“I didn’t know you played the piano!” Alison exclaims. “What a precious gift from the Lord! Why did you never say anything?”
“Like I said, I don’t even have a piano and—”
“You could practice at the church,” Nancy cuts in. “That piano doesn’t get played enough.”
“How’s your dad doing?” Bethany asks me, a little desperately.
Her ploy works. “Yes, tell us all about your poor father,” Alison says. “How is he holding up? This must be so difficult for him.”
“Life is truly a vale of tears.” Nancy shakes her perfectly coifed head, but her eyes are sharp with curiosity, not soft with grief, and I am on my guard.
“How about I go make us some coffee and put the casseroles in the fridge?” Bethany asks, brightly, and vanishes before anybody has a chance to object or bring up the piano again.
“Where is your father?” Nancy cuts her eyes around the room, as if expecting to see him hiding behind the recliner or the drapes.
“In the hospital. He’s been very . . . confused . . . since Mom died. The doctor wants to put him in a facility.”
“Oh, surely not!” both women exclaim at once.
“Jinx,” Elle whispers, but either they don’t hear her or have no idea what she’s talking about.
“I heard—forgive me if this is difficult, but I heard that the police were involved?” Alison’s eyes have an avid gleam of curiosity that wipes out my polite conversation circuit.
“Mrs. Carlton called them. From next door. I’m sure she’s told you all about it.”
The quick flush rising to Alison’s cheeks tells me I’m right. Conjecture and gossip will have run through the church like wildfire in a drought and spilled over into the rest of the town. I wonder whether they all believe the tales about Dad or if there is a stream of sympathetic church ladies flowing into his room up at the hospital.
“Well, now, that’s just unfortunate,” Alison says. “Such a nice man, he’s always seemed. I’ve not seen any symptoms of confusion. Have you, Nancy?”
Nancy shakes her head slowly. “He’s always seemed fine, the little I’ve seen him. He’s not as faithful in his attendance as Leah. But then, remember Don Plummer? He’d been deep in dementia for years, and we never knew. He could still shake hands and say, ‘Good morning, God bless.’”
Alison can’t stop herself. “Are they . . . going to send him to jail?”
“He hasn’t been charged. Just to set the record straight, Mom had a known aneurism. She fell. He knew she wouldn’t want to be kept artificially alive, so he didn’t take her to the hospital.”
Alison gasps. Nancy blinks. “I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t have told us such a thing. We could have helped in so many ways.”
Which is exactly why she didn’t tell you, I think but do not say. Because she would have hated your sympathy and your pity and your help.
“What’s going to happen with your dad, then?” Bethany asks, coming back from the kitchen. “You can’t take care of him. I mean, you don’t even live here. Do you have room for him back in Kansas City? If he’s not able to be home alone, then a facility is the only way. My mom’s at Parkview. She loves it!”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Of course not,” Nancy says, taking charge of this conversation and getting back on track. “You have a great deal to think about. We are here to discuss the funeral plans, if you’re up to talking about that? Edna called us for help, and we need some biographical information for the eulogy.”
“We need to pick a day—next Saturday, we were thinking, if that’s okay with you. You are having the funeral in the church, of course.”
Alison says this as if there is only one church in town, and I suppose, for my mother, this is true. And if they want to plan the funeral, that’s also fine with me. Mom’s eulogy, her memorial, all should be for the woman the church and the town believe her to be.
Any extra biographical material I may have uncovered or will uncover in the next few days will be off the record.
I haven’t talked to anybody other than Mrs. Carlton about funeral planning, but I’m willing to bet there’s a message on my phone, along with several messages from Greg. I fumble for the damn thing. Sure enough, Greg times six.
I look at my daughter. “Have you talked to your father today?”
“He called.”
I recognize that tone. “Did you answer?”
Her lips press together into the Line of Stubborn Resistance.
“Oh, holy shitmeister. He’ll be having a royal cow.”
My exclamation is punctuated by an audible gasp from Nancy. Alison tugs the brim down lower over her eyes as if to block out the sight of me, or maybe she is thinking she can cover her ears. Bethany winks, as if my language is a part of the secret between us.
At least my indiscretion has served to break up the logjam, and the three of them drift toward the door.
“Don’t forget about the casseroles,” Nancy says, turning heroically back as if it might be worth braving a few demons in order to save the food.
“Thank you so much. Why don’t you just connect with Edna about the funeral, and I’ll get the details to her? Perfect.” I keep talking, herding them toward the door. “I’ll tell Dad you said hello.”
“Tell him we are praying for him.”
“Of course.”
“And for you. And your daughter.”
“Right. Thank you.”
The door closes between them and me, and I lean my forehead against it, just breathing. Part of me, albeit a small part, is appalled by my own behavior. Mostly I’m just grateful to have that out of the way. They can catalogue me as the apostate I am, and maybe they will leave me alone.
Elle is giggling maniacally. “I can’t believe you said shitmeister in front of the pastor’s wife!”
“Elle. You can’t—”
“Where did that word even come from?”
“I am a bad person and a terrible mother.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just—incorrigible.” And then she bursts into giggles again.
Her laughter is irresistible. I catch myself smiling, despite my confusion and grief and anger and everything. Laughter follows, and I let it happen, bubbling up and cleaning out emotional toxins. A few real tears follow the laughter tears, but that’s okay. I get another tissue and wipe my eyes.
“The church ladies are good people,” I tell my daughter. “They mean well. I don’t want you to think—”
She hugs me. “I know, Mom. I know.”
Leah’s Journal
And now you know about Marley. You were never meant to have this information, and you didn’t even get it from this journal. Maybe I’ll stop writing and burn the whole thing now, as it certainly didn’t serve its purpose in helping me keep my mouth shut. All these years I’ve kept that secret close, but I hadn’t thought I might blab her name during my sleep.
And then when you asked me, in the middle of the night while I was shaking from the nightmare, “Who is Marley?” I told you the truth of her. Yes, Marley is real, not an imaginary figment of Maisey’s active mind. She was my child. Is my child. Maisey’s twin. And yes, I left her behind.
You think differently of me now that you know. I see it. You love me yet, my Walter, because you are a loving man. You want to make excuses for me, but I have refused to give you any material to build them out of. This is a torture for you, and I see that, but there is nothing I can do.
You want me to find her, reach out to her. We actually fought about this—you, who have never really fought with me on anything. Oh God. You can’t know how this tears me apart. Do you know how much I want to see the girl? To try to explain to her what happened and how a mother could do such a heinous thing? But I can’t. I can’t even explain it adequately to myself, or to you.
Thank God Maisey and Elle are well away. I’m going to die anyway, so my safety is a small thing. But you, Walter. I won’t allow my past to hurt you, if I can stop it.
That’s why I went to town today and bought a gun. Who knew it could be so easy? The nice man at the pawn shop showed me how to use it. How to load and unload. How to aim. Tomorrow, while you’re at work, I’ll go to the shooting range and find somebody to teach me.