Luca lifts his drink. June doesn’t miss the surprise on Pia’s face. “To my son, Jordan, who sadly never got spend even one Christmas on Earth, but I know there are better plans for him. Merry Christmas, little one, I miss you…” his voice cracks and he stops for a breath, “every single day.”
Tears wet Pia’s eyes, and she turns away from Luca to face June. Their eyes meet, and Pia has an expression that asks, ‘did you know that, and why haven’t you told me?’
They all raise their drinks, chiming them against each other. “Merry Christmas,” June says.
“Merry Christmas,” the others say in turn to each other. They clink their glasses together and drink deeply.
“Well that certainly made things sombre,” Lily-Rose says wiping the tears from her cheeks with her napkin.
But isn’t that life—new moments continuously created over the accumulation of hurt, loss, victory and love. In the end, it all rolls into one.
Chapter 33
Grace
Grace could barely sit still during the long flight to Perth—a combination of dread, anticipation, and excitement surging through her body.
She is unsure of the last time she ever felt so nervous about anything, except burying John. This planned meeting with Rebecca is strangely the same, though, in this case, they are, in a way, re-raising John.
After a sleepless night in a hotel, Grace rises early. She and Mary head downstairs to the hotel restaurant for bacon and eggs and a cup of tea. Not that Grace can eat much. Only a few occasions in her life has she ever lost her appetite—her wedding day, the first day of a serious bout of food poisoning, both labours with her sons, and the day of John’s funeral.
At midday, Grace dresses into a pair of red mid-calf trousers, which she matches with a sheer white blouse that has lovely buttons in the shape of flowers down the front. She spends more time than usual on her hair but doesn’t apply makeup, only a dash of tinted moisturiser and some lightly coloured lip balm. She may not have been the one in the family blessed with looks, but she did inherit lovely skin that has aged well.
She wants to be presentable for Rebecca. A slight sense of competition has arisen within her with Rebecca’s mother. Will she be more beautiful than Grace? Is she the reason why John was so different before he died—had he regretted not being with this woman and spending his life with Grace?
As Grace and Mary walk down the street towards the restaurant where they will be meeting Rebecca, her limbs are jittery. Her neck keeps tensing, making her head shake from time to time.
“Come on now,” Mary says after the third nervous sigh. “Hold your head up high. Shoulders back. Take a few deep breaths. Rebecca is going to be nervous too, best have at least one person in there with some control.”
“That’s what you’re here for.”
“No, I’m here for support. It won’t matter how calm I am, Rebecca will only be concerned with you.”
Grace does as Mary says and pulls her body up taller. She takes a few deep breaths as they near the restaurant. Outside the door, she clings to Mary’s arm. “Just wait a moment.” Her stomach is knotted with nerves. So many scenarios are spinning through her head. What is said to her within that restaurant about her husband could change her entire life, past and future.
“Whatever Rebecca has to say, you’ll survive. We always do. It may be difficult, but you’ll cope. I promise.”
Grace draws in another deep breath and exhales with a shudder. It’s better to know than to continue imagining the worst.
They step inside. The young male maître de asks them for a name and leads them to an empty table. Grace wrings her hands as she slides into the seat beside Mary.
“Would you like to order something to drink while you wait for your guest?” the maître de asks.
“A glass of red wine,” Grace says.
“Make that two please.”
The maître de nods and strides away.
Grace leans closer to Mary. “Rebecca may have changed her mind.”
“She’s not going to make us fly all the way across the other side of Australia just to desert us at the last minute.” Impatience underpins every word. “And if she has, she will hear an earful about it from me.”
The front door swings open; the grumbling sound of traffic floats in. Grace’s head flicks up to see the incomer. A man. “She better not be too late because I’ll have a heart attack before the day is through.”
Mary sighs.
“So what do you think she has to tell me?” Grace asks, her fingers twisting again.
“I think it’s best not to speculate. Let’s wait for the facts.”
Grace flinches when a waitress appears beside her, presenting a bottle of red. She pours the ruby liquid into their bulbous glasses.
“Thank you,” Grace says absent-mindedly.
The front door swings open again. This time a woman walks in. Rather short. About forty years old. Large breasts and a big midriff. But she is dressed well in long black pants and a pale blue blouse. She has a full face of make-up—bright red lipstick. Her hair is dark and cut stylishly short.
“That’s her,” Grace says, unable to look away.
The maître de leads the woman their way.
“I think you’re right,” Mary says.
As the woman nears, a shiver curls up Grace’s spine and along her arms. Her heart rate accelerates. In this face heading towards her is her husband.
Tears pool in her eyes to see another remnant of John, one that is new and fresh, still here on Earth. It’s like seeing a photo she hasn’t seen before—a snapshot of his life, a brand new memory. New memories are impossible once someone passes away; photos, stories, secret daughters, are all that she has.
Grace lifts to her feet without thinking when Rebecca smiles broadly. How can she smile at a time like this? But then Grace remembers that Rebecca hasn’t been present for all the grief. She’s not about to hear secrets that haven’t been revealed to her before.
“Grace?” Rebecca asks.
Grace nods.
Rebecca holds her arms out and embraces her like she is a long lost friend. Grace wraps her arm around this girl, but she is, at this stage, merely a stranger who shares her late husband’s face.
“So lovely to meet you,” Rebecca says.
Grace’s voice shakes. “You too.” She swallows down the aching tension in her throat. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with us. This is my sister Mary. She’s here for moral support.”
Rebecca offers a sympathetic smile. “Of course. Lovely to meet you, Mary.”
“You too, Rebecca. Please take a seat.”
Rebecca sits across from Grace. She shakes out her hands. “Wow, I’m nervous.”
Mary’s smile is warm. “You’re not the only one. Grace has had the jitters all day.”
“It’s not a situation that I encounter often,” Grace says.
“No, it’s not.” Rebecca frowns as she meets Grace’s gaze. Her eyes are the pale-blue colour of John’s. It prickles Grace’s flesh with goosebumps.
“I’m really very sorry to hear of John’s passing.” Such unfaltering sincerity.
Not Dad. But John. Grace is grateful for that, though she is sure it isn’t a courtesy to her but rather that this woman doesn’t feel that John is her father.
“Thank you. It’s been a very difficult fourteen months.”
“I’m sure. I lost my Mum to brain cancer four years ago after a ten-year long battle.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mary says.
Grace frowns “Such a terrible loss to lose one’s mother.”
Rebecca nods sombrely. “It was quite a blow to hear that John had passed away so soon after reaching out to me. In a small way, I wish I’d never heard from him to start with.”
Her words are like a slap. Grace flinches. She would never wish away the time she spent with her husband to avoid the grief at the end of their life together. But this girl didn’t love him like she did. This girl
didn’t even know him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that in a harsh way. I … it feels like we got so close and I hesitated. Obviously for too long. I guess I hold some guilt about that.”
Grace reaches for her glass of wine and has a deep swallow. “Yes. I can understand that.”
“So how old are you, Rebecca?” Mary asks, her glass of wine between her hands; there’s a slight tremble to them causing ripples on the wine’s surface.
“I’m forty-five. I was three when he went missing.”
Grace leans forward. “Missing?”
“Let’s order lunch, then we’ll get into it. I’m sure you’re eager to know what happened. But let me say, the truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.” She motions to the waitress.
Grace shares a glance with Mary.
The waitress arrives and takes Rebecca’s drink order—a bourbon and coke.
They quickly peruse the menu and order their respective meals, not that Grace is even remotely hungry. She wants to know what this strange truth could possibly be.
By the time the waitress leaves, she’s tangled with frustration and anticipation.
“As you can imagine, Rebecca, I am very curious to see how you fit into my husband’s life. He contacted you, you said?” Grace asks when she can no longer handle the suspense any longer.
“Yes. He tried to get in contact with my mother, but, as I said, she is no longer with us. So I was the next in line. Nearly two years ago, I received a letter from a private investigator. I thought it was a joke at first. But the details were too real for it to be a joke. The investigator asked if I was willing to meet with him, so he could give me details about John.” She frowns. “Forgive me for calling him John, but I have a father, Peter, Mum’s husband, who is the only father I’ve known.”
Grace lifts her glass to her lips and sips. “It must have come as quite a shock.”
“Very much so. But I was also incredibly curious because all my life I had wondered how he could have left us and never looked back. So to hear from him, offered an opportunity to have lifelong questions answered.”
“Do you have any other sisters and brothers?” Mary asks.
She shakes her head. “None alive.”
Grace nods, understanding what has been left unstated.
The waitress comes back with Rebecca’s drink, quietly places it in front of her and leaves.
“I agreed to meet with the investigator. He had a lot of documentation—newspaper clippings and written accounts from John. It was so much to take in and left me in a head-spin for many months. That’s why it took so long to write back.”
Grace leans forward again, eager to hear the crux of the story.
“I had a long meeting with the investigator. John had hired him after his memories came back.”
Grace shakes her head. “Pardon? What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Rebecca reaches into her purse and retrieves an envelope. She slides the letter out and hands it to Grace.
Grace slowly reaches for it with a trembling hand, afraid to come face to face with the handwriting she knows so well. Her heart flutters to see John’s script all in capital letters, the only way he knew how to write.
After she retrieves her reading glasses from her purse and poises them on her nose, she reads the letter out loud.
Dear Rebecca
I know it has been a very long time and you may not remember me, but I am your dad. You were only three when I left Perth to work in Queensland. You might be wondering why I haven’t tried to contact you before now, and the story behind that is impossible for me to believe at times, so I may as well start at the beginning.
Your mum and I married young. We met while in school. Before you turned two, your little brother, Thomas, arrived. Your mother and I loved you both very much, and we were happy.
I worked as a floor-layer and had to carry the big rolls of carpet from job to job. One day, and I’m sure your mother has told you about this, I backed out of the driveway. Thomas was almost twelve months old and had started walking. He had escaped out the front after me without me noticing one morning as I was heading off to work. He was behind my ute when I reversed out of the driveway.
I didn’t see him there and I backed over him. He didn’t survive the trauma.
Grace stops reading when her voice cracks. Her ears are dull except for a high-pitched ringing. “He killed your brother?”
Rebecca nods, her lips pulling into a frown. “Mum had never hidden the truth from me about that. She told me at quite a young age what had happened. I can’t remember it all, but supposedly Thomas’ head was crushed when John had pulled him out from underneath the ute. Mum ran down the street screaming for help with Thomas’ broken body in her arms.”
Grace’s hands cover her mouth on her noisy gasp. “That’s horrifying.”
“Mum never got over it. Not completely.”
Grace is silent for a long moment, unsure if she has the composure to keep reading. She stares at Mary, whose eyes are wide with shock.
“Would you like me to read it out?” Rebecca asks. “I’ve had a long time to process it all.”
Grace takes off her glasses and hands Rebecca the letter. “Please.”
I’m not sure anyone can imagine the pain, guilt, regret and self-hatred that comes with an accident like this. For a very long time, I could barely cope with life. I was unable to look at my face in a mirror. I had panic attacks. Nightmares. Violent outbursts, which, sadly, your mother was at the receiving end of. I know now that I was suffering from what is called PTSD. But there wasn’t a name for it back then.
For your sake and your mother’s, we parted ways. I moved out and lived in an apartment on my own a couple of towns over. I didn’t see you very often. I think your mother preferred that because she didn’t have to look at my face knowing that I had killed our son. I couldn’t blame her for feeling that way. I hated myself too.
Eventually, I was desperate enough financially that I had to work again. I went back to carpet laying but with a different company. They got a big contract in Queensland. It felt like a good chance to move forward with my life—a new start in a new state, a long way away from what I had done.
I headed over to North Queensland to repair houses damaged in a cyclone. I don’t know exactly what happened, my memory is still hazy, but after a night at the pub, I was walking home when three or four blokes laid into me. I don’t remember what it was over—if it were my fault or not.
I woke up in hospital six weeks later. I had received a traumatic brain injury and had to be completely rehabilitated. I also couldn’t remember a single thing about my life or who I was. The hospital staff assumed that I must have been a local and ran articles in newspapers, but no one ever claimed me.
From that point on, I had to rebuild my entire life from scratch. I had to start again. I didn’t know what I was good at. Who my family was. But I always had this feeling of loss in the centre of my chest my entire life. It would smash into me every now and then, and I knew there was something there that was painful that I wasn’t remembering. And maybe it was for self-preservation, but I never wanted to look deeper into that feeling, afraid of what I might find.
But life had to go on, as it does. I met a lovely woman, whom I married and had two children with. We had a great life together. I told her that my past was painful and that it was something that I didn’t like talking about. That way, she let me be and didn’t pester me about it. I didn’t want to admit that before the age of twenty-five I couldn’t remember a single thing. I’m not sure why I lied. Again, maybe self-preservation. I didn’t want to be forced to remember.
Rebecca stops reading and looks at Grace. “Is that what happened?”
Grace swallows hard. “Yes.” Her voice is weak. “He said he had a tough childhood and had escaped his family. He never went into detail, but I always assumed they had abused him. He had scars on
his body—face, head. Which, looking back now, must have been from the mugging.”
“Most likely.”
Grace scrubs her hands over her face. “How could he have hidden all this?”
“Let me read on. He explains,” Rebecca says gently.
On my 65th birthday, my eldest son bought me a voucher to parachute out of an aeroplane. It was something I was interested in doing for many years. So, two weeks after my birthday, I did the jump.
I don’t know what it was, maybe the fear I felt, maybe the action of falling did something to my brain, but by the time I reached the bottom, every memory I had forgotten had come back. And the emotion of that struck me. All the grief and loss blasted through me like a grenade. I was shaking, barely capable of holding myself upright, and close to tears.
Forty-three years later and I still grieved for my son as though it was yesterday. My love for you still fills my heart. The man I was before my amnesia, I became again. And after so many years of being someone completely different, let me tell you, I was confused and frustrated and bloody ashamed of myself.
I loved your mother and you, but I wasn’t the best father. I drunk a lot. I mistreated your mother. I was unkind. And sometimes, I was violent. I’m not sure if she has told you all that but after all these years of not knowing the truth, I think it’s best you have it all now.
Grace gasps. She shakes her head. “This … this is hard to … believe.”
Rebecca places her hand on top of Grace’s. “I know. From what he says in the letter, he was a completely different person with you and your sons.”
Tears burn. “He was. Kind. Patient. Never violent. So good with the boys. And with me.” She closes her eyes, remembering the last few months before his diagnosis. The change in him. The mean streak. She can see how this all could be true. A tremble wracks her as she tries to reconcile the man she loved to the man writing this letter.
The Secrets Mothers Keep Page 21
