Chapter 8 - I Had Needed Margaret’s Version Too
I wanted to leave that afternoon.
Pack Lily.
Drive home.
My apartment was only twenty minutes away.
Instead I sat in my car alone.
Because the ugly part was waiting there.
Margaret's story had worked because some part of me wanted it.
Not wanted Nathan to have abandoned me.
Wanted an answer.
The night he died, we were angry.
I had ignored his call.
The next morning a police officer stood at our door.
Everything after became fragments.
Hospital.
Identification.
Lily asking when Daddy would wake up.
Margaret in my kitchen making decisions because I could not.
Funeral home.
Flowers.
Food.
Then the questions.
Why had Nathan been on that road?
Why had he been carrying an apartment brochure in his jacket?
Why had he spent nights above the carriage house?
Why was my red coat there?
I had known about none of it.
Margaret gave me a sentence:
“He was already moving away from the marriage.”
It hurt.
It also organized the room.
I could be furious with Nathan instead of asking why I had ignored his call.
I could stop replaying our last fight.
I could say:
He had already left.
Not:
We didn't know what we were doing and ran out of time.
That second story was harder.
Jason knocked on my window.
I unlocked the door.
He stood outside.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good question, bad timing.”
“Pretty much.”
He leaned against the car.
“Mom told me.”
“What part?”
“That she moved things out of Nathan's room.”
I laughed.
“She confessed voluntarily?”
“No. I cornered her.”
“Of course.”
Jason looked toward the house.
“She did versions of that with me.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Not death-room versions.”
“Comforting.”
He smiled faintly.
“When Kelly and I almost divorced, Mom would tell me what Kelly ‘really meant.’”
My stomach tightened.
“Did Kelly talk to her?”
“Sometimes.”
“And you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then Margaret translated.”
“Yes.”
“How'd that go?”
“Almost divorced.”
Fair.
“What stopped it?”
“Kelly refused to discuss me with my mother anymore.”
I looked toward the yard.
“Smart.”
“Took me longer.”
Jason rubbed his hands against the cold.
“Mom needs to feel useful when people are falling apart.”
“That doesn't explain lying.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“She starts useful. Then necessary. Then she treats information like authority.”
That sounded more precise than any diagnosis I had made.
“What about Ethan?”
Jason's face changed.
“What?”
“She had him searching for the rabbit.”
“I know.”
“Did she tell you?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“That needs to stop.”
“Yes.”
Immediate.
No defense.
He walked inside.
Five minutes later I heard his voice through the closed front door.
Not yelling.
Worse.
Clear.
“You do not use my son to search another adult's belongings.”
Margaret answered something.
Jason said:
“No. He is ten.”
Silence.
Then:
“If you need help, ask an adult.”
I stayed in the car.
Not my conversation.
That was new.
My phone buzzed.
Miles.
One message:
I should have given the rabbit to you. I’m sorry.
I stared.
Typed:
Yes.
Nothing else.
He didn't respond.
Good.
Then Lily opened the side door and climbed into the passenger seat.
I frowned.
“Shoes?”
She held them up.
Technically.
“What's wrong?”
“Is Grandma bad?”
My heart sank.
Children hear categories long before they understand acts.
“No.”
I thought.
Then corrected.
“Grandma did something bad yesterday.”
“The cake.”
“Yes.”
“And Bunny.”
“Yes.”
Lily looked at the blue stitches.
“Why?”
“She was scared of what was inside.”
“The key?”
“Yes.”
“What does it open?”
“A room Dad used.”
Her face brightened.
“His room?”
“One of them.”
“Can I see it?”
Not yet.
I didn't want Nathan's unfinished adult conflict becoming a birthday attraction.
“Maybe another day.”
She nodded.
Then:
“Did Dad hide the key?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I almost answered with Margaret's explanation.
Nathan hides things in stupid places.
Then stopped.
“I don't know exactly.”
Lily seemed fine with that.
Seven-year-olds tolerate uncertainty better than families sometimes.
She climbed back out.
Before closing the door she said:
“Grandma said sorry about the cake.”
“To you?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she was scared and made it my problem.”
I stared.
That was unusually specific for Margaret.
“Did you forgive her?”
Lily shrugged.
“I said I still want another cake.”
Fair.
She ran inside.
I laughed for the first time all day.
Then I looked at the carriage house.
Nathan had hidden a key.
Margaret had hidden the room's meaning.
Miles had hidden part of the final night until I asked twice.
And I had hidden from the version of my marriage where nobody knew what would have happened next.
I got out of the car.
May you like
There was still one question Margaret had avoided.
If her goal after Nathan died was keeping Lily and me close, how far had she gone to make sure we stayed?
Related Stories
