House Of Secrets

by Tracie Peterson

  I sat there, rereading that verse over and over. Was God really trying to encourage me? Did He work like that? I closed the Bible and put it aside, but the words rang over and over in my mind.

  Do not fear. . . . I will strengthen you. . . . I will uphold you. . . .

  I looked skyward. “Will you really?”

  When I finally returned home, it was as if I’d never been gone. No one said a word about my disappearance, and in fact the rest of the family was gathered once again on the deck discussing our mother. My sisters seemed much more at ease than when I’d left, and Mark was nowhere in sight. Had he gone, as I’d suggested? A part of me hoped he had stayed.

  “When did Mom first show signs of being sick?”

  I slipped into the deck chair beside Judith. She smiled. “I made some lemonade. Would you like a glass?”

  Shaking my head, I gave her the briefest smile and waited for Dad to respond to my sister. He considered her question for a moment, but I couldn’t help but wonder if his thoughts were on my sudden arrival. He looked so tired.

  “I don’t suppose I’ll ever know for sure. I tend to think she was hearing voices by the time we married. She would sometimes seem distantly absorbed, as if listening to someone who wasn’t there. She suffered from depression, which was an additional problem.”

  “But you didn’t get her help?” Geena asked.

  “Like I said earlier, she didn’t want help. She didn’t think it was a big deal. The mental health industry was beginning to radically change. Forced care was no longer the option it had been decades prior. But despite that, I suppose even when I asked questions or sought help on her behalf—which granted, didn’t happen but a couple of times—I was told she was hormonal. One of her worst episodes of depression came after having Bailee. The doctor said it was the baby blues and not that big of a deal. He said it was normal and that most women had some kind of postpartum depression.”

  “Even so, they should have given her help. Why didn’t her obstetrician realize the situation?” Geena asked.

  “Who can tell,” Dad answered. “Your mother was a very private person. Maybe because of the schizophrenia, maybe because of the depression. It could have even been because of her abusive past. Her parents lost custody of her early on and she spent most of her life under the government’s control.”

  “Why did you never tell us this?” Piper asked.

  “What good would it have done, girls?” Dad questioned in return. “When your mother was alive she didn’t want me saying anything, and after she was gone . . . well . . . I didn’t feel like talking about it.”

  Piper came to sit down beside him. She put her arm around his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Daddy. You wanted to come here for a good reason—to share your happy news. We’ve turned this into a bad thing.” She threw me a look that seemed to dare me to say otherwise. I kept my thoughts to myself.

  He shook his head. “No. This isn’t bad. The years of silence were bad. We can face these things together now and deal with whatever comes.”

  And what might come our way? I wondered. Were there symptoms already developing in our lives that would ultimately reveal a similar diagnosis?

  That question was still on my mind later that night. Mark appeared not long after the others had left for dinner elsewhere. I saw him and immediately felt guilty for the way I’d acted. He knocked on the deck’s sliding screen door and I waved him in.

  “Your father said you were opting to stay here, so I thought I might join you. Do you mind?”

  I got up from the couch and shook my head. “Not at all. I was just thinking about a walk. Wanna come?”

  He smiled. “I’d like that.”

  “I’m sorry for the way I acted earlier.” His blue-eyed gaze held me motionless for a moment. “I meant it, though . . . when I said you shouldn’t care about me.”

  “There are a lot of things in life people told me I shouldn’t do,” he said quite seriously. “Going into the family publishing business was one. Trusting God with my soul was another. I think the advice was given because people were afraid of what my choice might mean to me. Afraid the work would be too great or the constraints too limiting.”

  I looked at him for a moment and thought again of the verse in Isaiah—the verse I’d now committed to memory. “Fear seems a powerful motivator,” I murmured.

  He nodded. “It seems to be the first or maybe the strongest emotion we learn.”

  For at least twenty minutes we simply walked and said nothing. We had forgone the beach to walk the neighborhood streets, and I found myself enchanted with the scent of flowers and spruce. The days were staying light longer and because of that I had the strange sense that it was much earlier than the eight o’clock my watch suggested.

  “You’ve really come at an unusual time,” I told Mark.

  “Because of your family?”

  His question seemed odd to me. “Well, there’s that, but I meant the weather. We seldom have so many beautiful days in a row here. There’s almost always some rain or clouds.”

  “Oh, I see what you’re saying.”

  “If you’d like,” I said, trying to keep the conversation casual, “we could all plan to go to Seattle tomorrow and visit Pike Place Market. It’s definitely something to see if you’ve never experienced it.”

  “Sounds like a good time. Would everyone go?”

  I tucked my hands into my jacket pocket. “I don’t know. We could certainly offer it as a diversion for everyone. We can take the ferry over as pedestrians. That way we won’t have to worry about parking.”

  “I think it sounds like a very interesting time,” Mark replied and added, “even if it’s just you and me.”

  I smiled. “We haven’t scared you off yet?”

  He laughed. “Hardly. Remember when we got that manuscript in from the German doctor who wrote about nuclear weaponry and religion? I told you then that challenges didn’t scare me. They only serve to make me more determined.”

  “To divide and conquer?” I looked at him and raised my brow.

  His expression left me breathless and he moved closer to take hold of my elbow. “Only if it advances my plan.”

  “Ah, I see.” I didn’t dare say more. There was a trembling that ran from my head to my toes, and I was sure my voice would betray his effect on me.

  Mark’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Don’t you want to know what my plan is?”

  I swallowed hard and tried to remain unconcerned. Casual. “You forget. I’ve been on the edge of many of your plans.”

  Grinning, he tightened his hold on me. “Well, this time you can’t be on the edge of the plan . . . because you are the plan.”

  Chapter 18

  To my surprise no one wanted to accompany Mark and me to Seattle. Of course, I still hadn’t really apologized to Dad for the anger I’d displayed, but I had a feeling he wasn’t holding it against me. Maybe God really had changed the way he dealt with life. He seemed happy.

  Dad and Judith headed off antique shopping, while Geena had already told us the night before that she planned to sleep in. Piper told me she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to stick around the house. Mark didn’t seem to mind, and I was quickly coming to realize how much I enjoyed our time together. Maybe my heart really did know what was best for me.

  “ ‘So do not fear, for I am with you.’ ”

  “What was that?” Mark asked.

  I looked up and smiled. “Oh, I was just remembering something.”

  I comforted myself with the fact that Mark knew the worst about our family and still wanted to be a part of my life. Maybe with his background and schooling he felt he could handle whatever developed. Maybe it was a sort of sick fatal attraction, although I really didn’t believe that.

  Pike Place Market was just as I remembered it. Momma had taken us there shortly before her death. I had been terrified then—the crowds and noise were frightening to me at the age of twelve. I also had to be mindful of my sisters and their whereabou
ts as our mother seemed to just glide through the masses of people. I remember holding tight to Geena and Piper and fighting desperately to keep my eyes fixed on our mother. It hadn’t been easy.

  “You look kind of stunned,” Mark said as we passed the fish market. People were gathered to watch the men throw the daily catch as people ordered their choices. It was remarkable that they could handle the slimy creatures and not drop them. I turned to Mark and tried to hide my feelings.

  “Isn’t this amazing?”

  He raised a brow and narrowed his eyes. “Are you truly dumbfounded by the fish?”

  I smiled. “Well, of course I am. Aren’t you? I mean, could you throw a fish twenty feet?”

  “Throw one? Yeah, probably. Catching it would be the hard part.” He relaxed and took hold of my arm. “However, I have a feeling that the look on your face just now wasn’t for the fish-catching exploits alone.” He led me on toward an incredible array of floral bouquets. The beautiful arrangements were a bargain at five dollars apiece.

  I decided to level with Mark as a man and woman began to perform. He played a washtub bass and she a guitar, while together they sang an old folk song.

  “This place brings back memories,” I told him.

  He nodded. “Did you come here often?”

  “I can only remember a handful of times. My sisters and I came here a couple of times with my mom and dad, but other times we were with mom alone. Those were frightening times. I feared losing my sisters, since Mom said they were my responsibility.”

  “She was wrong, you know.” He motioned to the attendant and pointed to a ten-dollar bouquet of lilies and hydrangeas. He paid the woman and presented the flowers to me.

  “Thank you, they’re lovely.” The pinks and whites were a perfect complement to the splashes of purple statice they’d positioned in the arrangement.

  “I mean it,” Mark reiterated. “She was wrong. You were never responsible for them. Not at twelve. Not at three.”

  I felt something catch inside, and for a moment I couldn’t draw a breath. Not at three. He was thinking of my baby brother. I’d said nothing to make him think that I was dwelling on the infant I couldn’t remember.

  We walked past a booth selling a variety of seasoned olive oils and declined the opportunity to sample the wares. Next came an incredible arrangement of produce and still I said nothing.

  “Don’t forget to go downstairs,” someone told us and stuffed a flyer in Mark’s hands. The paper advertised some exotic spices from the Middle East. Apparently their shop was one level below.

  Mark led the way downstairs and pointed to the store. “Would you like to go spice shopping?”

  I nodded. We entered the shop, and my nose was immediately filled with the heavy scents of paprika, chipotle, cinnamon, and a hundred other things I couldn’t identify. We browsed the aisles and Mark pointed out a bag of orange spice tea.

  “I think I’d like to try that. Why don’t we take some back to the house?”

  I nodded and waited for him to make the purchase. It was almost as if we were any other husband and wife shopping for the day—making choices for our home.

  We explored the various levels and ended up back outside on the street. After three hours we decided we were both hungry and tired. “Where shall we eat?” Mark asked. He shifted our bag of purchases, which included not only the tea but some produce, coffee beans, and newly made cheese.

  “Seems like all we do is eat,” I teased. “You’ll go back to Boston and be able to write a book about eating your way across Seattle and the Olympic Peninsula.”

  He laughed. “Might not be a bad idea. People have to eat. So where do we go?”

  “I picked the place last time,” I reminded him.

  He pointed to a place nearby. “How about that?”

  I read the sign. Le Pichet Café. “French sounds fine with me. I’ve never been there, so I can’t vouch for the service or menu.”

  “I’m willing to take a chance.”

  I looked at him for a moment, feeling his statement had a double meaning. “All right. Sounds like fun. Let’s give it a try.”

  The place was quite busy but happened to have one spot for us in the very back. I sat down on the booth side of a table and let Mark hand me the bags to place beside me.

  We first ordered a half baguette and butter and café au lait to keep us from starving. The waiter’s recommendation of the potage de tomates, pêches, et crevettes grillées immediately had my attention.

  “It is a creamy tomato and roasted peach soup with marinated corn and grilled prawns. A definite favorite,” the waiter assured us.

  “Sounds good,” I said, nodding. Mark agreed and the order was placed. When the bread and coffee arrived, Mark offered a brief prayer of thanks.

  “Praying in public doesn’t bother you at all, does it?”

  “Why should it?” he asked. “I’m not doing it for show—I’m doing it because I’m truly grateful. God has blessed me. Why shouldn’t I thank Him?”

  I couldn’t argue that point. I tore a piece of bread and began to butter it. My stomach growled in a gesture of approval. I was embarrassed by the noise but pretended not to hear it. Mark was gentleman enough to say nothing, so I began to relax again.

  We chatted comfortably, talking about Seattle and the differences between it and Boston. While Seattle was a large city, it lacked the frantic feeling of Boston. The people seemed less stressed. Maybe it was the often overcast weather and cooler temperatures, or perhaps the fact that this city was much younger than grand old Boston.

  “The history here is just as rich,” Mark said. “I was reading up on it the other night. This part of the world has a wide array of stories to tell.”

  I was certain he was right. Every area had something to say about its past. The past. There it was again like a lingering specter.

  The main course was served and we quickly sampled the fare. The soup had such a creamy, delicate flavor that I sighed out loud in appreciation. I slowed myself out of determination to appear less hurried, but certainly not because the food lacked any appeal.

  Mark was on his second cup of coffee when he broached the subject he’d brought up before. “I know I made you uncomfortable earlier; believe me, that wasn’t my desire. I meant it, however. You weren’t responsible for the lives of your sisters or infant brother.”

  I took a bite of a prawn to give myself time to think about my reply. I knew he was right. However, I also knew that it didn’t change the fact that I felt to blame for all the bad that had happened.

  Swallowing, I felt the prawn stick in my throat. The coffee pushed it down, but my satisfaction with the meal was beginning to wane in the light of my thoughts.

  “I know that I shouldn’t feel guilty,” I told Mark. “But there is something in me that can’t quite shake it off. My mother drilled it into me. I can remember that much.”

  “She was wrong to do that.”

  I nodded. “Yes. Yes, she was. But it doesn’t take away the damage done, just to recognize the truth.”

  Mark leaned back. “You’re right, of course. There are still the aftereffects of what she did. We tend to try and forget that our actions have consequences.”

  “I suppose I realize now, more than ever, what a very sick woman my mother was. At least with all of us talking, I feel that we can move forward.”

  “But sometimes we have to make decided efforts to let go of the past. Not so we can pretend it didn’t happen, but more so to lessen its power. In the Bible, Isaiah talks about forgetting the former things and not dwelling on the past.” At his mention of Isaiah I perked up, but he was already moving on. “Paul speaks of it in his letters. Even Jesus made it clear that forgiveness for past sins could be given and the captive set free.”

  “I guess I can’t imagine what that even feels like—to be free of the past.” I picked up my soup spoon. “My therapist tells me that sometimes the absence of something is often more important than the presence of some
thing else. But she also tells me that something in the past is keeping hold of me. There is something I can’t remember . . . something I need to know.”

  “Maybe it was that you had a brother. You obviously didn’t remember that,” Mark offered.

  “It’s true, and I have considered that possibility. Or maybe it’s been the need to know the truth about my mother’s death.” I shrugged. “I just don’t know. I thought perhaps when these things came to light, I would realize immediately that this was ‘the missing piece.’ But now that I know about Noah and my mother, I can’t say that I feel any better.”

  “Bailee, you’ve been stronger than any woman I know.” There was true admiration in Mark’s tone. “The more I learn about you, the more I want to know.”

  I found that hard to understand. It seemed to me that the complications of my family and self would be enough to send any would-be suitor running. Maybe Mark’s interest in psychology just gave him a sick sort of attraction to the mess that was my family. Looking up to find him watching me, however, I didn’t really believe that.

  By the time we finished eating, the skies had turned cloudy. We’d only walked a block when the first sprinkles began to fall. The market was still packed, and something about the swirling mass of bodies triggered my anxiety. I ignored it at first. I told myself I was being silly. But as the tension built and I felt my chest tighten, I knew I was headed into a full-blown panic attack.

  “Mommy, wait!” I remembered crying out in a similar ocean of people. I reached for her hand, but she was gone. I looked for my sisters, and they were gone too. I was alone—if a person could be alone amidst several hundred other people.

  “Bailee?”

  I looked up to find Mark watching me. I couldn’t breathe and darkness was threatening to steal my consciousness. I tried to say something, but the words didn’t come out. Mark seemed to understand and took charge. He pulled me under an awning and held me close.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”