by Kelly Rimmer
“Thank you,” I say, and it strikes me all of a sudden that at least part of her awkwardness tonight is that she’s a stranger to us, but we aren’t strangers to her, given she obviously knew us at least a little, once upon a time. She’s viewing us through a filter of grief and sadness, even after all these years. Maryanne must have loved her sister very deeply, just as I love mine. As soon as I recognize her pain, instinct takes over and I throw my arms around her. Within my hug, Maryanne Gallagher holds herself stiffly, and I pat her back gently, unthinkingly. Suddenly, all of the stiffness in her posture disappears, until she’s almost limp in my arms.
“Goodbye,” she croaks, and she pulls herself out of my embrace and disappears out the front door. Ruth and I walk back to the living space in silence, until she gives me an odd look.
“What on earth about that bewildering encounter suggested to you that she would want a hug just now?”
“I guess...she hugged me when she came in and she lost her sister and...” I’m still reeling a little myself, and I shrug. “Honestly, Ruth, I have no idea. She just looked like she needed a hug.”
“Where’s Maryanne?” Tim asks when we return to the dining room.
“We asked her about Grace, and she got teary, and ran away,” I surmise, disappointment finally starting to sink in. When I look around my siblings, they all look every bit as crushed as I feel.
“Ah—do we call her again?” Jeremy asks.
“She has my number,” Ruth sighs, rubbing her forehead. “I guess she’ll call me if she changes her mind.”
“I prepared myself for a lot of things tonight,” Tim says slowly. He reaches for Alicia’s hand, and I see him flash her a sad, fond smile. “The one thing I didn’t consider was that meeting the mysterious Aunt Maryanne might be a dead end.”
“Did she seem familiar to any of you?” Jeremy asks thoughtfully. “When she was scolding me...joking about me ending up in prison... I felt this odd sense of déjà vu.”
“It’s funny you say that. I know exactly what you mean,” Tim says, frowning.
“Mom used to call me ‘sweet girl,’ and Maryanne used that phrase just now, too,” I tell them all. “And her coloring—she looks quite similar to Grace. We’re just confusing them.”
“It was more than that,” Ruth says quietly. “I thought I was imagining it, but she was so familiar and she obviously knew us. We must have known her when we were kids.”
“Did you bring that photo album?” Tim asks me suddenly. “I wouldn’t mind seeing those wedding photos.”
“And we need to check the date on the death certificate,” Ruth reminds me. I did bring Dad’s wedding album—I thought we’d show Maryanne. I retrieve it from the car and hand it to Tim. He opens it while I’m still standing beside him, and instead of the wedding photos I looked at the first time I found it, he reveals a completely different photo.
He’s opened it from the back, I realize. I didn’t even check the other side—I just assumed the pages I opened to the first time were all it had to offer.
“Is that...” Tim says hesitantly. I stare down at the image until my vision blurs. It’s of a couple standing on a set of concrete stairs, a large stone building behind them. Her dark hair is carefully done and she’s wearing heavy makeup, including dramatic winged eyeliner and lips that look dark in the black-and-white photo. She’s in a light-colored dress with ruffles all along the neckline, and her arm is linked through his. She’s looking at the camera, a wild look in her eyes and a grin on her lips.
Beside her, my dad wears a suit. His shoulders are slumped, but his expression is subdued—he’s smiling, but it seems forced. There’s something else in his gaze. He looks almost ashamed.
“That’s the front of the King County Courthouse,” Hunter murmurs, approaching on the other side of Tim’s shoulder. “Is that your mom?”
“It’s Maryanne,” Tim says suddenly. He looks back at me, brows knitting. “That’s not Mom. It’s Maryanne.”
He turns the page, revealing another folded, yellowed piece of paper. He opens it and reads it silently for a moment.
“What is it?” Ruth asks. Tim gnaws his lip, then glances back at me.
“Where’s that death certificate?”
I flip the album around and carefully slide Grace’s death certificate out to pass it to him. He swallows, then exhales.
“Beth was right. Grace died in 1958.”
“But I remember her taking us to school—” Ruth starts to protest, but Tim holds up a hand to silence her.
“And then a few months after Grace died, this happened,” he adds softly, and he turns the album around to reveal a certificate of marriage.
Bride: Maryanne Frances Gallagher.
Groom: Patrick Timothy Walsh.
We all sit in bewildered silence for a moment, then Jeremy stands. We all look at him, and he points toward the liquor cabinet. “I need a drink.”
“But what does this mean?” Ruth asks no one in particular.
“I had this feeling when she came in,” Tim admits. “I had this feeling that...maybe once upon a time, we knew her well.”
“Do you think...” I start to say, but I can’t make myself continue.
Sweet girl.
“I think instead of speculating, we just need to get in touch with Maryanne again,” Tim says.
“Because tonight went so well,” Jeremy snorts, but then he gives us a bewildered look. “And speculating about what? What exactly are you two saying?”
Tim looks at me. His gaze is soft.
“Do you think you’d be up for meeting with her on your own?”
“Why me?”
“Because I have this feeling that once upon a time,” Tim murmurs, his gaze sad, “you held a very special place in her heart.”
* * *
“I’ll get up to feed Noah tonight. But...maybe tonight’s one of those nights when you should take something to help you sleep,” Hunter suggests. We’re home now—I’m sitting on the sofa, Noah sleeping in my arms. I have the TV on, but I’m staring right through it, mentally reliving every second of that brief encounter with Maryanne. Hunter has been winding down, reading a novel beside me. He closes the book and yawns, and then reaches to gently take the baby from me. “I’ll put this little guy to bed. Are you joining me?”
“I’ll be in soon,” I promise him, “and yes, I’ll take the tablet first.” He gives me a surprised glance, so I offer him a wry smile. “You were expecting me to resist, huh?”
“Yeah. I was,” Hunter chuckles quietly.
“I just want to look through that photo album one more time, then I’ll come right to bed.”
“You don’t want company?”
I shake my head but rise to kiss him gently before he leaves the room with Noah. I take the damned medicine, knowing I’ll never sleep otherwise, but while I wait for it to kick in, I sit at my dining room table with the album.
I’ve carefully slipped the notes from Grace into the front cover tonight, simply because I had no idea what else I should do with them. Now I flick very slowly through the photos of her wedding day to Dad. My gaze travels all over the page to avoid looking into his eyes. My loss is still so raw—it hurts more than I can bear to see his image right now. Instead, I stare at Grace.
Is it you in my memories? Or is it her?
I skim forward to the photo of Dad and Maryanne. The defiance in her gaze almost makes sense now that I’ve met her. Even after a five-minute encounter, I’m certain that she’s always had a headstrong, bold personality.
Sweet girl. My sweet girl.
The memories rise again, of me tucked up close against my mother in her bed, of me curled up on her lap. I think of all the good things I drew from those memories, and the way they’ve shaped me over the years that have passed since.
And then, as clear as if she’s in the
room with me, I hear her voice in my mind.
I love you, sweet girl.
I flip back to Grace’s notes, searching for a phrase my mind can only vaguely recall. When I find it, I close my eyes and swallow a lump in my throat.
...and I called them “darlings,” because that’s what I always call them...
The tablet is already working and sleep is tugging at me, so I close the album and retreat to bed.
Grace was my mom, and I know she wrote the notes I found in Dad’s attic. I’m sure of those things—but I’m no longer sure how to place her in my mind. That series of beautiful childhood memories I’ve cherished stars the woman I thought of as my mother, but after tonight, I can’t help but wonder if I remember Grace at all.
NINETEEN
Maryanne
1958
I waited for Patrick on the front porch that night, despite the icy wind. I wrapped myself in the blanket from my stretcher bed and nursed a mug of tea to keep my hands warm.
Patrick was a little late, but when I saw him climbing out of his car, I understood why. His footsteps dragged and his shoulders were slumped—he looked just as Tim had when I sent him away earlier that afternoon.
“I’m staying,” I blurted as soon as he was within earshot. Patrick looked up at me in shock. “I still don’t know how we’ll make this work, but I’m going to stay. Between the two of us we at least have a chance of figuring it out.”
“But how...why...?” Patrick blinked at me. “Why would you do that?”
“Grace had her troubles, Patrick, but the one thing I never doubted was how much she loved her family. If I leave, the kids lose you, and they need you now more than ever and you’ve more than proven over the past two months that you’re the father they deserve. She would have wanted me to stay...and I can’t see how you could possibly keep them if I go.”
Patrick was staring at me in disbelief. He dropped his lunch pail to the ground and it clattered against the concrete, the sound jarring and unexpected—but not nearly as much as his next move. My heart was still racing when Patrick leaped over the fence to sprint up to the porch to embrace me. I found myself wrapped in the arms of my dead sister’s husband as he squeezed me so tight I could barely breathe.
“Thank you,” he said against my hair.
“This doesn’t make everything better,” I hastened to remind him.
“No, but it gives me a chance. Just a fighting chance, and that’s all I really needed.”
Grace’s notes, for the first time in weeks, were the furthest thing from my mind. My decision to stay was a pure one—and for maybe the first time in my life, I’d made a decision to prioritize someone else’s welfare above my own.
* * *
Patrick and I sat up that night and tried to brainstorm options with the new parameters of our situation, now that I was staying.
“I need to get a job. Maybe I can find a position at one of the colleges,” I said thoughtfully.
“But... I thought...”
“I can’t stay here and look after the house so you can work,” I frowned. When Patrick hesitated, I shook my head fiercely. “My job isn’t like yours. My days are shorter, and I won’t be traveling all over the city to building sites—just to whichever campus hires me. I can be home in time to cook dinner and watch the children. I mean, we’ll still need a babysitter, but between your wages and mine, we should be able to pay for some help.”
“And where will you live?”
I blinked at him in disbelief, and Patrick’s eyes widened. “Maryanne, my God. What would people say?”
“I could not care less what people say,” I laughed softly.
He sighed and shook his head.
“Mrs. Hills was already scolding me about you staying here even this long. She said it’s improper.”
“She said the same to me,” I said, shrugging. “I don’t care.”
“Look, it’s not that I’m not grateful, because believe me, I am. But do you really think your parents are going to back off? If anything, your presence only strengthens their claims about my immoral character.”
“That’s it, Patrick!” I exclaimed, leaping up from the table and thumping my fist against it in triumph. “You genius.”
“I don’t follow...”
“That’s the answer. All we have to do is get married.”
“What?” He grew very pale all of a sudden, and I laughed.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Patrick, I have no designs on you. But if we’re married, then they can hardly say we’re doing anything wrong living in the same house, and it settles their claim that you can’t raise the children as a single man.” He was still staring at me, gobsmacked, so I tried to clarify, speaking very slowly this time. “Because you won’t be a single man. You’ll be a married, gainfully employed man. Head of a complete household, in the eyes of the law and small-minded people like my parents. You might not be wealthy, but even so, I can’t see a court ripping the children out of a proper family like that.”
“But... Grace has only been gone a few months...” Patrick was utterly aghast.
“I’m not proposing we become husband and wife in real terms. Only in legal terms.”
“Maryanne, I don’t think you understand how much people will talk if we marry—especially now.”
I flashed him a wink.
“You should know by now that I don’t put much stock in what people say about me. But in any case, you wouldn’t be the first widower to hastily remarry so his new wife could care for his children.”
“Isn’t this shortsighted? What if you want to really get married one day?”
“I told you, Patrick. I’m never getting married. And do you really think you’ll remarry for love anytime soon?” He hesitated, then sighed and shook his head. “Well, even if you do, we can just tell everyone I was unfaithful and I’ll let you divorce me. It’s all quite simple really.”
“Jesus Christ,” Patrick said, closing his eyes. “I need to think about this.”
“Go right ahead,” I said cheerfully. “But do let me know when you’re ready to save your family.”
* * *
The next morning I heard Patrick moving around the house and I decided to get up to see if he’d thought about my proposal. I rolled toward the edge of the bed, only to find a small human asleep beside me.
It was Beth. She was curled up in a little ball, her thumb in her mouth. I brushed her hair back from her forehead, and felt a rush of love so intense and unexpected it brought tears to my eyes. Oh, she was my favorite, all right—with those sad blue eyes and that complexion so like mine. I’d never understood the appeal of children and babies, but Beth had more than carved out a place in my heart. I relaxed back onto my pillows then, and cuddled her close for a while, listening to her quiet breath, inhaling the scent of her.
But after a long while, I still hadn’t heard Patrick leave for work, and so I eventually pulled on my gown and walked out to the kitchen. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a resigned look on his face.
“Let’s do it,” he said without preamble.
“Excellent,” I said, making a beeline for the coffee. “Do you want to tell my father, or can I?”
“You want to tell him? He’s going to be livid.”
“Oh, Patrick. Believe me when I say this: Nothing, and I mean this quite literally, would give me more pleasure.”
* * *
I called Father at work the minute the bank opened.
“Father, I have some news.”
“You won’t change my mind, Maryanne. Patrick cannot raise those children on his own.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I agreed, grinning to myself as I watched the children in question tear around the backyard. “That’s why he’s remarrying right away.”
“What? But Grace is barely cold in the ground! Who is this st
rumpet he’s supposedly marrying?”
“The strumpet is me.”
I had felt for some time that having a relationship with my parents was a tenuous prospect at best. I had grown in the soil of their family home and thrived even though I did not fit there. But for some utterly bewildering reason, I did fit in Patrick’s family now. Grief and heartache had forged a bond between me and those children, and I couldn’t deny that their home now felt like my home.
And as my father cursed and sputtered as if I’d committed some heinous crime against him, I was certain that I’d finally rebelled enough to break the last ties I had with him and Mother.
Even so, I had no regrets.
After all, they had forced my hand.
* * *
We had to wait for Grace’s death certificate to be issued before we could marry. It was an anxious few weeks—Patrick and I were both on tenterhooks, anxious that my parents might try to take the children before we could be married. And for the first time we squabbled a bit—including a few arguments that ended up with one or both of us storming off.
I was also petrified of what the death certificate would say. The day it finally arrived, the postman brought it in the morning, and I couldn’t bring myself to open it for hours. Logically, I knew that it wouldn’t say Grace died from an abortion gone wrong that Maryanne arranged on her behalf—certainly if the police had any idea that an abortion had been involved in her death, they’d have come back to question us.
But that didn’t mean the death certificate wouldn’t give some clue as to the real cause of her death. And so I just couldn’t open that envelope, even as the afternoon disappeared and Patrick was due to come home.
As I heard his car pull in, I finally picked up the envelope and opened it with trembling hands. My eyes scanned the page for any detail, and when I finally saw that it deemed her cause of death inconclusive, my knees went weak.
