Whisper Me This(36)

Does this make me a bad person, Walter? I can see the sorrowful expression on your face if I were to tell you this. Never judgment from you—never that—but still. Deep in your eyes, a change in your opinion of me. You, who would never abandon anybody.

You cared for both of your parents until they died. Supported your sister through cancer, talking to her every day, never shying away from her pain. How different my life would have been if I were more like you. But I am who I am, and I have done what I have done.

Does it help if I say that the presence of both my mother and my father in my childhood was superficial and had less impact than my favorite books? Dad was an alcoholic, and Mom was a shell of hopelessness. I don’t blame them for this, mind you. Both of them were carrying out longstanding family traditions. I don’t imagine it occurred to them that there might be another way to be.

Neither one of them beat me or was even verbally abusive. They didn’t have the energy to spare for that. I didn’t matter enough to them for that. I vaguely remember that Mom might have worked when I was little, before the baby brother came along, only to be snuffed out in a meaningless crib death. After that, she did nothing but watch TV and smoke, endlessly. One or the other of them bought groceries, at least until I was old enough to be sent to the store. Nobody cleaned house in any meaningful sort of fashion.

My grandmother, my father’s mother, was the salvation of my childhood. All that I remember of hugs and stories and security came from her. I remember her apartment, overwarm and cramped but clean. It smelled of lemon and vanilla, not tobacco and whiskey. She baked cookies for me. She would make the dough, and we would lay them out on the cookie sheet, her crooked old hands and my young ones side-by-side, working together.

She died when I was fourteen, and the empty hole she left in my world was the portal into what happened next.





Chapter Twelve

The doorway of Dad’s hospital room stops me like a force field. I stand there, watching him, my body and my emotions trying to encompass this new shift in reality.

Walter Addington. The man I’ve called Dad all my life, the parent I’ve always been the closest to.

Whether he is really my father or not, whether he lied to me or not, my love for him is deeply rooted, and it’s my job, now, to tell him that Mom has left us both.

He’s sitting up in a chair today, no longer tied to the bed. His hair is combed. But he still looks frail and old and so very much alone. A wave of grief swamps me. How can I do this? How can I be the one to walk in and tell him?

I find myself hoping he’s still confused, that the truth about Mom’s death won’t sink in.

His eyes, focused on the TV mounted above his bed, finally swing around to me, and I don’t have to say the words at all.

“It’s over, then,” he says. “Was it peaceful?”

No, it wasn’t peaceful. It was a final battle of wills between her and me, and I’ve lost again. Shame shoulders its way into my already toxic mixture of grief and anger and betrayal. Maybe I’m a coward; maybe it’s the better part of me trying to protect him, but I can’t tell him the truth.

“It was peaceful,” I tell him. “She died in her sleep.”

“Ah, Maisey,” he says, and opens his arms to me.

It’s not the time to tell him what I know. To ask questions, to express my betrayal. That one small gesture from him turns me into a frightened, wounded child, and I fall on my knees and wrap my arms around him, resting my head against his chest.

For a long time he holds me there, stroking my hair. I melt against him, my ear pressed against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, letting myself believe that he is strong, that he will take care of me.

“I need to go home. Please, Maisey. Take me home.” He looks lost, more like a frightened child than an old man, despite the lines carved into his face and his thinning hair.

“We need to talk to the doctor first.”

Both of his hands go up to the sides of his head, as if it hurts him, and he squeezes. “Can’t think. Need to think. She made a list.”

“Dad.”

His bloodshot eyes focus in on me. His hands clamp around mine so tightly, I gasp with the pain of my rings digging into my flesh.

“Where is she, Maisey? What did they do with her?”

I think he’s already forgotten, and now I have to say the words. “She died, Daddy. I got mad at her, and then she died.”

Please. Please listen to me. Please be here for me. Please understand what I need. And then maybe you can tell me all about this massive fairy-tale life you and Mom concocted. Maybe you can explain the why and wherefore.

My knees ache from contact with the hard floor. My body feels like it’s been worked over by a meat hammer. Everything hurts, from the roots of my hair down to the tip of my baby toenail.

“She wanted to die,” he whispers, easing up on my hands. “But where is she? Where have they put her?”

“I don’t know. It just happened. I asked her about Marley, and then she died.”

His body stills. His hands go slack. I think he’s heard me, that he’s going to answer, that despite his grief and confusion maybe he will tell me the truth. But then his jaw wobbles. Tears fill his eyes and drip down over his cheeks.

“Where’s Leah?” he whispers. “What have they done with her?”