What's Left Unsaid

by Emily Bleeker

  “Rosie Mae, how did you hear any of that?” Guy asked over his shoulder, interrupting.

  Rosie hesitated and then answered bashfully, “Your phone is turned up pretty loudly.”

  “You can hear my calls, and you never told me?”

  “Maybe . . .”

  Guy laughed at himself. “Well, dang it, no wonder you know my schedule better than I do.”

  “Sorry, Daddy. I can’t help but listen. It’s just so loud.”

  Hannah snickered, and Guy gave her a questioning look.

  “What’s so funny, Miss Williamson?” he asked, not at all perturbed. More like they were sharing some inside joke.

  “Who’s the elder now? Damn, Franklin. How loud IS your phone?”

  Rosie let out a loud HA, followed by a trill of giggles.

  “Hey now. When I’m working construction, I have to keep it loud, or else I can’t hear a word. I guess I never thought of changing it. But I don’t think it’s nearly as funny as you two do,” Guy explained, looking back and forth between Hannah, Rosie, and the road.

  “It gets funnier the more you try to explain it,” Hannah said, getting far too much satisfaction out of the exchange.

  “How about you answer Rosie’s question instead of riling up the guy who is giving you a ride home. Unless you want me to take you back to the Gas Depot to wait for that phantom Uber that was never going to show up.”

  “Oh my God, I think that was a threat. Rosie, did you hear that? Your father just threatened to abandon me on the side of the road. I am shocked. Completely shocked. I think someone as elderly as your father should be able to provide a better example for his daughter. Am I right, Rosie?”

  “She’s right, Daddy. That wasn’t very nice,” Rosie added, with an air of forced seriousness.

  “Look at you coming between a man and his daughter. It’s downright unnatural.”

  “Hey, you were the one with all the threats. I’m just an innocent little passenger.” Hannah put up her hands and batted her eyes, even if no one could see it in the dimly lit cabin of the car.

  “Innocent, my eye. You’re a rabble-rouser.”

  “Did you just call your daughter a rabble? Rosie, I’d be offended if I were you,” Hannah called out behind her and heard a giggle in response.

  “Oh, hush, don’t you go brainwashing my child with your ‘Yankee ways.’” Guy put on an exaggerated, overly proper accent that was almost too spot-on.

  “You don’t even know how accurate that is,” Hannah said, a real smile on her face, feeling a fleeting sense of belonging that was as uncomfortable as it was pleasurable. She sat back in her seat, letting the strap hold her. She’d let herself go for a second there, allowed herself out of the carefully constructed shell she hid inside, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it just yet.

  “So, are you going to keep us in suspense? What story does Mr. Martin have you working on that has you driving your Mamaw’s piece of junk into Memphis on a Saturday afternoon?” Guy asked, clearly as curious as Rosie.

  Hannah bit her lip and considered her answer carefully, conflicted. She’d initially wanted to keep the Evelyn story to herself, and she knew Mamaw preferred to stay out of it altogether. But at the same time, if she hadn’t let Mamaw and Carla and Mr. Davenport in on the story the other day, she’d never have gone to Memphis and met Maggie, seen the children’s hospital, walked its halls, met Peter and Shelby Dawson, or gotten closer to finding Evelyn than ever before. Evelyn wrote to the newspaper because she wanted her story to be heard. What was the harm in telling it?

  “Well, first off, it’s not an assignment for Monty,” she said, turning her body to face Guy and so she could see Rosie better. She’d put away her iPad and was sipping out of her water bottle in the back seat like she was ready to watch a movie.

  “I guess that’s not much of a surprise. I didn’t think the Record was into much investigative journalism,” Guy commented. Hannah liked that he seemed to know something about the paper.

  “The story does start with the Record, but Monty doesn’t know anything about it. I’m thinking about pitching it to the Tribune.”

  It was the first time Hannah admitted out loud that she planned to write and publish this article. Of course, the idea had always been there, but she was getting more and more sure that Evelyn’s story needed to be heard, and not just by Hannah and the people she happened to talk to about it.

  “Oh my Lord, woman. Are you going to tease us forever? What is the story about?” Guy prodded, and the anticipation from both Franklins was tangible.

  “Wait, I do need to warn you that it is a bit violent. I’m not sure how you feel about that,” Hannah said to Guy, not wanting to make the same mistake she had earlier with her name.

  “How violent?”

  “Like, Dateline or 48 Hours mysteries violent,” Hannah said, trying to find the accurate scale and still lingering on the fictional titles she’d been brainstorming earlier for her own potential episode.

  “Oh, we love those shows, right, Daddy?” Rosie chimed in, which made Hannah like the quick-witted preteen even more than she already did.

  “So, it’s like a murder mystery?” Guy asked without responding to his daughter, maybe a little embarrassed by the fact that he let his twelve-year-old watch TV shows about true crime.

  “Kind of. Not a murder, but a mystery for sure.”

  Guy shrugged, and his shoulders flexed under the fitted flannel he was wearing, which suddenly didn’t annoy Hannah nearly as much as it had fifteen minutes ago.

  “Why not?” he said. “I like a good mystery.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “Then Rosie asked to see the letters.” Hannah fluffed the pillows behind Mamaw and then helped her lie back into the strategically placed supports. “I’m going to let Guy read them first to see if they are suitable for Rosie, but I thought it was adorable.”

  “I am so glad you’re home safe and sound. I have never been so worried in my whole life. What would I have told your mother if something happened to you?” Mamaw asked for the twentieth time that night. She’d been apologizing and comforting Hannah endlessly since she’d walked in the door at nine o’clock. Hannah was only one hour past her original ETA, but with all the drama that had happened in between, Mamaw was in a state of extreme anxiety. Mr. Davenport was holding her hand as she sat in her wheelchair, manicured nails digging into his skin.

  Hannah, who’d been smiling to herself while walking up the front path to the house, had to reset her mood to match Mamaw’s concern. But she couldn’t hold it in forever. This day had been filled with all the emotional highs and lows, but overall Hannah was hopeful and full of purpose. It wasn’t a big leap, but it was movement, and it was difficult to admit, but she was a little proud of herself.

  Mamaw had not recovered as well. Even after Mr. Davenport said his goodbyes and Hannah helped Mamaw through her slightly tardy bedtime routine, she had continued to run through the same script of concern. Hannah kept trying to calm her worries and distract her from the exhausting emotional loop. Her sleeping pills would do the trick in a few minutes, but she hated the idea of drugging her grandmother instead of comforting her.

  “I’m okay, Mamaw. I told you. I’m a city girl. I’ve been through scarier things.” She kissed Mamaw’s forehead and took in her smell like she did each night, pulling up the covers and tucking them around her body.

  “Guy suggested that we go out to Bethesda Cemetery on Wednesday and take a look around for Evelyn’s headstone. I thought that was a good idea. That’s where Papaw and Uncle Samuel are buried, right? Daddy used to take me there, remember? Thought you’d like to come along. We could bring flowers and make sure everything is nice and tidy.” Hannah sorted Mamaw’s medication like she did each night, not even lingering on the familiar ones this time.

  “That’s nice, darlin’, but I don’t think I’d like to go,” Mamaw said, sounding worn out, almost like she was half-asleep already.

  “No? I mean, I g
uess it would be tough with your chair, but I think I could figure something out with Guy’s help,” Hannah suggested.

  “That is thoughtful of you, dear, but I’d rather not, if that’s all right.”

  Papaw Williamson had passed away of liver disease when Hannah was eight. She barely knew him, and from what her mother said, Papaw had been a mediocre dad and husband at home, a top-notch professor of chemistry at Ole Miss, and a spectacular, high-functioning alcoholic everywhere. Hannah’s father rarely talked about Papaw, before or after his passing. And Mamaw hardly mentioned him to Hannah in the twenty-odd years since his passing, so it made some sense that she didn’t want to visit his grave. And Patrick Williamson was buried back in Oak Park Cemetery, where her mother could visit his headstone as often as she liked. Hannah and Mamaw could talk about Hannah’s father, but mentions of Papaw and Samuel were met with a polite hesitance that Hannah was starting to find irksome.

  “Of course it’s all right. I’ll still take some flowers, I think. This whole Evelyn thing has gotten me thinking. I feel like I know this random woman, but I barely knew Uncle Samuel. You know?” Hannah brought over the miniature cup of water and another with Mamaw’s pills and handed them over, working on autopilot.

  Samuel she remembered far better than Papaw. He was musically talented, funny, and always up for playing a game of chess (which he always let Hannah and Brody win). She was in high school when the call came in, and her mom wailed while her dad cried softly in his armchair. It took Hannah’s mother’s lack of social filtering for Hannah to understand why Samuel’s funeral was closed casket, but her father’s admission of Samuel’s suicide was far more subtle. Like, when he forced Brody to visit a therapist after a panic attack during finals his freshman year at Northwestern and made sure Hannah got to her therapy appointments every week, even after he was too frail to drive her himself.

  Maybe that’s what made her feel close to Samuel and what made her want to be here for Mamaw when her sons couldn’t. Hannah made it out the other side of her depression, when Samuel didn’t. Putting flowers on his grave was the least she could do for him.

  As Hannah went to retrieve the empty disposable cups, lost in her thoughts, Mamaw grabbed at her, like she needed something desperately. She was shaking.

  “Oh no. What’s wrong?” Hannah dropped the garbage and took Mamaw’s hands, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her cheeks were already wet with tears, her glasses dirty with the residue of face cream and a bit of the foundation Hannah missed when she washed her face.

  “I just wish you’d leave well enough alone sometimes,” she said in a small voice followed by a silent sob that shook her hunched shoulders.

  Hannah didn’t know what to say or do. She’d never, ever seen her calm, lovely, gentle grandmother break down. Not at either of her sons’ funerals, or Papaw’s memorial, or even when she was in physical pain. She was so practiced and honed in her pleasant southern belle persona that it had erased the vast spectrum of emotions most humans feel openly every single day.

  “Oh, Mamaw.” Hannah put her arms around her grandma and pulled her into her shoulder like a baby. “It’s just part of my job. I’m sorry about your car, and I’m sorry I scared you, and I’m sorry I asked about going to the cemetery.” She apologized for all the things she thought might be weighing heavily on the elderly woman, patting her rounded shoulders and back, bent by her years on this planet and so many hardships that Hannah couldn’t even conceptualize.

  In Hannah’s embrace, Mamaw slowly regained control of her emotions, sniffing and then swallowing, like she was forcing down the sadness. She leaned back, blinking away the tears. “Heavens, I threw a little hissy fit there, didn’t I?” She sniffled and wiped her nose.

  Hannah watched her grandmother for a moment. From her father’s stories and the brief glimpses of her personality during holiday visits, she’d always thought the woman was akin to a saint, that she’d mastered kindness and empathy and didn’t fight with the twin demons of anger and regret that stalked Hannah daily. But that wasn’t possible, was it? How had it taken Hannah so long to see that for ninety-one years Mamaw had been pretending?

  “No, no, that wasn’t a hissy fit. It’s okay to be sad,” Hannah said, not letting go even after Mamaw settled into her half-sitting, half-lying-down sleeping position.

  “It was nothing, honey. Pass me a Kleenex, won’t you?”

  Hannah grabbed a few tissues from the crocheted Kleenex box cover. Mamaw took off her glasses, trembling like the homeschooled kid who won the county spelling bee Hannah covered for the Record three weeks ago. The winning word was bougainvillea.

  “Does this story really bother you that much?” Hannah asked, as she watched Mamaw tidy herself up. She couldn’t imagine giving up her pursuit. It gave her hope that she would be able to get her life back on track while doing a service for a young woman who didn’t have as many options as Hannah did a century later.

  But seeing Mamaw so shook up left Hannah conflicted. She could stop talking about Evelyn, but she didn’t know how to stop pursuing the leads that were pouring into her life like an avalanche or riding the exhilarating and slightly dangerous wave.

  “No, no, dear. It’s nothing in particular about this Evelyn girl,” Mamaw said, blotting at her face. “I only wonder if her family would want their secrets told in such a . . . public way. They must’ve had their reasons for keeping things so hush-hush.” She twisted the mangled tissue around her polished pointer finger until it covered her arthritic knuckle and coral-colored nail.

  Covering up. Yes. The real reason behind Mamaw’s breakdown had nothing to do with the stranger, Evelyn. Mamaw had secrets she’d covered with nuanced phrases like went off by accident and he’d been feeling blue and he’d had a little too much to drink. And some of those secrets were buried in Bethesda Cemetery along with nearly every man she’d ever really loved.

  “But Evelyn wanted her story told. She wrote to the newspaper. Someone overlooked her story or was hiding it for some reason—I don’t know why yet, but I want to. I am trying to help her be heard.” Hannah tried to explain as sensitively as possible, not sure if she would trigger another crash with a few clumsy words. Then again, she’d never stopped to think if Uncle Samuel had a story that needed to be heard. Maybe that’s what Mamaw was truly afraid of, which Hannah could understand on some level, having insisted on secrecy when it came to her own attempt.

  “I know, dear.” Mamaw patted her arm sweetly, her emotions sealed back up into the expertly carved box inside her. “I’m feeling a bit foolish tonight. I need some beauty rest.”

  Mamaw’s medicine was starting to kick in, to Hannah’s great relief. With each of her grandmother’s slow blinks leading to a swift and total slumber, Hannah finished the nighttime routine with the television, remote, lights, and tray removal, leaving the door open just a crack when she departed. Outside the bedroom, where the dissonance of Mamaw’s suppressed emotions still hung like a dense fog on a fall Chicago morning, Hannah took a moment to lean against the wall and just breathe.

  Even with the tray still in her grip, she needed to find that centering breath Laura reminded her of at nearly every session since Hannah had walked into her office after being released from the hospital. Laura would likely say that she was proud of Hannah for taking so many risks and making progress. But she’d likely also say that Hannah didn’t have to do it all at once, that she needed to add stressors one at a time, building up her strength and resilience. But a story rarely waited. And even if this one had a longer shelf life than most, Hannah didn’t have any desire to wait.

  Ding!

  A loud pinging sound called out from Papaw’s office, where Hannah had stowed her belongings after Mr. Davenport had left for the evening.

  Ding! Ding! Ding!

  A string of notifications, the sounds too distinct and familiar to be confusing, echoed through the hallway. Hannah’s jaw dropped. Her phone.

  She put the tray down in the hall, flinching when the
silverware clattered against the barely touched bowl of soup, and rushed to the office. The phone was now quiet. Hannah dumped the contents of her messenger bag on the leather couch, sending files and her notebook spilling out along with the gallon-size Ziploc bag of rice with her phone inside. She ripped open the zipper and retrieved her phone, trembling even more than Mamaw had during her breakdown.

  She’d convinced herself that she didn’t miss the device and that she could comfortably live without the technological umbilical cord. A very present part of her mind had been actively patting herself on the back for being so evolved. But as she held up the suddenly working phone and saw a screen full of notifications from various apps, Hannah knew she’d been full of shit. Once an addict, always an addict.

  The first few messages were from her mother, but then, there it was, the thing she’d been waiting for, for more than nine months, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

  Alex: Hey.

  After months of silence, not one apology, not one call when her father died, not one email when she was in the hospital, no acknowledgment that she’d left town. Nothing. And then a hey from Thursday, three weeks before his romantic winter wedding, at least according to the link for his TheKnot.com registry that she’d found by stalking his Facebook profile.

  Hannah’s throat constricted. She couldn’t breathe. It would be one thing if he’d left it at the nebulous Thursday night hey, but there were several more follow-ups over the past forty-eight hours. She read each one carefully, like there might be some subtle message in the spaces between the words or the placement of the punctuation. She took off her jacket and settled onto the floor, folding her legs up underneath her and leaning back against the bottom half of the couch, feeling like she must be hallucinating.

  Friday morning:

  Alex: I hope this is still your number. Stacey told me you moved.

  Can you let me know if my texts are coming through?

  Friday at lunchtime:

  Alex: Hello?

  Friday at nearly midnight: