What's Left Unsaid

by Emily Bleeker

  “Ouch!” Hannah barely held back a whole string of curses, her side throbbing. She propped the load on her knee, foot up on a drawer handle, and rubbed at the painful spot.

  “Owwww,” she moaned, tugging at the waistband of her jeans to get a better look. All she could see was the top of a deep red triangle imprint that undoubtedly extended toward her thigh and was sure to leave an ugly bruise. She pulled the heavy jean fabric back over her injury and tried to chuckle. At least I’m the only one who will see it.

  Her mental joke was about as funny as all the other jokes she’d been telling herself. She shoved at the guilty drawer, suddenly furious but not sure why. It didn’t budge. A wave of rolling anger warmed her midsection. She clenched her fist and hit the drawer again. It creaked, and the sting of metal felt almost good. With both hands clutching the boxes this time, she rammed her elbow and bicep into the drawer in one last massive effort. The drawer slipped shut.

  Finally, she thought, continuing on her way when a thunderous rush, like rain in a thunderstorm, made her turn around again to a deluge of yellowed pages and newspaper clippings pouring into a paper puddle on the floor from the top of the cabinet she’d just shoved.

  “Shit!” she cursed, unable to hold it back this time and not caring who heard. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  Stumbling the rest of the way to the computer desk, Hannah dropped the file boxes and lunged toward the waterfall of papers, trying to dam the flood, but the damage was already done. One empty filing box sat upside down on top of the pool of spilled papers. Another was on its side, still on top of the filing cabinet.

  “That’s just great,” Hannah said, absentmindedly wiping her tingling hands on her jeans, not sure where to even start.

  “Miss Williamson, everything okay down there? I heard a noise.” Monty’s voice echoed down the staircase. Hannah sighed. Monty was the last thing that needed to be added to this shitstorm.

  “Uh, yeah, it’s fine!” she shouted, straining her voice to sound reasonable.

  “I’ll be locking up in a few minutes. Why don’t you leave these last few boxes for Terry and head on home? He can bring them down in the mornin’.”

  In the morning. Ugh. Terry would surely notice the addition of a paper moat in the archives. Hannah dropped to her knees and started shuffling pages into a pile.

  “Uh, okay! I’ll be up in a second!” She flipped over the upside-down box and placed the first pile of documents inside, then started on another batch, dreading her bike ride home with her throbbing hip.

  “All right, then,” Monty replied, sounding uncertain but also not curious enough to subject himself to the rickety stairs. Hannah stuffed another two stacks of papers into the box until she could barely get the lid on top and then pulled down the second box from the cabinet and made quick work of most of the pages on the floor.

  They were letters to the editor and clippings made of newsprint and a few other random items she didn’t take the time to examine. But as that box filled, Hannah had to gather pages more carefully; many of the items were thin typewriter paper that had to be at least sixty years old.

  They were articles. Old, very old. From the typed dates on the pages, it seemed all were sent in the early thirties. In the corner of each item was a red R for rejected, scribbled in grease pencil. And as she looked closer—women had written most of them.

  Of course, Hannah thought. Being a woman in this industry was still not exactly easy even now, but back then? She flipped through three more pages with female names in the byline. Most of the stories related to social occasions or religious conversations, but one caught her eye. The writing was less polished, more like someone was talking and less like she was trying to mimic the short, detail-oriented narrative of a “newspaperman.”

  My name is Evelyn. Next week, I’ll be all of twenty, living in an institution for cripples, with a sixth-grade education. When one is asked what Evelyn is like, you might say fairly good-looking, a blonde with blue eyes, fair skin, and a turned-up nose.

  Evelyn? It seems as though you’ve heard that name before? Well, maybe back in 1929, you did happen to pick up a paper and read where a fourteen-year-old girl was shot in her bedroom, not expected to live. Not one chance in a thousand . . .

  Three knocks from the top of the stairs startled Hannah and brought her back to the present. She inhaled, and the dust that floated in the basement air clung to the back of her throat, nearly making her gag.

  “Miss Williamson? You still down there, dear?”

  She coughed and cleared her throat, but nothing came out.

  Frozen, she glanced down at the tattered pages, the red R in the corner, and that name written at the top: Evelyn.

  “I’m coming!” Hannah called, in her sweetest singsong voice, and on a whim slipped Evelyn’s article into her messenger bag instead of back in the box with the rest of the stack. She tossed the last few pages from the floor in the box and shoved the lid on before restacking the wobbly tower. Hannah stood and dusted herself off, readjusting her no-longer-empty bag.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Mamaw, I’m home!” Hannah called out as she entered the house through the garage after stowing her bike on the rear wall. The same two steps Hannah bounded up without any effort, Mamaw had tumbled down six weeks earlier.

  Up until that moment, Mable Williamson had been an independent ninety-one-year-old senior citizen, with a packed schedule that included a quilting group at the Presbyterian church she’d attended every Sunday since she was girl and a nearly-as-religious beauty regimen that included weekly manicures and a blowout every Thursday. And though she hadn’t written anything of her own since losing Uncle Samuel, she also frequented a writing group at the local library, where she put her skills as a former teacher to use helping the burgeoning writers of Tate County find their voices, even if she’d misplaced her own.

  Hannah closed the door into the house, leaving a large, tan 1974 Buick sitting parked in the garage behind her. It was the only car she could remember ever being outside Mamaw and Papaw Williamson’s ranch home.

  The house smelled of fried chicken and biscuits even all the way out in the laundry room, which meant that Carla, Mamaw’s housekeeper, had already started on dinner. It was a different world from the one Hannah was used to, a world where a particular group of people paid a different group of people to make their lives easier. A housekeeper, a handyman on call, and a full-time nurse seemed like more than enough people to keep the household of one ninety-one-year-old woman running. Hannah was just used to paying the delivery boy a nice tip to bring her Chinese food.

  Carla peeked her head around the corner of the kitchen wall, hands wrapped up in her apron, wiping at the flour that clung in a light film over her palms.

  “Hey, girlie. I thought that was you,” Carla called, her eyes crinkling heavily at the corners. “How was work?”

  “Oh, you know, Monty was there so . . .”

  Carla chuckled, and her laugh was as warm and fluffy as one of her biscuits straight out of the oven. Carla had worked in the house alongside her own mother long before her first wrinkle carved itself into her deep-brown skin.

  Now, at sixty-six, the housekeeper was growing older herself, still taking on all the same duties but at a much slower pace. The food was perfection. The furniture polish was always spot-on, but the amount of time it took her to complete any task was as overwhelming as the archaic methods she invested in stubbornly. But she was an integral part of the Williamsons’ home. Just like her momma before her, and granny before her. Much to Mamaw’s disappointment, Carla’s daughter hadn’t taken up the mantle and was a third-grade teacher in Strayhorn; Hannah couldn’t help but cheer inside that she had gotten out of this suffocating little town.

  “Your spunk will be good for old Monty,” Carla said, a loving smile adding more lines to the road map of her face.

  “Oh, I’m not sure he’d agree with you.”

  “Well, sometimes a man doesn’t know what is good for him even
when it’s lookin’ him in the eye.”

  Hannah smiled half-heartedly. Alex. Damn it. How did everything make her think of him? Even here in Senatobia. Running away was supposed to save her from his specter, but most days he was there.

  And where Alex wasn’t, her father’s specter was. He’d grown up in Senatobia, had ridden the same streets on his own bicycle and lived in this very house. There was a chip on the linoleum counter where a rogue baseball had crashed through the back window and into the kitchen, and the large oak tree out back still had nails and lingering chunks of lumber from his and Samuel’s treehouse.

  But the boy who grew up here was much different from the man Hannah loved, respected, and lost. And though Patrick Williamson had brought his family back to his hometown for holidays now and again, and had been the backbone of the entire family when Papaw died suddenly of liver failure when Hannah was eight and when they lost Uncle Samuel only a few years later, he never considered returning to his southern roots. “My branches grow over a different yard now, Momma,” she’d heard her father say as he was trying to convince his mother to move into their spare bedroom in Oak Park, Illinois, after she’d asked him to consider transferring closer to home, offering him his childhood house as collateral. Despite their similar people-pleasing tendencies, Mamaw would never leave Mississippi for good and her son would never return to it.

  “Carla, are those biscuits I smell?”

  Carla’s biscuits were her father’s favorite and, even with the proper recipe, one item Hannah’s mother could never successfully replicate.

  “Maaaaybe,” Carla teased, crossing her arms, circles of flour on the lap of her faded pink-and-green apron.

  “I’m starving.”

  “Well, dinner will be ready at half past six. You can eat then.”

  Hannah bit her lower lip and stepped toward the kitchen. “I mean, I’m starving now-ish. And you know what would help a lot?”

  Carla’s face turned playfully stern. “Not a chance. You’ll spoil your dinner.”

  “Carla, I’m a grown woman. I should be allowed to spoil my dinner if I want to.”

  “As far as I can remember, you are barely old enough to wear a brassiere.”

  “I’m thirty-one, Carla. And a brassiere?” Hannah roared this time. “No one even says that anymore.”

  “Yes, a brassiere. Hannah!” Carla scolded as Hannah dashed into the kitchen and across the squeaky-clean linoleum floor, where she snagged a hot biscuit off a cooling rack. It burned her fingertips, but she bounced it up and down in her palm, letting the heat escape.

  “Sorry, I’m a better listener when I’m not starving.”

  “Who are you kidding? You are never a good listener.”

  “Who, me? I don’t know what you are talking about . . .” The still-too-hot-to-eat biscuit muffled Hannah’s words.

  Carla poked at the chicken in the pan and shook her head. “If I weren’t so happy to hear you laughing again, I’d spank your behind, Hannah Williamson.”

  The buttery bite turned to dry crumbs in her mouth, and she swallowed hard, forcing the dry lump down. Carla was right. She’d been smiling. No wonder something had felt so strange.

  “Hannah? Is that you? We’re in here, darling!” Mamaw called sweetly from the master bedroom in the back corner of the house. It was her “we have company” proper southern accent this time, which meant Nancy, Mamaw’s in-home care provider, was finishing up her duties. Carla didn’t count as company because she’d washed underwear, cried at funerals, and helped Mamaw clean the bloodstain off the wall of Papaw’s study when Uncle Samuel . . .

  Hannah cleared her throat, her tongue dry and sticky. “I’ll be right there,” she called out before finishing off the biscuit in two big bites. She cradled a few crumbs in her palm.

  “I’m sorry,” Hannah muttered an apology as Carla silently held out the wastebasket she kept under the sink and stared wide-eyed with pursed lips like she was waiting for something. Hannah quickly corrected herself. “Oh, I mean, I’m sorry—ma’am.”

  “You better get moving,” Carla said, with an exaggerated sigh, “or I’m gonna burn your dinner.”

  “You? Never!” Hannah bantered as she ducked out of the stifling kitchen, just in case Carla’s mood was actual irritation and not just a playful game. She could hear Mamaw chatting with Nancy in her bedroom. With Mamaw temporarily distracted, Hannah made a detour to her room—Papaw’s study. During the day, the door was always opened a crack, just like when Hannah would visit as a girl. Even when Papaw was working from home, he kept it unlatched. Mamaw said it was because he got lonely; Hannah’s dad said it was so he could hear when Mamaw was coming and hide the Jim Beam.

  The room still smelled of his pipe tobacco and peppermints. Hannah could sometimes make out this strange, masculine mix of scents on her clothes during work. She didn’t get to know her Papaw, but staying in his office made her feel like they were getting to know each other by osmosis.

  After unlooping the strap over her head, Hannah dropped her bag by Papaw’s massive oak desk. Inside were the pages she’d snuck out of the Record’s basement. She was about to retrieve them when an email notification vibrated on Hannah’s cell phone. She jumped. There was another itch she hadn’t scratched in over an hour. She took out her phone, but instead of checking her email, which undoubtedly contained some annoying message from Monty, Hannah touched one of three social media icons on her screen. As Facebook opened, she filled with a familiar cocktail of anticipation and hesitation.

  “Hey, Hannah. I’m heading home.” Nancy, the perky, perfect day nurse, stood in the doorway. Hannah froze in a half squat by the couch that was also her bed every night, reluctantly pushing the off button on the side of her phone.

  “Okay, Nancy. Thank you.” Hannah stood up. She placed her phone on the cushion and put on her well-practiced smile.

  Nancy gave a glossy-lipped, electric smile that was either genuine or a compelling fake that had probably been perfected during her time in the pageant world. Her bobbed blonde hair was still in the same shape and style as when she’d arrived that morning as Hannah was leaving for work. Maybe she slept like that.

  “Uh, she’s still asking for you.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I got a little sidetracked with”—she glanced back at the phone on the couch—“work. I’ll go say hi.”

  “I should warn you, she’s gettin’ pretty good at the wheelchair. I don’t think she’ll be stayin’ in her room in the evenings for much longer,” Nancy said with a playful wink. “Tomorrow I can teach you her bedtime routine. Or . . . I know Mrs. Williamson didn’t like Tara, but if you need a night nurse, I have a few other references.”

  “I’d love to learn,” Hannah blurted. She’d agreed to come down to live at Mamaw’s house to help her, but she’d never been allowed to contribute.

  “Okay! Can you get here a little early tomorrow? Like, by five thirty?” She adjusted the large floral bag at her shoulder.

  “I might have to make Mamaw call me in an excused absence with Monty, but I’m pretty sure I can worm my way out early.”

  Nancy laughed. Sometimes Hannah wondered if she and Nancy could be friends if they spent time together away from Mamaw’s motorized bed and Nancy’s purple scrubs.

  “Dang, girl. You’re so funny. You should come out with my friends and me sometime.” She swatted at Hannah’s shoulder, her giant diamond engagement ring flashing in the light.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Hannah said, losing her humorous edge. “But I’d better get to Mamaw.”

  “Oh yes! Definitely.” Nancy waved that glittery left hand again and stepped toward the front door. “See you tomorrow?”

  “Yup! Tomorrow!” Hannah said, waving.

  As soon as Nancy turned her back, Hannah’s smile washed away. No. They couldn’t be friends. Not really. Nancy had a perfect doctor fiancé. Hannah knew—she’d looked them up on Facebook weeks ago when Nancy sent her a friend request. She could unfollow Nancy online. But in real life
, she’d have a front-row seat.

  She almost felt like she was wrapped up in figurative barbed wire. As long as she stood perfectly still and didn’t allow anything to disturb her, the jagged edges of the fence wouldn’t hurt as badly. Intellectually she knew the only way to stop hurting altogether was to get out of the trap—by blocking Alex, discarding any lingering hope of reconciliation, and moving on. But she’d nearly died the last time she faced that amount of pain, so Hannah had convinced herself that she’d let go when she was stronger—when it wouldn’t hurt as badly. She’d move on when she was sure she could handle it. Until then, she’d stay here in her safe bubble of faraway and stand as still as possible.

  Anyway, what would Nancy and her friends find interesting about a northerner with a lousy attitude, dirty hair, and zero desire to wear ChapStick, much less a full face of makeup? She’d be the oddity, the charity case, the friend they all talked about with a hand on their chest crooning, “Bless her heart.”

  Bless my heart, she thought, rolling her eyes. She placed a hand over her heart, where it was pounding beneath her shirt like it didn’t know it was broken. I forgot to check my messages. Maybe he . . .

  “Hannah!” Mamaw called again, her voice getting scratchy from overuse.

  “Coming!” she shouted back, shutting the office door with a click and slipping the folded pages from the Record ’s basement into her back pocket where her phone usually sat.

  “There you are, darlin’,” Mamaw sighed in her smooth southern drawl that sounded the way butter looked when melting. In her mechanical hospital bed, Mamaw sat upright on top of her comforter, changed into the quilted dressing gown she wore each evening before settling in for the night. Her hair was a lighter brown than when she was younger, but both shades were straight from the corner hair salon, where she had her hair done on Thursday afternoons.

  “Sorry, Mamaw. Nancy was just telling me the good news about your wheelchair. I’m going to learn how to help you with your nighttime routine so you don’t have to go to bed so early.”