by Kelly Rimmer
“You okay?” Patrick greeted me, just seconds later. “You look awfully pale.”
I shoved the death certificate at him, and he read it, his face set in a grim mask.
“No wonder you look sickly,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Jesus. It’s hard to read that, isn’t it?”
It was hard to read her death certificate. But it was also a relief, and I was starting to really believe that my role in Grace’s death might never come to light. I was still looking for her notes in quiet moments, but my fervor had begun to die down. It seemed unlikely that they’d ever surface, given I’d searched the house high and low so many times.
Still, I was well aware that as I settled into this new life with Patrick and his children, I’d always be looking for those notes. In coming to love those children, I’d only raised the stakes. Now, if Patrick did stumble upon those notes, it wasn’t only my career he’d take away from me...it was a part of my heart, too.
* * *
Patrick and I married a few weeks later, at the King County Courthouse on a sunny Friday morning. Ewan and his wife, Jean, were our witnesses. Patrick and I discussed it and decided not to include the children in the ceremony—we didn’t want to confuse them. But Mrs. Hills was pleased with this development, and agreed to mind the children for the morning. I’d once thought of Grace’s wedding as a disappointingly simple affair, but my wedding day was entirely without pomp or circumstance. Patrick wore a collared shirt, and I wore a peach dress. I did set my hair and did a careful job on my makeup—but mostly because Ewan was bringing his camera.
There was no emotion in the ceremony. In fact, Patrick and I barely looked at one another as we made our vows. I just kept thinking of the children—there was no doubt in my mind by then that I was doing the right thing, even if I was still a little unnerved by the responsibility I’d willingly put on my shoulders. The girls in the residential hall back in California had packed up my things and they’d soon arrive by courier, and my old life was gone forever—replaced by this new one where so many unknowns still remained. In the days before the wedding, I had started inquiring about work as a professor’s assistant at the universities in Seattle, but the response so far had been lukewarm. I had half a master’s degree under my belt, and a million ideas for things I wanted to learn and say and do, but the professors I’d met so far had all been skeptical that I could balance family life and paid work.
Even so, I knew I’d find a way. I always had in the past.
“...you may now kiss your bride, Patrick,” the celebrant beamed, and Patrick and I exchanged a horrified, awkward glance. He bent and kissed my cheek, and Ewan and Jean and the celebrant all clapped politely. We paid our fee on the way out of the courthouse, and then standing in the crisp morning light, I linked arms with Patrick and posed while Ewan took the photo.
“There, happy?” Ewan laughed.
“Absolutely. Could I please have a copy of that when you develop the film?”
“You’re sending that photo to your parents, aren’t you?” Patrick asked, amused.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” I smirked. My parents seemed to have given up on their quest to take the children from Patrick. We hadn’t heard a peep from them since I’d informed Father of our impending nuptials, but I didn’t need to speak with them directly to know they were intensely displeased.
By lunchtime, I was home with the children, and Patrick had changed into his work gear and left for a job site with Ewan.
I was now the second Mrs. Patrick Walsh, and officially a stepmother. As I formally adjusted to those roles, I was convinced the change was simply practical.
I was already somewhat used to my new responsibilities; now I just had to find ways to balance them with my true calling—my work. I knew there’d be barriers, but even so, I was determined that my new titles would never slow me down in achieving my goals.
* * *
“Professor Jackson?”
“Mrs. Walsh, nice to see you again.”
Professor Jackson’s expression and accelerated pace suggested it was anything but nice to see me again, so I knew he was just being polite. I chased him along the hallway at Seattle University’s social studies department, clutching my satchel to my hip as I ran. I’d met him several times over the previous months, and Professor Callahan had sent him a personal recommendation about my work ethic and skills.
Jackson made it clear he was willing to accept my transfer into his master’s program, but that wasn’t quite enough. I also needed paid work, because without it, Patrick and I would never afford the cost of a babysitter. This was my fourth visit to the university, and each time, I’d sought Professor Jackson out to inquire about a tutoring position.
“I just wanted to talk to you about the possibility of work with your department—”
“As I told you last time, Mrs. Walsh, I don’t hire married women as a general rule, because married women tend to have babies and leave me in the lurch. And you are not just a married woman, but rather, a married woman who is already responsible for a rather large brood of very young children.”
“Professor, with all due respect, my family responsibilities are my problem, not yours. And if you give me even a little work as a tutor, then—”
“You told me last time you were here that you’d recently married a widower, correct?”
“That’s correct, Professor, but—”
“Mrs. Walsh,” Professor Jackson interrupted me, finally stopping his frantic pace so he could face me. “You have young children at home who have lost their mother. Your job for now should be seeing to the best interests of those children, should it not? What exactly would you do for childcare if you found yourself a job?”
“We’d hire a babysitter,” I sighed halfheartedly. “We’ve thought of all of this, Professor. It’s not an insurmountable obstacle.”
“So you will outsource the care of the children you have agreed to raise, in order to fulfill your own ambitions?” Professor Jackson’s tone left no doubt as to how he felt about that arrangement.
“Are you suggesting that because I’m married, and have stepchildren, that I should give up my plans for a career?”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“But you have plenty of female students—”
“We have female academics, too—several of my tutors are women. I’m actually supervising a very promising PhD candidate at this very minute who happens to be a woman. But you won’t find any female academic staff in my department, or any others that I know of, who have a husband and young children at home. This is the way of the world, Maryanne, and so it should be. Society prioritizes the welfare of children over the ambitions of self-focused young mothers.” His lips were pursed, and the deep wrinkles on his forehead turned down, too. He looked incredibly displeased, and I finally admitted to myself that this door wasn’t just closed, it was locked.
“Self-focused?” I repeated, but I was almost too disheartened to feel outrage. Instead, I felt worn down.
On each of my visits to this university, I’d had pretty much the same conversation with the librarian and the staff in the administration unit. I’d had the same kind of response at Washington University, and an even icier response from the staff at Seattle Pacific. Plenty of women had jobs in those days, but even with employers who didn’t have a formal “marriage bar” policy, women with office jobs tended to resign once they were married, and always once they had children.
“I apologize if I’ve offended you, Mrs. Walsh,” Professor Jackson said. “But I won’t change my stance on this.”
The irony did not escape me. I had married Patrick at least in part because it was considered unacceptable for an unmarried woman and man to live together and if I was going to help him with the children, I’d have to live in his house. But that marriage had become an insurmountable barrier to the career I’d long dre
amed of, and without work, I couldn’t even afford to study.
Society seemed absolutely determined to define me as wife, and in doing so, to lock me in the cage that had driven my sister all but insane.
* * *
“So that’s really it?”
“There’s nowhere else to try, Patrick.”
“And you’re just giving up? Really? That’s not like you.”
We were sitting on the porch one night after the children went to bed. Patrick was sipping a beer, and I was nursing my fourth sherry. He didn’t want me to give up with my quest for academic employment. But I had been looking for work for months by then, and I’d come to accept that I’d accidentally backed my way into a corner. I was trying desperately to keep my chin up. I didn’t exactly regret agreeing to stay, but I was a little panicked at the thought that I’d just destroyed everything that mattered to me.
I was trapped. I’d spend hundreds of hours looking for that note from Grace by then, trying to protect my career. All the while, I’d blown up my career anyway.
“I’m not giving up forever,” I assured him. “Just until Beth starts school. That’s only two years away, and I guess by then you’ll have finished your foreman training, and you’ll be able to afford a babysitter even if I can’t find work. Right?”
“Right...”
Two years felt like an eternity, and I was miserable about it. I’d seriously considered seeking work and not mentioning the young family I had at home, but I knew inevitably that I’d need some degree of flexibility when emergencies arose. I knew women hid their marriages all the time so they could keep jobs they enjoyed, but hiding four small children was a bit of a stretch, even for me.
“I know I seem to say this a lot,” Patrick said, tilting his head at me. “But I don’t understand you. I keep thinking about the fact that you had an abortion because you didn’t want a child, presumably because you were determined to have a career instead. And now here you are, assuming responsibility for my children, even though it effectively means your career has stalled.”
Panic swelled, as it always did when I thought about Patrick finding Grace’s notes. We had, against the odds, become something like friends over the months since our wedding and I couldn’t bear the thought of how hurt and furious he’d be if he ever found me out. And, yes, maybe my career was temporarily on hold, but with every day that passed, I loved those children more and more. I was painfully aware that if Patrick ever found out the truth, this fragile truce we’d built for the children would be undone in an instant. But the panic faded, as it always did. I’d looked everywhere, and if I couldn’t find the notes, there was surely no way he’d accidentally find them.
“Your children are an immense blessing, Patrick. I’ve come to love them very deeply and I can’t even imagine my life without them. But that doesn’t change the fact that a pregnancy isn’t always the best thing for a woman. Childrearing is almost entirely a woman’s responsibility, and pregnancy is entirely a woman’s domain. For this reason alone I am absolutely convinced that a woman should have complete control over what happens to her if she falls pregnant. I don’t think I should have to justify my decisions to you, or anyone else, for that matter.”
Patrick sighed and ran his hand through his hair.
“What about the father of this baby? What were his thoughts on the matter? Did he approve?”
In this I could, at least, answer honestly, and I answered for Grace as much as anything.
“He didn’t know. It wasn’t his place to decide.”
“There’s at least one thing you’ve taught me in the five months since we got married,” Patrick said after a pause. He glanced at me, then laughed softly. “I now know you don’t have to agree with someone to form a very successful partnership with them.”
Patrick was right—our partnership was a resounding success. We’d settled into a new life together, and career struggles aside, it was a life I was coming to love.
Beth
1996
It’s not hard to track down Maryanne Gallagher’s office now that I know she’s a professor at Seattle University. Just after nine o’clock the next morning I call their switchboard, ask for her, and seconds later I’m speaking to her assistant.
“Professor Gallagher has office hours Tuesday afternoons,” the young man informs me by rote.
“It’s a personal matter. Is she available? I’d really like to speak to her.”
“Oh.” Maryanne’s assistant sounds stunned, as if he’s never had to deal with a personal call for his boss before. “Who’s calling, please?”
“This is Bethany Evans. Er...maybe tell her it’s Bethany Walsh.”
“Hold, please.”
The tinny hold music comes down the line, but only for a few seconds before Maryanne picks up.
“I had a feeling you’d call me today.”
“I’m really sorry about last night.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Beth.”
“I was hoping you’d be available for lunch today. I know it’s late notice, but I’d really love to talk to you, if you can spare me the time.”
“I’m...”
“Just me, Aunt Maryanne. Not the others.”
Maryanne sighs heavily.
“I never could say no to you. Where and when?”
We make arrangements to meet at one of the cafés near her campus, and I pause, wondering if I should call Chiara and ask her to babysit. After a moment, I set the phone carefully down onto the cradle and go to pack the bag so Noah can join me.
I have no idea why I’m voluntarily dragging my son on an hour-long drive across the city, and risking taking him along for what’s bound to be an uncomfortable lunch, but for some reason today, I just don’t want to be apart from him.
* * *
I’m a full half hour early, but it turns out, so is Maryanne. When I get to the café to look for a table with space for Noah’s stroller, I immediately see her in the corner. There’s a book on the table, but she’s staring at the flower arrangement in front of it, a vaguely distant expression on her face.
Maryanne is dressed in a similarly dramatic style today. She’s wearing a navy blue dress in a stiff fabric, with a square neck and hugely dramatic bell sleeves.
I know you. I definitely know you.
I draw in a deep breath and check on Noah in the stroller, just to buy myself some time before I approach her. But when I look up, she’s already seen me, and I have to force myself to walk across the room.
“I didn’t have a migraine,” she says, giving me a ruefully sad smile.
“I know,” I say. My mouth is suddenly dry, and my heart’s racing in my ears. I sit heavily, and blurt, “I have the most beautiful memories of my mother. When I was a kid, those memories seemed like some extraordinary gift from the universe, like some consolation prize because I had to grow up without her. I missed her, you see. I didn’t miss the idea of having a mother. I missed her.” Maryanne swallows and looks away, and I reach into the stroller beneath my sleeping son. “And I’ve missed her more than ever since Dad got sick...ever since Noah was born. I’ve thought about it all the time. And then when I was cleaning out Dad’s house, I found these...”
I pull the jewelry box out from the stroller, and Maryanne tilts her head at it.
“Does this look familiar?” I ask her.
She frowns, then shakes her head and reaches to pick it up. As soon as she opens it, she bites her lip.
“Oh, that sneaky man,” she whispers, then she blinks rapidly before she meets my gaze. “I didn’t think we could afford this ring. He must have gone back to get it to surprise me.”
“There’s more,” I say, then I pull the photo album from beneath the stroller and open it carefully up to the first page of Grace’s letters. I expect Maryanne to react with shock, but instead, she gives me a sad smile and reac
hes into her handbag. She withdraws a plastic sleeve and rests it on the table beside the album.
I recognize immediately the yellowed paper and beautifully flowery script of the page beneath the sleeve.
“That’s Grace’s note from April 14?” I whisper.
“It is,” Maryanne says, eyebrows lifting. “And how did you know that?”
“It’s a long story,” I laugh weakly. “How did you get it?”
“Your father gave it to me,” she murmurs, then she gives me a sad look and extends the note toward me. “Those notes blew up our whole lives, and this was the only one I ever got to read.”
Grace
April 14, 1958
Last week I decided I had two options: I could give up without a fight, and let the darkness take me away from my family. Or I could take charge the way my sister would.
It was Maryanne I went to for help, because she’s the kind of woman who can make things happen. When she arrived from California this week, she charged in to save the day and in no time at all, had organized an abortion for me, and even found most of the money so that I could pay for it.
I’m skeptical that Maryanne is right about the future—I can’t ever see men giving up the reins to this world, but when I see the way that she’s broken past every obstacle to help me, I have some hope. With women like Maryanne to lead the charge, maybe things really can change.
I’m up early because I couldn’t sleep. I just kissed Patrick on the cheek and sent him off for the day, Tim and Jeremy are watching cartoons, and Ruth and Bethany are still in bed. And in this predawn moment, I stop and reflect on what I am about to do.
I didn’t make this decision lightly; I don’t suppose women ever do, but sometimes, you just have to do things you never thought you would to survive. The cost of this sin is not nearly as great as I know the cost of my inaction would be. In the weeks since I realized I was pregnant, some part of my mind was already back at that bridge, staring down into the swirling ocean waters below, longing only for the pain to stop.
