Whisper Me This(45)

Nancy shakes her head slowly. “He’s always seemed fine, the little I’ve seen him. He’s not as faithful in his attendance as Leah. But then, remember Don Plummer? He’d been deep in dementia for years, and we never knew. He could still shake hands and say, ‘Good morning, God bless.’”

Alison can’t stop herself. “Are they . . . going to send him to jail?”

“He hasn’t been charged. Just to set the record straight, Mom had a known aneurism. She fell. He knew she wouldn’t want to be kept artificially alive, so he didn’t take her to the hospital.”

Alison gasps. Nancy blinks. “I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t have told us such a thing. We could have helped in so many ways.”

Which is exactly why she didn’t tell you, I think but do not say. Because she would have hated your sympathy and your pity and your help.

“What’s going to happen with your dad, then?” Bethany asks, coming back from the kitchen. “You can’t take care of him. I mean, you don’t even live here. Do you have room for him back in Kansas City? If he’s not able to be home alone, then a facility is the only way. My mom’s at Parkview. She loves it!”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Of course not,” Nancy says, taking charge of this conversation and getting back on track. “You have a great deal to think about. We are here to discuss the funeral plans, if you’re up to talking about that? Edna called us for help, and we need some biographical information for the eulogy.”

“We need to pick a day—next Saturday, we were thinking, if that’s okay with you. You are having the funeral in the church, of course.”

Alison says this as if there is only one church in town, and I suppose, for my mother, this is true. And if they want to plan the funeral, that’s also fine with me. Mom’s eulogy, her memorial, all should be for the woman the church and the town believe her to be.

Any extra biographical material I may have uncovered or will uncover in the next few days will be off the record.

I haven’t talked to anybody other than Mrs. Carlton about funeral planning, but I’m willing to bet there’s a message on my phone, along with several messages from Greg. I fumble for the damn thing. Sure enough, Greg times six.

I look at my daughter. “Have you talked to your father today?”

“He called.”

I recognize that tone. “Did you answer?”

Her lips press together into the Line of Stubborn Resistance.

“Oh, holy shitmeister. He’ll be having a royal cow.”

My exclamation is punctuated by an audible gasp from Nancy. Alison tugs the brim down lower over her eyes as if to block out the sight of me, or maybe she is thinking she can cover her ears. Bethany winks, as if my language is a part of the secret between us.

At least my indiscretion has served to break up the logjam, and the three of them drift toward the door.

“Don’t forget about the casseroles,” Nancy says, turning heroically back as if it might be worth braving a few demons in order to save the food.

“Thank you so much. Why don’t you just connect with Edna about the funeral, and I’ll get the details to her? Perfect.” I keep talking, herding them toward the door. “I’ll tell Dad you said hello.”

“Tell him we are praying for him.”

“Of course.”

“And for you. And your daughter.”

“Right. Thank you.”

The door closes between them and me, and I lean my forehead against it, just breathing. Part of me, albeit a small part, is appalled by my own behavior. Mostly I’m just grateful to have that out of the way. They can catalogue me as the apostate I am, and maybe they will leave me alone.

Elle is giggling maniacally. “I can’t believe you said shitmeister in front of the pastor’s wife!”

“Elle. You can’t—”

“Where did that word even come from?”

“I am a bad person and a terrible mother.”

“No, you’re not. You’re just—incorrigible.” And then she bursts into giggles again.

Her laughter is irresistible. I catch myself smiling, despite my confusion and grief and anger and everything. Laughter follows, and I let it happen, bubbling up and cleaning out emotional toxins. A few real tears follow the laughter tears, but that’s okay. I get another tissue and wipe my eyes.

“The church ladies are good people,” I tell my daughter. “They mean well. I don’t want you to think—”

She hugs me. “I know, Mom. I know.”





Leah’s Journal

And now you know about Marley. You were never meant to have this information, and you didn’t even get it from this journal. Maybe I’ll stop writing and burn the whole thing now, as it certainly didn’t serve its purpose in helping me keep my mouth shut. All these years I’ve kept that secret close, but I hadn’t thought I might blab her name during my sleep.

And then when you asked me, in the middle of the night while I was shaking from the nightmare, “Who is Marley?” I told you the truth of her. Yes, Marley is real, not an imaginary figment of Maisey’s active mind. She was my child. Is my child. Maisey’s twin. And yes, I left her behind.

You think differently of me now that you know. I see it. You love me yet, my Walter, because you are a loving man. You want to make excuses for me, but I have refused to give you any material to build them out of. This is a torture for you, and I see that, but there is nothing I can do.