With just two weeks left until my departure, I sunk into something of a funk. I’d swept the house for those notes twice more and still couldn’t find any sign of them. Worse still, Patrick was no closer to figuring out how to keep his children, and I knew that my departure would mean the family could no longer stay together.
Day and night, these things were all I could think about. In fact, I was about to start a third search for Grace’s notes when I heard someone thumping on the front door. The kids followed me as I ran to answer it and were right at my heels when I opened the door to my father.
“What do you want?” I asked him flatly. He sighed and reached into his suit jacket to withdraw a piece of paper.
“You know what I want. You’re going back to college soon, are you not? This has gone on long enough, Maryanne. They’ve had time to grieve. It’s time for them to get used to their new life.”
“Father, this is cruel,” I whispered, snatching the paper from his hand. My vision blurred as I read the notice—a letter of demand from some lawyer I’d never heard of. “So you’re really going to go ahead with it?”
“Mother and I agree, this is for the best—” Father started to say, but he didn’t get a chance to finish because I took a step back, gently shifted the girls out of the way and slammed the door in his face.
Mr. and Mrs. Francis Gallagher will be petitioning the courts for custody of their grandchildren, Timothy, Jeremy, Ruth and Bethany Walsh, based on their father, Patrick Walsh’s, immoral character and his inability to provide for and care for them to a satisfactory degree. It is the opinion of this firm that based on the evidence supplied by Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher, Mr. Walsh is unlikely to win judicial support for his ongoing custody of the children, as the courts favor normal family arrangements and frown upon single fathers. We advise you to seek independent legal advice if you do decide to fight this petition, otherwise please deliver the children to the Gallagher family home by this Saturday, July twenty-fifth at 10 a.m.
“What does the letter say, Mommy?” Tim asked as I sat on the lounge weeping.
“Auntie Maryanne,” I corrected him automatically, then I sobbed again. “It’s hard to explain, Timmy. I’ll let your dad talk to you about it when he gets home.”
That night I watched Patrick as he read the letter. His face flushed as his anger rose, but his eyes remained dry. If anything, he looked frustrated but resigned, and when he reached the end, he dropped the letter to the table and gave me a miserable look.
“We knew this was coming.”
“It’s still very upsetting,” I whispered.
“I’m out of options, aren’t I?”
I racked my brain for the millionth time, but there was no solution that solved his problems.
“I’ll call Ewan and go into work late tomorrow so I’m here when the kids wake up,” Patrick said suddenly, raising his chin. “I should be the one to tell them. That’s only right.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “You’ll have to excuse me, Maryanne. I need to go to bed.”
I knew he was going to his room to cry. Even if I had doubted the changes in Patrick’s character over those months, I faced irrefutable proof of it that night.
Even in failure, he was taking responsibility. It seemed bitterly cruel that just when Patrick Walsh pulled himself together, my parents were taking his family away.
Once again it was Timmy who understood the coming changes well before his siblings. Now though, Tim was unable to hold back his tears, and as Patrick tried to explain what was happening, Tim wailed in a way I’d never imagined he was capable of. He finally looked like a child in that moment—like a terrified, overwhelmed child.
“No!” he kept shouting, stomping his feet, red-faced and sweaty. “I won’t go. You can’t make me go. I hate the castle!”
“There isn’t a princess in the castle,” Ruth muttered, shooting me a look as if I had deceived her. Jeremy sat in silence, and Beth, who was sitting on my lap, just watched the television, which was on behind Patrick with the volume down low, as he paced and tried to explain.
“We’ve tried everything, Tim,” Patrick said patiently, miserably. “There’s nothing left of it but for you to go to live with Grandfather and Grandmother. They will take very good care of you, and you’ll still have each other. That’s the most important thing, son.”
“I hate you!” Tim shouted, making up for lost time with the childish outbursts, it would seem. He ran out into the backyard, and Jeremy silently stood to follow him, leaving me and Patrick with the girls. Patrick sighed and ran his hands through his hair.
“I have to go to work,” he said helplessly.
“It’s okay,” I said, hugging Beth a little closer. “You go. I’ll try to explain it to them over the day.”
“And...” Patrick hesitated, then asked me reluctantly, “Mary, I hate to ask this, but could you pack for them, too? I just don’t...” His voice wobbled, and he swallowed hard. “I just don’t think I can do it.”
“Of course. I’ll see you tonight.”
I tried my best to explain to the children that Daddy had done everything he could, but that they needed to live with their grandparents now. I told them a highly fanciful story about four wonderful children who went to live in a castle and had the best adventures ever, but halfway through Tim got up and went to sit behind the sofa.
I knew what that meant, and it nearly killed me to let him sit in there and grieve. On top of losing his mother, Tim really was about to lose his father and his home, and there was nothing I could do to make it better.
Ruth and Jeremy were starting to understand, and they were sullen and sad, holding one another’s hands as they moved around the house. And Beth seemed oblivious, but then when she saw me packing her clothes away, she watched me, an intense look of concentration on her face.
“Mommy?”
“I’m Aunt Maryanne, Beth.”
“Mommy,” she said stubbornly.
“What is it you want, child?” I asked her impatiently.
“Mommy, I stay,” Beth said, climbing up onto the bed and pushing my hands away from the suitcase.
“I’m not...it’s not up to me,” I whispered, and then stupid, hot tears filled my eyes. I blinked hard and kept on with the packing. “I can’t do anything about this. There’s just no other way this can work.”
“She’s upset because no one wants us,” Tim said from the doorway. I glanced back at him and found him staring at his shoes.
“That’s not true, Timmy. Lots of people want you. That’s the trouble. This is just the best way for you all to stay together.”
“No. The best way for us all to stay together is for you to keep looking after us. Where are you even going anyway?” Tim said stubbornly.
I opened my mouth to explain it all to him—that my life was in California, that my career was the most important thing, that the world had to change and I could see that change and most people couldn’t, so I needed to be a part of it. But he was six weeks shy of four years old. Asking most adults to think of the big picture beyond themselves was too much—how could I ask the same thing of a tiny child, and one who’d already seen such depths of pain?
“You’ll still see Daddy every Sunday,” I said unevenly. “And Grandmother and Grandfather have that beautiful house, remember?”
“I hate the castle. Grandfather is mean. And Grandmother is mean, too. Why don’t you want to stay?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“I don’t want you to go. And I don’t want to move in with those people.”
“You have to,” I exclaimed, and a tear trickled over onto my cheek. Tim looked up at me, confusion and hurt in his gaze. “There’s just no other way.”
But then I looked from Tim’s miserable gaze to Beth’s huge blue eyes and I saw Grace in those children and I felt it right in my gut—the unmistakable sense of belonging. These children were hers, but my sister was gone and they were scared, and my love and grief for her had somehow grown and evolved until it was now shaped like love and a fierce protectiveness for her children.
It seemed that in the ten short weeks I’d been in their home, I had inadvertently allowed myself to be dragged into this broken little family. I was a part of them now, and they were a part of me.
I couldn’t just walk away and let my parents take these children away from their father. The four of them had been through too much; they had seen too much already that they couldn’t understand. They needed comfort and cuddles and love and endless picture books each night, and sending them into that formal, oppressive atmosphere at my parents’ house would change them in ways that couldn’t be undone.
Somehow, through all that had happened, I’d been swallowed whole by my dead sister’s family, and even if I’d wanted to extract myself, I didn’t have a clue how to start doing so.
Tim slunk away, shoulders downcast. Beth slid off the bed and waddled after him. Ruth and Jeremy were still watching cartoons on the television.
I unpacked the suitcases, then I made a call to Professor Callahan to start the process of blowing apart every little thing I’d worked so hard to achieve back in California.
“We still haven’t figured out whether to sell the house or rent it,” Jeremy says as we all sit around the dining room table on Sunday night, waiting for the mysterious Maryanne to make an appearance. This afternoon while Ruth and I cooked the meal, everyone else busied themselves packing up the rest of the house, and not surprisingly, the process moved much quicker when a whole team was there to work.
The house is all but empty now, other than some heavy furniture we’ll probably sell. The kitchen area is last to be cleaned out, and I’ll start that tomorrow—this will be our last family meal here. I’m nervous that the tradition will die, especially because it’s often been a strain on Tim and Alicia and Jeremy to travel back here each week.
“The bill from the hospice will come any day now,” Tim murmurs. “But let’s face it—we can’t hold on to the house forever. Let’s just list it now and get this over and done with.”
“And I still think we need to keep the house,” Ruth counters. “This place is too special for us to cut our ties with it all together.”
“Beth?” Jeremy prompts.
“I think that every time you three find yourselves feeling uncomfortable these days, you deflect your internal discomfort by raising the subject of what to do with the house,” I say. “I suspect you do this because you know the subject of the house will cause drama, and the drama will distract you from your own feelings of loss. Unfortunately, once you start talking about it, you all panic at the first sign of drama even though you thought you wanted it, and that’s when you try to handball the topic to me.” Beside me, Hunter and Ellis both quietly chuckle.
My siblings all stare at me for a moment, then Ruth says wistfully, “Remember when Beth wanted to be a pop star?”
“That’s right. She wanted to join The Monkees,” Tim laughs.
“With her singing ability, The Monkees was probably the only band she would have been allowed to join,” Jeremy says wryly. “You know...on account of them not actually singing their own songs. Get it?”
“Do you see what you’re doing now?” I say, laughing in spite of myself. “You’re still nervous, but now you’re deflecting the nervous energy by making fun of me.”
The doorbell rings. Our laughter immediately fades.
Ruth rises, and we all watch in silence as she walks down the hallway to the front door. We hear voices as Ruth and Maryanne greet one another. They stop on their way back through to the dining room so that Ruth can introduce Maryanne to her sons, who are playing Jenga in the family room. And then the footsteps come closer, and the silence at the dining table is broken as Ruth and Maryanne enter the room.
My aunt is short and thin, but even at first glance I see that she has a flair for the dramatic. She’s wearing a black-and-crimson caftan and a startling array of chunky jewelry—enormous bauble earrings, a matching necklace of oversize beads and more bracelets and rings than I’ve ever seen on one human being at one time. Her hair is raven-black and cut in a bob, with pieces on either side of her face that hang just a little longer, dyed the same stunning red as the trim on her caftan. She’s is wearing a full face of makeup over her pale complexion, including winged eyeliner that I couldn’t pull off even if a professional helped me apply it, and red lips several times brighter than the red in her hair.
The whole look is artsy and quirky, but it’s also severe. I can’t even begin to guess how old she is. She’s surely somewhere around Dad’s age, but she doesn’t look it. I don’t know if that’s a side effect of her style, or just that she’s aged particularly well.
She scans the room with her bright blue eyes, and then her gaze lands on me, and I am suddenly overwhelmed by memories of my mother.
I’m lying in the bed, cuddled up beside her, under the heavy duvet and she’s stroking my hair.
I’m curled up on her lap; she’s reading me yet another book.
Burnt eggs for breakfast again. Hugs that smell like cake. Safety and comfort and love.
Intellectually, I know I’m having this reaction because Maryanne has the same pale complexion and dark hair that Grace and I also shared. And this woman—this stranger—is, in effect, a direct link to my mother, and this is the very first time I can remember meeting any of Grace’s relatives. The rapid-fire stream of memories makes sense. Even the bubbling emotions make sense. I just didn’t expect to find her so familiar, and I don’t feel prepared to feel this way. It takes me a minute to collect myself, and just as I do, I think I see a flash of emotion cross Maryanne’s face, too. Whatever it is, it clears in an instant, and then she’s greeting us with a casual, somewhat formal tone.
“Hello, all,” she says, and she lifts a hand to wave at us. My gaze drops to her long fingernails, painted in a glossy red, and the heavy bangles on her wrist that clang as she moves her arm.
Tim stands, hand extended to shake hers.
“Tim Walsh,” he says. Maryanne quirks an eyebrow at his formal introduction, then shakes his hand.
“Lovely to see you again, Timmy,” she says mildly. “Still taking the lead, I see.”
“Uh, okay...”
I think I see something of a flush on Tim’s cheeks above his beard, and he turns back to me and gives me a strained look.
“And you, Jeremy.” Maryanne approaches my other brother, shaking her head incredulously. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?” Jeremy asks cautiously.
“Ruth tells me you’re an earth sciences professor.”
“That’s correct.”
“How surprising,” Maryanne muses thoughtfully. “I’ve kept my eye on the papers over the years, half expecting to hear you’d been arrested for something.”
I suppress a giggle, which Ruth and Tim altogether fail to do. Soon we’re all laughing—except Jeremy, who’s trying very hard to scowl. He drops the act after a moment or two and shrugs.
“Let’s face it. We all know it could have gone either way.”
As everyone laughs, Maryanne turns her attention to me.
“Bethany,” she murmurs when I come close to her. “My goodness.”
For a moment she seems almost overcome. She rests her hands on my upper arms and stares at me, then she pulls me in for a hug. I let her embrace me, but I’m not entirely sure why I get this display of affection, and everyone else got a polite greeting. When I turn back to face the rest of my family, I see the surprise on their faces, too. I shrug, a little self-conscious, then introduce her to Hunter and Noah. Ruth takes over to introduce her to Ellis, and then Tim introduces Alicia.
“And where is...” She looks around as she sits in an empty chair at the dining table, and then says hesitantly, “Ruth, you said this is Patrick’s house...?”
Tim, Jeremy and I all look at Ruth, who winces. In a surprising display of reticence, she doesn’t leap to explain, leaving Tim to fill the gap.
“Dad passed away recently. Just a few weeks ago,” he says carefully. It still hurts to hear those words, and I swallow the lump in my throat as the truth of that statement sinks in all over again. But compared to our muted reactions to what’s still very tender news, Maryanne’s shock is palpable. Her jaw drops and her eyes widen, and she grips the armrests in both hands, her knuckles turning white.
“My God,” she whispers, blinking rapidly. We all sit in a horrible silence for several moments, until Ruth catches my eye and gives me a frantic what do we do next? look. I decide I’ll try to break the awkwardness, but before I can, Maryanne gives a funny cough that I think might actually be a sob. I rise automatically, wondering if I should try to comfort her, but she rises, too, and says, “I’m dreadfully sorry. Could someone please direct me to a bathroom?”
Ellis saves the day, leading her down the hallway and away from the rest of us.
“Ruth!” Jeremy whispers. “You didn’t think you should mention that Dad died?”
“It didn’t seem to be the kind of news you deliver over the phone. Besides, I didn’t expect her to get so upset. I mean—God, as far as we know, they haven’t even seen one another in forty years!” Ruth whispers back, but then she looks at me in a panic. “Help. I don’t know what to do now.”
“Let’s serve dinner,” I say. “Let’s just try to keep things casual. We can’t leap right into an interrogation about her sister’s death after that.”
“Good idea,” Alicia says, rising. “I’ll help.”
I join my sister and Alicia in the kitchen, and we work in near silence as we serve the casseroles Ruth has prepared.
“I’m sorry about that,” Maryanne says, reappearing in the kitchen doorway. Her eyes are dry, but her lips are pursed.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t warn you about Dad,” Ruth says, uncharacteristically hesitant. “He was sick for a long time, but his passing is very new and I wasn’t really...” She clears her throat. “Honestly, I didn’t realize you were at all close, but even so, it seemed better to tell you face-to-face.”
Maryanne looks between us, then asks carefully, “What did he tell you about me?”
Ruth gives me another panicked look. It’s almost a novelty to see my sister intimidated. I’d be enjoying it much more if this wasn’t all so awkward.
“We didn’t even know you existed until recently. But Dad was very unwell toward the end and quite confused—he had a form of dementia as well as serious heart issues. He said your name a few times, but not much of what he said made any sense by that stage. It took us a while to even figure out who you were.”
Maryanne’s gaze turns sharp.
“I see. So why did you look me up?”
“Well, we have a lot of questions...”
“About?”
“Ah...mostly about Grace’s death,” I say carefully.
“What would you hope to achieve by asking me about her?” Maryanne asks. Her chin is high, but there’s an incredible tension in the way she’s holding herself—flared nostrils, overly stiff posture, even a crease between her eyebrows. I get the real sense that nothing about tonight is unfolding as she expected, and she looks more than a little shell-shocked.
“We just want closure,” Ruth admits, and we share a sad look.
“Your mother’s death was an awful business, and it’s not something I like to think about even now,” Maryanne says flatly. Her body language is increasingly defensive, and I’m painfully aware that we’re losing her. We need to turn this around if we’re going to have a real conversation tonight.
“We have a lot of questions about her, and Dad is gone now. We don’t really have any one else to ask,” I say gently.
“And why didn’t you ask Patrick about these things while he was alive?”
“We didn’t realize there were questions to ask, to be honest,” I say. I’m noticing a pattern—she’s defensive with Ruth, ignoring Alicia altogether, but watching me closely. I have to suspect that maybe, if she did know us once upon a time, I was special to her.
It seems like an awful thing to leverage, but I’m running out of options here, especially when Maryanne says abruptly, “If your father wanted you to have further detail, he’d have given it to you a long time ago.”
“Did your family have some kind of falling out with Dad?” Ruth asks. Maryanne frowns at her, and she shrugs hesitantly. “It just seems so odd that we never even knew you existed, that’s all. He was on his own for so long without any help at all. It never occurred to us that Mom had family, let alone a sister just a short drive away...”
Maryanne visibly stiffens, and I realize she’s heard Ruth’s question as an accusation of neglect.
“Ruth,” I say, scolding her. “Why don’t we all sit down and—”
“It was an exceedingly complicated situation and I have no doubt that every decision your father ever made was what he thought was for the best for the four of you.” She inhales sharply, and then adjusts her caftan. “I really think I should leave. I’m not feeling well.”
“Please stay,” I say, although I’m unsurprised that she wants to go. She looks quietly devastated, and even if we do convince her to stay, I know we’ll need to leave any potential questioning about Grace or Dad or anything else for another time. “I hate to think we’ve upset you, or even made you uncomfortable. We’ll just get to know each other a little. Please.”
Maryanne’s expression softens a little as she stares at me, but then her eyes fill with tears and she waves vaguely toward her head.
“Migraine, sweet girl. I really need to go. I’m sorry.”
It’s clear that Aunt Maryanne is leaving. Ruth fetches her bag as I follow her to the door. Maryanne pauses and stares at me, and then at my sister. Her eyes cloud, and she stops long enough to gently touch my upper arm.
“When you think about your mother, all you really need to know is that she was a beautiful soul. She loved so deeply, and she loved you all more than anything. I see her in the both of you, and it makes me very happy to know that some wonderful part of her has lived on.”
“Thank you,” I say, and it strikes me all of a sudden that at least part of her awkwardness tonight is that she’s a stranger to us, but we aren’t strangers to her, given she obviously knew us at least a little, once upon a time. She’s viewing us through a filter of grief and sadness, even after all these years. Maryanne must have loved her sister very deeply, just as I love mine. As soon as I recognize her pain, instinct takes over and I throw my arms around her. Within my hug, Maryanne Gallagher holds herself stiffly, and I pat her back gently, unthinkingly. Suddenly, all of the stiffness in her posture disappears, until she’s almost limp in my arms.
“Goodbye,” she croaks, and she pulls herself out of my embrace and disappears out the front door. Ruth and I walk back to the living space in silence, until she gives me an odd look.
“What on earth about that bewildering encounter suggested to you that she would want a hug just now?”
“I guess...she hugged me when she came in and she lost her sister and...” I’m still reeling a little myself, and I shrug. “Honestly, Ruth, I have no idea. She just looked like she needed a hug.”
“Where’s Maryanne?” Tim asks when we return to the dining room.
“We asked her about Grace, and she got teary, and ran away,” I surmise, disappointment finally starting to sink in. When I look around my siblings, they all look every bit as crushed as I feel.
“Ah—do we call her again?” Jeremy asks.
“She has my number,” Ruth sighs, rubbing her forehead. “I guess she’ll call me if she changes her mind.”
“I prepared myself for a lot of things tonight,” Tim says slowly. He reaches for Alicia’s hand, and I see him flash her a sad, fond smile. “The one thing I didn’t consider was that meeting the mysterious Aunt Maryanne might be a dead end.”
“Did she seem familiar to any of you?” Jeremy asks thoughtfully. “When she was scolding me...joking about me ending up in prison... I felt this odd sense of déjà vu.”
“It’s funny you say that. I know exactly what you mean,” Tim says, frowning.
“Mom used to call me ‘sweet girl,’ and Maryanne used that phrase just now, too,” I tell them all. “And her coloring—she looks quite similar to Grace. We’re just confusing them.”
“It was more than that,” Ruth says quietly. “I thought I was imagining it, but she was so familiar and she obviously knew us. We must have known her when we were kids.”
“Did you bring that photo album?” Tim asks me suddenly. “I wouldn’t mind seeing those wedding photos.”
“And we need to check the date on the death certificate,” Ruth reminds me. I did bring Dad’s wedding album—I thought we’d show Maryanne. I retrieve it from the car and hand it to Tim. He opens it while I’m still standing beside him, and instead of the wedding photos I looked at the first time I found it, he reveals a completely different photo.
He’s opened it from the back, I realize. I didn’t even check the other side—I just assumed the pages I opened to the first time were all it had to offer.
“Is that...” Tim says hesitantly. I stare down at the image until my vision blurs. It’s of a couple standing on a set of concrete stairs, a large stone building behind them. Her dark hair is carefully done and she’s wearing heavy makeup, including dramatic winged eyeliner and lips that look dark in the black-and-white photo. She’s in a light-colored dress with ruffles all along the neckline, and her arm is linked through his. She’s looking at the camera, a wild look in her eyes and a grin on her lips.
Beside her, my dad wears a suit. His shoulders are slumped, but his expression is subdued—he’s smiling, but it seems forced. There’s something else in his gaze. He looks almost ashamed.
“That’s the front of the King County Courthouse,” Hunter murmurs, approaching on the other side of Tim’s shoulder. “Is that your mom?”
“It’s Maryanne,” Tim says suddenly. He looks back at me, brows knitting. “That’s not Mom. It’s Maryanne.”
He turns the page, revealing another folded, yellowed piece of paper. He opens it and reads it silently for a moment.
“What is it?” Ruth asks. Tim gnaws his lip, then glances back at me.
“Where’s that death certificate?”
I flip the album around and carefully slide Grace’s death certificate out to pass it to him. He swallows, then exhales.
“Beth was right. Grace died in 1958.”
“But I remember her taking us to school—” Ruth starts to protest, but Tim holds up a hand to silence her.
“And then a few months after Grace died, this happened,” he adds softly, and he turns the album around to reveal a certificate of marriage.
Bride: Maryanne Frances Gallagher.
Groom: Patrick Timothy Walsh.
We all sit in bewildered silence for a moment, then Jeremy stands. We all look at him, and he points toward the liquor cabinet. “I need a drink.”
“But what does this mean?” Ruth asks no one in particular.
“I had this feeling when she came in,” Tim admits. “I had this feeling that...maybe once upon a time, we knew her well.”
“Do you think...” I start to say, but I can’t make myself continue.
Sweet girl.
“I think instead of speculating, we just need to get in touch with Maryanne again,” Tim says.
“Because tonight went so well,” Jeremy snorts, but then he gives us a bewildered look. “And speculating about what? What exactly are you two saying?”
Tim looks at me. His gaze is soft.
“Do you think you’d be up for meeting with her on your own?”
“Why me?”
“Because I have this feeling that once upon a time,” Tim murmurs, his gaze sad, “you held a very special place in her heart.”
“I’ll get up to feed Noah tonight. But...maybe tonight’s one of those nights when you should take something to help you sleep,” Hunter suggests. We’re home now—I’m sitting on the sofa, Noah sleeping in my arms. I have the TV on, but I’m staring right through it, mentally reliving every second of that brief encounter with Maryanne. Hunter has been winding down, reading a novel beside me. He closes the book and yawns, and then reaches to gently take the baby from me. “I’ll put this little guy to bed. Are you joining me?”
“I’ll be in soon,” I promise him, “and yes, I’ll take the tablet first.” He gives me a surprised glance, so I offer him a wry smile. “You were expecting me to resist, huh?”
“Yeah. I was,” Hunter chuckles quietly.
“I just want to look through that photo album one more time, then I’ll come right to bed.”
“You don’t want company?”
I shake my head but rise to kiss him gently before he leaves the room with Noah. I take the damned medicine, knowing I’ll never sleep otherwise, but while I wait for it to kick in, I sit at my dining room table with the album.
I’ve carefully slipped the notes from Grace into the front cover tonight, simply because I had no idea what else I should do with them. Now I flick very slowly through the photos of her wedding day to Dad. My gaze travels all over the page to avoid looking into his eyes. My loss is still so raw—it hurts more than I can bear to see his image right now. Instead, I stare at Grace.
Is it you in my memories? Or is it her?
I skim forward to the photo of Dad and Maryanne. The defiance in her gaze almost makes sense now that I’ve met her. Even after a five-minute encounter, I’m certain that she’s always had a headstrong, bold personality.
Sweet girl. My sweet girl.
The memories rise again, of me tucked up close against my mother in her bed, of me curled up on her lap. I think of all the good things I drew from those memories, and the way they’ve shaped me over the years that have passed since.
And then, as clear as if she’s in the room with me, I hear her voice in my mind.
I love you, sweet girl.
I flip back to Grace’s notes, searching for a phrase my mind can only vaguely recall. When I find it, I close my eyes and swallow a lump in my throat.
...and I called them “darlings,” because that’s what I always call them...
The tablet is already working and sleep is tugging at me, so I close the album and retreat to bed.
Grace was my mom, and I know she wrote the notes I found in Dad’s attic. I’m sure of those things—but I’m no longer sure how to place her in my mind. That series of beautiful childhood memories I’ve cherished stars the woman I thought of as my mother, but after tonight, I can’t help but wonder if I remember Grace at all.