Truths I Never Told You (ARC)

by Kelly Rimmer

  bauble earrings, a matching necklace of oversize beads, and more

  bracelets and rings than I’ve ever seen on one human being at

  one time. Her hair is raven-black and cut in a bob, with pieces

  on either side of her face that hang just a little longer, dyed

  the same stunning red as the trim on her caftan. She’s is wear-

  ing a full face of makeup over her pale complexion, including

  winged eyeliner that I couldn’t pull off even if a professional

  helped me apply it, and red lips several times brighter than the

  red in her hair.

  The whole look is artsy and quirky, but it’s also severe. I can’t

  even begin to guess how old she is. She’s surely somewhere

  around Dad’s age, but she doesn’t look it. I don’t know if that’s

  a side effect of her style, or just that she’s aged particularly well.

  She scans the room with her bright blue eyes, and then her

  gaze lands on me, and I am suddenly overwhelmed by memo-

  ries of my mother.

  I’m lying in the bed, cuddled up beside her, under the heavy duvet

  and she’s stroking my hair.

  I’m curled up on her lap; she’s reading me yet another book.

  Burnt eggs for breakfast again. Hugs that smell like cake. Safety and

  comfort and love.

  Intellectually, I know I’m having this reaction because Mary-

  anne has the same pale complexion and dark hair that Grace and

  I also shared. And this woman—this stranger—is, in effect, a di-

  rect link to my mother, and this is the very first time I can re-

  member meeting any of Grace’s relatives. The rapid-fire stream

  of memories makes sense. Even the bubbling emotions make

  sense. I just didn’t expect to find her so familiar, and I don’t feel

  prepared to feel this way. It takes me a minute to collect myself,

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  and just as I do, I think I see a flash of emotion across Mary-

  anne’s face, too. Whatever it is, it clears in an instant, and then

  she’s greeting us with a casual, somewhat formal tone.

  “Hello, all,” she says, and she lifts a hand to wave at us. My

  gaze drops to her long fingernails, painted in a glossy red, and

  the heavy bangles on her wrist that clang as she moves her arm.

  Tim stands, hand extended to shake hers.

  “Tim Walsh,” he says. Maryanne quirks an eyebrow at his

  formal introduction, then shakes his hand.

  “Lovely to see you again, Timmy,” she says mildly. “Still tak-

  ing the lead, I see.”

  “Uh, okay…”

  I think I see something of a flush on Tim’s cheeks above his

  beard, and he turns back to me and gives me a strained look.

  “And you, Jeremy.” Maryanne approaches my other brother,

  shaking her head incredulously. “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” Jeremy asks cautiously.

  “Ruth tells me you’re an earth sciences professor.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “How surprising,” Maryanne muses thoughtfully. “I’ve kept

  me eye on the papers over the years, half expecting to hear you’d

  been arrested for something.”

  I suppress a giggle, which Ruth and Tim altogether fail to do.

  Soon we’re all laughing—except Jeremy, who’s trying very hard

  to scowl. He drops the act after a moment or two and shrugs.

  “Let’s face it. We all know it could have gone either way.”

  As everyone laughs, Maryanne turns her attention to me.

  “Bethany,” she murmurs when I come close to her. “My

  goodness.”

  For a moment she seems almost overcome. She rests her hands

  on my upper arms and stares at me, then she pulls me in for a

  hug. I let her embrace me, but I’m not entirely sure why I get

  this display of affection, and everyone else got a polite greet-

  ing. When I turn back to face the rest of my family, I see the

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  surprise on their faces, too. I shrug, a little self-conscious, then

  introduce her to Hunter and Noah. Ruth takes over to intro-

  duce her to Ellis, and then Tim introduces Alicia.

  “And where is…” She looks around as she sits at an empty

  chair at the dining table, and then says hesitantly, “Ruth, you

  said this is Patrick’s house…?”

  Tim, Jeremy and I all look at Ruth, who winces. In a sur-

  prising display of reticence, she doesn’t leap to explain, leaving

  Tim to fill the gap.

  “Dad passed away recently. Just a few weeks ago,” he says

  carefully. It still hurts to hear those words, and I swallow the

  lump in my throat as the truth of that statement sinks in all over

  again. But compared to our muted reactions to what’s still very

  tender news, Maryanne’s shock is palpable. Her jaw drops and

  her eyes widen, and she grips the armrests in both hands, her

  knuckles turning white.

  “My God,” she whispers, blinking rapidly. We all sit in a

  horrible silence for several moments, until Ruth catches my eye

  and gives me a frantic what do we do next? look. I decide I’ll try to break the awkwardness, but before I can, Maryanne gives a

  funny cough that I think might actually be a sob. I rise auto-

  matically, wondering if I should try to comfort her, but she rises,

  too, and says, “I’m dreadfully sorry. Could someone please di-

  rect me to a bathroom?”

  Ellis saves the day, leading her down the hallway and away

  from the rest of us.

  “Ruth!” Jeremy whispers. “You didn’t think you should men-

  tion that Dad died?”

  “It didn’t seem to be the kind of news you deliver over the

  phone. Besides, I didn’t expect her to get so upset. I mean—

  God, as far as we know, they haven’t even seen one another in

  forty years!” Ruth whispers back, but then she looks at me in a

  panic. “Help. I don’t know what to do now.”

  “Let’s serve dinner,” I say. “Let’s just try to keep things ca-

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  sual. We can’t leap right into an interrogation about her sister’s

  death after that.”

  “Good idea,” Alicia says, rising. “I’ll help.”

  I join my sister and Alicia in the kitchen, and we work in near

  silence as we serve the casseroles Ruth has prepared.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Maryanne says, reappearing in the

  kitchen doorway. Her eyes are dry, but her lips are pursed.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t warn you about Dad,” Ruth says, un-

  characteristically hesitant. “He was sick for a long time, but his

  passing is very new and I wasn’t really…” She clears her throat.

  “Honestly, I didn’t realize you were at all close, but even so, it

  seemed better to tell you face-to-face.”

  Maryanne looks between us, then asks carefully, “What did

  he tell you about me?”

  Ruth gives me another panicked look. It’s almost a novelty to

&n
bsp; see my sister intimidated. I’d be enjoying it much more if this

  wasn’t all so awkward.

  “We didn’t even know you existed until recently. But Dad was

  very unwell toward the end and quite confused—he had a form

  of dementia as well as serious heart issues. He said your name

  a few times, but not much of what he said made any sense by

  that stage. It took us a while to even figure out who you were.”

  Maryanne’s gaze turns sharp.

  “I see. So why did you look me up?”

  “Well, we have a lot of questions…”

  “About?”

  “Ah…mostly about Grace’s death,” I say carefully.

  “What would you hope to achieve by asking me about her?”

  Maryanne asks. Her chin is high, but there’s an incredible ten-

  sion in the way she’s holding herself—flared nostrils, overly stiff

  posture, even a crease between her eyebrows. I get the real sense

  that nothing about tonight is unfolding as she expected, and she

  looks more than a little shell-shocked.

  “We just want closure,” Ruth admits, and we share a sad look.

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  “Your mother’s death was an awful business, and it’s not some-

  thing I like to think about even now,” Maryanne says flatly. Her

  body language is increasingly defensive, and I’m painfully aware

  that we’re losing her. We need to turn this around if we’re going

  to have a real conversation tonight.

  “We have a lot of questions about her, and Dad is gone now.

  We don’t really have any one else to ask,” I say gently.

  “And why didn’t you ask Patrick about these things while he

  was alive?”

  “We didn’t realize there were questions to ask, to be honest,”

  I say. I’m noticing a pattern—she’s defensive with Ruth, ignor-

  ing Alicia altogether, but watching me closely. I have to suspect

  that maybe, if she did know us once upon a time, I was special

  to her. It seems like an awful thing to leverage, but I’m running

  out of options here, especially when Maryanne says abruptly, “If

  your father wanted you to have further detail, he’d have given

  it to you a long time ago.”

  “Did your family have some kind of falling out with Dad?”

  Ruth asks. Maryanne frowns at her, and she shrugs hesitantly.

  “It just seems so odd that we never even knew you existed, that’s

  all. He was on his own for so long without any help at all. It

  never occurred to us that Mom had family, let alone a sister just

  a short drive away…”

  Maryanne visibly stiffens, and I realize she’s heard Ruth’s

  question as an accusation of neglect.

  “Ruth,” I say, scolding her. “Why don’t we all sit down and—”

  “It was an exceedingly complicated situation and I have no

  doubt that every decision your father ever made was what he

  thought was for the best for the four of you.” She inhales sharply,

  and then adjusts her kaftan. “I really think I should leave. I’m

  not feeling well.”

  “Please stay,” I say, although I’m unsurprised that she wants

  to go. She looks quietly devastated, and even if we do convince

  her to stay, I know we’ll need to leave any potential questioning

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  about Grace or Dad or anything else for another time. “I hate to

  think we’ve upset you, or even made you uncomfortable. We’ll

  just get to know each other a little. Please.”

  Maryanne’s expression softens a little as she stares at me, but

  then her eyes fill with tears and she waves vaguely toward her

  head.

  “Migraine, sweet girl. I really need to go. I’m sorry.”

  It’s clear that Aunt Maryanne is leaving. Ruth fetches her bag

  as I follow her to the door. Maryanne pauses and stares at me,

  and then at my sister. Her eyes cloud, and she stops long enough

  to gently touch my upper arm.

  “When you think about your mother, all you really need to

  know is that she was a beautiful soul. She loved so deeply, and

  she loved you all more than anything. I see her in the both of

  you, and it makes me very happy to know that some wonderful

  part of her has lived on.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and it strikes me all of a sudden that at

  least part of her awkwardness tonight is that she’s a stranger to

  us, but we aren’t strangers to her, given she obviously knew us

  at least a little, once upon a time. She’s viewing us through a

  filter of grief and sadness, even after all these years. Maryanne

  must have loved her sister very deeply, just as I love mine. As

  soon as I recognize her pain, instinct takes over and I throw my

  arms around her. Within my hug, Maryanne Gallagher holds

  herself stiffly, and I pat her back gently, unthinkingly. Suddenly,

  all of the stiffness in her posture disappears, until she’s almost

  limp in my arms.

  “Goodbye,” she croaks, and she pulls herself out of my em-

  brace and disappears out the front door. Ruth and I walk back

  to the living space in silence, until she gives me an odd look.

  “What on earth about that bewildering encounter suggested

  to you that she would want a hug just now?”

  “I guess…she hugged me when she came in and she lost her

  sister and…” I’m still reeling a little myself, and I shrug. “Hon-

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  estly, Ruth, I have no idea. She just looked like she needed a

  hug.”

  “Where’s Maryanne?” Tim asks when we return to the din-

  ing room.

  “We asked her about Grace, and she got teary, and ran away,” I

  surmise, disappointment finally starting to sink in. When I look

  around my siblings, they all look every bit as crushed as I feel.

  “Ah—do we call her again?” Jeremy asks.

  “She has my number,” Ruth sighs, rubbing her forehead. “I

  guess she’ll call me if she changes her mind.”

  “I prepared myself for a lot of things tonight,” Tim says slowly.

  He reaches for Alicia’s hand, and I see him flash her a sad, fond

  smile. “The one thing I didn’t consider was that meeting the

  mysterious Aunt Maryanne might be a dead end.”

  “Did she seem familiar to any of you?” Jeremy asks thought-

  fully. “When she was scolding me…joking about me ending up

  in prison… I felt this odd sense of déjà vu.”

  “It’s funny you say that. I know exactly what you mean,”

  Tim says, frowning.

  “Mom used to call me ‘sweet girl,’ and Maryanne used that

  phrase just now, too,” I tell them all. “And her coloring—she

  looks quite similar to Grace. We’re just confusing them.”

  “It was more than that,” Ruth says quietly. “I thought I was

  imagining it, but she was so familiar and she obviously knew

  us. We must have known her whe
n we were kids.”

  “Did you bring that photo album?” Tim asks me suddenly.

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing those wedding photos.”

  “And we need to check the date on the death certificate,”

  Ruth reminds me. I did bring Dad’s wedding album—I thought

  we’d show Maryanne. I retrieve it from the car and hand it to

  Tim. He opens it while I’m still standing beside him, and in-

  stead of the wedding photos I looked at the first time I found

  it, he reveals a completely different photo.

  He’s opened it from the back, I realize. I didn’t even check

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  the other side—I just assumed the pages I opened to the first

  time were all it had to offer.

  “Is that…” Tim says hesitantly. I stare down at the image until

  my vision blurs. It’s of a couple standing on a set of concrete

  stairs, a large stone building behind them. Her dark hair is care-

  fully done and she’s wearing heavy makeup, including dramatic

  winged eyeliner and lips that look dark in the black-and-white

  photo. She’s in a light-colored dress with ruffles all along the

  neckline, and her arm is linked through his. She’s looking at the

  camera, a wild look in her eyes and a grin on her lips.

  Beside her, my dad wears a suit. His shoulders are slumped,

  but his expression is subdued—he’s smiling, but it seems forced.

  There’s something else in his gaze. He looks almost ashamed.

  “That’s the front of the King County Courthouse,” Hunter

  murmurs, approaching on the other side of Tim’s shoulder. “Is

  that your mom?”

  “It’s Maryanne,” Tim says suddenly. He looks back at me,

  brows knitting. “That’s not Mom. It’s Maryanne.”

  He turns the page, revealing another folded, yellowed piece

  of paper. He opens it and reads it silently for a moment.

  “What is it?” Ruth asks. Tim gnaws his lip, then glances

  back at me.

  “Where’s that death certificate?”

  I flip the album around and carefully slide Grace’s death cer-

  tificate out to pass it to him. He swallows, then exhales.

  “Beth was right. Grace died in 1959.”

  “But I remember her taking us to school—” Ruth starts to

  protest, but Tim holds up a hand to silence her.

  “And then a few months after Grace died, this happened,”

  he adds softly, and he turns the album around to reveal a cer-