by Grace Greene
“As I was saying, grief is the same either way. Sharper when losing the younger ones. Sharpest when losing a child. But love is love, and grief rips that bond, and it always hurts.”
“I understand.”
Mel ignored me. She was taking this conversation where she wanted it to go. I was just along for the ride. I wanted to face her, to listen showing her my full attention and respect, but I had to turn away. I couldn’t stop myself. I stood at the sink and stared out the kitchen window at the sunlight; at the trees, now full of summer leaves; and at the blue sky above them.
I had my own wounds to protect.
Mel continued, “Some say you get past it. I don’t say so. I say grief eases. No one can live at a pitch—a fever pitch of lust or grief. You burn out. Grief eases over time. Meanwhile, you go on because what else can you do?” She hugged herself. “When it comes to grief and loss, I don’t know the difference between being five, thirty, or seventy, but I think I’m more worried about the thirty-year-old standing in front of me than the bookends.”
I snuck a quick look at her. She caught me. I gave up and turned back to face her. “I presume by bookends, you mean Maddie and yourself?”
Mel gave me a long look.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “I am grieving. I don’t deny it. I know it will pass with time. Ease, as you say.” I crossed my arms. “I felt like Dad and I were finally finding the relationship we should always have had. We were crossing a threshold I never dreamed we’d ever get to. And then . . .”
She nodded. “Glad you had that, at least.” She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “With my Patricia, I’d been on her back about not sticking with jobs and getting laid off and all. Then she was gone. Just about that fast. Regret, right? It walks hand in hand with grief.”
I took the fudge block from the bag, set it on the table, and unwrapped the waxed paper. I sliced several pieces from the end and slid the paper toward Mel.
She sighed and selected a piece. A few crumbs fell onto the table, and she picked them up by pressing the fleshy pads of her fingertips against them. I gave her a napkin.
“I hope you’re right,” I said.
“About grief or about its easing?”
“I know it will ease. I don’t want to forget, though. I want to remember Mom. I want to remember Dad. I have to keep the memories fresh in my mind.”
“Well, you’ll always have those.”
“But they fade. The memories pass and lose their sharpness. I want to remember my dad—both his good points and his flaws. He was pretty remarkable—even more than I understood as a child—and I want to remember him as he truly was. As my dad.”
“You want to hold time still. People think if they don’t let time move on, they can step right back into their comfort memories whenever they need to for reassurance or security.”
“No, I know that can’t happen. But maybe I’m not ready to move on yet, even aside from wanting to keep the memories fresh. Once I let time fade into the past, it’s gone. I need to finish processing everything first.”
“I had a friend who held on to her grief so tight and took so long processing it that it used up the rest of her life. She never had another shiny moment or heartfelt joy that she didn’t reject and squash right away. I thought maybe it was guilt because she was still alive. Or maybe it was fear of living on her own. Or a selfish duty, like proof of grief. Regardless of why, don’t be that person, Kara.”
I shook my head, refusing to acknowledge the chill that seized me. “I’m not that person. I’m moving on with my life, but it’s not easy.” I looked away.
“How are you doing at night? Here alone?” She waved her hands around as if to emphasize the entirety of the house and its size.
My quick indrawn breath probably gave me away because Mel was not only sharp eyed but also sharp of hearing. I pretended my gasp meant nothing. She couldn’t know that I needed a little help to deal with the night and that I no longer felt as safe as I had before finding that leaf on the floor. I couldn’t tell her any of that because Mel was a doer. This was a problem she couldn’t fix. Only I could.
I said, “I’m resting well enough. The house does feel very empty.”
“Empty. I know about that.” Mel sipped her water again. “When Maddie Lyn learned to tie her shoes herself, I thought, I need to tell Patricia. But no. Couldn’t do that, could I? And when Maddie Lyn says something cute—even though I know I can’t, I still think I need to tell her. Maybe Patricia’s around somehow and does know. When my husband died, our kids were grown and living elsewhere. I was alone. How many times did something happen when I said, ‘I need to tell Carl’ . . . or that I turned to tell him something like ‘We need to get that hot-water heater checked, Carl.’ Or ‘Carl, what kind of warranty did we get on the mower?’ Or ‘I think the well pump is making odd noises’ . . .” Mel rubbed her hands together as if they were cold. “It ain’t the same as just talking out loud. Sounds foolish to even think it would be. But you take what you can get, and sometimes that means talking to the walls.”
Walls. Yes, I understood that. And sometimes the echo of your own voice was the closest you came to a conversation . . .
Mel sighed. “When Patricia got pregnant and wanted to come home, I was glad. Secretly glad. But glad. I was happy to have a pair of ears to speak to and to hear her voice, even if I didn’t always like what she said.”
I wanted to offer comfort, but I didn’t know the right words.
“Oh, I said things, of course, about how she should’ve made better choices and all that. I’d take ’em back in a heartbeat now if I could. How was I to know we’d lose her so soon?”
“You couldn’t know, but you were there for her and helped her when it counted. She knew you loved her.”
Mel showed no sign of hearing me. She was stuck in her own past now.
“She had a headache that day after work. Came on sudden, right before I told her to take care of Maddie Lyn. Patricia was standing in the kitchen doorway—I can still see her clear as day. She said, ‘Mom, I’m going to lie down.’ Maddie was only two. How was I supposed to cook supper with a toddler underfoot? But Patricia had already left the kitchen. I raised my voice after her: ‘Take care of your daughter, Patricia Lyn!’ I was in the kitchen wrestling a wooden spoon away from Maddie, and I saw that terrible-two tantrum about to erupt. When Patricia didn’t answer me back, I was angry. So angry. I went after her, thinking she was already in her bed, but she wasn’t.”
Mel shook her head and put one hand over her face. After a long moment, she dropped her hand away. The grief, the stark regret, was visible on her face. “She was on the floor. My daughter was already gone. Gone, Kara.”
She breathed for a minute, then said, “So young. She hadn’t had time to live yet. An aneurysm, that’s what the coroner said. In her brain. She was there one minute, annoying me, and then she wasn’t.”
Such devastation. Such regret. It ached in my chest. My eyes burned. My shoulders wanted to curve inward, to protect myself and withdraw from this dreadful conversation. But Mel deserved acknowledgment for what she’d shared.
“I’m so sorry, Mel. What I said still stands—she knew you loved her. And Maddie is lucky to have you and Nicole and Seth, all people who love her and loved and remember her mother. You can give her so much through your memories. Maddie Lyn is so fortunate to have you.”
“Yes, well, I’m not sure I’m enough. I’m old and getting older every day. She’s hardly more than a baby. Needs a lot of watching. She’s a busy girl with a big imagination. It’s not right to park her in front of the TV to keep her occupied.”
“Nicole?” I asked.
“Oh, sure. Nicole does right by Maddie, but Nicole isn’t . . . motherly.”
Despite myself, I laughed. “Sorry. I could say the same about my mom. Not motherly. I didn’t know it back when I was a child. I thought that was just how it was. When Dad told me about his parents, he said something similar about them not being . . . par
ental.”
“Your father was a fine man. I didn’t always agree with him, and he could be closemouthed and aggravating, but he had integrity, and he knew what hard work was.”
“True enough. I didn’t know he’d grown up in this area until recently.” I watched her face closely, suddenly realizing she might have information I wanted. “In fact, he showed me where he lived as a child.”
Mel eyed me carefully. “That so?”
I waited for her to offer more. She didn’t, so I said, “It was a sad, tragic place. Did you know my dad? Growing up?”
“No, I didn’t. Any idea why he didn’t tell you before?”
“To avoid discussing his childhood. It was . . . unhappy. His father drank a lot. Dad called him heavy handed. That’s all Dad would say about him.”
“Henry was a few years younger than me, so we didn’t go to school together, plus I grew up in the Bumpass area. When I married Carl Albers, I ended up over here with him.” She cleared her throat and took a sip of her water. “Carl might’ve known Henry, but he never spoke of him.”
“I was angry at Dad for not telling me about his childhood sooner. I would’ve understood him better, I think. When I asked him why, he said no one wants to relive the bad stuff. He preferred to focus on the good.”
Mel said, “I see that determined look on your face, and I’m not unsympathetic. I heard a few gossipy tales about old Mr. Lange long ago, but not about your dad. I never thought of him at all until Nicole sold him a house in the city years ago.”
I said, “Yes, that was after I left for college. Dad moved to the smaller house just outside of Richmond. He was still living there when he brought me home to recover from my accident. I didn’t know about Nicole, had never even heard her name until Dad told me he was moving to Wildflower House.”
Mel took a long drink of water before saying, “Henry and Nicole were sweet on each other on and off, but she didn’t bring him around us much. While I’m not above an occasional exchange of juicy information, I wouldn’t insult you or your father’s memory by dredging up gossip. Consider the source, they say. Old Mr. Lange was a mean man. A miserable person. If he found peace in the hereafter, then let him rest in it, Kara.”
I stared at her, wanting to push for more. Finally, I said, “Did you know that Dad had a younger brother and sister? Twins. They were about ten years younger than him. Their mother died when they were very young. They were toddlers when they disappeared. Dad came home from school and found them gone. His father refused to explain.”
“You think Mr. Lange gave the babies away?”
“I hope that’s it. Dad was never quite sure.” I saw Mel’s expression changing, and I let the unspeakable alternative possibilities remain unspoken.
Mel put her hand over her face again. When she slid it away, her wrinkles were deeper, and her eyes were glittery. “As if there ain’t enough misery already in this world.”
The despair that had eased from Mel’s face as we’d chatted about Dad had been brought back by this talk of old Mr. Lange and the twins. I touched her hand and said, “Never mind, Mel. It’s okay. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
She shook her head. “Okay or not, it’s a long time gone. If I had to guess, I’d say Mr. Lange gave them to the state. People did that, you know, if they couldn’t care for them, especially if there was no other family to step in and help. I can’t imagine him raising babies on his own.”
“Dad looked for adoption records and other legal records when he got older but found nothing. He even hired a private detective but had no luck.”
“And now nearly a half century has passed. Many of the people who might have known anything are likely in their graves. I believe the courts seal adoption records. Lots of records pertaining to minors get sealed too. I think. What I know I learned from TV shows, so take it for what it’s worth.”
She looked away from me. “Henry never spoke to me about anything personal. Kept his personal business to himself. Remember, we were both old, and we were friendly, but we weren’t old friends.” She reached across and took my hand in hers. “I promise you this: if I ever do think of something worth saying, whether good or bad, I’ll tell you.”
That had to be sufficient. Mel had shared her heart and her grief with me. I was overwhelmed with the trust she’d shown. I sighed and rubbed my hands across my face, massaging my temples.
Mel said, “You okay?”
I stopped my hands midmotion and clasped them together, entwining my fingers. “I’m fine, really. I hope you are.”
She stood. “I’d best be going. The new fridge is being delivered tomorrow. I’ll come back for the groceries then.”
“Fine. It’s fine.”
When I heard her light, quick footsteps retreating, I noticed how her slight figure was cast into shadow, backlit by the strong light coming through the hallway from the front door.
Mel was older than my dad, who’d been sixty. She had to be in her late sixties. Maybe already seventy. She had a wiry strength but none of my father’s robustness.
That thought brought me to my senses.
“Mel?”
She’d reached the front door.
“Mel!”
She paused and looked back. “What?”
“You are welcome to drop by anytime. You are always welcome. And if the refrigerator doesn’t arrive tomorrow, don’t worry about leaving the groceries here longer.”
Mel laughed. It was a sharp sound but mirthful.
It was my turn to ask, “What?”
“Twenty-six words, girl. Twenty-six words for what we both already know.”
“How do you do that, Mel?”
“Count words?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, I have a knack with numbers. Counting is always going on in the back of my mind whether I want it to or not.” She grinned. “Everybody’s got some kind of superpower. Guess that’s mine.”
“Oh yeah? What about me?” I joked.
I wasn’t expecting an actual answer, but Mel went silent and gave me a long look. I was about to say something, anything, to break the increasingly awkward moment.
“Hold on, girl. You asked; I’ll answer.” She waggled a finger at me. “I was going to say determination. But that ain’t quite right. Resilience, I’d say. No matter what, you endure. You get back up.”
My heart sighed, if that was possible. I crossed my arms. “Honestly, Mel, it may be true, but it’s exhausting.”
“Yet you do it anyway.” She blew me a kiss. “Don’t stop getting up, Kara. You’ll never be sorry.”
I smiled. “See you later, Mel.”
“Later, Kara, honey.”
Shortly before Dad died, I’d been pushing him to tell me about his childhood, his family. Finally he’d driven me to the site of his parents’ home. It wasn’t far from Wildflower House as the crow might fly, but by road it was longer. We’d walked into the woods on a barely there trail. He told me the creek path also led there, but nature, especially watercourses, could change the landscape, and he didn’t know if that path still went all the way through.
That day Dad and I sat on a fallen log with the broken-down house before us while he told me the tragic story of his childhood, of how he’d spent as much time away from the house as possible because of his father. Dad had earned money doing small jobs for people in the area, including yardwork for the family who lived at Wildflower House before it became known as that, and even before the Forsters lived there. He told me about the Bowen family, the dad, Rick; his wife; and a little boy named Stevie. As he worked in their yard, he pretended he lived there with them, that the other place he went to each night to sleep didn’t exist in the same world. But the Bowens moved away, his mother died, and when the twins disappeared, he had no reason to stay.
He’d still been a child himself, no more than fifteen or so, when he ran off to Richmond. He’d passed for older, picking up jobs here and there. As soon as he could, he’d started his own business. H
e’d built it from the ground up and had eventually become the unofficial tire and automotive magnate of a large portion of the mid-Atlantic. That was the business he’d sold when he decided to buy Wildflower House and retire here. He’d been trying to come to terms with things he’d never dealt with, and he’d wanted to do it here at this house, where his best memories had been made.
If Mel did remember anything, I felt sure she’d tell me. The idea of a possible aunt and uncle, still alive and maybe with children and grandchildren of their own . . . I could have lots of family out there. The concept intrigued me.
If Dad could’ve found out what happened to his siblings, he would’ve. The fact that he never did was a pretty convincing argument that the information was not there for me to find either.
The powder stayed on the step for a second night because I was too lazy to clean it up. I avoided that step going up to bed as I’d avoided it going down that morning.
I closed my door and locked it. I hated to, but honestly, once I’d accepted the possibility of someone entering the house during the night, it was hard to go back to relative innocence. As before, I left the key on the dresser and went to bed.
No pills tonight, I vowed. Instead, I plumped my pillow, pulled up my covers, and, with patience, settled into sleep mode.
I lay there and stared at the dark ceiling.
Tonight wasn’t about jumbled thoughts or worries. Tonight I had that waiting feeling. Waiting for what? For sleep? Just a stupid feeling of waiting.
Number by number, I watched the time change on the clockface. I got up and walked around. I ate a late-night snack. By three a.m. I was done with gutting it out.
Seth had called me audacious. Mel had said I was resilient. That was all well and fine, but I had work to do tomorrow. I needed rest. Feeling frayed and exhausted wouldn’t be helpful.
I pulled the drawer open and found the bottle with the blue sedatives, and I faltered.
Would it be so awful to just stay up? Get online and surf the internet? Play with the business plan or the map?