“Can I help you?” she asks, looking from me back to the black SUV, a slight hesitation in her voice. How do I respond?
“I don’t mean to startle you,” I say, hoping to put her at ease. I stop about ten feet from her in the new spring grass. Close enough so she can hear me, but far enough not to invade a stranger’s comfort zone. “Actually, you don’t know me, but you may know someone dear to me. Marie McMasters.”
The woman gasps and her eyes grow wide. “It’s impossible. She’s been gone for over twenty years.” Her tone is edged in pain, and at this moment, I know I am standing in front of my grandmother, Margaret McMasters. She looks closer at me with watery eyes, trying to detect whether I’m lying or telling the truth. I meet her stare with soft, caring eyes.
“Yes, I know, and I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
“How do you know my daughter and me?” she asks, confirming she is my grandmother once and for all.
“Here, I have a photo of her.” I reach into my purse and pull out the one piece of evidence able to back up my claims.
I found it yesterday in the box James hid in the safe. It’s a mother and daughter photograph we took when I was fourteen years old. My mother fussed over my dress and hair for the shoot. I was in an awkward teen stage and hated the dress she picked out. The length of the hem made my skinny legs look like sticks, but she won and I wore it anyway. It was our first and last portrait. I wish I found more photos yesterday, but at least James kept this one.
“Why would you have a photo of her?” Water pools around her feet from the hose, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Nothing else matters when someone mentions a child you haven’t heard from in twenty years.
“Is this some kind of cruel joke?” she asks, but not in a confrontational way, more like a fear I might be exposing her to more hurt, which I am. And it breaks my heart. I’m sure she’s lived a lifetime’s worth of pain in the last twenty years.
“Here,” I say, extending the photo out to her. I take a couple steps closer and she reaches out to take the offered photo.
I glance over at the SUV and see Sin leaning against the passenger side door with his ankles crossed at his feet. He is all man, so strong and handsome. From his broad shoulders to the big, proud grin taking up nearly his entire face. But it’s his heart and soul that calls to me, freely giving me strength, and I need a bucketful of it now.
I try to force a smile back at him, but it’s no use. An overwhelming sadness washes over me knowing I have terrible news to share with my grandmother. It’s a mother’s nightmare, and still mine.
Margaret looks at the photo for long seconds. Dropping the hose at her feet, she collapses to her knees while clenching the photo to her chest. Her body begins to quake with sobs—the inconsolable kind stored up for decades.
I stand paralyzed, wondering what I should do. I have this overwhelming need to hug and comfort her, so I join her on the wet ground, placing an arm around her shoulder.
“You’re the young girl?” she rasps, looking closer at me.
I’ve grown up since this photo was taken, but eight years hasn’t changed me that much. I am still the same blonde girl in a more filled out body. The only difference is my scars. No one can see them, since they’re etched into my heart.
“I’m Harlow, Marie’s daughter.” I nod.
“I can’t believe this.” Margaret shakes her head like the thought is too hard to comprehend. “You’re my granddaughter?”
A small smile breaks through the tears streaming down her face. I reach into my purse, hand her a tissue, and keep one for myself. I came prepared.
“I am.” Though Margaret and I are likely forty years apart, we match in some strange familial way. There is no denying who I am and who she is to me. I have found family at last and my heart wants to sing.
“Where do you two live?” Two. The word prickles. Of course, she thinks my mother is still alive. Why wouldn’t she? No mother wants to entertain the opposite.
“I flew in from Rochester this morning. I don’t know where to begin.” I take a deep breath to clear my thoughts. “I only found out about you yesterday. I found a letter she wrote before she was …“I pause and she eyes me with worry.
“What do you mean ‘she was’? You’re talking about her like she’s gone.” Her voice cracks with emotion.
I nod my head in a silent answer as fear reflects in her eyes.
“What happened to Marie?” Margaret asks. Dread twists in my heart. How can I tell her my mother was murdered? I hate the word. I choke every time I try to say it. It’s final and senseless and brutal.
“She died in January. She was killed.” The words are like a knife to my heart. Unbearable pain crosses Margaret’s face.
“Killed?” Margaret asks with a desperate need for the truth. “How?”
“Shot,” I whisper. Then she died in my arms.
Her weeping turns into quiet moans. A haunting sound comes from deep inside her as she begins to mourn. Years of hoping and praying for my mother are dashed within a split second.