Lies We Bury(89)

Whether or not the gift of Petey the Penguin came from him or had another explanation, I don’t know. I don’t need to. Recalling the way that Rosemary recently agreed to donate the boxes of dental gear and training bras taking over her front room, I understand how living in the past is a mistake. I’m through feeling at a disadvantage. I’ve got the family I need.

Lily sniffs Olive. Olive coos as she grabs at Lily’s hair with chubby fingers.

“Uh-oh,” Lily says. “Diaper duty. We’ll be right back. You two will be okay here.”

I nod, knowing Lily didn’t mean it as a question. “Of course. Although if it’s a two-man job, I’m happy to help out—”

“We’ll be fine. I’ll take care of her,” Rosemary says, looking at me. She gives my elbow a squeeze, and I have to stop myself from flinching at the motherly gesture.

When I confronted Rosemary about the memories that returned to me over the last year, of Chet sitting me on his lap and his growing interest in me, tears formed in her eyes. She said there were so many reasons to get out when we did, but escaping before anything more damaging happened to us kids provided the ultimate push. She said that as the years went by, I seemed to consciously recall less and less, and she didn’t want to remind me. It was her suspicion that, unconsciously, I harbored a lot of anger at what happened to me, to all of us. That anger probably manifested in my actions as a teenager in countless ways that neither of us really understood at the time. Knowing Rosemary prioritized my safety when it really mattered began to mend the rift I’d let grow between us. I could see her then—all her faults and strengths and how they composed the woman before me.

The promise of Rosemary taking care of me wets my eyes, and I have to look toward the poster board of Shia’s book, away from the warmth of her gaze.

“If you see more bacon-wrapped dates, grab some for me, will you?” Lily swings Olive onto her hip, then heads toward the inky velvet curtains.

Not for the first time, I wonder, watching her leave, how she escaped the crippling self-doubt that both Jenessa and I adopted like a third leg. Probably something to do with her young age at the time of our escape. Memories are more easily blocked or omitted when you can barely sing the alphabet song.

Though Jenessa refuses to see me, Lily has been making monthly visits to the women’s prison. Yesterday, she said Jenessa’s gunshot, while healed, carries a dull ache and seems worse during poor weather. They barely spent ten minutes together before Jenessa signaled for the guard to take her back to her cell. Still, Lily suspects the visits are good for Jenessa. And baby Olive is becoming pretty popular with the guards.

I turn to Rosemary, my wineglass half-empty. “Do you think Nora would have enjoyed this party?”

She sips her soda, clutching the glass with her hand and navigating the aluminum straw toward her mouth. “Nora, surrounded by free alcohol to celebrate a book about our imprisonment? It would have been hard. But I think she would have been here if you wanted her to be. It’s all very strange, being surrounded by people who want to know everything about you.”

She takes another drink. I hesitate, knowing how far she’s come emotionally herself and what it must have taken for her to drive up to Portland this week. Even if she’s happy to stay with Lily and spend time with Olive.

“I didn’t mean to . . . I would have understood if you didn’t want to join tonight.”

Rosemary’s eyes widen. “Oh, honey, I know. I wanted to be here for you, promise. Being here is . . . I feel—well, it is hard in a way, being here. But it’s also the first time one of us has helped create the narrative that other people were always writing for us. So I’m glad you invited me. I’m enjoying myself.”

A server exits the kitchen behind us carrying more bacon-wrapped dates. Rosemary stops him and piles four onto a napkin. She catches my side-eye. “Olive is a growing baby, after all.”

I laugh, wondering whether I would have believed my mother capable of joking in public a year ago, whether Nora truly could have also, given the emotional and physical distance between us. Despite any wishful thinking, I do blame Nora—what she did to Jenessa is inexcusable. And at the same time, I pity her. I know what it is to be broken by the past and a life of trauma that never released its clawed grip on your neck.

But playing with my sweet niece, and imagining the world through her child eyes, it’s time to let go of the shame I harbored for so long. And which, if I’m being fair, placed me on the same path that Jenessa chose: one of bitterness and self-destruction. We both believed we were damaged goods, flawed on arrival—but she directed that anger toward people who were accepted by the world for their unique traits and passions, while she had been paraded as a caricature. I could understand how that had felt like salt in the wound as we tried to find our identities, away from our origins.

“Hey there.” Shia stops by my side. “Pretty good turnout, right?” He extends a hand to Rosemary. “Very pleased to meet you. I’m Shia.”

Groups of people eat hors d’oeuvres and sip drinks while discussing Shia’s book. A few people, probably with the publisher, comment on specific chapters, but I try not to listen too closely.

“Likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Rosemary adds, giving me a look.

He sucks his teeth. “You could say the same for me, I guess.”