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I think that my mother is right. I should have been the one to die instead. At least then, I wouldn’t have to see my mother like this. I’ve not only lost my dad, but also my family. Nothing is as it was.
I put the pen down. I stared down at the words I had written, and I wiped tears from my cheeks. I had never written the story before. I had never even told the story out loud to anyone. This was the story, the memory that I relived in my mind nearly every day. It was something I had never forgiven myself for. I had killed my dad and pushed my mother into a deep depression from which she’d never recover. There hadn’t been a day that passed when I didn’t think about that day or the weeks after.
Carey was right, though. Writing it out lifted a heaviness from me that I didn’t know I had. Writing it out made the clouds clear and the sun shine again. It made me realize and finally understand what had actually happened to my mother after my dad died.
My mother had quite literally lost her mind. She was mentally ill. The woman who had said all of those horrible things to me was not my mother. She was someone else—someone who had replaced the mother I knew—the one who loved me, the one who wanted me to succeed, the one who used to tell me that I was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen.
My mother should have gotten help. Shecouldhave gotten help. If I had known or if the people around us had known to help her, maybe things would have turned out differently. We didn’t know. Maybe I was too young to understand that at the time, but at some point, should I not have realized that my father’s death was not my fault and that my mother was mentally ill? Maybe it was meant for me to understand that later in life.
I felt my anger toward her dissipate. I felt sadness instead. I was sad for her. I was sad that I didn’t see this sooner. Maybe I could have helped her. Maybe it was too late. Maybe there was nothing that could have been done. Regardless, I now knew with certainty that my dad’s death was not my fault. It was an accident. I knew with certainty that my mother died with him, and I was raised by a shell of a woman who had lost her heart and soul when my dad had left this world. There was nothing wrong with me. I shouldn’t be dead. I had a purpose. Isn’t that what the doctor had told me a few weeks before?
I sat back in my chair, and I closed the journal. I wiped my tears away, and I relaxed. The room around me was quiet, and I decided that I should say what I felt out loud. So, I did.
“I forgive you, Mama,” I whispered into the air. “I forgive you.” Then I remembered how I didn’t give her a proper funeral. “And I’m sorry I just let them throw you in the ground without a funeral or service or something like that, but can you really blame me?”
I laughed at myself, and then suddenly, I felt as though I could breathe again. I felt free—like a prisoner released from her shackles. I smiled to myself, and then I laughed. I laughed harder than I had laughed in such a long time.
I couldn’t hear her voice anymore. It was gone. Like magic, my mother’s voice was gone. I had never felt more alive. I had never had such clarity. I was finally free. My heart was finally free.
27
Present
There’s a knock at the door. J.R. and Knox are out on the boat, so I make my way through the kitchen to answer. It’s against my better judgement. I’m not one to answer the door if someone shows up unannounced. I generally hide until they go away.
As I swing the door open, I’m surprised to find a tall, thin, tan, blonde woman standing there. She’s got a bubbly smile on her face that fades when she sees me. Out of pure politeness, I keep a smile on my face and ask, “Can I help you?”
“Is J.R. here?” she asks, looking past me and into the house. Maybe she assumes I’m the housekeeper.
“He’s out on the boat with our daughter,” I respond. “I’m sorry; who are you?”
I think that I don’t want to honestly know the answer to this question. I think I know why she’s here, and although I know that I was gone for too long, I have to acknowledge the fact that J.R. probably got a little lonely. Still, looking at her with her perfect blonde hair and long, lean legs—and the overall fact that she’s the complete opposite of me—I feel my stomach turn.
“I’m Ashley.” She looks puzzled. “I didn’t know that J.R. had a daughter.”
I’m ashamed to admit that I’m pleased with her puzzled expression. “Wehave a daughter,” I correct. “To be honest, J.R. didn’t know that he had a daughter either—until a few months ago.”
Behind us, the back door opens, and Knox runs into the house with J.R. following behind her.
“Hey, Rach!” J.R. calls, unaware that we have a visitor. “We caught dinner.” He sounds extremely proud of his catch.
I clear my throat. “We have company, J.R.”
J.R. looks up; his eyes go wide; and then he swallows pretty hard. “Uh, Knox, go wash up. You smell like a fish.”
Knox looks at me first for reassurance. I give her a nod, and then she walks briskly down the hall, disappearing into the bathroom.
“I’m gone for three months, and suddenly you have a family?” Ashley asks J.R. She looks upset. I hide a smirk. I don’t generally enjoy drama, but it is sort of fun to watch J.R. squirm. Besides, the blonde lady’s perfect face is now a shade of red.
It’s like I don’t exist now. She stares past me and right into J.R.’s blue eyes.My blue eyes.
J.R. doesn’t say anything. I don’t think he knows what to say; and with every passing, silent moment, I feel myself getting a little impatient with his lack of dialogue.
“Well, I’ll give you two time to catch up,” I say, excusing myself from the room. The awkward silence is hard to bear. There’s an edge to my tone. I brush past J.R. on my way out the back door, glaring at him in the process.
I know that I can’t be upset with him for having a girlfriend while I was gone, but I can be upset that he didn’t tell me about her. He had ample opportunity; although, maybe he believed that there wasn’t really anything to tell. However, if she’s showing up at our front door, then she thinks that there is something to tell. Besides, his wide eyes at the sight of tall, blonde Ashley standing in our home was enough of a confession for me.
I’m settled in the swing, trying not to think too hard about J.R.’s perfect lips kissing Ashley’s thin, red lips; but it’s not an easy task. Behind me, I hear the screen door open and then close. I turn my head and see J.R. standing there. His hands are in his pockets, and he’s searching for words. I look away from him and cast my eyes back into the trees.
