His parents both died in a car accident—who knew it would be a genetic trait—when he was a freshman in college.
It wasn’t so much that my parents disapproved of Wyatt. He just wasn’t the match they had in mind for their only daughter. When it seemed obvious he wasn’t going to disappear into the sunset, my parents became much more attentive to my social life.
My father wanted to invite Wyatt to every possible event, including having him over to watch football. I knew his strategy. He always said he didn’t trust a man who didn’t like football. While my father’s attempt was to come to know Wyatt more, my mother’s strategy was for me to see Wyatt less. She thought lining up available sons of the professional community would attract my attention. It didn’t.
Having spent so much time at college and with my parents’ friends, people driven to succeed at any cost, I found Wyatt’s contentedness refreshing. He lived in the moment and didn’t lose today by worrying about tomorrow. Sunday was his one full day off. He’d sleep until after nine o’clock, and then we’d meet and walk the three blocks from his apartment to the lakefront so we could jog along the sea wall for two miles. On the walk back, we’d talk and sometimes stop at Lucy’s Café for po’boys and drinks. We were content cooking on weekends, spending lazy nights watching old movies and, eventually, nights of being less than lazy snuggled on his sofa.
Even before our relationship shifted into serious, I’d decided to postpone my return to Baton Rouge and an MBA so I could find a job where Wyatt and I would be in the same zip code. My parents were disappointed I wasn’t collecting degrees behind my name. Their desire for my pursuit of moving up the educational food chain was ironic, considering they were two successful people who hadn’t graduated from college themselves.
My father owned an insurance agency, and my mother made sure the doors stayed open. They drove luxury cars, lived in a country club community, and provided a want-for-nothing life for me. I’d always been proud of them because I knew their achievements didn’t come without sacrifice, but they persevered. Without the education they insisted was important for my own success.
I started work at a new public relations firm outside of New Orleans. And since they couldn’t sway me with other potential spouse offerings, my parents embarked on another tactic: to encourage Wyatt to expand his career options. The weekend the four of us had tickets for an LSU game, which meant an hour’s drive, I’d asked my mother if we could suspend talk about restaurant ownership, franchise opportunities, and any other plans she had for him. Fortunately, the Tigers won the game, so the postgame talk trumped Wyatt-talk.
As I’d hoped he would and my parents prayed he wouldn’t, Wyatt proposed one afternoon under the leafy umbrella of the ancient spreading oak tree along the lakefront where we often sipped wine and watched the sunset sizzle on the water.
Shortly after that came the question that trumped all questions. We were sitting on the deck outside. My father was grilling burgers while my mother artfully arranged her sliced tomatoes in overlapping circles on a serving tray. Thinking, I’m certain, that she was being demure, she said, “Wyatt, I don’t remember you mentioning what church you attend.”
Prepping asparagus for my father to add to the grill, Wyatt continued to slice and answered, “I never mentioned attending a church.” I admired his ability to sound perfectly charming even while his response wasn’t.
I thought my mother might just let the topic die a natural death. But no. She was resuscitating it. She continued with, “Well, what church do you attend?”
When he said, “I don’t belong to a church,” my mother turned to me, her lifted brows and unblinking eyes conveying her disapproval.
“You know, Wyatt doesn’t have to go to a building to be a good person,” I told her later. “Going to a church won’t make Wyatt a Christian any more than standing in a garage would make him a car.”
“You’re right, honey, it won’t. But what does not standing in the garage make him?”
CHAPTER 8
The shorter the distance to Lake Morgan, the more the manila envelope on the passenger seat throbbed with foreboding.
I debated calling Mia, but then decided the conversation could lead to my driving off the road. Especially since I already felt my stomach making its way up my throat. I rubbed my bump as if the baby could feel me soothing it. When, really, it should have been the one soothing me. “I suppose you’re as unhappy about this news as I am. But I’d appreciate it if you could somehow make me feel like I’m not a passenger on the Titanic.”
A few miles away from my parents’ office, I called to make sure they were there. My father answered and, for a moment, I felt guilty because he sounded so pleased I’d be stopping by to see them. “Your mom should be back in just a few minutes. She walked over to that new dress shop to drop off papers for them to sign. I could ask her to pick up some cupcakes at Sweet Delights Bakery for us.”
Tempting. Their banana-nut cupcake frosted with banana cream cheese frosting was the bakery version of Valium. But it seemed evil of me to accept food knowing I was going there to emotionally and verbally berate them.
“Guess once you become an adult, you don’t worry about sweets ruining dinner anymore,” I said.
His voice conveyed the smile I couldn’t see. “True. You realize there’re more things to worry about than candy before dinner, right?”
He and my mother were about to find out just how much truth he’d spoken.
The silver bell tied to the inside handle jingled when I opened the door to my parents’ office, but no one greeted me as I walked in.
Their reception area was empty, a fact I hadn’t considered in my determination to confront my parents. Having an agency in the same community for over twenty years meant drop-ins not just for business, but to “visit.” Code for catching up on the latest goings-on around town, the center for more breaking stories there than a newsroom.
My mother wasn’t in her customary ergonomic chair behind her antique rolltop desk, the only old piece of furniture there. She’d updated the office a year ago, replacing what she considered “institutional” tiled floors with warm oak planks covered with dove-shaded shaggy rugs, changing the wall colors from milk white to soft gray palettes, and adding plump sofas and wingback chairs to the reception area. Nestled in the corner was a coffee station, a pitcher of lemon water, and a basket of fruit. And a candy bowl near her desk.
My dad said her real motive wasn’t creating ambience. It was making the environment comfortable when clients had to write large checks and discuss topics that made them squirm—like being disabled and dying and things worse than the two of those—like being someone’s caretaker. Sometimes “till death do us part” was costly.
I’d started down the hall to my dad’s office when he met me halfway.
“Olivia, so glad . . .” He moved toward me, then stopped as we drew closer to one another. His expression morphed from joy to puzzled as he took in my dirt-stained jeans and my T-shirt splotched with that morning’s spilled latte.
“Where have you been? Decided to pull weeds in the garden or start hiking?” He hugged me in that way strangers do when they’re uncomfortable with smashing their body parts against yours. In my father’s case, it was his attempt to avoid smudging his starched white shirt.
“No. Haven’t weeded any gardens today,” I said, resisting the urge to get all metaphorical about the weeds I’d discovered earlier. “Where’s Mom?”
As if my question had activated her parent radar, the bell announced her arrival. Even without it, I would have suspected she’d walked in because, as it had just now, the lilac scent of her perfume traveled ahead of her.
“I saw your car parked outside. I didn’t know you’d be stopping by,” she said as she handed my dad a few manila folders. Her eyes didn’t look as welcoming as her voice sounded. That she said nothing about the way I looked—and possibly smelled—conveyed more about her disapproval than if she had.
Standing
next to me, she looked like the “after” to my “before.” Her jeans, with their sharp crease, looked sophisticated, and like my father, she wore a crisp white button-down, hers with classic French cuffs. She wouldn’t have looked any different had she been gardening or hiking as my father suspected of me. Her ability to remain impeccable under almost any circumstance was as maddening as it was admirable. My grandmother once joked that my mother’s clothes wouldn’t dare disappoint or disgrace her for fear she’d banish them from her upscale closet, and they’d suffer the fate of castoffs, relegated to a brown box in the attic.
“You expecting any clients or have any appointments soon? I really wanted to talk to both of you,” I said, my voice soft yet deliberate.
My mother looked at my dad in one of their telepathic eye exchanges, but I could tell by his raised eyebrows and almost imperceptible shrug that he wasn’t sure what she expected to see in him. Maybe she was just hedging.
“I don’t think so, but I probably should check your dad’s appointment schedule for the day.” She started walking toward her desk, and over her shoulder she asked me, “What is it you need to talk about? How much time do you need?” She flipped a few pages on the desk calendar. I suspected she was hoping to find a legitimate excuse for a short chat.
“Not too much. I just want to make sure that we’re not interrupted,” I said.
“Your dad is supposed to drop off a policy to Mr. Sutton this afternoon, but we could reschedule that if we need to. If this is going to take over an hour, I can call him to set up another time.”
She was uncharacteristically calm for someone who was more accustomed to being the surpriser and not the surprisee. “Let’s talk in your dad’s office.”
I sat on the sofa and they sat on the high-back chairs facing it.
Actually, the only person who sat after I did was Dad. My mother headed toward the small refrigerator in the corner of his office. “Would you like me to get you something to drink? I think we even have some fruit if you’re hungry. Are you sure your blood sugar is okay, because you seem a bit agitated or nervous. I’m not sure why you’re so shaky. Maybe you should eat something. I don’t think it’s good for the baby—”
“Speaking of babies,” I said and reached into my purse almost enjoying the grand performance in front of such a captive audience. I pulled my copy of the accident report out of the brown envelope I’d been given at the police station. “What do you know about this one?”
CHAPTER 9
My parents didn’t do much more than glance at the sheet of paper I slid across the coffee table.
They didn’t have to. They both already knew what was written there.
I watched them. Waited for some expression of shock. Some admission of guilt. Even cries of denial as false as they might be.
But nothing.
But that nothing said everything.
My father’s wedding band was making its dizzying thirty-first twist around his finger, and my mother stared above my head as if a silent movie played there.
“Why. Didn’t. You. Tell. Me?”
My parents looked at each other. When neither one of them volunteered an answer, they stared at me.
“How could you do this? When were you going to tell me about this? What right did you have to keep this a secret?” Every question fueled an already raging fire burning whatever I had left of hope and trust and sanity. I flung questions in their direction like whips. Wanting them to feel what I experienced when something strikes you so unexpectedly, with so much force that your skin rips from your bones.
“Honey, give your mother and me a chance to explain,” my father said as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. For a moment, I thought he was about to lead us in prayer.
“And that’s the thing, isn’t it? The fact that you have to justify yourselves.”
My mother touched my father’s shoulder. Her subtle connection signaling she had an accomplice. “We wanted to protect you—”
“Really? So how many more secrets are in that protective vault of yours?” I spit out protective, making it sound as foul as the excuse I knew I was about to hear.
“Olivia, please calm down. You have to think of someone else now, not just yourself. It’s not healthy for the baby, for you—”
My father, always the master negotiator between the two agitated women in his life.
“Don’t lecture me about taking care of my child. Especially not now. I don’t think either one of you should be talking to me about good parenting when I had to find out about this from strangers. Strangers!”
“You don’t get it, do you?” My mother’s back straightened, her rigid posture reflecting the harsh truth she felt obligated to deliver. “We were, and we are being good parents to you. Your dad and I had planned to tell you sooner, but then you came over and announced you were pregnant.”
“Like your mother said before, we wanted to protect you. You had enough to deal with, planning a funeral.”
“I wanted you to be honest with me. I didn’t ask you to shield me from what I had a right to know.” I realized I sounded like my parents thirteen years ago. Strange to hear them spout the rationalizations I used during my teen years about telling half-truths in the guise of protection. They’d hear about the party, but not about the drugs.
“It didn’t seem the right time to tell you the man you were so in love with had probably cheated on you.” My mother crossed her legs, wrapped her hand around her top knee, and leaned toward me for the kill. “And more than that . . . his driving away from the church where you were waiting to marry him with a baby gift on his backseat.”
Her arsenal of accusations lifted me off the sofa in seconds. “You’re assuming he cheated on me? How do you know that gift belonged to Wyatt’s baby? Did you open it? Do you have evidence?” The tightness in my chest exploded, cracking my voice, anger and resentment boiling underneath my skin. “He could have been on his way to visit a friend . . . You don’t know. You don’t know. We may never know. But I had the right to know that gift existed. And both of you kept it from me. Were you ever going to let me know the truth?”
“Well, I’m not sure, Olivia. Were you ready to hear that? No. You’re not even ready to hear it now,” she said, shaking her head, leaning back in the chair, draped in self-righteousness. “Your father and I have been praying and asking God to let us know how to tell you about it.”
My father opened his mouth, but I didn’t give him a chance to speak. He’d been mute long enough for me to realize he was letting my mother steer this ship, and he wasn’t about to start a mutiny.
“You’ve been what? Praying about it? Waiting for God to send you the plan? Isn’t He, or shouldn’t He have more to occupy His time than approving of the two of you lying?” I plopped on the sofa and casually examined the bits of dirt from this morning that hitchhiked under my fingernails.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She pushed the cuffs of her blouse almost to her elbows. “We didn’t lie to you. You never asked us if anything else was found. Maybe it’s a technicality, but if you were a stronger person, we wouldn’t need to insulate you from these things.”
“You’re suggesting that I’m weak? I can’t believe you two. I’ve followed rules, your rules, done things the right way. All of that’s wasted, because now God’s punishing me.”
“Olivia, sin has consequences. We’ve talked about this.”
“So, I’ve failed you, and I’ve failed God? It’s never enough, is it? I’ll never please either one of you. I don’t know how I’ll ever trust you or Dad or God.” I stood, grabbed the police report and my purse.
My father looked from me to my mother and back again. “Olivia, I know this is difficult—”
The front bell sounded, followed by a man’s voice speaking to the void at the front desk. “Hello? George?”
“Be right there,” my father called from his office door, then turned to me. “Wait just a minute. Let me—”
“Perfect timing.
I was leaving anyway.”
“Your mom and I don’t want you to leave upset.”
“You’re kidding, right? How could I leave any other way? I drove over an hour thinking I’d implode before I arrived. You think a few more miles are going to matter?”
“I’d drive you home, but Jim’s here for his appointment . . .” It was that familiar emotional game of tug-of-war, but this time, my father was the rope.
My mother stood next to him, reached out, and placed her hand on my shoulder. “Let’s talk about this later. We can have dinner at home—”
“No. No more talking.” I shrugged, wanting her to move her hand. “The only place I want to go is home. My home. Not yours.” I walked to the door of his office when it hit me. I’d almost forgotten the very thing I had come for. “That gift. Wherever you’ve been hiding it, I want it.”
My father nodded. “I have it. Here.” He opened one of the cabinets near his desk and handed it to me.
Seeing it was like being on that roller coaster at Disneyland, the one that traveled through inky blackness, where you didn’t know when the next descent would be that plunged you into a wormhole, then sucked the breath out of your lungs.
With the exception of a smashed-in corner, it looked exactly like the picture in the file.
I wanted to crush it until my hands were bruised from the pounding. Destroy whatever was inside until it was unrecognizable. But the urge to rip it open, to tear into it was just as strong. My Pandora’s box. If I opened it, all the truths would be released. And I’d have to deal with them because, even if I shoved them back into the box, I couldn’t pretend they never existed.
Before my trembling hands could drop the gift, I bolted. Kicked the door closed with my foot and threw the gift in the back of my Jeep. Whatever it was would have already broken by now, so there was no point in being careful.
There was enough carelessness to go around for all of us.
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