
“Tim, you’ve known for like two hours that I might have this condition, right?”
“Right. I mean, I suspected something was going on, but it didn’t occur to me it was this serious.”
“Okay, fine. I just need to point out the utter hypocrisy in you telling me what I can and can’t handle when you didn’t even know I was unwell three hours ago.”
Tim opens his mouth, then closes it. His lips are pursed now. My brother is frustrated. Good. So am I.
“I’m just worried about you.”
“Good. Thanks. I appreciate that.” I hand him Noah, and then straighten my clothing as I shake my head. “I knew that when someone had a mental illness, they have to deal with the stigma, but it’s even worse than that. As soon as anyone suspects you’re mentally ill, they start treating you like you’re fragile—like you could shatter if you’re exposed to stress or even just a loud noise. And at the time in your life when you need emotional support more than ever, people try to force you out of the difficult moments...which of course, are the moments when a family grows closer.” I don’t want to be childish about this, but I can’t help the bitterness in my voice as I mutter, “But sure I’ll go home, if that’ll make you feel better.”
Tim gives me an irritated look.
“You’ve read the first two notes you found.”
“You know I have.”
“So you realize then that it’s looking likely that you’re suffering from the same affliction that our mother battled, and we can’t rule out the possibility that she actually died by suicide. And you’re wondering why I’m trying to protect you from stress?”
“I want to be here. I need to be here.”
Tim sighs, then throws his hands in the air.
“Fine.”
Ellis finally drags his boys in, promising to pick up pizza for dinner on their way home. Ruth hugs them all and promises she’ll kiss them all good-night when she gets home.
I plant a peck on Hunter’s cheek, touch Noah’s chin with the tip of my finger and say good-night to my family.
And then we all mount the stairs again, ready to face whatever ugly truth is waiting for us.
The hours begin to drag. My siblings and I work in silence sometimes, broken only when one of us finds a note, or some random memorabilia that we want to share. The stack of canvases on the table is soon halved as we match new notes to paintings and move them to the floor, but the sun has dipped low. Soon the light fades, and we’re working by the glow of the yellow bulbs that hang from the ceiling beams.
“I can’t stay much longer,” Tim sighs. “I’ve got rounds at seven tomorrow morning, then a full day of consults. Plus, I promised Alicia I’d be home by nine.”
“What’s the deal with her anyway? Did she have a personality transplant?” Jeremy asks suddenly. Tim stills, then frowns at him.
“Jez. Seriously.”
“Not complaining,” Jeremy says, raising his hands. “Today was just a pretty stark transformation from the woman who wouldn’t even help us with Dad not so long ago.”
“If you must know, asshole, we’ve talked through a whole heap of shit in therapy.” I forgot how sweary Tim gets when he’s tired. During his residency, my straightlaced brother had a veritable potty mouth. “One of the things that’s come up is that this family is so close-knit she’s always felt like an unwelcome outsider.”
“We’re close, but we’re hardly freakishly close,” Ruth says.
“How many other families do you know that still meet up every week for dinner?” Tim says pointedly.
“Well, we don’t really meet every week,” Ruth says defensively. “I mean, if you’re on shift or Jez is overseas...”
“But unless I’m on shift or Jez is overseas, we’re here every single week. We’re close, Ruth. That’s not a bad thing at all,” Tim says. “It’s just been hard for Alicia to find her place with us. She said when she tried to pitch in with Dad, you two were always finding problems with whatever she did to help, and sometimes at family dinners, she’d come along and find the three of you barely spoke to her at all.” His words falls like a stone into the space between us. Ruth and I share a wince. I had no idea that Alicia even realized how much we didn’t like her, and it never occurred to me that she would have cared either way. She always seems so bulletproof. “Once we talked about it, I think she realized she was being unfair, and today was the first time in ages I can remember her actually relaxing at a family dinner.” Tim motions between me and Ruth with a paintbrush. “Surely your husbands have felt the same at some point?”
Now Ruth, Jeremy and I are all sharing guilty glances.
“Uh, sure,” Ruth says, unconvincingly. Tim frowns.
“Maybe Alicia wasn’t being unfair,” I admit carefully. “We don’t really have much in common with her, and I guess we’ve probably been a bit hard on her.”
Tim’s frown deepens.
“She said you two were always all about babies.” He points at Ruth. “You raising the boys—” his accusing finger points to me next “—and you trying to get pregnant, and now with Noah. She said she felt excluded because we don’t want kids.”
I cringe because there’s definitely some truth in that. I know from experience that motherhood is an exclusive club—and any woman on the outside, by choice or by circumstance, knows all too well what it feels like to have her membership application to the Mommy-social-group declined. The worst thing about this conversation is that I remember how awful it felt to be on the outside when Hunter and I were trying to have a baby. It just never occurred to me that Alicia was on the outside, too.
“That’s why me and Fleur broke up,” Jeremy says suddenly. Ruth, Tim and I gape at him.
“Because of me and Ruth?” I gasp, instantly sick with guilt. I might not have found much affection for Alicia, but I loved Fleur and I loved her for Jeremy. The idea that Ruth and I might have scared her off is heartbreaking.
“Oh. No, sorry. You were always much nicer to her than you are to Alicia.”
Tim scowls again.
“What exactly have you two been doing to my wife that I haven’t noticed? If you had any idea how much we’ve fought about this the past few years...”
“We never intentionally excluded her,” Ruth groans. “And now that you’ve told us she felt like we did, we’ll both make an effort to include her more. Right, Beth?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Jeremy, back to Fleur. What’s the story?”
“I meant that we broke up because of kids. Specifically, she wants them. Posthaste,” Jeremy adds, grimacing. “I couldn’t see how a kid could possibly fit into my travel schedule. She said since we both wanted kids we should try for a baby now and figure the logistics out later if we actually managed to have one. We fought about it for a year and then she decided she was getting too old to wait for me to realize she was right.”
“You said you two grew apart,” Ruth says with a frown.
“Meh.” Jeremy shrugs. When he’s self-conscious, he has this way of trying to appear too casual, and that’s how I know that he’s still pretty sore over all of this. “It was probably more like we were ripped apart because a giant hypothetical baby came between us.”
“Do you actually want kids?” Ruth demands.
Jeremy shrugs again, but then says, “Yeah. Probably.”
Ruth and I share a look.
“Fleur was the best girlfriend you’ve ever had. You need to get her back before it’s too late,” I tell him.
“Tim, do you think having two exceedingly bossy sisters has damaged you in any way?” Jeremy sighs.
“I think it prepared me well for having an exceedingly bossy wife, actually.”
“See, you’d both be lost without us,” Ruth snorts, then waves her arm around the room. “Have any of you noticed that we’re actually making some progress? We’re probably a
t as good a place as any to call it for the night.”
She’s right—the mess has finally taken shape. Furniture and baskets and boxes are all at one end; trash and paperwork sit in three huge piles at the other. But much of the floor is now visible, and we can move around freely as we sort.
“I’ll come back and keep working on it tomorrow,” I say. A series of meaningful glances flick between my siblings.
“And what happens if you find the notes and there’s no satisfying answer? What if there aren’t other notes to find? Or what if you find the notes and you don’t like the answer?” Jeremy asks. I feel myself slump even considering those possibilities.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“I’ll meet you back here tomorrow night and we’ll keep looking together,” Ruth says. I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand. “Look, I get it. This is personal to all of us, but you’re identifying with her in a way the rest of us can’t. That’s exactly why you shouldn’t tackle this on your own.”
“Ruth’s right,” Tim murmurs, then his gaze softens. “There’s not much we can do to make your situation better, but we can be here to support you with this. Please, promise me you’ll let us. I don’t know if I can be here every night to search with you, but if you do find the notes, I’ll find a way to be here to read them with you.”
“Me, too,” Jez says quietly.
I look around the concerned gazes of my siblings, and my eyes fill with tears.
“Okay,” I promise unevenly. “Ruth and I will keep looking, but when we find them all, we’ll read them together.”
FIFTEEN
Maryanne
1958
My heart was thundering against the wall of my chest as I walked from the driveway to Grace and Patrick’s front door that night. Over seven hours had passed since the time Grace and I were due to meet in that alley. I had hung the last of my hope on the remote possibility that Grace might have found her own way home. I’d almost convinced myself that we’d inadvertently had some communication confusion somewhere along the line.
I paused at the door, and for the first time in years, I offered up a prayer.
Please, God. Please let her be inside.
I drew in a deep breath and pushed the door open to find Mrs. Hills sitting on the couch watching the television, wearing a deep-set scowl.
“Where is she?” Mrs. Hills bit out as she struggled to her feet, only to wave her cane vaguely in my direction. “She said three o’clock! It’s nearly nine-thirty! My husband had to make his own dinner and he is furious!”
“Grace isn’t here?” I whispered.
“No, she’s certainly not!” Mrs. Hills said, raising her voice just a little, then glancing toward the boys’ bedroom guiltily. She dropped it to a whisper before she finished, “And neither is he, the useless lout he is. He’ll stumble in drunk sooner or later, mark my words.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hills,” I said. When Mrs. Hills started walking toward the door and I realized she intended to leave me alone with the children, I panicked. “Oh, please don’t leave. I have to—”
“Young lady, I have been here all day with those children. I am exhausted. If you think I’m staying here for one more second, you have another thing coming.”
The door slammed behind her, and I found myself standing alone in Grace’s living room. Panic once again began to claw at my throat but I had to hold myself together because I had no idea when Patrick would walk through that door. I needed a plan to keep looking for Grace, but I also needed to come up with some kind of story to tell her husband, because I knew that if I told him the truth, he’d have no qualms in handing me over to the police.
“Momma?” a tiny voice said behind me. I spun around to face the entrance to the bedroom, and there in the doorway stood Beth. She was clutching a teddy bear, wearing a green nightgown and diaper, and her little cheeks were rosy red.
She was utterly adorable, and I was absolutely terrified of her.
“No, not Momma,” I croaked, shaking my head. “It’s Aunt Maryanne.”
“Where Momma?” Beth asked me. She dropped the teddy bear to rub sleepily at her eyes, and my chest started to feel tight. Gone, Bethany. She’s gone and maybe she’s never coming back to us. I waved her vaguely back towards her room, trying to school my features to hide my fear.
“Go back to bed. Everything is fine.”
“Want Momma,” Beth said, dropping her hands from her eyes to give me a stubborn, determined glare.
“Soon,” I lied, and then I spoke far too curtly, “Now go back to bed!”
I’d had zero experience with small children. I didn’t need to know how to interact with them, given I had no intention of ever being responsible for the care of my own. I was so naive that when Beth’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to wail, I was actually shocked by her reaction.
“Momma!” she cried, and I looked frantically around the room, trying to figure out what to do to make her be quiet before she woke the other children. I rushed to her, but this only scared her more, and the volume of her cry grew louder. I scooped her up in my arms and stepped out of the bedroom, pulling the door closed so Ruth wouldn’t wake up, and then I walked briskly to sit on the brown upholstered couch.
“Listen,” I said desperately. “Listen to Aunt Maryanne, Bethany. Mommy isn’t here right now and you’re just going to have to be brave because...well...” It hit me then—really hit me—just how much we all might have lost. “Oh, God. I just don’t know what to do.”
My voice broke, and Beth hesitated mid-sob. She was sitting on my lap, but she leaned away from me, so that she could stare back at me. There were still heavy tears in those huge blue eyes, but something had changed. Now Beth seemed almost curious.
I saw my sister in that face. I saw Grace’s innocence and optimism, and I simply could not bear it because what if Grace was dead and this poor child had lost her mother because of me? I closed my eyes, and the tables were turned, because now it was me battling sobs.
But little Bethany Walsh knew just what to do. She wrapped her arms around my neck and her chubby little hand clumsily patted between my shoulder blades. She dropped her head onto my shoulder, and she soothed me with a whispered, “Shhh...”
At first, I saw Beth’s natural inclination to comfort me as proof of failure on Grace’s part. I wondered if Grace had cried in front of her children so many times that even her toddler knew how to react.
But then Beth’s arms contracted around my neck, and I had a sudden, startling shift of perspective. If the world needed anything in those days, it was people who could empathize—people who cared. And it was easy to judge Grace, but it was also apparent that Grace had been harder on herself than anyone. Somehow, she’d taught a toddler to emulate the very best traits known to humanity. Beth couldn’t speak fluently or read or drive a car, but that child already knew how to recognize pain and to respond to it with kindness. Something my own mother has yet to master. Something I myself had never really been good at. This child’s easy compassion for my pain was a small miracle in the darkest hour.
And as I recognized the remarkable nature of Beth’s comfort to me, I finally let myself wonder if Grace had, without even knowing it, taught her children her very last and most important lesson.
* * *
The front door opened several hours later. I was still on the couch, facing away from the door. Beth was curled up asleep on my lap now because every time I moved she woke up. Even so, I knew it wasn’t Grace...mostly because I could smell Patrick long before I saw him.
“What’s for dinner?” he slurred, walking unsteadily toward the small kitchen. His tone was rough, and the yeasty stench of beer rose off him in waves. Like his youngest daughter, he’d seen what he expected to see and mistaken me for his wife.
“Patrick,” I whispered, glancing frantically down at Beth. He stopped h
is path toward food, and turned to face me. The surprise in his gaze quickly cleared, and was replaced with disgust.
“You,” he said, his nostrils flaring. “Baby killer. Get your fucking hands off my daughter. And you dragged me and my wife into your filthy—”
“Have you seen Grace?”
Patrick blinked at me, the scowl clearing, and confusion taking its place. It was then that I realized he was rolling drunk, and this was going to be both easier and harder than I’d feared. I immediately abandoned my plans to ask him to put Beth to bed, fearing that he’d drop her.
“She’s...” Confusion flickered over his features. “She took you to...”
“I came back from the...the procedure,” I whispered thickly. “She wasn’t waiting for me like she said she would be. I can’t find her anywhere.”
I was lying on the fly. Despite the hours I’d had to come up with a cover story, my panic had been so intense that I’d failed to script a plan for how to handle Patrick or even my parents. But as the words left my mouth, I realized that Grace’s lie to Patrick could help me, and for just a moment I felt relief.
Until, of course, I realized that the only way my lie would actually help me was if we never found Grace, because if she turned up in a hospital injured from her procedure, the truth would be revealed.
I was already assuming that she was dead.
Subconsciously, maybe I already knew she was. I started to feel sick all over again and I was sobbing before I even realized there were tears in my eyes.
“Where...” Patrick shook his head, clearly trying to gain some clarity. He looked from me to Beth, then from Beth to the kitchen, then he pointed right at me. “Don’t you dare fucking move.”
He walked to the kitchen, and I heard him puttering around. He ran the faucet. Soon I could smell coffee in the air. The fridge door opened and closed. The bread bin opened and closed. And soon he returned to the living area with a mug of coffee and a thick, dry piece of bread in his hand. He sat opposite me, gulping at the coffee between large, messy bites of the bread. The coffee was steaming hot—far too hot to drink—but I could see that Patrick was quite desperate to sober up, because he drank it anyway, his eyes watering with every sip.
