Truths I Never Told You

by Kelly Rimmer

  “You can cry, Tim. You don’t have to be brave.”

  “But...” He looked from the grave to his siblings and then back to me helplessly. “I want to be a big boy for...”

  “Big boys cry sometimes,” I promised him. Tim glanced up at Patrick skeptically, and Patrick looked down at us, frowning. “In fact, sometimes even men cry. This is very unfair and it’s very hard, so it’s okay to feel sad and scared, especially when you’re with your family.”

  Patrick swallowed, then closed his eyes. Two heavy tears ran down his cheeks. When Tim looked up and saw his father crying his little face crumpled. He turned back to me, threw his arms around my neck and started to sob. Soon Ruth and Jeremy were crying, too, and I sat on the grass so I could hold the three of them at once. The priest kept looking over at us, and Mother was still staring at us as if we were tarnishing the precious formality of the funeral service by openly grieving the deceased. But we didn’t do anything really scandalous until Patrick also dropped to sit cross-legged on the grass, too.

  “Come here,” he choked, and the twins and Tim ran at their father, the four of them sobbing audibly against the backdrop to the priest’s ongoing monologue.

  “Momma,” Beth said, and she climbed onto my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck, then patted my back ever so gently. “Momma sad.”

  I’d suspected it the previous day, but here at the worst possible time was undeniable proof that Beth really was confusing me up with Grace. I knew that at least in this I had nothing to feel guilty about, but I did feel very guilty indeed. What if someone heard and assumed that I’d encouraged her to do such a thing?

  “Yes,” I said, for the purposes of anyone who might have overheard her. “It is sad that Momma is in heaven.”

  “So very sad,” Mrs. Hills agreed behind us. “It’s all so very sad.”

  * * *

  The wake was held back at my mother and father’s house—also known now by the children as “the castle”—and my parents’ caterers had set out enough food and top-shelf liquor to fell an elephant. I helped myself to a generous glass of sherry, but when I glanced at Patrick, he was sipping water.

  It was a dull function—more perfunctory than celebratory of my sister’s life—and I could see the children were all bored and exhausted after the emotional moments at the cemetery. It wasn’t long before Patrick and I exchanged a glance, and then by mutual, unspoken agreement, we made our farewells and left. All four children had fallen asleep before we were even out of Father’s street, leaning into one another in a way that made my heart ache.

  “You didn’t drink today,” I remarked to Patrick.

  “Your parents would have loved it if I drank myself into a stupor,” he said, dragging a heavy hand over his face. “I still don’t know how I stop them from taking the kids, but I figure a good place to start is to get my act together.”

  “Good,” I said, nodding. “That’s good.”

  There was a pause, then Patrick added, “If you have any other ideas, now would be a good time to share them.”

  “I don’t know if today is the day to talk about this,” I admitted. I was utterly exhausted, already hoping the conversation would fade so I could nap as Patrick drove home.

  “I don’t have the luxury of time, Maryanne. If you have ideas, spit them out.”

  I sighed and sat back up, then rubbed at my temples.

  “I think the first obstacle is childcare. Timmy will go to school in a few months, but there’s the matter of the little ones to worry about, and your work hours are much longer than a school day anyway. But if we can figure out a solution for childcare, then that’s surely half the battle.”

  “I was thinking I’d ask Mrs. Hills,” Patrick said. I coughed delicately.

  “She’s not going to be able to help.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I already suggested it.” I cleared my throat again. “She was most unenthused about the idea.”

  “Okay. Then I was thinking about asking Aunt Nina to move down here.”

  “Your aunt Nina?” I repeated, horrified. “Patrick, no. That isn’t going to work, either.”

  “I know she’s frail, but—”

  “She’s more than frail. She couldn’t even stand up long enough for the graveside ceremony.”

  “And she’s lived in her house for sixty years,” Patrick admitted, sighing. “Dragging her out of her home in Bellevue might literally kill her. The problem is that anything else is going to cost money I don’t have yet. It’s going to take me a while to catch up on the bills even after I’m back at work next week.”

  I closed my eyes, then swallowed the lump in my throat. I still hadn’t found Grace’s notes, and I knew that I couldn’t leave until I did. I could almost feel my escape to California slipping through my fingers.

  “I’ll call my supervisor and ask for leave until the end of the semester.”

  “How long is that?”

  “Six weeks. I could stay six more weeks to care for the kids. You can try to catch up on your bills, and we can try to find a long-term solution for the kids.”

  “And if your parents come for the children in the meantime?”

  “Then we find a lawyer.”

  “With what money?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I guess we have to hope they see sense before it gets that far.”

  * * *

  “Mommy?”

  “I’m Aunt Maryanne, Beth.”

  I had no baseline against which to compare her speech, but Beth seemed to be quite eloquent for such a tiny child. Still, she either couldn’t wrap her mouth around the words “Aunt Maryanne,” or my slight physical resemblance to my sister was just too much for her. Maybe it was some combination of both. All I knew was, every single time she called me Mommy I corrected her, and every single time I corrected her, she’d give me an odd look and ignore me.

  “Mommy, drink,” she said, and she took my hand and led me through to the kitchen, where she stared at me expectantly. I sighed and poured some water into a cup, then watched as she drank it. Beth passed the cup back and turned to leave the room.

  “Uh-uh, Beth,” I scolded. “Now, what do you say?”

  “Thank you, Mommy.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Maryanne,” I corrected. She toddled out of the room as if I hadn’t spoken, and I watched her go, frowning as I tried to figure out exactly what to do about the confusion. In the weeks since we buried Grace, I’d tried firmly correcting Beth. I’d tried patience. I’d even accidentally snapped at her a few times, because although I wanted to be compassionate and her circumstances were heartbreaking, I was grieving, too. I had just lost my sister, and my own life was hanging in the balance, because somewhere in that house, my sister had left the death warrant to my career. Some days, it was a battle to keep a level head, and the constant reminder from Beth that her mother was gone was almost too much to bear.

  “Mommy!” Ruth screeched then, tearing into the kitchen at a lightning-fast pace with Jeremy on her heels. “Jeremy hit me!”

  “Auntie Maryanne!” I exclaimed, and Ruth and Jeremy both came to an abrupt stop. “My name is Aunt Maryanne. Mommy is gone and she’s never coming back and you have to stop calling me that!”

  The twins stared up at me with wide, rapidly moistening eyes, and then Ruth burst into noisy sobs. Jeremy threw his arms around her and Tim came barreling in from the backyard.

  “Why is everyone crying?” he asked with some exasperation. And in that moment I felt like the child, because Tim had this parental way about him that was both disturbing and adorable for a four-and-a-half-year-old.

  “They keep calling me Mommy,” I said, my tone both defensive and uneven. Tim frowned at me as he joined Jeremy to console Ruth.

  “You’re not my mom,” he said, suddenly grumpy. “But she’s not here, and they miss h
er, and you look just like her. Why do you have to be so mean?”

  I guess that’s when it really started—when I finally stopped resisting the mantle the smallest of the children seemed determined to thrust upon my shoulders. Maybe I just gave in. Maybe I decided it wasn’t doing any harm.

  And maybe I let them call me Mommy because I knew deep down that but for me, their mommy would still be there with them.

  * * *

  Patrick and I had both become so sick of waiting for an awful phone call from my parents that after a few weeks, we unplugged the phone altogether. Still, I knew that sooner or later they’d just come to the doorstep if they were ready to make a serious play for custody of the children. And besides, instead of warily watching the phone, now I warily watched the driveway.

  Over the weeks after the funeral, I was genuinely run off my feet. I felt sure I’d checked every possible space in the house for Grace’s notes, so I started way back at the beginning, doing a second pass of every nook and cranny. When I wasn’t frantically searching, I made dozens of phone calls to day-care centers all over the city, only to discover that finding a solution to Patrick’s problem was harder than I had anticipated. Childcare was far more expensive than I’d ever realized, but even if money wasn’t an issue, the hours on offer were much shorter than his workday. How on earth would Patrick manage to get to work for his 6 a.m. start if the day-care centers didn’t open until eight? And how would he juggle picking the children up at 5 p.m., when he worked on job sites all over the city?

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my search was proving utterly fruitless, mostly because he was doing everything right. It was rare for Patrick to be late home from work in those days. He was always bursting through the door right when he said he would, covered in sawdust and dirt, making a beeline for wherever the children happened to be—usually bathed and in their pajamas, often snuggled around me as I read them a story. Those kids had such a voracious appetite to be read to, especially Beth. Some nights I’d read her a dozen picture books before I finally got them into bed, and we were walking to the library several times a week because I got so sick of reading the same books over and over.

  Still, I made a point to extract myself very quickly from the circle of that little family once Patrick came home, retreating to “my” bedroom to read. It wasn’t always easy—Beth had taken to me more and more, and some nights she’d cling to my legs or cry when I tried to say good-night. However, I was well aware that my time with my nieces and nephews would soon come to an end, so I made a point of quickly handing over responsibility to Patrick despite protests from Beth or anyone else. I’d walk to my room with my spine stiff, leaving that domestic bubble to go back to my own life in limbo.

  But one night, as I went to bolt for the bedroom, Patrick called after me.

  “Do you have to rush off?”

  If he’d hinted for me to linger anytime over the weeks since Grace’s death, I’d have been irritated at still more demands on my time. But this was New Patrick. This was the man who thanked me constantly, and who washed up his own dishes from dinner, and who noticed that Ruth needed new underwear and who tried very hard to catch up on his bills, even though that meant no money for whiskey. I wasn’t sure I liked New Patrick, but I didn’t dislike him, either, and I was conscious of a growing respect for the man.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked him.

  “Not really. Just felt like a chat.”

  The house felt like a completely different place without the stampede of little feet thundering against the floorboards or the television blaring too loudly, or the endless cycle of happy play that turned to raucous roughhousing that turned to the inevitable tears. The younger children all napped during the day, but rarely at the same time, and so I wasn’t sure how I felt about being out of my room during the quiet hours. But then Patrick flashed me a tired grin and asked, “I’m guessing you cooked enough for fifty or sixty people, like you usually do?”

  I laughed weakly.

  “Yes, there’s plenty there. Unfortunately, it’s not very good.”

  “Maryanne, have I ever once complained about your cooking?”

  “You have not,” I conceded. “But you’ll notice I don’t ever linger to watch you eat.”

  “I’m the last person on this planet who would ever criticize someone else’s cooking skills.”

  So we sat opposite one another at the dining room table with steaming bowls of the stew I’d made, and the silence was something like companionable. Patrick dove into the meal as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks, and only when the bowl was half-empty did he pause long enough to say, “If things at work keep going well for me, I’m getting a promotion.”

  “Really?”

  “Ewan said today he’d let me shadow him as foreman...to learn how to manage jobs myself so he can expand the business. It means a lot more responsibility—but also eventually, it’ll mean more money. A lot more money, if I do a good job, and maybe one day I’ll even be able to go out on my own. And once I finish training and my wages go up, I’ll be able to fix up this house and afford proper day care and who knows what else. Anything else me and the kids need, really. I just never thought Ewan would trust me with an opportunity like this but he said...” Patrick hesitated, then cleared his throat and gave me a surprisingly bashful smile. “He said that he’s been waiting for years for me to show some initiative, because he desperately needs another foreman.”

  Something about that smile endeared Patrick to me in a way I’d never experienced before with him. It took me a minute to grasp what it was. He had always been a little brash, a little too charming for his own good—but those awful months had humbled him. The sensitive side I’d seen hints of in the early days after Grace’s death was now on full display, and it was a beautiful thing to see.

  “My goodness. Congratulations, Patrick. That’s fantastic.”

  “It is,” he said, but then he hesitated. “Even if it complicates my situation even more.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, you’re going to leave us soon, and besides, this new job will mean even longer hours—”

  To my surprise, Patrick’s voice broke. I stared at him, stricken, as the pride in his eyes faded and gave way to the gleam of unshed tears. He cleared his throat again, and a heavy silence fell upon us. I didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you have to admit, it’s hopeless.”

  “Patrick,” I whispered, reaching across to rest my hand over his.

  “I won’t turn the job down. I can’t—it will mean a better future for these kids. But I’ve been calling childcare centers and...”

  “I have, too. I know,” I said heavily.

  “One of the lads at work said maybe the wives could help, that maybe we could set up a roster system and the kids could go from house to house each day. But you know what Jeremy is like. He’s such a handful since Gracie died and an arrangement like that is surely going to end in tears. And when Tim starts school next year, how on earth am I going to handle getting him to school and the kids to a different house each day, and make my early start? And then what if I get home late? And what about dinners?”

  He sighed heavily and ran his hand over his hair in exasperation.

  “I just keep thinking there’s got to be a way, but maybe there isn’t.”

  “I know,” I admitted. “I’ve been trying to figure it out, too. It’s just not fair.”

  “This really isn’t your problem. You’ve done so much for me already. I wouldn’t have even made it this far without you.”

  “Patrick,” I said, my own voice rough around the edges now. “Thank you. I’m sure you noticed that caring for the kids is hardly my strength, but I’ve done my best and—”

  “They adore you,” he interrupted me. “You’ve been such a good influence on them as they grieved. I’m sure you’ve noticed the
little ones have taken to calling you Mommy.”

  I hadn’t realized he’d heard them saying that. I felt myself flush with a muddled kind of guilt.

  “I’ve been discouraging them. But Bethany is still a bit confused, and the others are just mimicking her.”

  “It’s understandable. They’ve bonded with you so well. You’ll be an incredible mother one day.” He paused, then cleared his throat awkwardly. “When you’re ready, I guess.”

  I winced, shaking my head.

  “No. I don’t want children of my own. I’m more than happy to be a devoted aunt.”

  “So you won’t marry, then?”

  “No,” I laughed softly. “Absolutely not.”

  “I don’t understand you, Maryanne,” Patrick laughed quietly. “You’ve always seemed so determined to break all of the rules.”

  “You do understand me, then. Because breaking all of the rules is exactly what I’m determined to do.”

  “What’s so wrong with marriage and kids?”

  “Nothing, if they were options instead of the default. I want more for my life than to be someone’s housekeeper. I want a career and I want to see other women have the option to make choices, too, instead of operating as breeding machines for entitled men.”

  Patrick winced, and then I winced, too, and the quiet sense of “we’re in this together” somehow evaporated. There was a long, strained pause before Patrick pushed his chair back from the table.

  “I guess you better get to bed.”

  “I guess I should, too.”

  Beth

  1996

  I’m lying in bed the day after Dad’s funeral, trying to will myself to get up and get dressed, when Hunter brings me the cordless handset. He’s been off work since Dad passed, but he’s got to go back into the office today, and he’s already in his suit.