by S. E. Hall
Riza nods, fucking pity in her eyes. “Right this way. You said you had the key?”
“Yes,” Cannon hastily pipes in for me, obviously fearful of giving me an opening to speak anymore.
I am admittedly, undoubtedly, being a bitch. I know it, yet I can’t stop it. Conner and Richard home and all chummy, secret boxes, buying houses…the jagged, rocky edge of overload is right in front of me.
“Please,” Riza ushers to two chairs in front of her desk, “have a seat. Can I offer either of you a drink?”
I huff audibly, crossing an ankle, acting as impatient as possible.
“No, thank you,” Cannon sing–songs, laying a demonstrative and quite directive hand on my leg.
“I just have to pull up the account.” She taps away, then papers spit out from a printer at her right. “Elizabeth, your middle name?”
“Hannah.”
“And do you have some identification please?”
I dig out my license and fork it over, hand still up and waiting while she makes a copy and returns it.
“Last thing. Do you know the password?”
“Dusty.” This one gets me, a strangled croak my answer. I loved that pony. He was sold when Mom became “unavailable” to get me to my lessons regularly. I wonder where he is now…
“That’s it. April?” she calls across the room and a curvy, young redhead with, uh, endowments in all the right places appears. I watch Cannon like a hawk on a fluorescent rabbit with a broken, fragrantly bleeding leg, but he either plays it well or sincerely doesn’t care she’s right beside him. “April, please show Ms. Carmichael to lock box 71276.” She hands her a post-it with what I assume is the box number on it. “The gentleman may accompany her if she chooses, locked door, one hour.”
“Yes, ma’am,” April answers and begins to walk away.
Cannon rises and looks back for my hand, taking it with a supportive wink. “Want me to stay or not?” he asks.
I nod and we proceed.
“One hour, and the room is under surveillance,” she instructs curtly. “If you’re done sooner than that, press the green button on the wall and I’ll be back.” She slams the large silver door, locking us in what creepily feels like a mausoleum, or King Tut’s tomb, you pick.
Nice of her to point out the actual box, since there are thousands. I try to get a tracking system when Cannon boasts, “Got it! Right here, 71276.”
I hand him the key, nervous enough to undoubtedly break something. He unlocks it and slides out a long, slender box, setting it on the table in the middle of the room. Then he flips the key over and unlocks the box itself, holding the lid just ajar.
“Look at me,” he demands softly. “In for me,” his eyes do that big ‘do it’ thing when I’m uncooperative, “now out for you. Good girl.” He leans in and kisses me once, then again, on the lips. “I’m right here.”
He pulls the lid open to lay back against the table. The first thing that catches my eye is my mother’s cameo broach and its ivory profile of her mother. I always thought it hideous and outdated, but today, it’s beautiful and majestic.
“Set it to the side, please,” I whisper, not ready to actually touch anything.
Next is an array of precious gem necklaces, rings, and earrings. “I’m sure they’ll give us a bag,” he comments, setting them in a pile on the table.
“Hmm, that’s it? Weird.” I shrug, standing.
“Lizzie,” he grumps, “I know you see this envelope with ‘Bethy’ written on it. Will you read it here, or later?”
“Musta missed it.” Caught, I look away and sit back down. What if I blubber like a hot mess in front of him? Or worse yet, what if I don’t react at all, showing him heart of stone girl? “Here’s fine. You wanna read it to me?”
“I can, or I can sit here and hold your hand while you read it. Or, I can even leave the room and give you some privacy. What do you really want?” He pulls the envelope out with some difficulty; it’s kinda stuck at the bottom, the edges caught, a little too big for the box. “Dig deep, love. What do you want?”
“What would you do?” I beg him, lids rimmed with moisture, knee bobbing up and down, heart hurting and beating alarmingly fast.
“Oh, Lizzie, I can’t answer that and you know it. Close your eyes,” he gently whispers, leaning in so our lips just brush. “Closed?” I nod. “All right, in for me,” I suck in loudly, “now out, what’s your choice?” he says quickly, not giving me a chance to think.
“Read it to me,” I answer automatically.
He doesn’t second guess me and opens the envelope, eyes on mine. He sniffs, and I smell it from here, her scent. “Nice handwriting,” he says to settle me.
“Eh.” I shrug and motion with my hand for him to get on with it.
“Dear Bethy, my beautiful, strong girl.” He clears his throat and rises, walking over to press the green button.
“All done?” April chirps.
“No, we’d like a box of tissues if you have them, please.”
Damn traitorous leaking face.
Two minutes later, the door opens and she shoves a box inside then sequesters us in with another slam.
He takes his seat again and pulls out a Kleenex and hands it to me, then shockingly, takes one for himself! He must see my shocked face, as his mouth turns down. “Your pain is my pain, Siren.”
I find my focal point, box 41002 right in front of me, and begins to tap out “Girl,” with his foot. “Okay, I’m ready. Read it.”
“Dear Bethy, my beautiful, strong girl. I’m writing this completely unencumbered by a drug of any sort, so every word is true, unexaggerated or molded to make me feel less guilty, and straight from my heart. I am weak, I always have been. The thing is, when you’re born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you don’t have to learn how to feed yourself. When balls are thrown in your honor and $10,000 dresses ensure you’re the prettiest in the room, you don’t have to dig deep to find you’re pretty. When everything is done, fixed, or manipulated in your favor, and everyone exalts you because they have to, you never develop instinct.”
We both freeze. Even in foresight, and now from the grave, she just spoke to both our hearts, in our language.
Inappropriate? No fucks to give. “Mouth, Cannon, now, kiss me.”
And he does, extensively and delicately, telling my soul he’s there for whatever I need.
“Continue,” I breathe heavily. “The letter, I mean.”
“Enough of my excuses,” he continued, “and please, daughter, as you grow into a fine young woman, try not to make them. If you know the bottom’s safe—jump. If you know it’s returned—love. If you really want it—fairly take it. If you run, do it till your lungs burn. Laugh until your cheeks ache. And forgive, as you’ll always want to be forgiven. I didn’t say forget, and certainly your spirit won’t allow for you to be a doormat, but forgive. Ask yourself, always, if they die tonight…was I really that mad? The answer will almost always be no, so act accordingly.
“At this bank, in your name, is more money than you will ever spend, beyond what you’ll have already been given. Your father forfeited it all freely. I only ask that you take care of my beautiful boy. Take care of my Conner. I suspect you will have long since been doing that before you ever read this. Hire help if need be, but promise me that he will never spend one night in a special home. The day we brought you home, he made a fort under your crib and slept there for months. ‘My baby,’ he always called you. Love him, protect him, and keep him with you.
“If you’ve ever wondered, I gave him a song because I doted on you so, the baby, a girl, that I wanted him to feel special. Never more, never better or more loved, he just needed it. He resented you not one day; please return that unconditional love. Perhaps if I’d had a big brother…I digress, Bethy.
“Your father is a good man. He only knows what he was taught—work, provide, your way is law, then work some more. He got angry hands rather than hugs, whippings instead of kisses. He didn’t have
a clue how to reach, console or ‘fix’ a person of fragile makeup. I quit him long before he quit me, and at the end of the day, it was up to me to force myself to fix myself.
“If you’re over 21, you can read this part. If not, skip to the next page.”
We both pause and laugh. Part of me wishes I had found this letter and read it sooner, but part of me knows this time in my life, this moment, is exactly right.
“Bethy, men have primal, inbred, chemical needs. If not met, they will find it elsewhere, just as a male dog will leave the yard, despite the shock collar, if the poodle next door is in heat. It’s nature, procreation, God’s different design of Adam and Eve. Sex with me would—I can’t believe I’ll say this, but I need you to understand—sex with me would have bordered necrophilia. Forgive him. I did.”
Cannon stops and blows out a long breath, eyes bulged. “Did not expect that,” he comments, but his light laugh is false. “Want me to go on?”
“Yes,” I say. “Surely it doesn’t get worse than rutting poodles and necrophilia.” I laugh softly even as I wipe my eyes, a mountain of wadded, soggy tissues in front of me, no longer able to breathe through my nose.
“Need a nibble first, baby.” He leans into my neck, and I know he’s actually checking my pulse, gauging my ability to continue, but I play along with the façade. “Okay,” he exhales and continues.
I squeeze his hand. I’m ready this time.
“Yes, daughter, we’re nearing the end, and this is the hard part. When I sign this letter and place it where only your father will find it, I will take measures to go to sleep and never wake. I will never see you or your brother’s beautiful faces again, but to the villain goes the punishment. I am leaving not because your father cheated or because I’m weak anyway, or even because I live every single day in a fog of depression that none of the twenty-three medication/therapy combos I’ve tried have worked. I’m leaving because I’d rather die than replay that scene in my head even one more time.
“Your father came home late and wreaked of perfume, with sparkly lilac lipstick below his right ear. For once (I was drunk, no doubt), I still had my faculties about me enough to meet him on the landing. We fought and said some awful things. I actually spit in his face, which is beneath even a lush, and slapped him. He tried to leave, didn’t touch me back, begged me to calm down. Your brother, a Mama’s Boy to a fault, bless his angel heart, tried to break it up. Even then, your father kept his hands in his pockets and turned his pleadings to Conner, to leave and he’d take care of it. They both started down the stairs. I flew at your father, I SWEAR I was aiming for your father. The only time his hands left his pockets was to try and catch Conner.
“Accident, misaim, or not, I am the sole reason Conner, my precious, perfect, athletic, artistic son will never be the same. THAT I not only can’t, but refuse to live with every day, asleep or awake, over and over. I love you, Bethy. I love your brother, and I love your father.
“But I am also your biggest burden, and ultimately, the literal instrument of your near demise, for I hurt you perhaps most of all. Forgive me, I beg you. No matter age, race, culture, anything…one of the only things in the whole world that is almost always universally alike is a mother’s heart. It will always put its children and what is best for them first. This is what I feel is best.
“You and Conner will slowly rebuild, and recover, him never fully, but some. The gnawing cut of my selfishness will scar over; some days you may not even think of it at all and you most certainly will go on to find happiness. I will not. Ever. And would only lessen all of that for you. Goodbye, my beautiful princess. Love, Your Mama.”
He gives me a moment to process the last words I’ll get from my mother, a brand new harsh reality filled with ache since I thought I’d lived that moment years ago.
“Lizzie?” he whispers.
I hold up a hand, needing a minute, already well versed and in the middle of the in for him breath through my mouth. My nose may never unclog, my eyes unpuff, my hands stop trembling, my mind not spin.
“Love, there’s more in here. One small note and another key.”
“And?” I sob, staring at the table.
“The note says, ‘if your true love has found you, bring him with you to use this key on box 112284. Or, if he’s with you now, as a true love should be, send him over to it.’”
“November 22nd, 1984, their wedding day,” I mumble. “Well, true love,” I glance up at him, “what are you waiting for?”
“Lizzie, if you’ve had enough for today, we can come back.” His effort not to frown or let me see the sympathy in his eyes valiant but futile.
I scoff, and since grace waved bon voyage the minute we walked in this place, I go ahead and honk my nose too. “Chicken,” I tease him, my voice sounding close to normal again. “Go!” I point.
With his best loving smirk, he rises, one cautious eye on me, the other searching out the number. He finds it, gets the box, and sits back down, a nervous shyness emanating as his shaky hands open it.
Inside are two things: a ring, which somewhere in the farthest recesses of my mind, I think I remember, and a sealed white envelope, addressed to “The Man Trusted with my Bethy.”
“Want me to read it out loud?” he asks, so chivalrous and thoughtful, thinking always first of my feelings.
“You know what? She went to all the trouble of not writing it in my letter and getting a separate box. I think she meant for that to be between you and her. If she was here, I’m guessing she’d catch you alone, to say it, so how ‘bout we let her have her ‘motherly moment’?”
Chapter 34
Cannon
To the man my sweet Bethy deemed worthy of the letter to her true love,
I already like you. She’s only a teen, but I trust her taste impeccably. She’s wise, strong and all-seeing beyond her years. Even in her crib, the mobile had four little ponies: yellow, blue, pink, and green. She’d kick her little feet at them like she was riding a bike, but never at the green one for some reason. She’d stop, wait for it to go by, then she was off and motoring again.
She’s picky, tasteful, and true to herself. If she says she loves you, then not only does she mean it, she will always mean it.
I can only imagine the young woman she’ll turn out to be. I’m sure you know, but you are one lucky young man.
Bethy is artistic and soulful, a denied romantic; she dreams of dreams and slays dragons wherever they present themselves.
Be good to her. Appreciate her. Embrace what makes her the girl who got your attention in the first place.
When she cries and pushes you away, she’s screaming “hold me closer!” on the inside. When she says she doesn’t need your help, she means she believes in you enough that she shouldn’t have to ask.
Never go to bed angry and never let her go to bed angry, even if that means you have to keep her awake all night.
Point out sunsets and falling stars to her. Slow dance. Write your own poem in the card. Carry her picture in your wallet.
Take her camping; she loves best the stories I tell about when my dad took me.
Tell her everyday she’s loved, beautiful, and that it’s not a sign of weakness to forgive.
I am handing you the one thing I wanted most in my life, for as long as I can remember—a daughter.
This ring, if you haven’t already bought her one, was my mother’s. She handed it to me the day I turned 18. I’ll miss that, so I ask that you do it for me, whatever her age today.
Don’t ever spank my grandchildren; two wrongs don’t make a right.
And remember this always—”A daughter’s your daughter for the rest of your life. A son’s a son ‘til he takes a wife.” Do not EVER side with your mother over her. Defend your wife above all; right or wrong, her feelings are valid and the only one you need to protect.
Good luck, son!
Love,
Your mother-in-law
What truly saddens me the most? The woman who wrote thos
e two letters was obviously intelligent, humorous, prophetic, and filled with love. Why would such an amazing person, with so much to give, take her own life?
Because she couldn’t forgive herself.
If their family would have just communicated, Lizzie would have forgiven her. I know my girl, she would have. And Conner, that guy can’t stay mad, a ball of pure, innocent joy. It sounds to me like the minute Conner fell was the minute Richard, too, opened his eyes.
Such a waste.
The only thing I can do now is vow to honor every single one of her requests in that letter, keep her advice close to my heart, my mission, in her honor, every day I walk this Earth.
I tuck the ring in my pocket, even though I know my Siren saw it, for the right time and the perfect plan. Then I fold the letter, put it too in my pocket, and slide the empty box back in its hole; the same with 71276. I press the green button on the wall to tell April we’re done and ask for a bag, then turn back to Lizzie with what I hope is a comforting smile. “Ready, my love?”
“For what?” Her voice is as clueless and hollow as her eyes, lost and overwhelmed. Everything she thought she knew, the founding blocks of the person she’s become over the last seven years were wiped out in a tornado of discovery—no warning bell.
April, who needs to quit disrespecting my girl with her blatant flirting, opens the door and hands me a clear bag, fingers fondling mine as she pulls away. “Look at her,” I motion my head back to Lizzie.
“Yeah?” April sneers, pushing her boobs closer to me.
“Either you’re blind and can’t see what I see, or you like losing. Now knock it off. We need another minute, and this time, send Riza to get us or I’ll report you. Clear?”
“Hmpf.” She spins on her heel and really slams the door this time.
I give Lizzie a minute, carefully placing all her items and letter in the bag, then finally squat down in front of her, hands on her thighs. “With me?”
“Always.” She nods without question, her voice soft and childlike.
“You hear me then, so please listen. You’ve been rocked at the core, babe, I get that. But your past doesn’t decide your future, and your future was with me when you walked in and it’s with me when we walk out. I will never not protect you, love you, or be with you. I will never hide things from you or lie to you. When we walk through that door, our life starts. Our plans, goals, home, careers, kids, IRAs, pets, what the hell ever, belongs to only us. And Conner. And the new fish, which you know he’ll ask about. Agreed?”