by Kelly Rimmer
“It took you years of study and clinical practice, right?” When I nod, Hunter shrugs. “Well, as difficult as I know your job is, it’s still easier than parenting. Your clients leave your office, and then it’s up to their parents. With Noah, there’s no line where our responsibility suddenly ends. When he’s older, his well-being will be up to him, too, but for now it’s entirely up to us...up to you, really, for most of the week while I’m at work. That’s a lot of pressure. Hell, that’s more pressure than either one of us has ever felt before.”
“But you’re handling it so well. You’re perfect.”
“Jesus, Beth. My wife has been suffering under my nose and I didn’t do a thing about it for months. That’s hardly perfect,” Hunter sighs, running his hand through his hair. “It’s going to take us time to find our way as parents, and it’s the most important thing we’ll ever do. We’re supposed to struggle. We’re supposed to make mistakes.” His lips quirk. “We’re going to mess him up real good, I promise, and one day you are going to have to untangle him because that’s your profession. I’ll be on hand for when he needs legal advice, but the psychological damage is all your department.”
I smile weakly at his lame joke, even though he doesn’t really deserve it.
“Thanks.”
“So you’ve been feeling like you’re not doing a good job. What else?”
“I think I’m probably wound up, like you said yesterday. I just can’t relax. So when I lie in bed, it’s like my mind is on high alert, waiting for something to go wrong. I haven’t been sleeping.”
“I know, babe.”
“I didn’t recognize it as depression because I haven’t been sad. I mean, I have been sad, but the sadness I’ve felt has been understandable because of Dad. There’s...” I suck in a sharp breath. “There’s a lot going on with Dad, Hunter. It would be hard for anyone.”
“That’s absolutely true.”
“But it’s hard for me to be subjective about my own state of mind, like I would be for a client. And I think it is possible that maybe I haven’t been coping as well as I should have. I really don’t want anyone to label me, but I do think Lisa is onto something.”
“Good. This is good, Beth. You’re talking to me.”
“You know, when we first started dating, I used to think I wouldn’t mind at all if there was a way I could let you see into my thoughts,” I blurt. Hunter chuckles and nods.
“We’re both oversharers, normally.”
“We always had the kind of relationship where we just shared whatever came into our mind. I had nothing to hide from you, and I hope... I think you always felt the same.”
“I did. I do.”
“But this feels shameful,” I whisper, looking away. “Six years, Hunter. Six years of trying to have a baby, and then we finally get one, and I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.” I exhale shakily, then admit, “Some days I hate it. I feel so overwhelmed. I’m terrified of letting him down and letting you down. And I can’t help but think he deserves a better mother than I know how to be.”
“Beth,” he says very gently. “We do have a safe, open relationship, and that’s why I should have known something was going on when you pulled away from me. Since when do we disconnect in the tough times? We only made it through six years of trying to become parents because we leaned on one another.”
“You know, I always thought that a psychologically unwell person would feel like something was wrong. I never really thought about it as such, but I guess I assumed that the negative feelings would feel distinct from typical feelings, so people would know they need help. But this hasn’t felt like something in my mind wasn’t working the way it should. It actually feels like I’m reacting in a typical way to the circumstances, so I’ve convinced myself the circumstances are the problem. I’ve felt frustrated and inadequate, and I’ve been thinking that was just because I am inadequate. Even as a psychologist, I didn’t consider the possibility that those feelings were symptoms, and not a reasonable reaction to—” an awful, bewildering, messed up “—an extraordinary set of circumstances.”
“When I suggested you talk to someone, you were concerned that it would negatively impact your career. Do you really think that’s a possibility?” Hunter asks me quietly.
I rub my forehead, suddenly weary.
“Yeah. I actually think Alan will be okay.” Alan is my supervisor, and he’s incredible—empathetic, gentle, supportive. But he’s not the only boss I have, and I have to be smart here. “I don’t know how the higher managers might deal with this, given that I work with kids. They’re understandably cautious about child therapists being in a good place emotionally themselves. That’s why when I decided to take the extra leave, I just told them I was enjoying my time at home. There really is a stigma attached to mental health treatment, and it’s still strong even in my profession. Maybe even more so for psychologists, which is silly, but there seems to be an expectation that we can just handle ourselves and that makes us immune to this kind of thing. I need to think this through...maybe get some advice.”
Hunter gets out of his chair and crouches beside mine. He turns me gently to face him, and then stares into my eyes.
“I never want you to feel you have to shoulder something like this on your own. I won’t judge you. We’re in unchartered territory—as parents, yes, but also as partners. What’s worked for us in the past has been communicating, and I think that’s what’s going to get us through this, too. Can you promise to try to keep talking to me?”
“There are things I’m not ready to talk about yet,” I whisper, thinking about the attic and the notes and the death certificate I found in the bottom of that wooden chest.
“Do your best, Beth. That’s all I’m asking.”
I let Hunter talk me into taking another sleeping pill and catching up on some more sleep, but as a compromise, he and Noah move back into our bedroom.
TWELVE
Beth
1996
My siblings and I all qualified for “lapsed Catholic” status when we reached our teens. Dad let us decide for ourselves whether we’d continue to go to weekly church services, and we each gradually decided we’d rather sleep in. Even so, events at the St. Louise’s Parish Church still seem to mark every important milestone in our family life. The sacraments are signposts for all of the major events in our lives: baptisms for infants, confirmations for the children, weddings and funerals for the adults. Sunday morning ten past ten, Hunter and I are tiptoeing down the aisle of the church to take the seats Tim and Alicia reserved for us. We’re late, and everyone else is already safely seated in the pews, ready to play our part as witnesses in Ruth’s eldest son’s confirmation service.
St. Louise’s isn’t a big church, and the pews are short and so uncomfortable Ruth and I used to wonder if they’d been designed to keep the parishioners from nodding off. Confirmation services like this are big events in the parish and are well attended by the wider community, so we all cram in like sardines. Now Hunter is holding Noah on my left, Alicia is on the other side, Tim is at the end of the pew beside Dad, who sits in his wheelchair in the outer aisle, Ruth and her family are in front of us, and Chiara and Wallace are behind us.
“Remember that day?” Hunter whispers to me suddenly, during a particularly dry patch of the homily.
“Which day?” I whisper back.
He gives me a pointed look as he says, “The day we met.”
I quickly do the math—over eleven years have passed since I met Hunter in this very church. I was living in Ballard at the time, having just finished my postgrad qualification and working in my first supervised position as a psychologist. I came home for Christmas, and Dad dragged me along to the Christmas Eve candlelight service. We had just taken our seats when I noticed the tall, extremely handsome man sitting with his parents right beside me. He flashed me a smile, and I smiled back, but then we discovered that our s
ide-by-side seating arrangement was no happy coincidence.
“Wallace, Chiara,” Dad had said cheerfully, leaning across me to greet the man’s parents. “Fancy seeing you two here. This must be Hunter.”
“Why, yes it is, Patrick,” Chiara had said, a picture of innocence. “Lovely to bump into you. And this must be Beth.”
It turned out that Hunter and I had been floating around in the same circles for years, even though we’d never met. Our parents were all active in the congregation at St. Louise’s, and while mingling after the liturgy one week, Dad and Chiara cooked up a scheme to introduce us.
Somewhere between “Silent Night” and “O Christmas Tree,” Hunter and I bonded over a mutual determination to teach our parents a lesson by not getting along well at all, but by the time the candle in my hand had melted down to a stub, I was smitten. But I was desperate to avoid encouraging Dad’s meddling, so at the end of the night, I said a polite goodbye to Hunter and marched away before any of the parents could say something awkward.
“What do you think of Hunter?” Dad asked as soon as we were alone in the car.
“He was fine,” I said, shrugging, feigning nonchalance, even as I kicked myself for not getting Hunter’s number. “Not my type, but fine.”
When the phone rang late on Christmas Day, Dad answered it, and he was grinning like an idiot when he brought me the handset.
“Sorry to call your dad’s house,” Hunter said. “I really don’t want to encourage any more parental meddling, but I also couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least ask you out.”
We arranged a date for when we were both back in the city a few days later, and that was it: we were inseparable from then on. We married in this very church eight years ago, and moved back to Bellevue a few months after that.
“Of course I remember.” I smile to myself as nostalgia washes over me.
Hunter leans low toward my ear and murmurs, “That was the day my life began.”
I flash him a small smile, then rest my head on his shoulder, turning to face the priest. This is Father Jenkins and he’s been our parish priest for years—he’s one of those compassionate types who seems genuinely overjoyed to see anyone at church and probably wouldn’t care if Hunter and I had a chat during his homily, but I like to at least look like I’m listening. Thirteen years of Catholic education instilled a quiet terror of the clergy, and I guess old habits die hard.
“It hasn’t been the happily-ever-after we thought it would be when we made our vows though, has it?” I whisper to Hunter. I was thirty-one when I married Hunter, but in some ways I was still a child, still thinking of marriage like a solution to some problem I hadn’t quite identified. On some level I really believed that from our wedding day on, life would be smooth and easy.
Every now and again my siblings tease me about being the spoiled baby. I’ve never felt like I was, but at times like this I know that there’s at least an element of truth in the accusation.
“I didn’t want or expect happily-ever-after and I don’t think you really wanted that, either. I wanted a partner—someone to share my life with. And I found the best woman on earth for the job.”
“You still think that?”
“I still know that.”
I brush my lips against his, a chaste and innocent expression of affection. There’s a rap against the pew behind us, and when Hunter and I glance back, Wallace is giving us a pointed look through the thick lenses of his glasses. He points to the priest as if we need to be reminded that Father Jenkins is still there, but just as I turn to look away, I see my father-in-law smirking to himself.
* * *
When the service finally ended, Ruth and her family had the requisite photos taken on the church steps with Andrew in his suit, and then we all piled into the cars and came back to Dad’s house. Ruth’s sons Andrew, Mathew and David have all changed into casual clothes and are tossing a football around with Ellis and Jeremy in the backyard, apparently immune to the icy wind. Tim, Alicia and Dad are sitting at the beautifully decorated dining room table, and I can’t help but raise my eyebrows when I see Tim and Alicia holding hands.
“What’s up with you two?” I murmur under my breath when Tim gets up and approaches me to take Noah from my arms.
“Marriage counseling,” Tim says wryly. “That’s what.”
“Really?” I say, surprised.
“God, Beth. You of all people should know that sometimes you just need a little outside perspective.”
“Me of all people?” I repeat, scowling. He blinks at me.
“Because you’re a psychologist? What else would I mean?”
“Oh.” I wince. “Of course. Well, good for you.”
Tim stares at me thoughtfully, then nods toward Dad and Alicia.
“Dad’s a bit of a mess today.”
“He is? I haven’t had a chance to talk to him.” I swallow the lump in my throat. That’s at least in part because I’m avoiding him. I feel like I need to ask him about that death certificate, but I know he won’t be able to answer me, and I know it’s going to be upsetting for both of us. “Is his speech worse?”
“His speech is fine. Well, no worse than it usually is. But...look at him, Beth. Really look at him.”
I drag my gaze to Dad and force myself to focus on him. He’s engaged in a conversation with Alicia. She’s talking quietly, her hands flying this way and that, and Dad is wearing that quiet smile that suggests he might not be following the detail of whatever it is she’s saying, but he’s happy to be talking to her anyway. He’s slowly unwrapping gold-wrapped candies as he listens, and there’s a growing pile of wrappers on the tablecloth in front of him.
But his skin has taken on an awful gray pallor, and he’s so puffy today...his eyes look like they could disappear into the swelling. He’s wearing lounge pants that I know used to be baggy, but are stretched around his swollen ankles—so tight I know they must be painful. Even seated with the oxygen supplementation, he’s visibly panting. The dry, rasping cough he’s had for months surfaces regularly between breaths. That cough has a rhythm of its own now. It’s like the ticking of a clock—the audible mark of his last days counting down.
“He has ups and downs,” I say, fumbling for optimism.
“Sure. But there’s a trend here we can’t ignore, and there’s no point kidding ourselves.” Tim draws in a deep breath, then murmurs gently, “He just doesn’t have long left with us, Bethie.”
“Today is about Andrew’s confirmation,” I cut my brother off abruptly. “I don’t want to talk about this today.”
“Make way, you two,” Ruth calls, and we shift aside as she bustles past us. She’s donned an apron since I saw her at Mass, and now she’s carrying a huge tray of bread rolls. After she breezes back past us, Tim tickles Noah under the chin, then flashes me a sad look.
“Beth. I get it—it’s hard to talk about. It’s just... I’m just worried that we’re not prepared.”
He’s not talking about funeral arrangements, and I don’t even think he means it when he says we. He’s prepared. Maybe Jeremy and Ruth are even prepared. But as for me...
“I can’t prepare, Tim,” I whisper back, looking over to my father. The tired smile is still fixed on his face, and the little pile of candy wrappers in front of him is growing by the second as he empties out the bowl. I move to intervene and suggest he eat something healthy, maybe redirect him toward some fruit or something, but then I stop myself, because for the first time, I really understand that it’s too late for such tiny decisions to have any impact.
He just doesn’t have long left with us, Bethie.
“Dad,” I blurt, and I leave my son with Tim and walk hastily across the room to his wheelchair. “Daddy, can I talk to you? In private?”
The room has suddenly fallen silent, and the pause feels desperate and awkward. Everyone is staring at me. Dad wh
eezes. He coughs. Then he nods.
“Beth—” Hunter starts to protest, but I shake my head at him, and I take the handles to Dad’s wheelchair and guide him out from the living area. I lead him all the way down toward his bedroom. It’s still a mess, and the last place in the world I ever intended to take Dad today. But he’s a long way past managing the stairs, and this is the closest room to the stairwell, so his bedroom is where we go. I park the wheelchair beside his bed and give him a pleading look.
“Just wait here, okay? Just for a minute.” I’m crying, and wipe hopelessly at my cheeks, hoping he won’t notice. But Dad catches my hand, and he’s suddenly frowning.
“Maryanne,” he rasps. “Don’t cry, Maryanne. I’m sorry.”
“Daddy,” I choke, “It’s Beth, Dad. Just wait here. I need to get something from upstairs.”
I gently release his hand and sprint up the stairs to the attic. I scoop up the clipboard with the two notes on it, and run back down the stairs, almost tripping in my haste to get back to Dad before the rest of my family comes to investigate. I close the door behind us this time, and I sit on the piles of clothes on Dad’s bed and rest the clipboard on his lap.
“Did Grace write these, Dad?”
“Grace...” Dad whispers, reaching down to touch the notes with a shaking fingertip. “Grace was beautiful. In the place...what’s it called? With the roof.”
“Daddy, I need to know how she died. It’s very important,” I choke.
“In the...” He picks up the clipboard, then he looks right into my eyes. “She went. I’m sorry.”
“She didn’t die in a car accident, did she? I found her death certificate. I saw about... I saw about the cause of death and it says...” God, this is even harder than I thought it would be. I can’t say the word decomposition, so instead I say weakly, “The certificate says it was too late to tell how she died.”
Dad closes his eyes, and a single tear runs down over the swollen skin of his cheek. He pulls the clipboard against his chest and shakes his head.