by Sonja Yoerg
• • •
Geneva did as she promised. She contemplated whether she could ignore Paris’s letter. She pictured engaging in her normal, everyday activities—swimming, going to work, eating dinner with Tom and the kids—unsure who her father really was. Could she wall off the idea he might have been a monster, or at least a very sick individual, and live her life as before? She imagined turning the pages of the photo album, seeing his face, seeing Paris. A sour taste climbed into her throat.
Until she spoke with Dublin she had been certain of what the letter revealed. Was the doubt she now felt only wishful thinking, the same sort of denial that allowed her to turn a blind eye to her intuitions about Charlie and her mother’s recent drinking? Her brother’s attitude had a pragmatic what’s-done-is-done appeal, but she wasn’t sure she could adopt it and live with herself.
She turned the question on its head and asked why she shouldn’t pursue the truth, whatever it turned out to be. She would have to ask her mother some hard questions, but it wasn’t as if their relationship could deteriorate much further. She’d have no guarantee of straight answers, but so what?
As she turned off the trail and watched Diesel lope around the corner toward the driveway, another pebble shook loose in her mind. Florence had said their mother began drinking heavily after their father’s death. If her father had been molesting Paris, wouldn’t his death have come as a relief? Maybe Dublin was right, and the bad blood between her mother and Paris resulted solely from a poisonous mixture of jealousy and mental instability.
She came around the side of the barn. Tom stood in the drive, stroking Diesel, and looked up at her with concern.
“Hey. How’re you holding up?”
“I’m okay.”
“The hospital called. Your mom passed the psych exam.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s not a high bar. All they want to do is make sure she’s not an immediate danger to herself.”
“And they’re releasing her around five.”
They went inside. Several covered platters and plastic food containers lined the counter, including a jar of tomato sauce.
“Oh,” Tom said, “Juliana stopped by. She said everyone sends their love and hopes your mom feels better.”
“How did they know?”
He smiled. “They just do.”
• • •
Tom and Geneva brought Helen home that night. She thanked them for not “tossing her out on the street” and went straight to bed. Early the next morning Geneva went to work, having called in all her favors over the last three days. Because it was Saturday, the clinic was swamped with visits that pet owners had put off during the workweek. Stan had left her a note, saying he hoped her mother was feeling better. Geneva hadn’t told him the reason for Helen’s hospitalization, and she appreciated that he hadn’t asked.
She sutured the face of a cat that had gotten into a fight, spayed a young terrier, and monitored the animals her colleagues had treated yesterday and kept overnight. In her few free moments, she sorted through the backlog of emails and lab results, and made several phone calls to clients. Finally, she wrote notes to the staff thanking them for stepping up in her absence. She walked out to her car, breathing deeply for the first time in days. She loved her job most days, but today’s hectic schedule was a godsend.
She drove slowly on her way home, collecting her thoughts. Once there, she stopped at the barn to say hello to Tom and Ella, and checked in with Charlie, perched at the kitchen counter with an open history book and a bag of popcorn.
“Hey, Momster. Guess what.”
“After this week, do I want to know?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Yeah. It’s all good. You know the Battle of the Bands? We won!”
Geneva paused, stymied by the moral arithmetic. “That’s fine, Charlie. But if there was anything resembling a prize, your sister should get a cut.”
“Nope. Just fame and glory.”
“Have you seen Nana?”
He cocked his thumb toward the back door. “I’ve been keeping an eye on her for you.”
Her mother sat on a chaise on the lawn, flipping through a magazine.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. The sun feels nice.”
“Yes, not a trace of fog today.” She pulled up a chair. “Mom, I want to talk.”
“Am I going to want to hear it?”
“Probably not.” Her mother frowned but didn’t protest. “There was an old letter to you from Paris on the bed last night. I read it.”
“Well, now we know where Charlie gets his snoopiness.” She lifted her magazine and turned the page.
“I’m sorry. But I can’t pretend I didn’t.” Geneva leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “What happened between Daddy and Paris, Mom?”
She didn’t look up. “What do you think?”
“Please just tell me.”
“How is it your business?”
“He was my father. I want to know the truth about him.”
Her mother laid her hand on the page as if it were a Bible, and looked her daughter in the eye. “There isn’t one truth about anybody. You ought to know that by now.”
Strangely, this felt like progress. “Did you see something?”
“I thought I did.”
Geneva’s stomach clenched. Sweat broke out on her palms. She willed herself to think, to ask the right questions. “That must’ve been terrible. I’m sure you wanted to stop it.”
“I did try.” She looked into the distance. “I got her that dog.”
Argus. Why hadn’t it occurred to her earlier how odd it was to give the first family dog to a sixteen-year-old? Helen returned to her magazine.
“Did you talk to Paris about it?”
“Oh, my.” She let out a bitter laugh. “I sure tried to. Laughed in my face and said I was jealous.”
Geneva imagined them sitting at the kitchen table, her mother’s face serious and drawn, Paris haughty and smiling. “Obviously you didn’t go to the authorities because no one would believe you—you weren’t a hundred percent sure yourself—and Paris wasn’t going to point a finger at Daddy.”
Her mother appeared to be absorbed in an article on begonias, but Geneva thought she detected a slight nod.
“So all you could do was shield Florence.” She swallowed hard to stem her tears. “And me?”
Helen closed the magazine, leaned in, and patted her daughter’s knee. “I’m starving. That hospital food was garbage. Why don’t we see what all Juliana brought us?”
Geneva got up and positioned her mother’s walker in front of her, then followed her across the lawn to the back steps.
“You’re limping a lot less.”
“One step at a time.”
Geneva boiled water for the pasta while Tom heated the sauce and meatballs. Juliana had included a container of freshly grated parmesan, a large green salad, garlic bread and her famous mud pie.
When they sat down to eat, everyone kept the conversation light, nerves jangled from the events of the last few days.
“Juliana was really sweet to do this for us,” Geneva said.
“Her sauce is the best,” Charlie said.
Ella picked up her third piece of garlic bread. “My favorite, right here.”
Helen cut a meatball with the side of her fork and chewed thoughtfully. “I believe these are the tastiest meatballs I’ve ever had, next to Louisa’s.”
Geneva’s forkful of salad hovered in the air as she met her mother’s gaze. Helen stopped chewing. Meatballs. The Christmas party. Geneva had put on her new red velvet dress and run downstairs to the kitchen to ask Louisa to put up her hair. Louisa had a knack for taming her thick dark waves. Her mother was taking a tray of meatballs out of the oven. She moved quickly and her face was flushed. “Where’s Louisa?”
/> “She’s not here.”
“How come? She said yesterday she’d do my hair!”
Her mother yanked off the oven mitts and tossed them on the counter. “Your hair’s the least of my concerns.” She strode across to the refrigerator and Geneva jumped out of the way. “Don’t get underfoot.”
“But where is she?”
“How should I know? Your father’s fired her and fifty people are coming through that door in an hour. Do something with your hair, then come down and give me a hand.”
She hadn’t seen Louisa since.
Across the dining table, Helen turned back to her plate. Geneva remembered Dublin postulating that if their father had molested Paris, Louisa would probably have known, and thought it a remarkable coincidence her mother had mentioned her on this particular day.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
HELEN
Eustace took his time dying, as if he meant to punish her. Didn’t matter he didn’t know she was there. A week after he’d been admitted to the hospital, he mumbled what she took to be his last words. She wasn’t there every minute, and couldn’t be 100 percent certain he didn’t say anything else, but from what she could tell, that was it. His lips parted, gray and cracked, and he puffed it out, like a weak kiss: “Paris.”
She snatched up her handbag and left, nearly colliding with the nurse in the hallway. She desperately wanted to get revenge for that, but there was nothing she could do to a man nearly dead. A gesture would have been a start, but everything that came to mind—ramming her car into his, telling his parents what a monster they’d created, boycotting his funeral—only left her exposed. She hoped she would feel better once the bastard was good and dead.
Paris was with him when his body followed the lead of his liver and quit for good. Helen expected her to carry on something fierce, but when she came home from the hospital and let her mother know he was gone, she was unnaturally calm.
“I’ll pack now. I’m leaving in the morning.”
“But what about the funeral?”
“That’s a performance you can manage without me. I’ve said good-bye to Daddy.”
She left in a hurry, with only a quick hug for Florence. Helen asked her to say good-bye to Geneva and Dublin before she left.
“I can’t find them, and I’ll miss my bus.”
After the folks from the funeral parlor left, Helen went looking. She found them huddled at the bottom of their closet clinging to each other like baby monkeys, and wondered what in God’s name she had done.
• • •
Because Eustace had been the mayor, Helen was required to grieve in the public eye more than she’d have preferred. She couldn’t step out the front door without running into someone leaving a bouquet or a note. The mayor’s office let a few days go by, then consulted her concerning each and every detail of the elaborate memorial service a man of Eustace’s stature deserved. She pleaded overwhelming grief and referred them to Eustace’s family, whom she knew would be only too happy to oblige. Luckily for Helen, people saw what they expected to see. She was remorseful for killing her children’s daddy—and the man she had once loved—without absolute proof of his guilt, and feared she might be found out. But to the people of Aliceville, she was shocked and heartbroken.
Every day for a week, dozens of letters of condolence tumbled through the mail slot. She dutifully opened and read each one, then made a check next to the name in her address book or, if it was a business colleague, Eustace’s. Using ivory cards bordered with black she had printed for the occasion, she penned her replies in a timely manner, making special note of gifts of flowers or food. Her handwriting was a bit shaky, but they’d expect that from a young widow.
One note was conspicuous in its absence: Louisa’s. Desperate as Helen was to ask Louisa what she had witnessed, she knew better than to stick her neck out. Asking Louisa meant she was suspicious of Eustace and that gave her motive to kill him. If she had to bet, she’d wager Louisa wouldn’t turn her in for meting out justice, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She knew better than anyone a moral compass was a wobbly instrument.
• • •
After the trip to the hospital, Helen settled back in at Geneva’s house, but she didn’t feel settled. If the psychologist at the hospital had known how confused she was, she might not have let her go. Helen couldn’t sort out her feelings, only that she was frightened. She had told the psychologist she hadn’t tried to kill herself because it was the easiest thing to say. In truth, she wasn’t certain. Or maybe she didn’t care. But that didn’t seem right somehow, because if she didn’t care whether she lived or died, why was she so scared?
Lying in that hospital bed next to the memories of Eustace’s demise didn’t help matters. All the questions she’d never laid to rest were eating away at her, like rats in the dark. Whoever said time heals all wounds was full of baloney, and never had a daughter like Geneva, who wouldn’t let the past rest. No, that girl had to dig up the yard until she found every single bone buried deep and long since picked clean. She was on a foolish mission to save them all. But, as Helen had discovered, while you were digging and inspecting and putting the pieces together, the past could eat you up and spit you out. Especially if you had plenty to hide.
She wondered about the pills she’d collected, which she’d told herself were emergency rations when booze got scarce. And the gun, which she’d told herself was for self-protection. Since she left the hospital, another thought had occurred to her: Both were self-protection, as in protection against herself, against the threat of living a minute more of her life. She’d been spending thirty years with her hand on the door handle. If things got really bad, she could leave.
Now that she saw what she’d been doing, she was sadder than ever. Because people with one hand on the door handle aren’t living. They’re biding their time, weighing each moment, daring it to be the one that tips the scales and sends them out of this life for good.
The gun and the pills and the vodka made a disgrace of hope. Helen had enough sense to see that. Problem was, she couldn’t see any way around it. The past wasn’t a guest you could ask to leave when you tired of its company. No, the past put up its feet and meant to stay.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
GENEVA
While Ella and Charlie put away what remained of Juliana’s Italian feast, Geneva googled Louisa. She didn’t have to pause to remember her last name. When she was little, she made a birthday card for Louisa each year, and insisted on writing her full name on the outside, even though her mother said “Louisa” or “Miss Louisa” was sufficient. Geneva thought both names made the card more professional.
The unusual spelling of Louisa’s last name—McCutchion—made her easy to find. Geneva was not surprised Louisa still lived near Aliceville, at an address she quickly determined was an assisted living facility. She didn’t know Louisa’s exact age, but she was older than Helen by at least ten years, maybe twenty. Even if Louisa had known about Paris and her father, her memory might be failing or she might not be willing to tell Geneva, a virtual stranger. Still, her instincts told her an inquiry was worth a shot. She sent an email to the contact listed on the facility’s Web site, explaining who she was, and asked if Louisa could email or phone her.
• • •
The next day, Geneva awoke to a dawn muted by heavy clouds. Tom’s pillow covered his head. She crept out of bed, pulled on a fleece jacket, and let Diesel into the backyard, where he sniffed the moist air for clues left by nighttime intruders into his domain.
Geneva retrieved her laptop from her bag by the front door and crossed to the living room couch. She scanned the list of new emails, all work-related except the last from [email protected], sent that morning. She held her breath and clicked it open.
Dearest Geneva,
How happy I was to get your message after all these years! Naturally, I’m itching to talk
to you. I use Skype to keep up with my grandchildren. (God blessed me with nine little angels.) I’d love to see your face—I can picture you as a little girl before me now—so please find me there. I’m granny.mccutchion.
Hope to see you soon, dear one.
Louisa
Geneva let Diesel inside and carried her laptop to the barn for privacy. She stood at the workbench and sent a request to Louisa’s Skype account. While she waited for her to accept, she selected a handful of family photos and forwarded them to Louisa, knowing she would ask. Ten minutes later, the video call notice chimed. She clicked Accept, and Louisa appeared. Her short hair had turned white and her face was lined, but when she smiled Geneva would have known her anywhere.
“Look at you!” Louisa said.
They talked for a while. Geneva walked her through the photos of her family. As Louisa inquired about her husband and children, she felt a stab of regret for not including this woman in her life. Louisa had held her when she was ill, read her to sleep, and played Go Fish with her for hours at a time.
“What about Dublin, and your sisters?”
“If you don’t mind waiting a minute, I’ll send another batch of photos.”
“Mind? I loved all of you like family.”
She showed her Dublin’s family, and Florence and Renaldo engaged in various sporting activities. Louisa chuckled. “Same as always.” The last photo was of Geneva, Dublin, and Paris, taken by Whit at the Paleolithic Garden in L.A. the previous Tuesday. Louisa frowned as she examined the photo.
“We don’t see Paris often,” Geneva said.
“Don’t you?”
“No.” She waited for Louisa to turn back to the camera. When she did, her face was soft. “I was hoping you might know why. My mother and Paris haven’t spoken in thirty years. My mother told me she suspected something, well, something terrible was going on between Paris and my father.”
Louisa leaned back in her chair and gazed away. “I expected there was a reason you decided to look for me, after all this time.”