by Kelly Rimmer
“You kept it for all of these years.”
“Well, yes. Because what Patrick read as proof of my guilt, I came to see as absolution. I made so many mistakes, but my worst was lying to him. If I’d come clean and he’d read this with an open mind, perhaps he’d have focused on what Grace was really saying here—that she wanted this desperately, that perhaps she even needed it. I was only helping her to do what she wanted to do. But in giving me this note, he gave me a gift, because at times my guilt at her loss would crush me, and I could go back to reread this note and be reassured that Grace’s mind had been made up long before she called me home to help.”
“What did you do after you left us?”
“I stayed with Mother and Father for a few months. I didn’t want to—but I had no alternative. They then gave me the money to set up on my own again, and I moved to the city so I could study. I finished my master’s, and then eventually my PhD and I built that career I’d always dreamed of,” she says sadly. “Father died suddenly later that same year, and Mother and I gradually rebuilt our relationship. When she got sick some years later, she came to live with me and I cared for her until she died.”
I swallow a sudden lump in my throat, and my voice is small as I whisper, “I missed you all of these years.”
Maryanne gives me a sad smile.
“I missed you, too, sweet girl.”
I raise my gaze to hers, blinking rapidly as I ask, “Why didn’t you try to track us down?”
Her gaze is surprisingly gentle as she murmurs, “You love your husband, don’t you, Bethany?”
“Of course.”
“I loved your father enough to let him go. I don’t know if you can understand that, but it’s the simple truth rooted in an exceedingly complicated situation. He always felt guilty that he’d fallen in love with me so soon after her death, and then learning just how badly he’d let her down and that I of all people had organized the procedure that killed her... I realized that I’d always be a reminder of what happened to Grace. I simply had to walk away to let him move on.” Her gaze becomes guarded as she asks, “Do you blame me now that you know what happened?”
“Of course I don’t.” I frown. “And...I don’t think Dad did by the end, either. Just before he died...” My voice breaks. Those moments are still too hard to talk about it, but she’s been so generous sharing with me—I have to tell her about them. “He thought I was you, and he was obviously trying to apologize to you.”
“When Ruth called,” Maryanne sighs, “I thought perhaps Patrick was ready to clear the air...”
“Maybe if he’d remained well, he would have someday.”
“He had a good life?”
“A wonderful life. We had to hire an event space for his wake because so many people adored him and wanted to pay their respects.”
“I’m so glad,” Maryanne says, offering me a sad smile.
“And what was life like after he asked you to leave us? Did you ever fall in love again?”
Maryanne straightens, smooths a hand over her hair, then raises her chin.
“Make no mistake, sweet girl—I’m not the victim in this sad tale. I’d never intended to marry in the first place. I only married Patrick to help him, and he was the last man on earth I ever thought I’d fall in love with. The five of you absolutely won my heart, but it was your family I loved. I’ve missed you all dreadfully and your sister’s call felt like a dream come true, but even in my heartbreak, I wasn’t about to go tie myself to another man in order to replace you.” She shrugs in a way that reminds me of Jeremy when he’s feeling self-conscious, and adds quietly, “The thing is, Bethany, if I couldn’t be with you and your family, I had little choice but to go back to Plan A—change the world. And that’s exactly what I did.”
Maryanne tells me about her amazing experiences in the 1960s and 1970s, earning her doctorate and fighting for women’s rights. She tells me about landing the job she’d always dreamed of, and explains how her time with my family softened her once very rigid opinions on the dynamics between men and women and their children. She tells me about her work campaigning for abortion law reform, and her pride that in 1970, a referendum to legalize abortion passed with a 56% majority, enshrining the right to safe, legal abortion in Washington State law years before Roe vs Wade.
But most of all, Maryanne tells me about my mother, about a woman who struggled against the darkness just as I have, but who had to face those demons alone, again and again. The idea of this chills me to the bone, because even with the support I’ve had this year, I’m increasingly aware that I’ve only just made it through.
“It’s hard to believe how different things were for her. I mean, I’ve been sexually active for...” I pause and do the math, then grimace. “God. Over twenty years. I was on the pill for more than half of that time, until Hunter and I started trying to conceive. It was actually quite easy for me to avoid a pregnancy until I was ready.”
“Society moved on so fast. That’s what we wanted, of course,” Maryanne says and sighs as she pats my son to sleep. With her other hand, she smooths down her wind-ruffled hair. “But there’s a cost in rapid progress like that, because women your age don’t always understand how lucky you are. Don’t want a baby? Go to the doctor and get contraception that’s cheap and reliable, or go to the damned corner store and buy a packet of condoms for a handful of change. Develop depression? Take some Prozac, see a therapist. For your generation, these problems have names, and because they are defined, solutions can be found for them. But for my generation, we didn’t have access to those solutions and it made life endlessly complicated...and for women like your mother, endlessly cruel.”
Two weeks ago I stuffed a script for Prozac into my tote bag, and it’s still there—resting between baby wipes and spare pacifiers and my purse. I clutch the strap tighter in my hand.
“Do you think it’s that simple?” I ask her, my voice uneven. “Things like tackling depression, I mean?”
“Of course it is,” Maryanne says dismissively. “If your mother was born now rather than then, she wouldn’t have died at the hands of strangers. She could have accessed contraception and planned out her family. If she fell pregnant anyway, she could have accessed a safe, legal abortion. She’d have given birth to you children when she actually wanted to. I know she’d still have developed postpartum depression—because it’s pretty clear that my mother suffered from it, too, and there was some genetic predisposition. But if she was facing that challenge now, she’d have been able to access treatment for it. She’d have been able to control her destiny...and that’s all my generation dreamed of.”
Sometimes moments of change happen during quiet conversations like this, when a simple shift in perspective empowers you to make a choice you just haven’t been able to make before. I know in this instant that I’ll wean my son, and I’ll take the damned antidepressants, because I want to feel better—for Noah and Hunter, but also, for me.
I don’t want to live like this, and more importantly, I don’t have to. I wanted to be strong enough to overcome this illness. I finally understand that in this case, being strong means accepting help to find myself again. With a little support, maybe I really can become the mother I always thought I’d be...the kind of mother Maryanne once was for me.
“I’m really glad we found you, Maryanne,” I whisper, staring at her.
She smiles kindly, then reaches to gently pat my back.
“I’m really glad you did, too, sweet girl.”
EPILOGUE
Beth
May, 1997
A wise man once told me that everything changes. He’s gone now, but his spirit lives on in the evolving patterns of our family life. Today is our second ever Walsh Family Sunday brunch. Jeremy and Fleur are back together, so last month we met at their new house in Pullman. But this month it’s my turn. Hunter and I have been cooking all morning, and we
couldn’t be prouder to play our part in maintaining the tradition Dad started all of those years ago.
In the end, we sold Dad’s house—it was much harder to justify keeping a connection to it once we’d completely cleared it out. Besides, Jeremy decided that he wanted his share of what was left after Dad’s care fees for a deposit, so that he could set up his own nest with Fleur. Not one of us could have begrudged him that.
It’s a beautiful spring morning outside—the air still bitter, but the sunshine gloriously bright. Outside, Ruth’s kids are playing tag, and from Hunter’s arms Noah is watching his older cousins make mischief—one of his favorite things to do. The rest of us—the sensible ones—are all enjoying the relative warmth of my living room.
There’s change everywhere I look these days. It might still be cold outside, but emotionally, my family has marched into spring.
“I think this brunch arrangement is going to be good for us,” Ruth murmurs, walking up to hand me a glass of champagne. Family brunch will happen once a month now, and it will rotate through each of our homes. I’m relieved that something of our old tradition exists, less worried now that I’ll drift apart from my brothers. Jez set up email accounts for us all, and between those messages and phone calls, we’re still in reasonably frequent contact.
“Yes, I think it’s going to be great,” I agree, knocking my glass against Ruth’s. “We only have to cook and clean up once every five months.”
Ruth grins and sips at her champagne.
“I already miss drinking,” Fleur sighs beside us. Jeremy slides his hands around her waist and pats her nonexistent belly as he grins. “Only eight months to go!”
“It’ll be over before you know it,” I tell them, and I mean it. Time flies by so fast at the best of times, somehow even more so when there’s a baby involved. Then again, my experience has hardly been typical. My first five months of parenthood were, in hindsight, something close to hell, and I’ve spent the past few months focusing on getting better. I still see a therapist every week, and once we got the dose right, Prozac has made a world of difference to my life and my parenting. Just like Grace once said, the dawn has come and the night is fading. It’s fair to say that accepting the help I needed to get through that stage of my life completely changed my relationship with my son.
“Here’s Mommy,” I hear Hunter say from the doorway, and then my boys are approaching me—both sets of cheeks rosy from the cold, both of them beaming big, cheeky grins. My heart just about melts whenever Noah’s face lights up like this, especially when I know that enormous smile is just because he’s seen me. It hasn’t been an easy road from where I was months ago to where I am now, but I’d walk it again in a heartbeat to be able to wake every day and enjoy the way this gorgeous, cheeky face beams at me.
“Maryanne’s here,” Hunter tells me, as I take Noah from his arms.
“Where is she?” I ask, peering back toward the door.
“She’s playing chase with the boys.”
“Seriously?” I say, then I pass Noah right back to Hunter and Ruth, Jeremy, Fleur and I all bolt for the window, catching sight of my senior citizen aunt just as she tackles Andrew, who is laughing so hard he’s almost in tears.
“Should I go out there and tell them all to calm down a bit?” Ruth asks uncertainly. “I’d hate for her to get hurt.”
“I think we all know Maryanne can take care of herself,” I say wryly. She playfully tickles Andrew one last time, then rises and dusts off her black dress pants and sweater, before smoothing over her hair and carefully rearranging her fuchsia scarf. She sees us watching through the window and flashes us a wink.
Tim and Alicia arrive last. He’s come straight from a night shift, and there are shadows beneath his eyes and a scruff on his cheeks. He scoops up a handful of crackers from Fleur’s cheese platter before he approaches us. There’s a manila folder tucked under his arm, but that’s not what we’re all staring at.
“Timothy Walsh, are there blond tips in your hair?” Ruth asks, eyes wide.
“That was my idea. They look amazing, don’t they?” Alicia interjects, and Ruth and I both tense with the effort it takes not to laugh.
“I think he looks younger,” I force myself to say.
“I think they really suit you,” Ruth says in an admirable attempt at politeness.
“Timothy, they do not look ridiculous, and you definitely do not look like a forty-three-four-old man fighting off his midlife crisis,” Jeremy says, and Ruth and I thump him. Alicia laughs, then rolls her eyes. These days she gives as good as she gets—and I know part of the reason why she’s so much more relaxed around us is that we’re all making an effort to include her, even in the good-natured ribbing.
Right on cue, she raises her eyebrows at Jeremy, and says drily, “We’ll all come to you for fashion advice, Professor Walsh, when you manage to buy an item of clothing that’s not brown or beige.”
“Those colors bring out the sparkle in my eyes,” Jeremy says defensively. “Fleur always says so, don’t you, honey?”
Fleur grimaces, and we all laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Maryanne asks.
“Just our usual childish banter,” I tell her.
“In that case, I’m sad to have missed it. How is everyone?” Maryanne moves around the circle of my siblings and their spouses, planting a quick kiss on each of our cheeks, then slips right into the group. We’ve come a long way since that awkward dinner at Dad’s place last year. Maryanne is as much a part of this family now as I am.
“Let’s get the kids settled and take a seat,” Tim says. “There’s something I want to show you all.”
* * *
Ruth and Ellis set their boys in front of the television while I fix a bottle for Noah, then the adults of the family meet back at my dining room table. I’ve made Dad’s apple cake for dessert, and the air is heavy with cinnamon and apple. Between the noise and the crowd and the scent of that cake, it feels like Dad’s spirit is alive in this house today, and I love it.
Hunter and Maryanne playfully fight over who’s going to feed Noah, but inevitably she wins, and she grins at me as she sits down to give my son his formula. Noah is old enough to hold the bottle himself these days, but he seems delighted to lie back and let Maryanne feed him instead. I chuckle at the blissed out look on his face as he nestles into her and starts to gulp, then chuckle again at the matching look of contentment on Maryanne’s face as she stares down at him.
Tim opens the manila folder, revealing a thick stack of bank statements. He’s highlighted some lines and Post-its are attached to some of the pages. Tim smooths his hand over the papers, then pushes the folder into the middle of the table.
“You can look through this yourselves if you’re interested in the details, but I wanted to let you know that I found out where Dad’s money went.”
“Oh, God,” Jez groans. “I’m scared to ask.”
“No need to be scared,” Tim says, then he smiles. “He donated it. All of it, it would seem—to Planned Parenthood. There were small amounts going back as far as I could find, but since he retired, more and more money every year.”
“Wow. That’s so sweet,” Ruth says, eyes wide.
“Wait—do you think this means he felt guilty for all of those decades? Was he trying to make atonement for what happened to Mom?” Jeremy asks, frowning.
I shake my head.
“You read the notes. He probably did feel guilty, but I don’t think that defined his life, and I don’t think that’s what this is about. I have a feeling that these donations were Dad’s way of honoring Mom, and his way of quietly trying to make things better. For us...and for all of the women who come after her.”
Maryanne looks up at me, and a gentle smile transforms her features. In this woman, I’ve found my mother—not just because of my childhood memories of her or because she can share her own memories
of Grace with me, but because of who she is to me now. She’s a living example of the kind of bold, brave woman I want to be.
“A beautiful gesture,” Maryanne murmurs now. “From a beautiful man.”
“I miss him,” Ruth says softly. There are quiet murmurs of agreement from around the table.
“Everything changes,” Tim says quietly.
“You’re right about that. The whole family changed this year,” Jeremy remarks.
“But can you imagine us any other way now?” I ask, and one by one, they all shake their heads.
If there’s one thing I’m sure of these days, it’s this: our chaotic, quirky family was built with love, and whatever comes next for us, that love will continue to grow.
That’s the way Dad raised us, and I like to think that somehow, he knows we’re continuing on in his honor.
* * *
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
As is always the case with my books, I spent many months researching the subject matter, and I was so fortunate to have a lot of help in doing so. However, it should be noted that any mistakes in the content of the story are mine alone.
When I realized how key postpartum depression was going to be to this book, I asked friends if they knew anyone who might be able to share their experiences of the disorder with me. To my surprise, I had so many offers of help, I couldn’t possibly interview everyone who was willing to chat with me. In the end, I spoke with more than a dozen women about their experiences with postpartum depression. To Monique, Lucy, Amanda, Victoria, Stacee, Ellie, Kym, Anne and others who did not wish to be named, thank you so much for your courage, your candor and your eagerness to share your stories with me.
