My Wife Is Missing(87)
“Please come in.”
A sniffle, then a dab at her eyes with her finger, were the only indications that Marjorie’s stoicism wouldn’t hold for long. Natalie felt deeply sorry for this woman she didn’t know, pained to come here bringing her nothing but more grief and sorrow.
No turning back now …
Natalie entered the home feeling a burgeoning curiosity about the place where her husband grew up. What was he like as a boy? What stories would his mother tell? What would Natalie learn of him, and of the woman who should have been her mother-in-law—who, legally, was?
A palette of light blues and whites gave the interior the feeling of an ocean cottage, but the pleasing aesthetic did nothing to soften Natalie’s lingering apprehension and worry.
Marjorie escorted Natalie into the living room, where she offered her a seat on a pearled leather armchair. She excused herself to go make tea, giving Natalie a chance to survey her surroundings in an uncomfortable, weighty silence. The home décor had the touch of a professional designer. Everything was visually pleasing, from the vases lining the built-in shelves to the soft wool throw draped over the arm of a pristine couch, but the room itself lacked a personal feel.
Natalie noticed mostly what wasn’t there. No pictures of family. No trinkets or knickknacks of any kind, no mementos from vacations or family gatherings. It was a home that managed to feel both inviting and lonely at the same time. The house and the woman who occupied it appeared to be fitting companions: both were perfectly put together on the outside, but with something notably lacking on the inside.
Marjorie returned some minutes later, bringing with her two tea mugs and a small decorative pot, all of which she carried on a lacquered tray.
“Cream or sugar?” she asked.
“No,” said Natalie, who moved uneasily in her chair. She was having a difficult time meeting Marjorie’s gaze. “Thank you for your hospitality. I know this is a lot to take in.”
Marjorie nodded solemnly.
“It is,” she said, managing to maintain her control, which Natalie took to mean that Marjorie was either still in shock—or she had the game face of the century.
“So what did he tell you about me?” she asked.
“The truth?”
“Please.”
Natalie’s eyebrows slid up an inch as that uneasy feeling found its way back into her stomach.
How will she take it?
“He’d said that you had died when he was in college. Cancer.”
“Did he now?”
Marjorie winced slightly, but her expression quickly reverted to one of impassivity.
“I see,” she said.
“He also told me that he grew up in Charleston, South Carolina,” Natalie continued, “and that he had a difficult childhood, lots of upheaval and bad memories, which was his excuse for why we never went to visit. Part of those memories involved you.”
“And what of his father?” Marjorie asked, shielding her eyes with a lengthy sip of tea. She couldn’t as easily hide her hands, which were trembling.
“He said that he’d run off and left you when you got sick.”
Marjorie returned a nearly imperceptible nod.
“Well, I suppose that’s true, at least in part,” she said, adopting a slightly clipped tone.
“What happened to him?” asked Natalie.
“By him, do you mean Joseph or Joseph’s father? I’m sorry … you know him as—?”
“Michael,” answered Natalie. “Michael Hart. And I guess my question applies to them both. But you know what?”
“What?”
“Let’s slow down.”
She was seeing Marjorie in a different light, not as a person who had answers, but someone in need of loving kindness and goodwill. Using that as her guide, Natalie decided on her next course of action.
Rising from her chair, Natalie crossed the room over to Marjorie. She placed a hand gently on the older woman’s bony shoulder, sending her a look layered with sympathy.
“Before we get into all this history,” Natalie said, “I brought you something from my home that I’d like to share. Let me go to my car and get it. Let’s start with a lighter topic.”
Marjorie sent Natalie an appreciative look, and with that she was off, returning moments later with a white photo album clutched to her chest.
“I’d like you to get to know your grandchildren,” she said, encouraging Marjorie to join her on the couch. She did, sitting close enough for their shoulders to touch, and Natalie placed her hand atop of Marjorie’s, feeling the delicate bones underneath cool skin thin as rice paper. A lump appeared in Natalie’s throat. Her eyes welled. Blinking back tears, she could see Marjorie’s eyes filling as well.
“Their names are Addison, Addie for short, and Bryce,” Natalie said, giving Marjorie’s hand a gentle squeeze.
“Those are very lovely names,” said Marjorie as she pried open the album.
After an hour of sharing pictures and stories of the children, a few tissues needed along the way, Marjorie and Natalie felt more at ease with each other, both relaxing on the couch like two old friends catching up. Following a brief pause in conversation, Marjorie sat up straighter, seemingly resigned to diving into the topic they’d been avoiding.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” she said quietly. “You deserve answers, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”