Truths I Never Told You (ARC)

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Truths I Never Told You (ARC) Page 8

by Kelly Rimmer


  difficult time, because she’s really making a mess of this inter-

  vention. The last thing I want to do right now is open up be-

  cause with every second that passes, I feel more attacked. “You

  told me you were taking another six months unpaid leave. You

  told Jeremy you’re going back any time now. And Tim said

  he asked you last week and you changed the subject. Is there a

  problem at the clinic?”

  “I thought this was a welfare check, Ruth. I didn’t realize it

  was an interrogation,” I say defensively, and I rise again. The

  last thing I want to do is admit to Wonder Woman that I’ve put

  off my return to work not because I want to, but because I don’t

  trust myself with the welfare of innocent children right now.

  “Just answer one question,” Ruth asks, pulling back all of the

  accusation in her tone and speaking to me very gently. “Yes, this

  stage of life is hard. And yes, it’s tiring. But it shouldn’t break

  you. It can’t break you, because I know you’re used to being

  responsible for other people’s welfare at work, but what you’re

  doing now is literally the most important role you’ll ever take

  on. Are you coping okay?”

  One day Noah was screaming and I couldn’t bear the way

  the sound pierced my ears. It grated and grated and I suddenly

  realized I couldn’t bear it for another second. I walked out the

  door and down to the coffee shop on the corner of our street. I

  zoned out completely—I’d actually ordered a latte before I even

  realized what I’d done. I ran home and sat next to his crib but I

  still couldn’t convince myself to pick him up and comfort him.

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  He cried himself to sleep. I sat on the floor beside him and I

  sobbed for hours. I still can’t explain what actually happened

  that day and I’m too scared to talk about it because I don’t want

  everyone to panic.

  “I’m fine,” I say, and when she opens her mouth to talk again,

  I lean back to snatch my teacup from the table and head toward

  the hallway. “Honestly, Ruth, you’re being ridiculous. Come

  on, let’s go see what’s in this attic.”

  Ruth sighs and rises. As she follows me along the hallway

  toward the staircase, she murmurs, “It was hard for me at first.

  I missed having a mom so much. There was no one around to

  ask for advice and I had to figure it all out for myself and it felt

  so lonely. If you’re feeling like that, I really want you to remember that you’ve got me, and you’ve got Chiara. You’ve even got

  Elena and Harriet. I know they’d be happy to be there for you

  if you let them.”

  Elena and Harriet are friends from college, with six kids be-

  tween them. But just like Ruth, Elena and Harriet had babies

  and made it look easy. God, I remember Elena putting off her

  return to work for an extra six months not because she didn’t

  think she could cope but because she was enjoying motherhood

  so much she couldn’t bear to be away from her kid. Sure, they

  might have practical experience, and maybe they could offer me

  advice about diapers or pacifiers or feeding, but that’s not actu-

  ally the kind of advice I need right now.

  What do you do if you find yourself as a new mom and you

  realize you’re just not capable?

  “ Maybe I’m just finding my footing,” I blurt. Ruth frowns.

  “I just mean, I still don’t know what I’m doing. When does it

  start to feel natural?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Ruth says, blinking at

  me. “He’s five months old. You’re already doing everything you

  need to be at this point. Feed, change, play, cuddle. That’s it.”

  “I know, I just…” She’s looking at me as if I’ve suddenly

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  Kelly Rimmer

  grown a second head and if I could go back in time a few sec-

  onds, I’d have kept my mouth shut. This is why I haven’t talked

  to anyone about this. I knew they’d look at me like Ruth is

  looking at me now—as if it doesn’t make any sense, and that’s a

  perfectly reasonable response, because the way I’ve been feeling

  doesn’t make sense . I straighten my chin and try to backtrack as much as I can. “If I seem stressed, it’s just because my life is so

  different now. I’m still adjusting.”

  Ruth doesn’t seem convinced. She touches my elbow gently,

  trying to stop me as we walk toward the staircase.

  “Are you sure—” she murmurs, and I flash her a look.

  “You asked. I told you I’m fine, just getting used to things.

  You need to drop this,” I say flatly. Ruth sighs again and opens

  her hands in surrender, and we continue down the hallway in

  silence.

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  Grace

  December 5, 1957

  It was so much easier for Patrick and me to meet once I started secretarial college. I had a newly minted driver’s license but was anxious driving in the city, so I caught a series of buses to get to my campus. The buses could be unreliable, and sometimes I’d be studying late…at least, that was the story my parents heard. In reality, I was always finished by four o’clock, and the buses ran like clockwork. But Patrick finished work at four during winter when the days were short, and we’d sneak a precious hour together before he dropped me off at the corner so my parents had no way of knowing I hadn’t taken the bus.

  In the same way that I now obsess over the dark thoughts that swirl

  through my mind, I once obsessed over all there was to love about Pat-

  rick. He was attentive and affectionate and kind, and flirty and fun and cheeky in the best kind of way. Sneaking around only added to the fun of it, at least at first. My sister Maryanne was a defiant child, always reveling in the opportunity to do the unexpected, but I was the exact opposite, quiet and compliant, determined to please and to obey. Certainly part of the allure of Patrick Walsh was that being with him was my

  first rebellion—and the danger was delicious. Perhaps that’s also why

  I didn’t even tell Maryanne about my secret relationship. I knew she’d understand my desire to rebel, but I was also quite certain that my book-ish, fiercely independent big sister wouldn’t have a clue about how it felt to tumble headlong into love, and I couldn’t bear her disapproval. We spoke on the phone every few weeks over that first year and I didn’t say Patrick’s name to her once.

  But soon enough, my year at the secretarial college was coming to an

  end, and my father talked about a phone operator position at the bank. I Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 69

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  didn’t mind the idea of a job with Father, but there was another possibility that seemed even better: marrying Patrick. I knew it was either the job or the wedding, because Father’s bank operates under the marriage bar, and once a girl is married, her employment is terminated.

  It was another crossroads, I suppose—another moment when I could

  have walked away, another opportunity to correct my course. Instead, Patrick and I decided it was time to c
ome out from under our cloak of secrecy.

  I invited him to join us for Mass, and then afterward as we mingled on the church front lawn, I introduced him to my parents as a friend. Patrick didn’t go to our church normally—he sporadically attended Mass in downtown Seattle, near the apartment he shared with two work friends.

  But ours is a very large congregation, and my parents had no idea that he wasn’t a regular attendee. We tried to ease them in gently—Patrick

  attended the same service as my parents and me for a few weeks, and

  then one Sunday I quietly mentioned to my parents that he’d asked me

  out on a date.

  Father just grunted. Mother reacted with shock.

  “But… Grace! Do you even know who his people are?”

  “He’s an orphan, Mother. His aunt Nina raised him, but she lives in

  Bellevue and doesn’t see him often. He’s all alone in this world.”

  I hoped that would endear Patrick to them, and that some sense of

  sympathy might soften the coming blow, because I knew what Father’s

  next question would be. I was totally unsurprised when he asked, “And

  what does this boy do for work, Grace?”

  Any lie would be revealed eventually, so I had to tell the truth. I felt sick as I said it, because I knew that we’d reached the point where my loyalties would be tested.

  “You’re not dating a contractor,” Father said as if that settled the matter. He caught my eye and sighed. “Just think about it, Gracie. He likely Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 70

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  only asked you out because he knows that we have means. It’s best that you don’t see him again.”

  I’d rarely argued with my parents over the seventeen years that pre-

  ceded that Sunday, but for the week that followed, I found myself making up for lost time. Every time Patrick came up in conversation, Father would go red in the face, and Mother would reach for her pills or glass of wine as if we were stressing her beyond what she could bear. Sometimes when Father was at work, she’d sit me down to try to convince me of the error of my ways.

  You don’t want to tie yourself to a man with low ambition,

  Grace.

  Date if you must, but be sure to choose boys from our

  neighborhood. Or what about one of the boys from the

  bank? Perhaps once you start your new job you’ll meet

  someone nice there.

  Gracie darling, just think about it some more. I mean,

  what kind of life could he even offer you?

  I’d thought about it plenty. My head was full of dreams about the life Patrick and I might share, and I was determined to reach for it. A few days later Patrick arrived unannounced with his hat tucked against his chest. Father slammed the door in his face. But the more vocal my

  parents became, the more I convinced myself that to choose anything but Patrick would be to betray the very love of my life. I walked out of their lavish home for the last time that night and went to stay with one of my college friends.

  For the first few nights I felt brave and bold. That wore off quickly, and soon I found myself feeling miserable and lonely in my friends’ guest room. I wrote to Maryanne and told her what was happening, and of

  course, invited her to come for the wedding. In my heart of hearts, I knew Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 71

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  she’d disapprove, but I felt so lost, and I hope she’d surprise me and I might be consoled by her support. When her letter came, her disapproval was every bit as vehement as our parents’ had been—but Maryanne

  didn’t care about the specifics of Patrick’s situation. She’d have begged me to reconsider even if I’d been marrying a prince.

  Grace, you’re being wildly impulsive and you’re going to

  sorely regret it. Put aside these foolish thoughts of marriage,

  especially at your age! What you need to do is to reach for

  a better life, and I’ll help you do just that. You must cancel

  the wedding for now, and instead, catch a train down here

  and clear your head. Who knows? You might even want

  to enroll in college once you see what the lifestyle is like.

  You’re a bright girl. You could handle the coursework—

  and imagine the fun we’d have! Otherwise, what are you

  signing up for? A life of laundry and housework? You are

  meant for so much more. Do not let the haze of young love

  ruin your future, Grace. Perhaps this boy gives you but-

  terflies, but if you stop for a minute and think about it, I’m

  sure you’ll agree that a few butterflies are no compensation

  for the ability to direct your own future.

  The scornful, arrogant way my sister spoke of marriage and house-

  wives and “uneducated women” always confused me, but when I read

  that letter, I realized just how different Maryanne and I really were.

  Our ideological differences always existed in the space between us—but they were impersonal, vague. Now Maryanne’s inexplicable dislike of all things traditional had a face and a name. Her scorn was directed at the love of my life, and by extension, at me. For my sister, a union between me and Patrick was a tragic ending. To me, it was an exciting beginning.

  A fracture appeared in my relationship with Maryanne for the very first Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 72

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  time. She’d been living in California for several years but I still considered us close—yet her harsh letter damaged us in a way that even geographi-cal distance had failed to do. I wanted so desperately for her to be happy for me and to understand that I wasn’t; I was actively achieving the life I wanted. I wrote her back, my pen strokes hard, my words unwavering.

  This is my life, Maryanne. You do not have the exclusive

  right to make your own decisions regardless of what others

  think. Whether you and Mother and Father like it or not,

  I will marry Patrick next month, and I’ll be happy, even if

  my choice costs me my family.

  Patrick and I had booked the beautiful St. Joseph’s Church on Capi-

  tol Hill. I steeled myself as the day approached—lonely and sad, but

  even so, determined to marry the love of my life with or without my family. But the day before the ceremony, Maryanne appeared on my doorstep, fresh off the train from UC Berkeley. She held my upper arms in her

  hands and she stared at me.

  “You’re sure this is what you want?”

  “It is.”

  “Then tell me how I can help.”

  “You’re here,” I said, and then I burst into tears and embraced her.

  “That’s enough.”

  Despite her last-minute arrival, Maryanne stood as my bridesmaid,

  and she was such a picture in that powder-blue dress that I couldn’t help but feel sad that she’d never be a bride herself. As I followed her down the aisle, I was startled to find my parents sitting right there in the front row. I’d sent them an invitation, although never in my wildest dreams

  did I expect them to attend. Only later would I discover that their quick change of heart hadn’t exactly been spontaneous—rather, Maryanne all

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  but bullied Father into reconsidering his stance. I rarely understand my sister, but I can’t help but admire her moxie.

  Patrick and I couldn’t af ord a reception dinner, but Ewan’s wife, Jean, made us a cake for morning tea afterward. We cut the cake in the church vestibule an
d basked in the congratulations of my friends from secretarial college and Patrick’s colleagues. Aunt Nina surprised us with an envelope stuffed with crumpled notes—later we discovered it amounted to several hundred dollars—a fortune by Patrick’s standards. Mother asked us to

  join her out at the car, and that’s when she gave us the television. It was a shocking act of reconciliation. That gesture was almost as important to me as the ceremony itself—an acknowledgment that although Patrick

  wasn’t the husband they’d hoped I’d find, they still supported my decision.

  I pictured Patrick and me in a humble but beautiful home, building

  a humble but beautiful life. In the end Patrick’s salary wasn’t nearly enough for us to rent anything, and it didn’t seem right for us to continue to live with his apprentice friends now that we were married. We were

  lucky, though—a public housing apartment in Yesler Terrace became

  available and because Patrick’s apprentice salary was so low, we were

  eligible. When we picked up our keys, the super dropped some none-too-

  subtle hints about how handy Patrick’s building skills would be, given the apartment had housed some less-than-respectable tenants and was in dire need of love and care. Patrick, my smooth, charming new husband, was only too happy to promise to fix it all up, given that we were so very lucky to get it in the first place.

  Initially, Patrick did seem to delight in showing off his skills. We

  had that wad of cash from Aunt Nina and no idea what to do with it.

  I wanted to put it in the bank, but Patrick felt it would be wiser to have it safely on hand, so he spent weeks building a heavy wooden chest to

  serve as a coffee table for our living room, then proudly showed me the hidden compartment he built into the bottom. But his energy for at-home Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 74

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  construction and maintenance quickly waned—and that easy access to

  the money was probably the worst decision we ever made, because it all evaporated, right along with Patrick’s desire to work around the house.

  Four years later I’m still waiting for him to make those repairs he

  promised. This apartment is only a little larger than my bedroom was

  back at my parents’ house—three small bedrooms, the world’s small-

  est, dampest kitchen, a living area, an enclosed veranda, and a roof that leaks when it rains. For the first three months we slept on a mattress on the floor in the living area because it was winter and that’s where the heater happened to be.

 

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