The Secrets We Keep

by Nikki Lee Taylor

  Chapter Eight

  Sophie, 2005

  We were too late. My mother’s cancer was Stage IIIC, meaning it had already spread to both ovaries and to the lymph nodes in her abdomen. According to her staging results, the mass was larger than two centimeters in diameter. In other words, it was bad.

  Doctors at the Philadelphia Centre for Cancer Research had given her a five-year survival chance of 39 percent. To me, this was a 61 percent chance she was going to die before I reached the age of twenty-five. A 61 percent chance she would never see me get married, or be a grandmother to my children.

  When the results came back, the first thing they did was perform a hysterectomy and bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy – the removal of both ovaries and fallopian tubes. It was called debunking, and they hoped it would remove as much of the original tumour as possible. Afterward, she would need to undergo six cycles of combination chemotherapy, using an intravenous tube, and two different drugs: carboplatin and bevacizumab.

  From the moment she was diagnosed as Stage IIIC, our life as a family changed forever. My brother, David, a Marine Corps Logistics Specialist stationed in Afghanistan, skyped in every other day, instead of once a fortnight. My father, who was usually passed-out with a beer in his hand by 7.30pm, stopped drinking, and we all began speaking a foreign language. Instead of saying, “How was your day?” we said things like, “What was the result of the last CA-125 tumor marker?” When making a shopping list, instead of asking if Mom needed milk, I asked her if she needed paclitaxel, pazopanib, niraparib, olaparib, or any of the other myriad of drugs they had her taking When we used the full medical words they usually sounded more like Klingon than English – words like micrometastases and columnar epithelium. But most of the time, instead of saying entire words, we spoke in acronyms. “What does it say on the SEER (Surveillance, Epidemiology and End Results) website?” We talked about literature provided by NCI (the National Cancer Institute). There was also HDC (High-Dose Chemotherapy), and of course, the acronym causing the most heartache of all: VA (Veteran’s Affairs).

  For twenty-five years, my father had been a serving member of the United States Marine Corps. He was a Lieutenant Colonel Battalion Commander, serving eight tours of Iraq, two in Afghanistan, and one on the Horn of Africa. He was a good man, who believed in serving his country and protecting his fellow man. Commradery and teamwork ranked high on his personal mission statement, and so on a sweltering night in Iraq, when humidity had swallowed the air and flies stuck to skin like leeches, the sound of a woman screaming had triggered his moral code. When he came upon two corporals standing guard outside the colonel’s quarters, he demanded to know what was going on inside. What happened next would not only change the course of his life forever, but nine years later cause his only daughter to make a choice that could never be undone.

  Chapter Nine

  Lacy

  You ever heard the one about why leg amputees are the most courageous people on earth? Because whatever the situation, they never get cold feet. Ba-dum-bum-ching.

  When you’re an amputee, a sense of humor helps a lot, but unfortunately, the not-so-funny part about losing a limb is something they call phantom pain, which to me is a whole lot of bullshit. There’s nothing even remotely ‘phantom’ about cramps that feel like your nerves and muscles are twisting around bone, or the strange ache of something that is no longer a part of you.

  I could tell you that losing my left leg has given me a whole new perspective on life, or that once I got accustomed to my prosthetic I ran the Sonoma County Marathon and became a hero to female amputees everywhere, but that would also be a load of bullshit. Adversity or not, you are who you are, and let’s face it, I was never going to be anyone’s role model. In fact, in the years since my operation, no one has ever seen my stump. It is ugly, and repulsive, and reminds me of a potato that someone left too long in the pantry. But as gross as that might sound, it’s the empty space beneath it that bothers me most. The vacant space that will mock me for the rest of my life – a constant reminder of what I have lost.

  My phone lights up with an email alert, and I snatch it up. There’s only so much that Netflix and painkillers can do to keep you entertained, and there’s only so long you can sit with your potato elevated on a cushion before shit starts going sideways in your head.

  Her email is short, and to the point. It has no emotion, and there’s no way to know what she’s thinking. The one thing I do know is that she has no idea who I am. Then again, that doesn’t surprise me. No one deserves to be beautiful, smart, and have the kind of luck that’s fallen into Madelyn-May’s lap. Everyone has their shortcomings, and given her perfect face and blessed life, I think it’s fair to assume that the elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top, if you catch my drift. How she ever managed to build an empire like Love, Mommy, I’ll never know. Then again, good things always happen to lucky people.

  I read it over again:

  I know this email was sent from DigiMads here in the city. My team can trace your identity. If you contact me again I’ll call the police.

  If she knew who sent the email, there would be no mention of calling the police. Madelyn-May is a lot of things, more than I gave her credit for: beautiful, successful, and like I said, lucky as four rabbit’s feet still attached to the rabbit – but there’s one word that defines her most, something that dwarfs all the rest. Guilty. And when you’re guilty of doing something as despicable as what she did, trust me, you’re never ever calling the police.

  The other thing is, I’m not stupid. I did my homework on how all that IT, ISP, XYZ stuff works with emails, and tracing a sender is not as easy as you might think. Fair enough, those IT geeks in her office figured out where I sent the email from, like I knew they would, but all that tells her is that I was at an internet café frequented by hundreds of people every day. It’s also no coincidence that I chose a place without security cameras. There’s no way she can ever find out who I am from that email.

  Like I said, I did my homework.

  What she also doesn’t know is that I’ve followed her home three times in the past week. Now, if it were me, I’d always be watching, waiting for the day someone came around digging in the dirt and holding my secrets up to the light. But not her. That’s the thing about being a narcissist – you never can see past your own reflection.

  I scan her response one last time, and resist the temptation to write something back. Instead, I swipe over to the texting app, type a quick message, then hit send: She took the bait.

  For all her success, Madelyn-May is the kind of woman you want to pull in close and squeeze the life out of. She is conceited, and entitled, and everything that is wrong with the world. Driving her Audi, and watching the world through tinted Tiffany sunglasses. She has no right. Not after what she did. Someone needs to remind of her of that, and so slowly, slowly I will squeeze, tighter and tighter, until her insides bleed and her rose-tinted world turns black.

  Chapter 10

  Sophie

  '’I can’t believe he gave you this bottle of wine, and we’re drinking it,” Samara grins, as we clink glasses. “Do you have any idea how much this is worth?”

  Bastian had given me the bottle of San Filippo Brunello Di Montalcino Le Lucere about a month ago, and proceeded to laugh out loud as I tried to pronounce the name. When I asked the occasion, he simply said “You” and kissed my forehead. At the time, the bottle had evoked visions of he and I, glasses in hand, tangled up on the couch, the patter of rain on the roof. But the content of the manuscript, coupled with Friday night’s adventure out in the storm with Miss Molly, seem like good enough reason to open some great wine and share it with someone I love. And tonight, that someone is Samara.

  We met on a Monday morning during my first year at Penn State. She was new to school, and to Philly, and I quickly took her under my wing. She was sitting at the desk next to mine, perched on the edge of her chair like a fledgling bird contemplating its first flight. For the remaind
er of the class we giggled over a length of toilet paper stuck to the professor’s shoe like a discarded veil, and I knew we would be friends for life. Later, over a cask of wine, I learned she had transferred to Penn mid-semester after a failed engagement. His loss turned out to be my gain, because as she relaxed into our daily routine, I found that Samara was sarcastic, funny – and to my delight she loved the Phillies, despite having grown up in Louisiana. Over the years we have laughed, cried, fought, and made up. Despite the contrast of our skin, she is my sister, and twenty years of ups and downs, of wins and losses, have been enough to create the type of bond that lasts forever. Blood has never been required to bind Samara and me. Life has done that for us.

  She takes another sip, and rests her glass on the table. “You sure he won’t be mad we’re drinking his fancy wine?”

  “No,” I smile. “Bastian’s not like that. He probably just gave it to me to be nice.”

  She grins, and looks at me with a face I know all too well. Question time.

  “He must have serious feelings for you, Soph. How does that sit with you?”

  There’s a part of me that considers trying to brush the question off, but Samara will never let that fly, so instead, I think of the vaguest answer possible. “He makes a good living, so $300 for a bottle of wine is not like $300 to me. It’s probably not a big deal to him.”

  “Come on, Soph, you know what I mean,” she pushes. “Are you okay with it, you know, given everything?”

  There are no words to explain how I feel about Bastian, or how I want him to feel about me. It’s complicated, and it’s confusing. He’s the key that unlocks the shackles of being left behind, a firefly against the night sky. Without him, there’s only darkness.

  “Soph?”

  “Yes, and no,” I say eventually. “I mean, in some ways I have to say no, I’m not okay with it. There can never be another James, that’s a given, right? But, at the same time….”

  “…But at the same time?”

  “Bastian feels like a nightlight in the dark. Sometimes just knowing he’s there helps me find my way.”

  She lifts her glass but keeps her eyes trained on me. “Do you love him?”

  “Samara….”

  “It’s just a question, Soph. Do you love him?”

  Instead of answering, I nervously rearrange items on the coffee table. “I can’t—”

  “Because it’s okay if you do, Soph,” she says. “You have to move on sometime. It’s allowed.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s never okay to move on from them,” I tell her. “Move forward, maybe, but never on. That sounds like I’m letting them go, like they’re something I could forget.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  Samara sighs, and sits back against the couch. It’s the sign I’ve been hoping for, the one that says she’s about to let it go. “I want you to know that no one would hold it against you if you did,” she says. “Especially me. It’s been five years.”

  I nod, and drink down the rest of my wine. I will never move on from James and Josh. They were my family. It would be like trying to untangle God’s knot.

  “So, what are you working on right now?” I ask, eager to move the conversation away from Bastian. “Anything interesting?”

  Hearing about Samara’s work always makes me smile. For the past few years, she has been an Associate Professor of History and African-American Studies at Penn State. Her last paper, ‘The Ties That Bind: A History of the Forten Sisters and How They Influenced Philadelphian Abolition’ received critical acclaim among her peers for its insight into the country’s first bi-racial organization formed by female abolitionists in 1833. It was my greatest honor to serve as her editor on the project. I also learned a lot about African-American history.

  “I’m actually working on my first book,” she beams. “It’s based on my paper, and… I’m hoping you’ll be my editor.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Of course!”

  “Oh my God Samara, that’s incredible – and yes of course I will,” I tell her. “Can I ask what it’s about?”

  She sets down her glass, and it’s immediately clear to me, even if she needs both hands to explain it, that there’s a good chance it will hit best seller lists, at least in its category. I make a mental note to mention it to Bastian.

  As she tells me about her book, I picture the 19th Century Forten sisters, Margaretta, Harriet, Sarah, and their mother Charlotte, working together to establish Philadelphia’s first female Anti-Slavery Society. A mother and her three daughters sharing a bond so strong that it forever changed the course of Philadelphian history.

  “It’s so interesting, Soph, honestly,” she gushes. “Margaretta, in particular. You know she was a teacher, and eventually opened her own school? That’s in addition to her work within the family to support women’s rights and abolition.”

  “Wow,” I exclaim, pouring another glass. “You thinking of opening your own school?”

  “Very funny. I just love the poetry of a mother and her daughters contributing to our city’s legacy as the Cradle of Liberty, even if it was a rocky road to get there. Philly has such a male-dominated history, Soph, you know that, even down to being known as the City of Brotherly Love. It’s always been about kings and presidents and politicians, all men. But I feel like I’ve found a kindred spirit in her. What must it have been like, Soph, to grow up with a mother like that? Someone who inspired you to help change the world?”

  I think back to the loss of my own mother, and how it felt to suddenly be out in the universe all alone. Samara had grown up in the foster care system, never knowing her real parents. It was hard to figure out which might have hurt more.

  “You did fine,” I tell her. “You’re an amazing mother, and an incredible person. You don’t have to change the world to be a successful parent. Your daughter is one of the coolest kids I know.”

  She smiles warmly and touches the simple gold band on her finger. “Yeah, I know, but a lot of that is Gerard.”

  “A lot of that is you.”

  Samara has a relationship with her husband that most women would envy. They met in our final year of college, when I had a bout of appendicitis that forced her to rush me to the campus clinic. Gerard, older than us, was in his final year of residency at Milton, a hospital on University Drive. He was reliable, stable, committed, and unwavering. He was also handsome, athletic, and smart as a tack. She loved his passion for medicine, and the bond he had with the place in which he grew up. He had been adamant about specializing in reproductive medicine, and remaining close to his family. She had been smart enough to see his stability as a strength, and together they never wavered.

  “He’s a good man, my Gerard,” she grins. “I’m lucky.”

  “Well, I’m glad you bought him into our lives. You have no idea how much he helped me through that whole egg-freezing procedure, or should I call it torture, all those years ago. After Mom got sick, it was the last thing I wanted to go through, but it was such a relief to have him there by my side the entire way. I don’t think I would have got through it with anyone else.” I force myself to smile, a bid to cover up what I’m really thinking. If she knew just how much Gerard had helped me, what he really did, he and I might both lose her from our lives forever.

  “You still with me, Soph?” she asks. “Looks like you drifted off somewhere. Is there something on your mind?”

  “Nope, I’m good.” I wish I could tell you, but I can’t.

  “You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

  “I know.” Not this. “It’s nothing, just the shit that goes around in my head,” I tell her. “Maybe enough wine for tonight, though.”

  Samara nods, and uses her phone to order an Uber. Early gym class in the morning.

  We hug at the door, and I feel genuinely grateful to have her in my life. She is like a sister, and I hate keeping things from her. Perhaps one day I can tell her everythin
g. I want to, long to, even, but there are other people involved, people who would be hurt. Perhaps someday I can come clean, but for now my secrets will have to stay just that. Secret.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sophie, 2006

  When we were kids, my brother and I were convinced our dad had a lie detector built into his heart that went off whenever we tried to keep a secret. I don’t think either of us ever got away with a single mistruth. “Accountability is the key to success,” he would tell us when we got caught out. “If you want to make it in this world, you have to be accountable for your actions. It’s the only way to improve.”

  That night in the Iraqi desert, when the very same lie detector triggered in his heart, my dad pushed past the corporals standing guard, and marched right into the colonel’s quarters. Cowering in the corner was a naked woman, bruised and beaten, trying desperately to cover herself with her hands. He would find out later that she was the widow of a local soldier killed in action, and mother to three young daughters, but at the time he walked in she was a woman being held against her will, and to my dad the how or why made no difference. Disregarding rank, he immediately reported the colonel for raping and imprisoning the woman.

  After the case was preferred back in the States, an informal investigation was held. The corporals claimed to have seen my father drinking. The colonel, who was third-generation Marine Corps, swore on his service of God and the United States Marine Corp that he had been asleep the entire time. My father was swiftly court-martialed, and an Article 32 Proceedings was scheduled. At the colonel’s request, a jury trial was waived, and my father’s fate fell into the hands of a military judge. He was dishonorably discharged in less than an hour.

  Despite our best attempts, sometimes yelling and cursing, and at other times pleading and crying, the Department of Veteran’s Affairs refused to pay for my mother’s treatment. Spousal medical care, including oncology, was traditionally covered by the VA, but the circumstances around his discharge meant we were denied. My father blamed himself.