Before I Let You Go(110)

“How are you?” he asks.

“I’m okay.”

“Did you read the rest?”

“Most of it.”

“Any other shocks?”

“Probably the only other shock was how much she loved me. Because she did, Sam. She really did. And she knew that I loved her, even if I didn’t say it often enough.”

Sam smiles sadly, and he offers his hand, then pulls me to my feet.

“Are we going to talk to Deborah together?”

“I’m going to play it by ear tonight,” I say. “If the opportunity arises around dinner, I’ll try to bring it up and see how she reacts.”

“Okay, Lex,” Sam murmurs.

“And you are going to stay home with our daughter, and read Dr. Seuss books, even though her only thanks will be to drool and maybe even poop all over you.”

He laughs softly. “I know where I’d rather be.”

I smile sadly at him. “Me, too.”

“If you need to, leave it until you get home, and we’ll do it together. Promise?”

“Promise,” I say, and I mean it.

I take Mom to a little French restaurant the next suburb over and we have quite a civilized conversation over dinner. We talk about things that are safe. She talks about the schoolhouse at Winterton. I talk to her about my work. She asks if I’ll look for a new job.

“I need to talk to Sam about that,” I say, because that’s the extent of my plan. Mom nods approvingly.

She doesn’t mention Robert during the whole conversation, and I’m glad, because I have a feeling that if she speaks his name I might turn the table over in rage. By the end of the meal, I’m wondering if any opportunity is going to arise for me to broach the topic of his relationship with Annie. But then Mom makes the decision for me—as we finish eating, she says, “Before we go home—you think we could go visit Annie?”

We drive to the cemetery in silence, and then I curse when we reach the front gates to find they are closed. It hadn’t occurred to Mom or me that we wouldn’t be able to reach the grave. I park right in front of the gates, and we get out of the car to stare past them.

“I guess it makes sense.” Mom sighs heavily.

“What time is your flight?”

“Six. Too early for me to come back.”

Suddenly, I know what I have to do, and a frantic kind of madness overtakes me. I go to the trunk of my car and I withdraw a picnic blanket, and I throw it up over the fence. All of the turmoil inside me bursts out as I pull myself up onto the gate.

“What are you doing?” Mom gasps, and I glance back down at her and shake my head.

“Come on, it’s easier than it looks.”

“But it’s probably trespassing—”

“Mom, there’s no better way to honor Annie then to go visit her tonight—so climb the damned fence. Let’s spend one last moment with her. This is what Annie would have done.” Mom is sufficiently moved by my plea, and just as I reach the top I turn around to see my mother close behind. She is surprisingly sprightly climbing up the rails with apparent ease, reaching the top as quickly as I do. As we drop to the other side, we lean into each other and we each start to laugh.

“You’re absolutely right. I can imagine her getting to the fence and just looking at it like climbing it was just part of the fun.” Mom sighs and smiles at me. “She never really let anyone stop her from doing what she wanted to do, did she? Not for better, not for worse.”

We start walking toward the grave, our footsteps a little slow. It is creepy—so many headstones and dark shadows, but I don’t feel unsafe—I’m simply aware of the moment. I feel like this is one of those times I’m going to look back on, and I just want to do it right. I need to tell Mom what I have learned about Annie, and I’m going to do it here where Annie can hear me.

When we reach the gravesite, I rest the picnic blanket right beside the new memorial stone. I ordered it when I planned her funeral, but it wasn’t ready the day we buried her, so this is the first time I’ve seen it. I run my fingers over the engraving of her name, and then I sit back beside Mom.

Are you listening, Annie? I’m here, and I’ve finally heard you.

“Mom,” I whisper. “I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

Mom sits beside me, and she pulls her legs awkwardly toward her chest. She wraps her arms around them while she waits for me to speak, and I look toward her.

“I lied to you today. I didn’t have to work. The police found something in the trailer . . . it was Annie’s journal. Do you remember that little leather journal—that notebook that she used to carry around when she was a kid?”

Mom is frowning, but she nods.

“How on earth did she still have that?”

“She left it at my place years ago, but I sent it to her at rehab when she was starting to struggle. I thought that maybe she could journal about the things she couldn’t bring herself to say. And she tried, Mom. She left her story on those pages, and I read most of it today.”

My voice is breaking. Every time I blink, I see Annie’s face. I left her. I left her with that man, and he broke her.

Through my tears I see that Mom is looking at me expectantly, and I suddenly feel wary.