Because I know you killed Daddy, just like I killed my sister.
Jackson’s accusation clung to me like tar, binding and sticky. My son’s blame hurt more than Ben’s death. It hurt more than Ben’s suicide letter. Nothing compared to the lash of my child’s words against my skin. All of the pain, all of the guilt, all of it Jackson heaped onto my shoulders for me to carry the rest of my days. But that’s what mothers did, didn’t they? They carried the burdens of their children.
“I already told you, I didn’t kill Daddy,” I whispered, the statement lodged in my throat. “That’s why the police are helping to find out who did.”
He shook his head, but it was more of a tremble. “I don’t understand. You said someone else killed Daddy, but I know you made Daddy so sad he killed himself.”
Jackson knew? He knew about the suicide. But how?
“Where did you hear that?”
I had done everything in my power to ensure the kids never found out. It was far easier to explain a home robbery gone wrong than to tell them their father simply gave up on them, that they weren’t enough of a reason to stay alive. Who the hell would have told them otherwise? Certainly not Lane. And no one else knew the truth. Unless he told Candace, and Candace told the kids . . .
“I dunno.”
“Jackson, honey, whatever you’ve heard, it’s not true. And I always tried my best to make your daddy happy.”
“Then why were you always sad? And why was Daddy always sad?”
Deep insight from such a young boy. When did Jackson grow up and how had I overlooked it? He had always been mature for his age, highly intelligent and well-spoken. By age four, he was reading proficiently. At age five, his kindergarten teacher bumped him up into first grade. I remember the sense of pride I felt watching him surpass his peers. But now, now I missed my baby. I missed the days when his curiosities lingered on making slime, or a worm’s anatomy. My mother had warned me about this. When life gets too perfect, God kicks dust in your eyes, blinding you with misery while He steps back and watches you fumble ahead blindly. I thought that was her resentment talking, the unquenchable bitterness over my dad’s disappearing acts. But maybe she was right all along. Iron was forged with fire, after all. And I had long ago lost my faith in God.
Struggle makes you stronger, Mom had told me, and it gives you character. But I had enough character to last two lifetimes. I wanted to trust God, that all the death held some higher meaning, some bigger purpose. I wanted to be grateful, like the mothers I saw on Facebook who stared Death in the face and, proud of their war wounds, claimed, “Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting?” I yearned to show my children the light, but I couldn’t find the light for myself. I was merely a child playing with matches.
“I’m sorry, Jackson. You’re right. It’s my fault. After what happened with your sister, I was never the same. I couldn’t find a way to get better or a way to be happy. Then Daddy got sad too. Being sad is contagious. Do you know what contagious means?”
“It means it spreads.”
“Exactly. The sadness spread. That’s why we’re here with Uncle Lane now, to try to stop the sadness from spreading anymore.”
Jackson considered this for a moment, then looked at the floorboards. His expression was hard to read in the dim hallway.
“How did he do it?”
“Do what?” I wondered aloud.
“Kill himself. How did Daddy kill himself? With a gun? Or a rope? Or did he cut himself with a knife?”
Oh, God, had Jackson actually been imagining all the various ways his father offed himself? And where did a six-year-old get such ideas? Certainly not from the limited age-appropriate internet access he had on his tablet. Jackson continued naming his list of possibilities, but I didn’t hear the words above the wails inside my head. I covered my face with my hand, as if I could hide from this conversation. I wasn’t an angry person, but there it lived, right beneath my grief.
“Or did he drink poison? Or—”
“That’s enough!” I yelled, cutting him off. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I couldn’t listen to another word. I had spent the past year burying bad memories along with the pain. How dare Jackson unearth it with his cruelty?
Jackson stood there, unmoving, his chalky eyes growing damp.
Oh no, what did I just do?
“I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
My icy anger thawed into remorse, and I rushed to Jackson, aware of how I was treating my son. My young boy was so traumatized that he conjured a list of causes of death. He was still a child, and I expected too much from him. Some days I forgot that Jackson and Elise were kids, their emotions just beginning to evolve, their minds still blossoming and innocent. Why did I force them to carry the weight of little adults? I wasn’t being fair to either of them.
I knelt at Jackson’s bare toes. “Please forgive me.” I held his cheeks, the bones jutting into my palms, and begged him with my eyes. My arms twitched to pull him against me, but instead I remained stoic.
“Okay. But, Mommy, when can you forgive me?” His voice was tiny in the long hallway.
I’ve never blamed you for what happened, I wanted to say. And yet I couldn’t utter the words. It wasn’t true. And until I forgave him, I couldn’t cross the chasm between us.
“Forgive him for what?” Candace’s voice broke into the somber moment.
I released Jackson’s face and popped up on my feet. “It’s nothing,” I said, ushering Jackson back into his bedroom. When I had finished tucking him in and calling for Elise to come upstairs and brush her teeth, I stepped into my bedroom and found Candace sitting on the bed, hands folded on her lap, waiting for me. Beside her sat the monkey-themed ultrasound frame I had planned to give her, the ultrasound placed neatly inside.
“Was this for me?” She picked up the frame and pressed it to her chest.
“Yes, as a peace offering.”
“I love it. Thank you.” She stood. “I know you heard me crying.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t trying to intrude. I just . . .” I just what? Cared about her?
“I know.” She smiled, and for the first time I thought she was pretty when she smiled.
“Was that about our argument earlier? Because I’m sorry, but I also felt the need to protect my brother. I wish you’d understand that.”
Candace stood and walked into the hallway, then waved me to follow. “I need to show you something.”
Once in her bedroom, she led me around piles of laundry, crumpled fast-food bags, and stacks of junk mail. Every surface was covered with garbage or mess. I hoped my inward cringe didn’t reach my face. Shoving her rumpled blankets and last night’s pajamas aside, she sat on the bed and patted a clear space beside her. I sat.
She opened the bedside dresser drawer and pulled out a wooden box. It was rough, the lid slightly crooked and clearly handmade, and stained a deep cherry. Carefully opening it, she moved a stack of letters aside, then flipped through a pile of photos and pulled one out.
“Are those love letters from Lane?” I asked, glancing at the top letter.
She pushed them under the photos and shrugged. “You’d be surprised how poetic a guy can be when he’s in love. But as beautiful as words can be, Lane doesn’t need words to profess his love. He does it daily in the way he takes care of me.”
Shutting the box, she handed a photo to me.
The paper was torn on one edge and creased down the middle. Based on the Backstreet Boys Millennium poster that hung on a wall in the background, and the girl’s zebra hair highlights, I guessed the photo to be taken in the early 2000s. I recognized a teenage Candace in fishnet stockings and camo dress with Doc Martens, sandwiched between a woman who looked to be in her forties and a sullen teenage boy, who stood almost a foot taller than her, wearing flannel over a Kurt Cobain T-shirt with grunge Johnny Depp hair and a ring piercing his lip. An older man stood behind the boy, his hand on the boy’s bony shoulder.
“Is this your family?” I asked.
“No. These are my ex’s parents. And that’s my ex, Noah.” She pointed to the boy. “After my parents died, I was shuffled around a lot. When I turned fourteen, Noah’s family took me in. He was a childhood friend, then my boyfriend since ninth grade, and his parents were so good to me. They basically raised me, and Noah and I became inseparable. I loved him more than anything.”
She took the picture back from me and spoke as if to the people in the picture.
“I thought we were end game.”
End game. The popular teenage term reminded me just how worlds apart Candace and I were.
“But he turned out to be an abusive, controlling asshole.”
I was coming to realize that men could be a lot of things. Abusers. Cheaters. Liars.
“I understand . . . on some level. Ben hurt me pretty badly too, when he cheated on me.” Candace didn’t say anything, so I continued to fill in the empty air. “It makes me wonder what else he was hiding that may have resulted in his death.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, everything around his death is suspicious. God only knows what the police will uncover.”
I realized this conversation was becoming all about me. We were sharing a moment, and here I was stealing it from Candace. “So what happened with Noah?”
“After I couldn’t take it anymore, I left Pennsylvania and came here.”
“Pennsylvania? I thought you said you were from Ohio.”
“I moved around a lot. But Pennsylvania was where I ended up with Noah.”
Her life was a Monet painting. From a distance I only saw the big picture of a woman manipulating my brother with sex and lies. A closer look at her life was a lot messier. A tinge of guilt hit me for judging her so harshly. I hardly knew anything about the woman my brother had married, and I wondered how much he even knew.
“Did Noah . . . physically hurt you?”
She held out her forearm and traced a jagged scar that ran up the skin.
“He did this during one particularly emotional fight. It wasn’t usually this bad, but still . . .”
It was clear we were exchanging secrets as she opened a door so private that there wasn’t a key for its lock.
“That was brave of you to leave him.”
Candace shrugged and rested the picture on the nightstand. “Maybe. Or maybe it was cowardly. But in the end it worked out. I met Lane, and he rescued me. He made me believe in love again. I know you question my motives with Lane, but after the life I’ve had, all I want is to have love and happiness and a family—things I never got growing up. I have it all now, and I’m not going to let anything take it away from me. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nodded. I did understand. It was all any of us wanted. But not as easy to hold on to.
“I don’t want to fight with you.” I touched her forearm, a gesture of sincerity. “You’re my sister-in-law, and I hope we can start over. Be actual sisters, friends. Would you be open to that?”
She sat in dense contemplation. What was she thinking? Then she reached across the gap between us and hugged me. It was the answer I needed. When she pulled away, a new connection strung us together.
“All I ever wanted was to be enough. Smart enough. Pretty enough. Good enough.”
This, coming from a woman who demanded attention by merely existing. “But you’re gorgeous. How could you ever think you’re not pretty enough?”
“I’m talking about true beauty, the kind that doesn’t wash off. The beauty that gives power to move mountains and the stamina to create a diamond from coal. I have nothing to offer the world. I want purpose. I want the furor, everything I’ve been through, to mean something.”
Weren’t we all searching for meaning?
“Then you’ve got to endure and find those lessons in life that will lead you toward your destiny. I believe that if you hold on tight enough to this life, it will guide you to where you’re supposed to go.” I was preaching to myself.
“Is that what motherhood is? The purpose we’re looking for?”
“I don’t think it’s enough. While it’s everything, it’s also nothing. One day the kids are gone, and then where does that leave you? Empty. Motherhood takes every bit of you, and some days it’s hard to smile when you’ve given your all and have nothing left for yourself.”
“You make it sound complicated.”
“Sometimes it is.”
As Candace propped her new ultrasound frame up beside her bedside lamp, my eyes were drawn to Noah’s picture. It could have been his popular nineties heartthrob looks—a throwback to My So-Called Life–era Jared Leto, yum—but a familiarity seeped into me. How did I know this man? Why would I know this man?
“Does Noah know where you and the baby are?”
“I don’t know, but if I ran into him, he’d never get the chance to hurt me ever again.” Her hand curled into a fist. Candace was capable of more than she gave herself credit for. It was frightening what a cornered woman was capable of.