I'll Stay

by Karen Day

  “Are you a writer, too?” he asked.

  “I’m a teacher and I was an English major in college, but I’m severely lacking in creativity. My mother had the monopoly on that.”

  “Did she ever talk about our grandfather?”

  I wasn’t sure where he was going with this but I nodded. “I know he liked to be outside and that he was quiet and loved poetry. He introduced her to Milton. She also told me that people said he was different when he returned from the war. He was suffering from post-traumatic stress although no one called it this back then. And I know he shot himself.”

  Oliver nodded.

  “She liked visiting your grandparents’ farm in Vermont every summer,” I continued. “You were there, too, right?”

  “Yes, for a number of years all the cousins went there every summer,” he said. “Did she say anything else about our grandfather’s suicide?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing that I really remember.”

  “We come from a long line of silent sufferers, that’s for sure,” he said. “In her book, she wrote about it so eloquently. And fluently.”

  Now I was certain that he was trying to tell me something. I let a server fill my champagne glass.

  “There was always speculation that she was there.” His voice grew stronger. “That she saw it. The rest of us were down at the pond, swimming. But your mom always had a hard time with my sisters. They weren’t nice to her. Your mom was so smart and so loved by our grandfather, and I think they were jealous of her. Well, that’s another story. Anyway, we assumed she was reading in her room. But then . . .”

  I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

  “Well, our grandmother, Gram, heard the shot and went looking for him. We heard the shot, too, but we didn’t think much at first. We were in the country, after all. When we came up from the pond we found Gram cradling Grandfather in the mud behind the barn. After the sheriff arrived, I went looking for your mom. I found her in the attic of the house, standing in a corner and staring at the wall. She had fresh mud on her shoes. A bit of blood, too, although it was too dark to know for sure. Anyway, we think she was there when he did it.”

  Something cold began to drain down the back of my head and into my neck.

  “It was quite chilling when I read the last scene between Whit and Phoebe,” he said. “The details were so similar to Grandfather’s death. Even the blood and mud on Phoebe’s shoes. Your mother wouldn’t ever talk about it with me. Or anyone. Am I to understand that she didn’t talk to any of you, either?”

  None of this made sense. “Why didn’t she tell anyone?”

  “Why do most families keep secrets from each other? It was twenty years after the event when someone finally told me that my aunt—your mother’s mother—had a child die at three months.” He shook his head. “Maybe your mom didn’t quite remember being there when Grandfather shot himself. Maybe it lived in her unconscious. That happens sometimes with trauma, you know. Or maybe, like Phoebe, she felt shame or guilt that she didn’t, or couldn’t, stop him.”

  Unconscious or not, if she wrote about it, then she must have remembered. That she’d chosen to keep this from us—I was fairly certain Logan didn’t know, otherwise he’d have told me—felt cruel. It would have told us something about her. It would have helped us see her. My voice felt hot and sharp in my throat as I spit out the words, “I don’t understand why it had to be a big secret.”

  “Ah, but it wasn’t a secret. She put it on paper for the whole world to see. It was hiding in plain sight. Wasn’t it?” He sighed. “I’ve often wondered over the years if writing was her way of self-medicating. Know what I mean?”

  I choked and coughed into my hand and suddenly felt so overwhelmed by all I had to do—help clean up, answer my mother’s fan mail, and write thank-you notes to everyone who was here today. How many people, seventy? Eighty? And then there was Max and his essay problems and Sophia and Talia and the science lesson plan that I hadn’t finished. I began twisting the stem of my empty champagne glass. When had I drunk the rest of it? “Why didn’t you tell us this last night?”

  “I assumed you knew. But when your mom’s editor mentioned her fear, I wondered. I thought it might be helpful for you to know. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

  “No, of course not,” I said. “Thank you for this.”

  I heard my name and looked across the crowd to Ben, his arm around my dad. By the time I reached them, he’d lowered my dad into a chair. Several people stood over him, worried.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “He’s feeling so dizzy,” Ben said. “What should we do?”

  “Dad? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  He held his head in his hands and wouldn’t answer.

  I scooted a chair next to him and sat. I put one hand on the back of his neck, damp with sweat, and another on his cold and clammy hand. “Can you hear me?”

  “Just feeling a little weak,” he mumbled.

  I looked up at Ben. “Will you get him something to eat and drink, something sweet? Maybe a soda, too.” Ben nodded and hurried off.

  “You didn’t eat anything, did you?” I asked. He scrunched his nose and shook his head. He’d been such a good host, wandering from group to group, making sure he’d said hello to everyone. Why hadn’t I paid more attention?

  Then Ben was back with a glass of soda and a plate of fruit, cookies, and smoked salmon. My dad took a long drink and started in on the salmon. Within minutes, the color was back in his cheeks, and the people who’d been standing over us, satisfied that he was okay, turned away. Ben, who sat on the other side of him, kept glancing at me over my dad’s bent head.

  Finally, my dad handed his plate to me. He’d eaten most of the salmon, all of the cookies but left the fruit. He sighed and put his hands on his thighs. “Those cookies weren’t nearly as good as yours but they did the trick. Thank you, my dear. You’re always taking care of me. You take care of both of us. Isn’t that right, Ben?”

  “Certainly is,” he said.

  I sat back in my chair, exhausted but glad he was all right. We were quiet for a few minutes. When I looked over the crowd, at people who’d known my mother in one capacity or another, I wondered how many thought they really knew her.

  “Time to mingle,” my dad said. “Maybe I’ll wait here a few more minutes?”

  “I’ll stay with him,” Ben said.

  I nodded and stood. There were still hands to shake, people to thank, and questions to answer. I made my way through the crowd. Yes, we missed her. Yes, we were grateful that she was no longer in pain. Yes, we knew her books would live on. Several times, Oliver and I looked at each other across the lawn and he smiled, invitingly, but I always turned away. I didn’t know what to do with what he told me. Later, when he said goodbye, he thanked me and said that I knew where to find him. He left with the first group headed to the Vineyard Haven ferry.

  It wasn’t until much later, after everyone had gone and we’d cleaned up at Margaret’s and were pulling into our driveway at the house, that I said I had something to share. Logan, who’d driven us to the ceremony in his new Land Rover, turned to look at me in the backseat, where I was sitting between Ben and Dad. Beth, in the passenger seat, looked out the window. The sun had set and the lights from the house cast streaks of white across the lawn in front of us.

  I told them about the swimming pond, the jealous cousins, the gunshot, Gram holding Grandfather in the mud, and our mother, standing in the attic corner with mud and possibly blood on her shoes. My dad sat very still next to me, hands in his lap, the shadows in the car obscuring his face. Still, I tried to find him in the dark as I asked, “Did you know this, Dad? Did she tell you?”

  He hesitated and then said, “No.”

  Logan snorted. “How do we know it’s even true? Just because Oliver, who until last night none of us ever spent more than one night with, tells us so?”

  We all looked at Dad, even Beth, who’d turned in her s
eat.

  “He could very well be telling the truth,” Dad said from the shadow.

  “Please! You mean to tell me that you two never had a discussion about this?” Logan said. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “And you’re completely honest with Beth about every little thing you’ve ever done?” I asked.

  Ben jerked his head to look at me again. Beth stared at Logan.

  “This is no little thing!” Logan glanced back at Dad, his voice suddenly softer. “So, let’s say that it’s true. What do you make of it? Why didn’t she tell anyone?”

  “I don’t know.” Dad’s voice was weak, fragile. He needed to rest. This was too much for him. I squeezed his arm.

  Logan raised his eyebrows at me. Over the years he’d accused me, among other things, of protecting our mother too much (her Claretaker), being her muse, not seeing her clearly. Was he wondering how I failed to see this part of her?

  “Maybe it was too traumatic and painful,” I said, thinking about what Oliver told me. “Maybe she didn’t tell us because she couldn’t truly remember it.”

  “But she had to know because she wrote about the same kind of suicide in Listen, Before You Go,” Ben said.

  No one said anything for a moment.

  “Maybe this was why she got depressed sometimes,” I said. Logan shrugged, turned, and looked out the windshield. “Right, Dad? She was depressed?”

  “Maybe, I guess, from time to time, but—”

  “Don’t you want to know the truth?” I blurted.

  “And what good would it do?” he asked. “Your mother was far from perfect. Why rummage around for things that you’ll never know for sure? Can’t I have my memories as they are?”

  “Sure.” I sighed. He was still protecting her, even in death. But then I cringed because this was exactly what Logan had accused me of doing. I leaned back against the seat. Years ago, I’d been so quick to believe that my mother stole Listen from Lucy. I didn’t want to unequivocally believe Oliver’s version, either, and yet it made sense. I rubbed my forehead. Why did I care so much about this stupid novel, anyway? And yet I felt a stab of disappointment that I couldn’t explain.

  Beth lowered her window and the night air, cool and breezy, so unlike the heat today, blew through the car. I shivered.

  “Well, it’s late,” Logan said.

  The three of us slid out of the backseat and I shut the door. Logan lowered his window and leaned toward me. In the lights from the house, I saw how his hair had begun to thin along his forehead. I thought back to that awful dinner in Chicago when he’d come to the restaurant, drunk, his shirt wet from the rain, his long hair hanging in his face. A few years ago he apologized with a quick, Sorry, sis, had too much to drink that night. But when I questioned him about the things he’d said, he hadn’t wanted to talk about any of it.

  “I’m awfully tired,” Dad said. “Good night, son. Thanks for coming. And thank you, too, Beth. I think I’ll make a cup of tea before turning in.”

  “Good night,” they both chimed.

  “I’ll go with you.” Ben steered him toward the door.

  When Logan moved to put the Land Rover in gear, I reached into the car and placed my hand on his shoulder. I didn’t want him to go and yet I didn’t really know what I wanted from him, either. He looked up, surprised.

  “She was confusing, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “Eleanor?” He shook his head when I nodded. “No, not to me. Eleanor was always about Eleanor. Ever since I could remember. She was irrelevant in my life.”

  “That’s terrible, Logan, and not true. You were upset when she died. And I’ve seen you angry with her and hurt. That’s hardly irrelevant.”

  He snorted and shook his head.

  “You were furious with her that night in Chicago at the restaurant,” I said. “But maybe you were too drunk to remember what you said.”

  Beth looked at her watch and then out the window. I wanted to slap her.

  “You accused Mom of leaving you to die when we went to New York,” I said. “You know, when you had the appendicitis.”

  Logan frowned and then nodded slowly. “I don’t know why I brought up that whole thing at dinner. But I will tell you that I didn’t know that I’d ruptured my appendix that day. I thought I was dying. I thought I was having a heart attack. That’s what my coach yelled when I collapsed on the side of the pool, clutching my chest. ‘Call an ambulance, we can’t have him dying in the pool!’”

  “That sounds like his fault, not our mother’s,” I said.

  “You’re right. He was a dick. But does that matter? The point is, I thought I was dying and she left me to go to New York for her award. You both went.”

  “Please don’t say that you’re blaming me,” I said. “I was eleven.”

  “I know, I know, you’re right.” He sighed as he placed both hands on the steering wheel. “Look, we had different relationships with her, that’s all. And I meant it when I said that that book did her in. But you know what I thought about today? Even if she’d gone on to publish dozens of successful books, that wouldn’t have changed who she was. She’s always been an unhappy, selfish person.”

  “No, not always. She was better when we were younger. Before Listen.” I swallowed. The urge to defend her was relentless.

  Logan chuckled and shook his head. “Okay, Clare, let’s talk about the award ceremony. Do you remember what she promised if we went with her? The zoo and a ride in a horse-drawn carriage for you. I think that was what you wanted. I know she promised me a Knicks game. We’d make a family vacation out of it. A little something for everyone, she said. Remember? But did she follow through? Did you do the things she promised? I know you didn’t. Because Eleanor never followed through with that kind of thing. Am I right?”

  He was. I hadn’t wanted to think about this—I’d put it out of my mind—but now I couldn’t stop. I remembered sitting on the hotel bed the morning after the award ceremony and watching as she worked the phones, signed additional books that had been delivered, conducted interviews, and met with her agent and editor.

  When can we go to the zoo? And the carriage ride? How many times did I ask this between interviews and phone calls?

  “Soon,” she answered. And then, “Later.”

  And finally, “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  I raised my hand to my forehead, shielding my face as I wondered how to answer my brother. Sitting on the hotel bed that day, feeling so small and insignificant, I’d realized that I was invisible to the most important person in my life. But I hadn’t wanted to accept it. I lowered my hand. I wasn’t ready to admit this, especially to him. “Don’t you feel sympathy for her after what Oliver told us?”

  Logan straightened as a sly grin crept onto his lips. Had he seen through me? Maybe he was just done with our conversation. He put the Land Rover into gear and then spoke in a high-pitched accent. “If you figure this out, Dr. Freud, be sure to give me a shout.”

  “Bye!” Beth said.

  I wrapped my arms around my waist and shivered as I watched them pull away, the gravel crunching under the wheels.

  “Aren’t you coming in?”

  The screen door squeaked and then my dad stood next to me, slightly stooped, his hands in his blazer pockets. He was sad—I could feel it—that the day was over. That we’d said our goodbyes. He waved but Logan was already too far down the driveway. I felt so angry with him and with my mother.

  “Logan always makes a joke of everything,” I snapped.

  “Ah, Logan is just Logan,” Dad said.

  How many meaningful conversations had my brother and I ever had? Once after our mother died when he arrived on the red-eye from Los Angeles, exhausted and teary. Last year when he called to tell me that he’d run into Elise in London and that she had two (good God, two!) children. We had different relationships with her. Maybe so. But why was I the only one confused by our mother?

  Next to me, Dad sighed. The sky was a brilliant mix of
bright stars and wispy clouds. I listened to the faint, gentle ocean waves mixing with the evening sounds—the cicadas, the crickets, and a bullfrog from over near the Hendersons’ pond. It couldn’t be the same bullfrog that Lee pointed out years ago, could it? I felt an ache in my heart for her, for my mother, for something I couldn’t identify.

  “It was a lovely day,” my dad said. “Your mother would’ve been happy. The ‘Lycidas’ poem was a nice touch. Thank you for thinking of it.”

  “ ‘Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more, ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, and with forced fingers rude, shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.’” I cleared my throat. “That’s all I memorized. I don’t really understand ‘Lycidas,’ to tell you the truth.”

  I was hoping for a smile, but he only nodded. He was grieving so deeply that sometimes I wondered if what I felt was grief at all.

  “Your mother was interested in the structure of the poem, whether it should be viewed in two or three movements, as well as the pastoral elements,” he said. “But when Richard read the poem today, all I kept thinking was that Milton wrote it about his friend, Edward King, who died much too young. Before his time. And how sad that was for him.”

  I nodded. He thought my mother died before her time, too.

  “You miss her, too, don’t you?” he asked, hopeful, maybe even desperate.

  “Of course, I do.” But truth was I didn’t know what I felt. Because in addition to that lingering feeling of relief that kept crowding my mind, I also felt sadness, confusion, anger, regret, longing—and yes, I missed the best parts of her, too.

  I glanced at him. We’d spent so much time together over these last few years. Sometimes we talked about the letters we opened from fans. Often he brought up happy memories he had of her. But I wished that we could have a real conversation and that maybe he’d tell me that he had felt ambivalent and confused. Maybe he’d admit that it wasn’t easy being in her shadow, taking care of everything, taking care of her. Maybe he felt angry and relieved now, too.

  “She made me so angry sometimes,” I said, my voice careful. “I used to think that all she cared about was her writing and her books.”