I hesitated. My mind was still spinning with thoughts of Melanie Cave, and I wasn’t sure I was emotionally prepared to return to mourning my mother. But Aunt A looked so small and miserable I didn’t know how to refuse, and so I took a seat beside her, haltingly patting her soft, warm back, affecting my best imitation of feminine comfort. After years of solo travel followed by cohabitation with a man whose moods could easily be controlled by food and sex, my skills at consoling other women were tepid at best. Still, Aunt A leaned into my touch, her sniffles lessening.
“I miss her so much,” Aunt A said quietly. “And I’ve been sitting here trying to work out if I missed her more when she first left, or if I miss her more now that she’s dead. Isn’t that strange? I have no idea why that matters to me.”
“I’ve been wondering something similar,” I confessed. “I thought I gave up on her years ago, so why am I so sad?”
“Grief is a funny thing,” she said with a sad, lopsided smile.
“Have you figured out which it is? Do you miss her more now or then?”
“I’m beginning to think they’re incomparable. I miss her differently now than I used to. Now I have sadness and regret, when back then it was mostly anger.”
My eyes flickered downward. I had never recognized anger in Aunt A. “Were you angry with her because she left you to take care of us?”
“Oh, honey, no,” Aunt A said, pulling my hand down from her back and clasping it in hers. “Of course not. I love you and your sister as though you were my own, and I have never been angry about raising you. Never. We had some challenges, but I never considered it anything less than a privilege to take care of you girls.”
My heart twisted; tears turned my vision blurry. “You can’t believe that.”
“I do,” she said fiercely, squeezing my hand so that it almost hurt. “My anger had nothing to do with you girls. I was furious with your mother because she abandoned all of us. Just took off like a thief in the night, without so much as a note. And right after that scene with your sister . . . I didn’t know what to think. I was sick with worry. I thought . . . well, I thought that she’d decided she couldn’t live without your father and had killed herself. And then, once I knew where she was, I was so, so angry that she thought those strangers could make her happier than I could. Than we could.” Aunt A choked back a sob that shook her entire body. “I wasted so much time on anger. I thought . . . I thought that there was still time. I thought she would come home someday.”
“I think we all thought that, at least a little,” I whispered. I certainly had, right up until the afternoon I spent in the Dairy Queen with Sister Amamus. I never told Aunt A about that encounter—I never told anyone, not even Lilly, whose car I had borrowed—and I knew tonight wasn’t the right time to mention it. It painted a more callous picture of my mother than I liked to remember. But I couldn’t help but wonder if Aunt A had ever attempted to contact her sister, if she had any more success than I had. “Did you ever look for her?”
“No. Maybe I should have. I just . . . I thought . . . I didn’t. And now I have so many regrets. Not only for myself, but also for you girls. Your mother was such a special, compassionate woman. I wish you could have known her better.” Aunt A looked up at me with heartbreaking earnestness. “Tell me, how do you remember your mother?”
One look into Aunt A’s anguished eyes told me all I needed to know about what she wanted to hear, and I began telling her about warm memories of my mother: family vacations, surprises she made for Lanie and me, baking together. I left out the less happy memories, the ones where our mother shut down, refused to come out of the room, wouldn’t speak to us for days. Even so, I couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “I know she was hurting, but we needed her. How could she leave us?”
A fat tear slid down Aunt A’s cheek. “I don’t know, honey. She refused to talk to me about the night your father died, and she refused to see anyone about it. I think she felt guilty for not being home, and I think that guilt was like a cancer in her. She had always blamed herself for our brother Dennis’s death, and she blamed herself in a way for our parents’ deaths. I think your father’s death on top of that was just too much for her.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense. I can understand why she might have felt responsible for Uncle Dennis, and I can sort of see why she might have felt guilty about not being home the night Dad died, but Grammy and Pops were killed by a drunk driver. There’s no way that was her fault.”
“You’re right, of course. But your mother had planned to have dinner with our parents that night, and she canceled. They decided to go to the movies instead and were killed on the way home. She always thought that if she hadn’t canceled on them, they never would have been in that intersection.”
“She shouldn’t have blamed herself for that.”
“Your mother was an exceptionally sensitive creature. It was one of the most beautiful things about her, but I think it made life more painful for her.” Another tear rolled down Aunt A’s cheek. “That poor, sweet woman. I loved her so much.”
“I loved her, too,” I murmured.
I swallowed hard. “Aunt A, what about Melanie Cave? I know Mom said she didn’t know about her, but do you think that she suspected?”
Aunt A stiffened. “That woman. Your poor mother. She had no idea.” Aunt A laughed bitterly. “After Jason left me, I saw infidelity everywhere. I told your mother to worry about Melanie Cave, but she didn’t listen.”
I took a deep breath. “In the most recent episode of Reconsidered, Poppy suggests that Melanie Cave killed Daddy.”
Aunt A set her mouth in a straight line. “Her son killed your father.”
“But—”
“Melanie is a vile woman, but your sister saw Warren pull the trigger.”
I swallowed the bitterness that rose in my throat.
“Josie, honey, listen to me,” Aunt A said, squeezing my hand with renewed vigor. “I’m going to offer you some unsolicited and probably unwelcome advice. Forgive your sister. She’s made a lot of mistakes in her life, and I know that she’s hurt you in ways you’ll never be able to forget. But forgive her. She’s the only sister you’ve got, and a sister is a truly special gift.”
I yanked my hand away and pushed my chair back from the table. “Lanie is not a gift. She’s a curse.”
From Facebook, posted September 21, 2015
Patsy Bloomfield, Author
Today at 9:15am
Check out the most recent episode of Reconsidered Podcast to hear me discuss the Chuck Buhrman murder with host Poppy Parnell! And then head over to www.patsybloomfield.blogworld.com to purchase a copy of THE SHE-DEVIL NEXT DOOR!
Rosie Howe Great!
Today at 9:20am
Lenny Miazga I just ordered a copy! Can’t wait to read it!
Today at 1:13pm
Celia Dileo Beautiful work, Patsy! God bless.
Today at 3:34pm
Dallas McClung Are you worried about libel suits?
Today at 6:17pm
Patsy Bloomfield, Author Libel is defined as a FALSE STATEMENT. Nothing I wrote in the book or said on the podcast was false.
Today at 6:20pm
Sean Fields You should be ashamed of yourself.
Today at 9:12pm
Desiree Herren WOW! I can’t believe Melanie Cave isn’t locked up yet!
Today at 9:47pm
chapter 10
I was standing in the kitchen picking at a cold lasagna someone had left on the porch, unable to decide whether I was hungry or just tired, when I heard the front door open.