“They don’t know. The Doxorubicin is causing heart problems. I’m canceling everything and heading out now. I really need a few answers as to why she lost it with me.”
“Is Anna going with you?”
“No, she has to take care of Sunshine. I can’t allow that poor little girl to see this kind of suffering or how I react to it. I’m pretty freaked out.”
“Donovan, there is no way in hell you’re going through this alone. Take Sunshine with you. I’ll call Mom’s neighbor who used to watch us. Hopefully Mrs. Callahan is free this weekend. When I get there we’ll either leave the kids with her or Christopher will take them all to Mom’s.”
I hang up the phone, feeling the urge to plug my nose, knowing I’m about to jump into a bucket of my own blood.
On Saturday afternoon, Antonia’s head is crammed into my shoulder as I pray for dear life. It’s incredibly fitting that the final flight to see my mother is the most turbulent and stomach churning I’ve ever experienced. A lightning storm resides outside our window. The plane’s dips are so heavy they put my stomach into my throat and almost out the top of my head—like Mom is making one final attempt to throw evil into the world.
The captain again comes over the loud speaker, assuring us that all will be fine in this rather sudden and unexpected freak occurrence. However the only freaky thing about it is what, or rather who, in my mind is causing it.
Once on terra firma, the terror and stress send my stomach to doomsday. Twenty minutes later I emerge from the bathroom. Christopher and the children wait concernedly, looking just as bad and still clutching airsick bags. Finally, we are composed enough to get our luggage and drop the kids with Mrs. Callahan. The horror of the flight was so head clogging that it blocked the obvious until Christopher and I exit the hospital’s elevator. The world speeds around while my head perceives my motions as languid. This is the same corridor where I stood with Donovan the last time we saw our father. It was here that Donovan referred to me as his love, a signal that the tide was about to turn.
Walking past the room where my father died, a chill slides up my throat like frozen bile from the memory of when he asked for forgiveness. Donovan’s silent denial was so out of character that I knew my world was about to fall apart, though I had no idea of the enormity.
Christopher places his hands on my arms with the deepest of love in his eyes. “Shall I enter first?” he asks softly. The existence of my heart becomes increasingly obvious, each pump sending a ripple of tremors through me. Letting Christopher come was a huge mistake.
Donovan bolts out of Mom’s room, shutting the door behind him. He steeples his hands over his mouth while deeply inhaling. My heart rate continues to excel as he fretfully approaches, looking back towards the door and shaking his hands as if flicking off sweat, his face ashen.
“Thank God you’re here,” he says as he yanks me toward him with a tight grip that punctuates the underlying meaning of his speech. “It’s about to get ugly in there. It’s probably best if you and Christopher left.”
Jerking back I search his eyes, wondering if he really wants us both to leave or just Christopher. There’s no way I’m abandoning Donovan. “You two stay here,” I say with a sympathetic squeeze to Donovan’s hand. I smack both of my hands on the door to Mom’s room, shoving it, and myself, forward. Just a few steps inside, I stop and wonder what the hell I’m doing.
Mom’s bed faces so she can’t see me. Anna stands to Mom’s right, being the dutiful nurse and holding a plastic cup of apple juice as Mom sips the last of it through a straw. Anna’s lips awkwardly upturn at me, like she’s afraid she will be in trouble for being a good person. Silently I mouth, “Thank you.” My words bring about her relief.
She dabs Mom’s chin with a napkin, then adds water to the flowers that I can safely assume are from Donovan and draws them into Mom’s view. Anna pulls away the tray table, and I motion for her to join me outside. She takes a deep look into Mom’s eyes then closes her own. Anna’s ability to compartmentalize may be failing her, as she seemingly has a hard time divorcing her compassion for a patient from the hatred of the woman who caused so much damage to her husband. Finally I understand what Donovan sees in her.
With a final squeeze of Mom’s hand, Anna leaves to join me in the hall. My arms open to her. She hesitates before complying with the embrace. “Thank you, Anna. Thank you for doing what I should, and thank you for looking out for Donovan. I’m so glad he has you.”
Her hold tightens and she caves to tears, bring about mine. Pulling away, she slips a cluster of hair behind her ear and gives me a bright, yet apprehensive smile, followed by a subtle nod. “You’re very welcome. I’m very happy to have done that.”
Anna’s eyes stay locked into mine, as if hanging on every word. It concerns me that she will see through my lie. “Would you take Christopher for a walk? I don’t know if Mom will talk to Donovan openly with him here.”
“Of course,” she says, as if all too understanding. “I want answers too.”
As we enter the room, Donovan and I remind ourselves to stay sturdy and accept that whatever comes forth may be the last thing we want to hear. My vision avoids Mom until we both reach the end of the bed and turn to face her. I take Donovan’s hand in mine. There’s no way in hell I’m letting go—no matter what.
Mom’s weathered head hangs with her eyes closed as her body slightly sways, like she’s sick to her stomach. Is the display before her the cause, or is it attributable to how she has spent her final years filled with hatred? Her eyes peer up, and then drop back down with a groan of anguish. “Where are Christopher and Anna?”
Donovan and I remain strong and silent, suppressing a natural inclination to yell which is likely counterproductive to the goal. Maybe a rational approach will pave the way to the answers as to why she was so cruel to her son. Without raising her head, she halts my thoughts by screaming the loudest she can, “Where are Christopher and Anna?”
“We’re right here.” Christopher bursts in looking as if he’s about to foam at the mouth. Donovan releases his grip on my hand, but my grip on his remains firm. Christopher stands next to me in solidarity. My breathing ceases as he folds his arms and defiantly faces my mother, displaying a side of him I have never seen. Anna remains by the door, her dark hair concealing her face like a veil of mourning. When she peers up, Donovan motions her over, puts an arm around her shoulders, and kisses her head.
“All right,” Christopher continues to storm. “You want us all, you’ve got us all. It’s none of my business, but if this is what it takes to give Donovan his answers then so be it.”
Mom looks at him as if he’s a hazy ghost. Her eyes scrunch as one hand sits on her stomach, tensing. Getting that for which she has strived seems to be making her ill, like she’s already died and looking into the hell she has earned. My brain scuttles in search of a way to get Christopher out of here as a visage of evil formulates on Mom’s face. There’s nothing to stop her from blurting her words while we run for the door, so if I’m going down it will happen while standing strong, not while fleeing like a coward.
She looks to me like it’s my turn to take the beating, knowing she has me in checkmate. Donovan’s arm leaves Anna. He straightens and steps behind me, placing his arms around my waist and showing he has my back no matter what she spits out. Donovan’s words are gentle yet stern. “It’s okay, Christopher. Mom’s not going to budge. I’ve accepted that. Whatever is behind this, at least it was between her and me. She never directly hurt Lily.” His words sound like a threat to our captor, defying that we are at her mercy.
Mom’s breath shallows as she rubs her left arm and pearls of sweat form on her brow. Anna’s training gets the best of her as she heads toward Mom. “Lana, why don’t you have some more cool juice? I’ll get you a damp rag.”
“You are just like that man,” Mom accuses Donovan, gasping through her words. “You brainwashed her, then took her down for your own satisfaction.”
Donovan�
�s grip on me becomes flaccid. “What man?” he asks.
With a grab to her stomach Mom hurls bile all over herself, turning the bed into a field the color of dying grass. Anna heads for a bedpan. “You all might want to leave now. The DNR is still in effect, right?”
“Yeah,” I utter as Christopher drags me out of the room, my hazy vision unable to pull away from the misery before me.
Donovan joins Anna, crouching by Mom’s side. As Mom collapses, she mutters, “Innocent little girl.”
Outside of Mom’s room, I huddle in Christopher’s arms, wishing that Donovan would spare himself from that which is unfolding. Anna storms out of the room and down the hallway, furiously hollering, “That damn bitch! Another fucking problem!”
Donovan emerges, his tears streaming. “Lily, Mom’s…” His sentence is completed with sobs.
My hand absorbs his tears, and I give a nod of understanding. “Did she give any indication at all what she was referring to?”
Shaking his head, Donovan turns away, not wanting to face another mystery. Christopher gently kisses my cheek before checking on Anna, grievously knowing that he can never understand the new layer of hell Donovan and I now face together.
Moment upon moment passes as we crumble, the touch of our foreheads forming a heart of desolation that is drenched in conflicting emotions. We are flooded with memories of holiday cheer, laughter-filled snowball fights, vacations at the beach, Mom’s spirited dancing in the kitchen, our father’s jabs at Donovan's masculinity, the nights of crying over watching Donovan turn from loving to hateful, Mom disowning us, and now a new mystery—it’s all a blurring kaleidoscope of pain.
Finally my lips mutter the words neither of us wants to admit needing. “We’re free.”
Chapter 29
A stale stench crawls up my nose as I enter my parent’s room. It, along with the nightstand, hold reminders of suffering—a spit tray, an empty glass with a straw, and numerous bottles of medication. A little jab hits my heart as I discard the items. The blue ribbon tied around dead Lilies of the Valley sells out that they are the ones Donovan brought when we last visited three months ago. In light of the new mystery Mom brought forth yesterday, I’m unsure if seeing them would help Donovan feel love or bring about a greater disturbance in his soul. With a snap, the vase and its contents are thrown into the trash.
Bags and boxes of clothing donations are gathered before I move on to clean the vanity where my grandmother’s antique brush set calls for salvation. Suddenly the dreary house turns lively with a jangle of music that transports me to my childhood. Tossing the brush into the box of things to send home, dreariness is abandoned as I rush downstairs, following the perky melodies of some of my favorite Brits with an indelible smile.
Christopher sits on the floor admiring Mom’s photo album. “I thought we could use a little cheer,” he beams as I plop down next to him. “I found your mum’s old cuttings. She really had a thing for Peter Noone.”
“I warned you!” Before us sits an album cover whose photo has been forever etched into my heart. “Is this what we’re listening to?”
Christopher nods as the cover commands my attention. During my meltdown before Christopher returned to England, this was one of the albums that absorbed my anguish. One particular face calmed me, assuring that all would be fine. How have I never connected the dots? “Christopher, this man here. Is that Eric?”
“Yes, he certainly looks different with longer hair. Nobody cut it back then.”
My eyes lock into Eric’s. Suddenly I know him from more than the present. In this life he was a silent guardian during my meltdown, but nearly one hundred years before, he was a different kind of guardian—one who slipped William’s family money when he was in jail.
Donovan enters the room with heavy-footed steps, returning from retrieving Mom’s will from the bank. His puffy, red eyes are locked on the liquor cabinet, which she again restocked after he again dumped. He glares at the whisky long enough for his sight to blur before abandoning it, using Christopher and I as a diversion. “Glad to see that you two aren’t sitting on your fannies and doing nothing,” he says, teasing.
Christopher goes aghast. “I beg your pardon. I’ll put up with you still referring to me as scrawny, but demasculinzing me is a little much.”
Donovan gives him a sneering snicker. “What? I was just making a bad joke about you two being lazy. Now that you mention it, you are looking a little rosy in the cheeks. Seriously, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t exactly have a fanny to sit on.”
“I thought you didn’t want me to call you scrawny?” Donovan quips.
“Ugh, Donovan,” I say, pointing to my crotch. “This is a fanny in England.”
“Sorry, man,” he says to Christopher. “I was referring to your boney ass.”
The look of gloom returns to Donovan’s face as he plops on the floor to join us. He picks up the empty album cover and languidly flips it over, pretending to read the track list. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen these guys,” he utters softly. “I need more fishing trips with Eric before it’s too late. I still feel bad about missing Derek’s funeral. That guy was hysterical. Hard as hell to understand though.”
Mom’s scrapbook continues to hold Christopher's vision as he talks to Donovan. “He certainly had a rough start in life. He came from war-torn East London. People there were considered working class tradesmen and that was all they were ever expected to amount to. His parents worked hard to get the family out of there.”
Donovan tosses the album cover aside and turns his sights to the pages Christopher flips, forcing him into the moment. “Grandma sure had a lot of stories about the war. It must have been hell over there. She hated growing up among the smog from the factories.”
“You know, luv,” Christopher says to me. “You never told me much about your Dad’s mum other than she was English. Where was she from?”
Donovan perks up at the opportunity to kill my marriage, sending a cringe through my gut. “Yeah, Lil, where was she from?” he asks with a raised brow.
“Um, from somewhere in the middle I believe.”
“You believe? We know all too well where Grandma was from. I swear that Mom married Dad because of it. Try going east a bit.”
Crap, Donovan. Shut up!
“Well, the middle would be about Sheffield and east of that is Manchester. Was your gran a Manc?”
Donovan turns his head, totally afraid to look at me. “Um, not exactly. Our family is from a little more east,” he snickers.
Damn it, Donovan! Shut! Up!
“The next area over would be—No! Bloody hell, no! Do not say it, Lilyanna! Do not say what I fear you are thinking. You’d better not be toying with me!”
Donovan leans back onto his elbows. His smug grin shows he’s mighty pleased with himself. “I can’t believe you never told him!”
“He wouldn’t have married me if I did.” My head cowers. “He may divorce me now.”
“No! Lilyanna, this is not at all funny! You Scousers are all alike!”
“Hey! I resent that,” I proclaim. “And I’m not exactly a Scouser. Me gran was from Islington.”
“Bloody close enough!”
Donovan continues his quest to destroy my happiness. “Um, Christopher, I would like to take the opportunity to remind you that three-quarters of your household has Scouser in their blood.”
I swat Donovan, hard. “Stop not helping!”
“Three-quarters?” Suddenly reality kicks Christopher in the bonce with a soccer ball. “Oh no! Not me own children! Really, Lilyanna, how could you do this to me?”
“Well, I figured if I could deal with the trauma of being married to a Manc, then you could do the same for me.” Christopher almost chokes on his gasp. “Besides, it’s very romantic—kind of like a Capulet marring a Montegue.”
“Yes, but they offed themselves, which is sort of what I’m thinking now.”
“You mean you wo
uldn’t have married me anyway?”
Christopher lets out a little huff as he crosses his arms in protest of his life. “Well, I suppose I would have,” he caves. “At least this way I sort of saved you from your family shame. I wonder if Anna knows about this!” Christopher drops his arms and storms out of the den calling for Anna as Donovan and I barely contain our laughter. When I can catch my breath, I’m gonna slaughter that git.
Chapter 30
The children’s shrieks cause me to race down the stairs. The trash bag in my hands bounces against the wall, hitting my legs as I go and nearly causing me to trip. Anna crouches on the kitchen floor, pulling a sheet of cardboard off of a large plastic bucket as she and the children peer inside. “See,” she says with her nurturing voice, “she’s perfectly fine.” Antonia takes a step back and squirms. “Don’t worry,” Anna assures. “Mice can’t crawl up the smooth plastic.” She hands the bucket to Graham. “Can you take this outside and release it far from the house without touching it? Don’t forget your coats.”
Graham takes the bucket outside, Antonia and Sunshine following behind as I exit with them. They go to the far edge of the yard as I take the trash to the garbage can just outside the door. Graham dumps the mouse and the girls squeal and run away while he watches it scamper around his feet. The girls then head back towards the mouse, only to again shriek and run, thus brightening my mood as I dump the last of the trash from Mom’s room. I head inside, more concerned for the poor mouse than for the shrieking kids.
Inside the house, a stomp booms as I open the door. “Got ya!” Anna barks. As my view hits the kitchen, she lifts her foot off of a flattened mouse. I shiver as if its ghost crawls up my back. Picking the mouse up by the tail, she heads for the garbage can and flings it in. “Eh, at least your friend made it out alive. Now you can meet up with Lana. Maybe she’ll share her secrets with you.”
Once Anna resumes her cleaning, I brave entering the kitchen. “Did they manage to dump the mouse out okay?” she asks, nonchalantly.
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