Take It to the Grave Part 3 of 6

by Zoe Carter

  I tried not to choke too loudly. I wanted to wake myself from this dream, have the sand swallow me whole in some freak sinkhole accident.

  “He was a little older than Elliot—but not much. Eight months.” The woman opposite me continued with her cute little horror story. “It was a hot day, a little hotter than today,” she reminisced, each word like a cold little hailstone in my mind, “and I’d just gotten out of the pool with my darling little boy. He loved the water.” Alice laughed. “He loved the water almost as much as he loved his daddy, and then he was just playing happily on the mat.”

  My head shook, just a little, in denial at this almost-pleasant storytelling. I hadn’t thought about that day in so long. I didn’t want to think about it now. It was funny. I had perfect recall of the events leading up to that day. Later, though, I couldn’t remember a damn thing.

  Make her stop, Maisey. Lucy’s voice was trembling with anger.

  I looked over at my sister, waiting for her to shut this conversation down, to divert everyone’s attention, hell, to call bullshit on my mother’s recollections. But my sister had this serene, trancelike expression on her face, her eyes glazed as though maybe she was thinking of something else that was so obviously not my baby brother. What the hell?

  My mother had miraculously turned her wonder glasses on to that so-painful memory, but that was so not how it went down, as though it was some halcyon day of a summer past. Fuck me.

  My mother hadn’t mentioned the fight the previous night—no, wait, a fight implied conflict, as though two forces were working against each other, but that wasn’t the case. No, my mother just curled up and took the beating Peter was dishing out, so perhaps fight wasn’t the right word. She almost died that night, I’m sure of it. She was definitely gasping for breath, writhing on the floor as she struggled to survive. I think he must have broken a rib or two.

  My stomach twisted at breakfast the next morning, that sickening, macabre show where we all had to pretend that it was perfectly normal for my mother to sit at the table, wheezing and wavering in her seat, her slow, trembling movements as she got his breakfast ready. Then he’d kissed her on the mouth, pulling her tight against him, ignoring her whimper of pain. Peter was going on a business trip to San Francisco, and Sarah and I were so looking forward to it, to him not being in the house... It was as though the house began to breathe again when Peter left on one of his trips.

  But not this morning. No, there was still this quiet, gut-churning tension as Peter’s car pulled out of the driveway. The heat was oppressive inside the dark house. Outside, the sun beating down, and the cicadas buzzing in the bushes outside. My mother lowered herself onto the chaise longue, hissing in pain, bruises all over her body—and more beneath the one-piece swimsuit she wore, I’d bet. Her face was untouched, though. Peter had learned, after the incident where he’d knocked her out against the oven, that people asked when they saw bruises. But he could do whatever he wanted if they didn’t see the bruises. My mother almost collapsed on the chaise longue, moving so gingerly, keeping her legs closed and curled up to her chest.

  I’d heard her screaming, last night, heard Peter grunting, the headboard banging against the wall. I’d tried to pull the pillow over my head, but even through that I could hear her screech as my stepfather raped my mother.

  I was staring at the woman out by the pool, so damaged, so hurt, and underneath my worry and concern had been a disbelief—and, if I dared to admit it to myself, a disappointment. This woman bore such little resemblance to the mother I remembered from when I was younger, from when my father was still alive. That warm, lively and loving woman had been replaced by this hollowed-out, pained and hurting husk of an individual, a submissive shell. And I’d felt shame for recognizing that, for wanting more from her than she was capable of giving, of being. It wasn’t her fault, and yet, sometimes, the anger would blind me, and I would have those brief moments when I blamed her...which made me hate myself—and her—even more.

  These memories overlaid the current situation, and I noticed Alice was still talking.

  “You don’t need to go on if it’s too painful,” Eleanor murmured, sliding her hand down my mother’s arm in what I could only assume was a unusual gesture of comfort from the woman, or perhaps it was a quiet suggestion to discontinue such a highly emotional and personal disclosure at a Taylor-Cox event. Alice was never very good at picking up nuances, though.

  “Oh, I don’t mind telling you, we’re family,” Alice responded, and I could see some of the other guests at the picnic shifting, uncomfortable and awkward with the intimate vulnerability and pain that was being shared with them. I just wanted to crawl inside myself and rock. “That’s the last memory I have of Frankie, that day by the pool.” Alice shook her head sadly. “I made a mistake that day, a fatal one. I was so tired, especially after that swim, and I fell asleep with the swimming pool gate open.” Alice turned to Sarah, her smile so tremulous. “You’re always so tired when you have a baby.” She turned back to Eleanor, who was now looking politely horrified at the story that was unfolding.

  “Frankie crawled right on past that gate while I was sleeping, and drowned.”

  I flinched at the statement and focused on the Burberry check on the picnic blanket, my mouth dry.

  “I don’t know if he thought he wanted to go for another swim, or if he simply fell in...” Alice murmured, then shrugged. “Either way, my baby son drowned, and it was my fault.” She blinked a little, and a tear rolled down her pale cheek. “I was punished. Two years in jail, but that wasn’t really any kind of punishment—not for killing my boy. Justice is a mind-set. I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll never feel like I’ve paid enough for that lapse.”

  Alice smiled, and her face was shining as more tears fell—the rest of the group still, utterly shocked by the story. I sat in chilled silence, the hot sun above not even coming close to melting my frozen consciousness. I felt like I’d been carved from stone.

  “My Maisey tried to save him, bless her. Fished him out of the water...but he was already dead.”

  My head came up at that, and I frowned. “I didn’t, Mom. That wasn’t me. It was the neighbor, remember?” No, I’d had nothing to do with my baby brother’s death, hadn’t been there to stop it, hadn’t been there to save him.

  That’s right. You tell her, Maisey.

  How could Alice say that? How could she think that? I swallowed, trying to keep my bile down, my fingers clenched tight as though I could hang on to my control if I squeezed tight enough. My stomach heaved. I was going to lose it. In front of everyone. I could feel the hysteria bubbling inside, the goose bumps rising on my skin despite the sweltering heat of the day. I looked over at Caleb. His sunglasses shielded his eyes, but I could see the tensing in his shoulders, the firm set of his lips. Oh, God, does he actually believe Alice?

  No, nobody believes Alice, and you’re not going to lose it. Breathe, Maisey.

  I did as Lucy instructed, and finally grasped on to my panic. My sister stilled beside me, and I looked over to her. She didn’t meet my gaze, her focus on the picnic blanket, but I could tell she was here, present, and not off in some faraway la-la land.

  Alice frowned in confusion. “If only that were true, Maisey, Frankie might be alive today...” The older woman turned back to the stunned Eleanor. “Maisey is a lifesaver now.” She shrugged. “I guess, over time, your memory gets distorted, and can play tricks on you...” My mother turned to look at me with sympathy, and I realized she thought it was my memory that was playing tricks.

  “That’s so true,” Lucy said from out of nowhere, moving into damage control. “I’ve seen many patients deal with trauma by remembering it differently.”

  Understanding dawned in Eleanor’s eyes, and she looked at my mother with sympathy. Lucy had again come to my rescue. Still, Mom thought I had rescued Frankie...?

  I blanched, an
d looked over to Sarah. She’d be able to confirm whose story was right—but Sarah wouldn’t meet my eyes, and focused on settling her son on her lap instead. I blinked, my jaw slackening, as shock and denial arced through me.

  “I can relate to how your memory can create its own story,” Caleb commented quietly. “There was this one time, when I was on a tour in Afghanistan...” I tuned out as Caleb recounted a war story that, despite its content, wasn’t nearly as horrifying in its delivery as my mother’s skip down faulty memory lane.

  I watched, heart pounding, as my sister ignored the fable Alice had created. Dismay and bewilderment fought against my panic, and sweat beaded my brow as I waited for my sister’s denial of my mother’s story. Instead Sarah stared at Caleb for a moment, then her gaze darted to her husband, and skittered away when she noticed her husband was watching. I couldn’t really focus on that, though, still reeling from the story Alice had just spun. I wiped my sweaty palms against my shorts. No. Mom was wrong.

  Dead wrong, Lucy said.

  Sarah

  I never thought in a million years I’d ever think this again, but...

  Thank God for Caleb.

  If it weren’t for my stepbrother, we’d still be suffering through the most awkward silence of all time. Damn my mother and her histrionics. Why does she always have to make a scene? It’s been fantastic to see Eleanor at a loss for words, however. I’m sure by now she’s wondering how she can politely un-invite the lot of us from her fancy party.

  Realizing I’ve become mesmerized by Caleb again, I avert my eyes. Warwick is watching me like the proverbial hawk and I don’t want a repeat of last night. The second we were alone he’d slammed me against the bedroom wall hard enough to make my teeth rattle.

  “What the fuck is going on with you two?” He hissed the words at me, his breath hot on my face. I wasn’t brave enough to feign ignorance.

  “Nothing. He’s my stepbrother and I haven’t seen him in years. We used to be close.” It sounded lame, even to me.

  “Ha! Bullshit. No brother and sister gawk at each other that way—except maybe in your family.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Forgetting my fear, I shoved him away. Though I used all my strength, I barely managed to move him. Warwick had never physically hurt me before, but for the first time in our marriage, I was uncomfortably aware of his power and the danger I was in. “Don’t forget, it wasn’t my idea to invite them.”

  Warwick smirks. “I can see why you’ve kept them a secret. Your sister is an airhead, your mother is a drunk and your so-called brother is practically fucking you with his eyes.”

  “At least my mother isn’t a dried-up old bitch, spending her days feeling superior just because she married a pussy-whipped millionaire.” The words are out of my mouth before I can reconsider.

  My husband’s face darkens. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me, Warwick.” I brace against the wall to keep from shaking. “Alice may not be Mother of the Year, but you have to admit Eleanor is no treat, either.”

  “How can you criticize her?” He seizes me by the arms, digging his fingers into my skin. “How dare you say a word against her after everything she’s done for you? You were nothing before you became a Taylor-Cox—nothing. If Mother knew what you really are, she wouldn’t cross the street to spit on your shoes.”

  “And yet, you were the one paying thousands of dollars to spend a few hours in my company.”

  Seething, Warwick throws me on the bed. As his body pins me to the mattress, he leans down to snarl in my ear. “Luckily I get you for free now. I own you, and don’t you forget it. You are bought and paid for.”

  The subsequent two hours were far from pleasant. He wouldn’t let me escape to the meadow, either. Whenever I tried, he’d pinch me—hard.

  “Don’t you dare zone out on me. I am not one of your fucking johns. Not anymore.”

  Warwick didn’t use his fists, only his cock and his words. A split lip or black eye would have been less painful. Several times I was tempted to scream, but I couldn’t bear for my family to discover what my life was really like, that the glitter and glamour was only cheap paper confetti.

  I wore long sleeves to hide the bruises where his fingers marked my flesh and packed my underwear with tissues to staunch the blood.

  It’s a struggle to be in the same vicinity. Seeing his smug expression makes my stomach turn until I can’t take it any longer. Once everyone is focused on Caleb, I stagger to my feet, trying my best not to wince.

  “Going somewhere, Sarah?” My husband interrupts my stepbrother in midstory, and the entire group turns to stare at me. In that moment, I would have gladly stabbed Warwick to death with a pickle fork. Only my son, sleeping in my arms, prevents me.

  “It’s too hot for Elliot. I’m taking him to the house.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Maisey leaps from her spot on the blanket before I can protest. “I could use a walk.”

  I clench my teeth to keep from saying something I’d regret. Before my sister arrived, I was used to dealing with the near-constant presence of the Taylor-Coxes, but even they had to go home eventually. Now I can’t get a moment’s peace. “You should stay here, with Mom and Caleb. They’ve hardly seen you.”

  As usual, Maisey isn’t one for subtlety. “Are you kidding? They’re already sick of me. Aren’t you?” She directs this last bit at Caleb. Our stepbrother hesitates, clearly unsure what his answer should be, but Mother nods with a silly grin on her face. She sways back and forth. I wouldn’t be surprised if she toppled into her plate of potato salad.

  “You girls go on.” She waves at us like she’s in a goddamn parade. “We’ll be fine.” The last word is so slurred it comes out as fffffiiiiiiiinnnnnne.

  “Yes, do take her with you. It’ll be a good chance for you to catch up.” The smirk returns to Warwick’s face. I’m tempted to tell him exactly what he can do with his suggestion, but there has been enough ugliness for one morning. I’ll leave the dramatic scenes to my mother.

  I set off for the house at a fast pace, hoping my sister will get the hint. Maisey falls in step beside me in spite of my best efforts. When we’re out of earshot, she gets into the real reason she came along, and it’s just as I’d expected. “Did you hear what Mom said about Frankie?”

  Trudging through the sand, I cradle Elliot’s head against my chest to prevent him from jostling around too much. Ever since Warwick taught me his little “lesson,” it hurts to move, but it’s also painful to sit still. At least when I walk I’m burning calories. “I tried not to, and honestly, I can do without a recap. All I want to do right now is go home and lie down. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “She says she remembers me taking him out of the water. She’s convinced I’m the one who tried to save him.” With the wind blowing her hair every which way, Maisey looks like an escapee from an asylum. “That’s not what happened. Why would she think that?”

  “Because she’s pickled her brain, Maisey. You could tell her Edward is Elvis and she’d believe it. No one is taking her seriously. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “I don’t know...” She twists her fingers until I’m afraid they’ll break. I’m surprised she doesn’t have knuckles the size of walnuts. “I saw the look on Caleb’s face while she was talking. I think he believes her.” Her words tumble over one another in a rush, and listening to her is exhausting. “He didn’t look happy. Sarah, I’m scared.”

  “Who cares whether or not he’s happy? Even if you’re right, Caleb will believe you’re a hero, and what’s the downside of that? If you’re wrong, it doesn’t matter, because we probably won’t see him again after this week. Either way, it’s not worth getting worked up over.”

  Reasoning with Maisey takes more energy than I have, and I slow down to catch my breath. How many times do I have to
reassure her? How many times do I have to say the same things?

  I’ve spent the majority of my life coddling my little sister, soothing her, convincing her everything is going to be fine. I picked up the pieces after our father died, and it was the same thing again with Frankie. When our neighbor fished our baby brother’s body out of the pool, Alice went completely mental. I was the one expected to hold the family together. Well, I’m not falling into that role again. I have my own child to worry about now; I can’t keep babying Maisey. “You need to calm down.”

  My sister is blessedly quiet for a few minutes, and I hope I’ve heard the end of it. Maybe we’ll finally be able to have a normal conversation about the weather and her career goals and what preschools have the longest waiting lists. We both need to quit living in the past and leave our skeletons in their closets where they belong.

  “Who will assume the guardianship of these two children?”

  “I guess I will, Your Honor.”

  The judge peers down at my stepfather, and I cross my fingers under the table, hoping the stern-faced man behind the bench will be able to read our minds. When I look over at Maisey, I see hers are crossed, too.

  “And who are you?”

  “Peter Telmen, Your Honor. I’m their stepfather.”

  The judge nods, shuffling through some papers. “I assume you are gainfully employed, Mr. Telmen?”

  “I’m an architect. I’ve been supporting Maisey, Sarah and their mother for years.”

  I gape at him in disbelief. Is he serious? Maybe he’s put food on the table, but in what twisted alternate universe would his style of “parenting” be considered supportive?

  Our worst nightmare is coming true. Mother is locked away, and we’ll be left alone with him.

  “It appears no one is contesting your claim to these children,” the judge says, and I sit taller in my chair, willing him to see me. I’m old enough to take care of us; I’m practically an adult. I’ve already been taking care of Maisey for years. The words “I contest!” are about to spring from my lips when Peter kicks me under the table.