For All She Knows

by Beck, Jamie

  He groaned, his expression tightening like he was fighting nausea. “It’ll be weird to go to school with kids I’m suing. And Rowan is in my history class, so I won’t be able to avoid him. Do we have to sue them, really?”

  Like father, like son—and me left defending myself again. Consulting lawyers had been a logical response, but the constant resistance from my own family left me doubting myself.

  “Yes, honey. The surgery and all this therapy cost a lot of money.” I gestured around the room, trying to explain things without increasing his concerns.

  He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Why can’t you agree on the costs and settle it?”

  “It’s complicated because the costs depend on the speed and fullness of your recovery, which are two things we don’t yet know.”

  Carter flung his head back into his pillows, whining, “I don’t want everyone fighting over what happened to me. Now people either hate me or feel sorry for me. I just want to be normal. Please, Mom. Talk to Dad and try to end it.”

  “Try to relax.” I rubbed his thigh, wishing I could make this easier on him while battling the voice yelling about how I was screwing up as a mother—that protecting him shouldn’t cause him this agony. “Honey, no matter what other kids say, you deserve to be compensated for everything you’ve lost and suffered.”

  “Mom, you don’t get it. You keep telling me to focus on therapy, but I care about my reputation, too. I care if people don’t like me. They’re already saying I shouldn’t have been at that party. What if no one wants to do anything with me after this because they think I’ll sue them if I get hurt?” His voice cracked as he rubbed his eyes dry.

  His ache ripped through me as sharply as any razor. “Honey, it hurts me to see you suffering, but you’re smart. Do you really think it would be fair that we be forced to pay all these bills ourselves rather than require the people responsible for your injuries to cover them?”

  He frowned and turned his head to stare out the window. “This sucks.”

  “It does. For everyone, but mostly for you. I’m sorry. What else can I say?” A dull headache began pounding at the base of my skull. Giving him what he wanted while also getting him what he needed was a quandary I couldn’t solve. And it was costing me a dear friend and a husband. Was it worth it?

  “Promise me you’ll convince Dad to use his actuary stuff to figure out a fair number instead of going to trial.” His pleading eyes pinned me to my seat, leaving no wiggle room.

  “I’ll talk to your father, but I don’t want to make a false promise. I don’t know that we can control the final outcome.” I poured Carter more water, although my hands trembled. After all, Sam and I could end the lawsuit quickly if we walked away from it. Carter would get what he wanted now, but in two years, when he couldn’t attend the college of his choice without massive student loans, he might regret being so quick to give in to the very kids who put him here in the first place. Giving in to bullies leads to other problems, as I knew well from life with my father.

  On the verge of a breakdown, I fought to redirect my thoughts. “Why don’t we focus on something we can control right now. You have a history test tomorrow, right? Would you like me to help you study?”

  “Sure,” he conceded, handing me some stapled pages. “This is a practice test with an answer key. Can you run through the questions and let me know when I get something wrong?”

  “I’m happy to.” I smiled, although I knew neither of us was at peace.

  Two hours later I pulled into my mother’s driveway, body limp from the emotional chaos of my day. I entered my childhood home through the side door. The house smelled of my mother’s powdery scent mingled with warmed butter. But my memories, particularly in this kitchen, weren’t as lovely. The dent in the cabinet beside the sink—a reminder of the time Dad threw a metal beer stein at her.

  “Did Carter like the turnovers?” Mom was sitting at the speckled Formica kitchen table playing solitaire, comfortable amid the bad memories in a way I could never manage.

  I hung my purse over the back of a kitchen chair. “He did. I’m sure he’ll call you later to thank you. We got busy. I was quizzing him for tomorrow’s history test.”

  She smiled, pleased by his reaction. I crossed the kitchen to fill a glass with tap water.

  “I saved you some potpie. Would you like me to reheat it?” My mother stood and made her way to the refrigerator. She preferred to keep busy when it was only the two of us. I supposed it made it easier to ignore all the things we never said to each other.

  “Thank you.” I grabbed a plate and silverware.

  “Honey, you look exhausted. Take a seat and let me fix your plate.” She patted my shoulder, so I set the things on the counter and obeyed. The awkwardness of accepting her help without resentment hit me. The last time the two of us sat alone at this table had been not long after Margot’s funeral. Mom had packed up my sister’s things to donate, but had pulled aside a few mementos for me. I’d been miffed because she’d held on to Dad’s things longer than she had Margot’s. At the time, her choice had felt like a slam to my sister—like she couldn’t wait to get rid of her. But now I realized that maybe the reminders of her daughter had simply been too painful. My already-weak state collapsed at that revelation—how uncharitable a daughter I’d been.

  While my mother scooped a portion of the potpie onto a dish, I opened my phone to scroll through missed messages, hoping for something from Sam. Nothing. I might’ve sighed aloud.

  “I’m worried about you, Grace.” She took the dish to the microwave, her features pinching together. “I know this situation is difficult, but you’re getting worse, not better. Are things still tense between you and Sam? Is that part of why you’re here?”

  I ached to unload all my pain, but my mother had never protected me as a kid, so I’d never learned to trust her. “I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

  She sucked her lips in, nodding and waiting for the microwave to finish its cycle. After it beeped, she brought the dish and silverware to the table, then took a seat.

  We sat in companionable silence for the first minute or two, with me testing the heat of the potpie. Mom had always been a great cook. Flaky crust, delicious gravy. For the first time in weeks, someone was pampering me, and that did feel lovely. So much so that my eyes got teary. “This is delicious.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” Mom worried her lip and went to the counter to get me a tissue, then chose to bring the box over. “You might feel better if you opened up.”

  My heart thudded—one beat, two, three.

  “I don’t know where to start.” I dabbed my eyes before blowing my nose.

  “How about with Sam?” She folded her hands on the table and waited patiently, her face a picture of empathy.

  My mother was all I had now, and I’d begun to realize that maybe I hadn’t been fair to her, so I took the leap of faith that, despite our tangled history, she might have something to offer. “We haven’t been on the same side since the morning of Carter’s injury because he talked me into letting Carter go to that party. But I’ve been trying to let go of the blame. I apologized, and thanked him for all that he’d been handling since then. I thought things were getting better, but this morning I caught him helping Mimi. It felt like such a betrayal, especially when he’s never once apologized to me for the countless times he’s invalidated my feelings. This has all been such an awful time—I’ve never felt so confused and lonely and scared and starved for affection.” Even as a child, I’d had Margot.

  I looked down, as if home-cooked nourishment might somehow feed me what I needed.

  My mother stared at me with misty eyes. “Gracie, if anyone understands how hard it is to be a wife and mother when navigating trauma and tragedy, it’s me. Let me help.”

  I might’ve flinched at the comparison, even though she’d been fair. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine with a little peace to let me think.” I couldn’t meet her gaze,
having never been an adroit liar.

  Mom leaned forward, shaking her head. “Don’t withdraw now, honey. I know that habit is my fault, always coaxing you to make the best of things. To not make a fuss. I’ve been thinking about that a lot since Carter got hurt—all the old memories dredged up.”

  Each of her words pressed on the tender spots of our attenuated bond, making me ache more, not less. Nothing I had to say about our history would make her feel better, so I avoided eye contact and continued eating.

  She didn’t take the hint. “I was a young, ignorant mom. Definitely not prepared to handle what my marriage and life became after the war changed your father. We’d been married only a month when he got drafted. He came back different, but I’d thought my love and starting a family of his own would heal him. But by the time I realized he’d permanently lost something in that war, I hadn’t the heart to rip away his family, too. Maybe if I’d been more worldly or educated, I could’ve gotten him the help he needed, or left him and spared you girls so much pain and shame. So much shoving things down.” Her hand-wringing and fuzzy gaze made it clear she was reliving some of our unpleasant past.

  The echo of old arguments and smashed household goods clanged around inside my head, making my ulcerated stomach burn.

  My eyes stung. “It’s in the past, Mom. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Doesn’t it? I wonder, Grace. I really do. I’ll always be sorry about your childhood. About what happened with Margot. I should’ve done a better job of protecting both my girls.” She dabbed her eyes with a trembling hand. “If I could go back and do things differently, I would. Those regrets are with me all the time, which is probably why I’m worried you’re making those mistakes with your family. I know it’s long overdue, but I hope someday you can forgive me for all the ways I failed you and Margot.” She choked up.

  I sat, barely breathing from shock, yet nearly shaking from her unexpected confession.

  She gathered herself, hands now palm up on the table. “And yet we don’t control the outcomes of all our decisions. Sometimes bad things happen for no good reason. And sometimes people put themselves in a bad situation, like when your dad stumbled out into the dark, drunk. I didn’t go after him because I wanted you girls to have a few hours’ peace. In that moment it’d seemed like a reasonable decision, but then we ended up at his funeral days later. Sometimes I still feel guilty about that, but fate had its way. And then Margot spun out of control yet refused to let me help. Maybe I gave up too soon, or maybe she would’ve gone down that dark path for some other reason. We don’t know. But I do know that blame doesn’t change the past. I can only try to do better in the future.”

  My insides quavered. All my life I’d tried to avoid being like my mother, yet here I was, exactly who I’d not wanted to emulate. Tears spilled over as memories of my mom, Margot, and my father converged. “But it’s not fate, Mom. Not with Margot, and not with Carter. I could’ve told you about her drinking back in high school, but I didn’t. I was too mad at you both. And with Carter, Sam and I made a decision, and that decision had terrible consequences.” If I had a knife, I might jam it into my chest so I could never repeat my mistakes again.

  My mother’s eyes were wide as she grabbed my hands. “Honey, you were still a child when your sister started acting out. You couldn’t know how to handle that.”

  “I knew she hadn’t really been okay after the sleeping-pills stunt, but it was easier to be mad at her rebellion than to deal with it. And maybe if I’d warned you about what she’d done that night, Dad wouldn’t be dead.”

  She shook her head, frowning. “Your father got himself killed. Hell, he tempted fate all the time with his drinking.” She set her hands on the table, like she was getting down to business. Even her voice turned emphatic. “I let him wander off drunk. Do you blame me?”

  I stared at her, saying nothing.

  “He chose to go instead of staying home. He made the decision that got him killed. Whatever small amount of sleeping pills your sister managed to put in that one bottle did not kill your father. I wish I would’ve told her that before it was too late.” Her eyes teared up again, but she blinked them back and looked at me with a determined expression. “And, Grace, the hard truth is that Carter chose to go to that party and Carter chose to stay when things got rough. He didn’t deserve this horrible thing to happen to him, but he isn’t blameless in it, either. No one is. That’s part of why it hurts so much. But if you let that pain corrode you, then the losses get bigger.”

  Oh God, he had, and the cost of his mistakes was far too dear. I sobbed, a gush of tears bursting forth for my mom’s sorrow, my lost youth, Margot’s hard life, my dad’s addiction, and my son’s injuries. I cried for Kim and Sam and the ways I’d made things harder on them just as my mom had made things harder for Margot and me. I even cried for Mimi, whose helpful hand I’d slapped down too many times.

  I hadn’t known how badly I’d needed my mother’s apology—her acknowledgment of her own mistakes and her absolution of mine—until this moment.

  “There, there. Let me fix us some tea.” When she patted my hand, I clasped hers, standing and pulling us into a tight hug that surprised us both. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d really hugged—perhaps Margot’s funeral, or maybe on my wedding day. When we eased apart, Mom swiped her eyes before she went to fill the kettle. While she was up, she grabbed an open bag of Lorna Doones and set them on the table.

  The energy in the kitchen had shifted, tension giving way to contemplation. My heart rate resumed a steady pace that didn’t ache. The gravity of our cathartic revelations had somehow disconnected me from my body. And while the weight of the past felt lighter, that alone didn’t solve my current crisis.

  Mom set a cup of peppermint tea in front of me and took her seat. A shy smile emerged, as if she too felt the shift. “I’m glad we got a chance to clear the air between us, Gracie. That’s something, I suppose.”

  I nodded, dunking a cookie in the sweet tea. “But it doesn’t save my marriage. My family. I’ve hurt Sam, and Mimi, who has offered many olive branches. Even Carter is upset because the fighting is affecting his friends. But how does one not think and feel the thoughts and feelings that occur—how do I let go of the anger and blame?”

  I let the soggy cookie melt on my tongue. A simple pleasure at a bleak moment.

  My mother sighed, stirring more sugar into her tea. “Well, maybe you begin by forgiving yourself for being human. We’re fallible. We feel anger and hate sometimes. You can’t beat yourself up over and over, Grace. Forgive yourself, and forgive Sam and Mimi.” She squeezed my hands. “The people you love are reaching out to you. Isn’t your life better with them in it than when you’re all alone? Don’t be like Margot. She fought with the world thinking she was slaying dragons, but she isolated herself as if that would keep her from feeling pain. She made life harder. I wonder if she would admit that now, if she could?”

  I’d always considered Margot and Mimi to be similar because both boldly met challenges. But in truth, Mimi was much stronger than Margot because she met hardship with love and faith rather than anger and defiance.

  My mother’s logic had yet to take root in my heart. “Margot’s ghost lingers like a reminder of what could go wrong if I fail to protect my own kids as I failed her. I let my guard down once and catastrophe struck, yet now my vigilance is costing me everything and hurting everyone, so I’m not really protecting anyone from anything.”

  My mother nodded as if she’d found a lost puzzle piece. “It sounds like it’s time to stop fighting everyone and start remembering why you love them in the first place.”

  Such simple advice. The clarity of it shone like a too-bright spotlight, making me wince. I let the peace it promised soften my spine. With my head tipped, I asked, “Is that how you stayed with Dad? You kept remembering what you’d loved about him?”

  She donned the saddest smile I’d seen in ages as she nodded silently. “We didn’t really know
about PTSD back then, and we didn’t have a lot of resources. I took my vows to heart and kept hoping, with time and love, he’d settle back to himself. In retrospect, I was naive and careless, especially when your father kept repeating his mistakes. But you, Sam, Mimi, the kids . . . It seems like everyone has learned from this and wants to do better.”

  I nodded. Everyone but me. The inescapable truth bore down, fusing me to the chair with no small amount of shame. I unfastened the top two buttons of my shirt to keep from overheating.

  With a purposeful sigh, Mom met my gaze. “Honey, if Carter can let go of the pain and forgive others when he’s the one who’s been most hurt, surely you can follow his lead.” She dunked a cookie in her tea before biting into it, as if she hadn’t just dropped the mic on me.

  These past weeks I’d been assuming my son was stuffing down his feelings out of fear, like me, when, in fact, perhaps he’d been more like Sam than I gave him credit for: a strong optimist who could focus on pragmatic solutions and higher goals. With no small measure of bittersweet nostalgia, I acknowledged the fact that Mimi’s helping to raise him had also given him something I could not.

  Could I learn those skills? And even if so, had I gone too far off the deep end to find my way back? “What if it’s too late?”

  “I don’t believe it’s ever too late to apologize or to forgive. After all, you forgave me for a decades-overdue apology.” She looked at me, her eyes glowing with love and hope.

  I drank it in like a bee does nectar. For so long I’d resented her for the chaos in my young life. For the tears I’d cried when Dad had embarrassed us, or when Mom or Margot sported a new bruise. But she’d also taught me how to cook and sew. She’d read to me and sat in the front row for my piano recitals. She’d loved Sam like a son she’d never had, and had been a kind grandmother to my kids.

  “I do forgive you.” I truly did, though now my limbs were heavy with the weight of regret that I’d been unable to feel any empathy for her crises until I’d experienced some of my own. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to understand you, Mom. Can you forgive me for that?”