by Mary Campisi
I’ve forced myself to wait until today to write. This has proved the hardest task of all. This is a special day—my daughter’s first birthday. Her name is Julia. Her eyes are just like her father’s—the color of a summer storm. She’s the reason I have the strength to write this letter and not mail it. (Where would I mail it anyway?
Where are you?
Do you ever think of me?
Do you ever wish things had been different?
Clay is good to me and I try to be a good wife to him. I try. He’s an honest worker. A family man. He even changes Julia’s diapers and reads her Good Night Moon at bedtime. I pretend I don’t see the hurt in his eyes when he touches me and I flinch—not so much anymore, just a little. He’s always gentle, but he’s not you. Nobody’s you.
How can I go on living like this—wanting you, thinking about you, wondering where you are and who you are with? And why you could not trust our love enough to get us through what happened? The pain is so deep I think sometimes it will ooze out of me and I won’t be able to stop it. But I have to. For Julia’s sake.
Where are you???? You promised me nothing would ever separate us. Were those words only to get me into bed? I won’t believe that. I can’t.
I chopped my hair off right after you left and dyed it red, but when I looked in the mirror, I still saw my mother’s face. I am not my mother! What happened was not my fault but you blamed me, didn’t you? And then you walked out of my life. I hate you—hate you—HATE YOU! That’s not true. I love you. But you don’t care, do you? I’ll never love anyone else this way. Not even my husband. How sick is that? Clay saved me and all I had to give him was one tiny promise. Never mention your name again.
Not much. Unless your name was in every breath I took, every moment of my waking thoughts, every pore in my body.
My tears keep smudging the ink and I can hardly see what I’m writing. But I still see your face, right here in front of me, as though six hundred and thirty-three days had not passed, as though I could turn around and you would be standing there in your old faded jeans and Rolling Stones T-shirt—as though everything were normal.
No one talks much about what happened anymore unless someone new passes through. Then the gossips start whispering like scattered leaves. I’m sipping Chardonnay 1991, remember? I plan to save this bottle and toast us once a year when I open this book and write you letters I’ll never send. I bought this book when Julia was six months old. I told Angie, (remember her?) it was to keep track of Julia’s landmarks. But the way she looked at me, she knew it had something to do with you. Somehow, she always knew.
I waited six more months to write in it—six, long, tempting months. But there was Julia to think about. And what good would it have done anyway? So I hid the journal in the back of my closet, inside a shoebox, and spent the next several months devising a plan. I’d dig it out on Julia’s first birthday while she was taking her afternoon nap, and the cake was in the oven, and the chicken was marinating for the dinner I’d planned for Clay’s parents. I’d lock the bedroom door and pour myself a glass of Chardonnay from the bottle tucked away in the closet behind my dresses. Then I’d sprawl on the bed and ease open the first blank page. And dream about how life could have been. If you hadn’t left me.
It’s the only way I can survive the years to come. Once a year I’ll permit myself to think of you, not in anger and hatred, but with the truth—with a love that cries for you, hurts for you, and a memory that stops with the last time we made love and erases the blood-stained sheet covering your mother’s body. Once a year, I will pretend you are mine. And it will be enough. It will have to be.
Journal entry—May 4, 1998
Julia is two today. Clay wants another child and it is only right and fair to give him one, though I have convinced him to wait until I finish college. (I’m taking classes at Montpelier Community College, majoring in art and design.) And you? Where are you??
Angie wanted to hire a private detective to find you—in Chicago? She wanted to get pictures of you with other women, I’m sure, so she could convince me what a worthless soul you are. I told her no. I’ve never mentioned you since the day you left, but there is something in my eyes when she says your name that tells her you still live in my heart.
Last week I took Julia to the lake and spread out a blanket in the very same spot where we made love two nights before you left. We ate peanut butter sandwiches stuffed with bananas and sipped juice boxes. She fell asleep on my lap as I stroked her hair and I remembered every single moment of that night with you—as precise and finite as a movie—the feel of your hands inching over my body, your mouth, your teeth, your tongue. The feel of you pressed so close to me, and then filling me, stretching me, loving me. Three times. Do you ever think of that night? The night we pledged our love and our lives to each other?
I choose to believe you do, even if only in your subconscious imaginings. There is strength in what remains behind—remember William Wordsworth? Twelfth grade Literature? That’s what I’m doing, each minute, each day, I’m finding strength in what remains behind and I store it up for this day, once a year, when I can write freely about it. For myself. And for you.
To file:
Client: Rourke Flannigan
Subject: Kate E. Redmond
Date: July 23, 1999
Ms. Redmond was observed entering Tops grocery where she purchased the following items: four Rome apples, one head of lettuce, three bananas, and a loaf of whole wheat bread. She picked up a prescription from the pharmacy for amoxicillin, (for daughter, Julia.) She later traveled to Hannah’s Greenhouse where she purchased one bunch of forget-me-knots, two bags of topsoil and a spade. She returned to her residence and left twenty minutes later with a small satchel and a blanket. Ms. Redmond traveled north four miles on Indian Road, entered Huntington Lake where she proceeded to park her silver 1997 Toyota Corolla and walk toward the lake. She spread a blue and red plaid blanket on the ground and sat down.
Ms. Redmond removed the forget-me-knots from her satchel and placed them on the blanket beside her. She sat for approximately thirty-five minutes after which time she rose and tossed the flowers in the lake.
Dinner reservations at The Grainery with Mr. Maden. Ms. Redmond wore a black low-cut dress with black high heels. Mr. Maden wore tan slacks and a navy sport coat. Couple returned at approximately 8:45 p.m. and retired to bedroom.
Journal entry—May 4, 2000
I wish you had never come to Montpelier.
I wish you had never looked at me.
I wish you had never touched me.
I wish you did not have eyes the color of a storm slicing the lake.
I wish you did not have a chip in your bottom front tooth that makes me want to kiss you.
I wish you did not have a laugh that pulls my insides like warm taffy.
I wish you were not tall and strong and tanned.
I wish you did not know how to make me smile.
I wish I had not touched you.
I wish I could forget your face, your taste, your scent, your touch.
I wish you had loved me enough to come back before it was too late.
Journal entry—May 4, 2001
I graduated from Montpelier Community College last Saturday. Magna Cum Laude. Not bad for a mother with a five year old. Not Princeton, of course, but still, not bad. Julia was there, sitting in the third row with Clay and his family. Clay’s father has emphysema and has to wear one of those oxygen masks and carry that little cart around with him everywhere he goes. They don’t expect him to be here next Christmas.
You must have graduated by now, too. Princeton? Or did you change your mind and opt for Dartmouth? I have absolutely no clue where you are or what you are doing, other than making a huge success of yourself. I always knew you were going places, but there was a time I thought I’d be going there with you.
Angie Sorrento, (you remember, the girl with the frizzy hair and bandanas?), and I are talking about starting a business.
Since my degree is in Art and Design and hers is in Marketing, and since we both LOVE dollhouses, we thought we’d make our own dollhouses. What’s the high concept? We’ll model them after the customer’s house, right down to the ceramic tile in the bathroom. Great idea, huh?
Angie will do the initial interviews, take pictures, etc, and then if I have to, I’ll travel to the customer’s home and get a more detailed assessment. Of course, I wouldn’t be traveling any more than a twenty mile radius since most of our customers will be friends, relatives, and referrals, but maybe one day, I’ll actually get to travel.
Maybe I’ll come to Chicago. Bad idea. Very bad idea.
Clay thinks Angie and I are crazy, but he says whatever makes me happy is fine by him. And I think I am happy. Finally. Maybe. Or at least I’m on my way to becoming happy.
Happy Graduation, wherever you are. I love you.
***
To file:
Client: Rourke Flannigan
Subject: Kate E. Redmond
Date: July 23, 2004
Ms. Redmond, Mr. Maden, and daughter packed up Ms. Redmond’s Toyota Corolla and drove to Huntington Lake where they proceeded to picnic on a red and blue plaid blanket.
How could you eat on the same blanket we made love on, Kate? Was it the same one? Did you think about that night while you were feeding your husband watermelon balls?
Mr. Maden and his daughter walked to the edge of the lake and spent approximately 20 minutes attempting to catch tadpoles. Attempt successful. Ms. Redmond remained on the blanket.
Ms. Redmond, not Mrs. Maden. Good job, Graves. How much extra do I pay you to remember that tidbit?
Ms. Redmond gathered up picnic basket and blanket at 3:25 p.m. and returned home with Mr. Maden and their daughter.
10:35 p.m.—Ms. Redmond left residence and returned to Huntington Lake where she spread out the same blanket and sat down, facing the lake. She was alone and remained there until 11:30 p.m. at which time she returned home. Downstairs light remained on until 2:10 a.m.
What were you doing, Kate? And why? Why, why, WHY?
***
Name: Kathryn Elizabeth Redmond Maden
Date: July 23, 2009
DOB: May 16, 1973 - age 32
Hair: brown
How could Graves call her hair brown? Brown was the color of a mouse or manure. Kate’s hair had been streaked with golds and reds and when the sun hit it a certain way, he would have sworn he saw a glint of silver. Of course, she could have dyed it—brown- or red—or purple for all he knew.
Eyes: blue
God, he really would have to have Graves start a new profile. There were a hundred shades of blue. Kate’s blue matched the waters of the Caribbean on a perfect day when the sun beat across the surface and reflected back. Didn’t Graves know anything?
Height and build: five foot seven or thereabouts, svelte
The top of her head fit under his chin…Svelte? Christ, Graves. She’d had curves at eighteen. He wouldn’t think about that now. On the other hand, maybe having a kid and being married to a demolition contractor had given her no good reason to keep up with her appearance. Maybe that’s why Graves had her flitting around town in jeans and a Maden Demolition sweatshirt. Rourke didn’t know if that possibility filled him with relief or remorse.
Activites:
There was nothing listed this time. Why? Last year, Graves had reported she’d taken a Yoga class, started horseback riding lessons, and a pottery class.
Business: Dream Houses by Kate. Owner, Kate Madden. Designer of specialty dollhouses—interested in replicating your home in miniature? Call Kate Madden, designer, artist or Angela Sorrento, sales, marketing.
Angie Sorrento. Witch. He’d never cared for her and she’d never much liked him either, said he’d end up breaking Kate’s heart. If he’d succeeded, then they were even.
Financials: Clay & Kate Maden borrowed $50,000 against their line of credit at First National Bank. (Maden Demolition did not meet last year’s projections.)
Personal: Clay and Kate Maden signed for $100,000 equity loan.
I could have given you ten times that amount.
Rourke rifled through a few more pages of background information, none of which had changed in the past few years, and settled on the final two sheets. These were the pages that always held his interest. Graves had given him a strange look the first time he requested the information, but after the second report, he’d automatically provided the detail, and stopped asking questions.
Ms. Redmond, (Rourke insisted on using the name she had when she was eighteen), was spotted at Starbucks Cafe, drinking a Venti Sumatra and eating a medium slice of New York style cheesecake. Party was seated at a corner table, sketching on a pad with a #2 pencil. Attire—Levi jeans, dark wash, straight cut, flat front, red short-sleeved t-shirt with left pocket, white Nike tennis shoes—red swoosh. Jewelry—Seiko watch—black leather band, white face, gold wedding band, diamond engagement ring of less than 1/3 karat. Hair—pulled back in high pony tail, no makeup, no lipstick. Engaging smile. Good God, Graves, engaging? Remained at café for 1.35 hours with one refill.
In the eight years since he’d employed August Graves, the man had only questioned him once. Why do you keep doing it, Rourke? Haven’t you tortured yourself enough?
The answer was the same now as it had been back then. Apparently not.
Copyright 2011 by Mary Campisi
THE WAY THEY WERE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and situations are all products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to real persons, locales, or events, are purely coincidental.
About the Author
Mary Campisi should have known she’d become a writer when at age thirteen she began changing the ending to all the books she read. It took several years and a number of jobs, including registered nurse, receptionist in a swanky hair salon, accounts payable clerk, and practice manager in an OB/GYN office, for her to rediscover writing. Enter a mouse-less computer, a floppy disk, and a dream large enough to fill a zip drive. The rest of the story lives on in every book she writes.
When she’s not working on her craft or following the lives of five young adult children, Mary’s digging in the dirt with her flowers and herbs, cooking, reading, walking her rescue lab mix, Cooper, or on the perfect day, riding off into the sunset with her very own ‘hero’ husband on his Electra Glide Classic aka Harley.
Mary has published with Kensington, Carina Press, The Wild Rose Press, and Jocelyn Hollow Romance.
www.marycampisi.com
Mary loves to hear from readers at [email protected]