Chapter Twenty-Six
Suze
Joel has already left for work when I awaken. We both fell into bed and into sleep upon our return, exhausted by the day. I couldn’t bear to deal with one more thing, and he seemed to sense that, pulling me into his body, a bulwark against the world.
I left Maui with Jasmine, so it’s only me and Yul Brynner padding into the kitchen. Thick fog lies on the ocean, obscuring the Starfish Sisters and my view of Phoebe’s studio. It’s cozy somehow.
A rock of sadness sits in the middle of my chest. Is our friendship no longer sustainable? Have so many things gone wrong between us that there’s no way to move forward?
Friendships end. I know that. But she’s not really just my friend. She’s my sister, the only person in my life who’s been with me through everything, ups and downs.
But how can I encompass this betrayal? She hid Joel’s letter from me. Because of that single action, Joel and I never had a single moment of agency over our fate or the fate of our daughter.
And all this time, I had convinced myself that she didn’t know that Joel and I had fallen in love. If she didn’t know, why hide the letter?
I rub the spot between my eyes. What a tangled, idiotic mess!
As if my thoughts have called her, she knocks in our special way, three short, one more. With some trepidation, I head for the door and open it.
She’s bundled up in a thick pink sweater. The color makes the most of her dark hair. “I need to talk to you about something,” she says. “Can I come in?”
I stand back, wave her in. I am feeling so angry and uncertain that I don’t want to encourage anything normal. Not this time.
“It won’t take that long.” She has something in her hands, an envelope, and a howl of warning sounds in my heart. She pulls it between her fingers, once, then again. “This is the letter Joel left for you, before he went to juvie.”
The sight of his teenage handwriting on the envelope sears me. “I can’t believe you kept it. All this time.”
“I honestly didn’t realize that you—that he . . . the baby.” She shakes her head.
“You know, Phoebe, all these years I kept that secret—even if it was stupid—because I wanted to protect you. And all this time, you did the opposite. Your secret was selfish. You also knew more than you’re admitting.”
“I know,” she says. “There’s nothing I can say to make this right.” She swallows. “I am so sorry. Sorry that you had to go through all those losses alone, that I was such a fucking jealous idiot—” She slaps a tear off her face. “I didn’t open it.”
I touch my name written in blue ink. Can I bear to read what’s in here?
Can I bear not to? I slip my finger under the flap and pull out the yellow notebook paper inside.
Dear Suze,
I am so sorry for all the pain you are going through. Please remember that there is somebody in this world that loves you no matter what. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, but I wanted you to have my dad’s address. He said he wouldn’t throw anything away from you. Considering all the pain I’ve caused you, you probably never want to see me again, and I understand that, but just in case, this is it:
Bill Minough
2586 Elliot Avenue
Seattle, WA 98109
I love you with all my heart. I am so sorry for my part in all of this.
Love,
Joel
A howl burns through me. Without looking at her, I say, “You need to go.”
She doesn’t say another word. I close the door behind her and stagger into the living room, where I sink down on the couch, thinking of the long, long, long lonely months in the Magdalene Home. I was cut off from everyone but Beryl, who sent me care packages every week with a cheerful letter and candy, home-baked goods, and art supplies. Tablets, sketchbooks, pencils, pens, paints, brushes, charcoals. I filled them up, an act of sorrow and defiance, and still have them somewhere.
I have the diaries I kept, too, plus many others I’ve written over the years. Although Phoebe and I started the habit together, the practice stuck with me. They’re stored in a closet in the guest bedroom, stowed away in a fireproof safe. It wasn’t to keep them safe for the ages, only for myself, so I could go back and touch the days of my life whenever I needed to. A day written about is a day somehow saved from oblivion. Only those journals saved me, writing and writing and writing about my pain. In some deep way, I became the person I needed through that practice.
I run a thumb over Joel’s young handwriting on the page and think of how lost he must have been, too, sent away for an act of rage that did, actually, save me. When the church burned down, my father was enraged, but he and Karen never came back to Blue Cove. When I declared my intention to emancipate myself, he barely fought me. I think he knew he’d met his match in Beryl.
Acting on some impulse I don’t take the time to analyze, I pull on a thick jacket and a rain hat, tie on my shoes, and head down the hill. It’s drizzling, and the wet air dampens my face and makes my hair curl. I barely notice.
The ruins of the church are hard to make out, but I know where it was and can pace it off easily. I wade through the weeds and wildflowers, my jeans getting wet, until I find a concrete pad that must have been the front steps.
As if the steps are there, I walk forward, through the place the front doors would have been, into the sanctuary. In my mind, I build it back in place, the pews and the windows with the midcentury geometric stained glass, the charmless walls. I build the altar and the pulpit where my father reigned in his good wool suits, his ties always demure stripes, his blond hair brushed back from that chiseled face. I hear him exhorting us sinners to get down on our knees. I allow myself to feel the terror when he saw my belly in the kitchen of this very building. How I ran. How he caught me. And literally nearly beat me to death. He bruised my liver and my kidneys and I couldn’t see out of my left eye for nearly two months. It was a miracle that the baby survived, apparently whole and healthy.
I turn in a circle. How was it that they never charged him for child abuse? Was it like “domestic abuse,” best left for families to manage on their own? After all, I was pregnant and had shamed the preacher.
I will never know. What should have been and what is are often two different things.
Rain begins to fall slightly more exuberantly, and I turn one more time, imagining Joel in this space, spilling gasoline or lighter fluid or whatever accelerant he used, and setting the whole thing on fire. He was extremely thorough. Beryl told me later that it burned down almost before the fire trucks could arrive.
A fierce sense of love fills me.
To that broken boy, I whisper, “Thank you.”
To that broken girl, I say, “You’re okay.”
I’m still here.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Phoebe
I retreat to my studio, dive into color to ease my heart, so I don’t have to think. Not about anything. About Jasmine and Stephanie moving or keeping that letter hidden from Suze all these years—her face crumpling as she read the words, words she didn’t share. About the responsibility I bear for her losses. So many losses.
On my tray, I mix a half dozen pinks, palest rose to deep saturated peachy pink, and aimlessly smear them on a primed board. I’ve turned Pandora to Amma’s favorites, a playlist from the ’60s and ’70s that never fails to ease my heart, and as I paint, I sing along to Tap Root Manuscript by Neil Diamond, the “Childsong” she loved. We captured a phrase from the children’s singing and used liquid embroidery pens to write it on pillowcases, and I can hear only one bar and be transported—