I wait for Trudy to leave before reclaiming my seat. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I’m famished, but I can’t stop crying. With tears streaming down my face, I stuff half an egg salad sandwich in my mouth at once.
Layla leans into me. “You’re blubbering like a fool. I wish I could cry. I have yet to shed a tear.”
“Like you said, it’s the wine.” I reach for another sandwich, pimento cheese this time.
“Or maybe I am the heartless person Roger thinks I am. Do you think I’ve changed, Lil?”
“I haven’t seen you enough in recent years to make that judgment. I will say this.” I point my sandwich at her. “I don’t blame Roger for being disappointed in you for not being here for Dad. That is time you will never get back.”
She looks away from me, toward the setting sun. “I was afraid to see him. I wanted to remember him healthy and vibrant. When I woke up on Sunday morning, I realized I’d made a mistake. I got here as fast as I could. But it wasn’t fast enough.” Her eyes are back on me. “Was it awful?”
“You have no idea.” A chill travels my spine when I think back to everything I went through with Dad. I did things for him no daughter should ever do for her father. But I wouldn’t change a thing. And we grew closer because of it.
“I will forever regret not coming sooner. I only hope Dad will forgive me.”
I don’t have the power to absolve her of her guilt, but I can see she’s genuinely remorseful. I choose my words carefully. “Talking about him with you, reliving all those memories, really helped. Thank you for that. From now on, I’m only going to think about the happy times.”
We sit in silence for a while with our bodies touching, the closest contact we’ve had in years.
“I’m scared, Lil. I think I really blew it with Roger.”
“Roger loves you. That’s the most important thing. You can fix your problems if you try.”
Layla exhales a contented hum. “This is nice, us being here together like this. I’ve missed having a sister. Now that Dad’s gone, you and I are all each other has left. I’d like for us to have a real relationship, if you can stop being mad at me.”
Heat flushes through my body at the memory of her betrayal. “I have a right to be angry, damn it. I caught you kissing my fiancé. And that’s not something I can easily forget or forgive.”
“Come on, Lil. It started way before the thing with Marcus, and you know it. It started when Mom died. Even though you claim to remember nothing, I recall everything about that day in vivid detail.”
A chill travels my spine. “Tell me, Layla, what exactly is it that you recall?”
Layla rolls her eyes. “Stop faking, Lil. Your so-called amnesia was nothing more than an act to get attention.”
“I’m not the one who plays games to get attention!” I leap to my feet so fast my head spins. I limp over to the railing, gripping it tight as the vision flashes before me. I close my eyes shut, willing it to go away. The scent of gardenias is in the air, even though I threw the plant in the trash can. This time, I sense a presence in the red mist, a person, or maybe a thing, lurking in the background.
Layla is at my side. “Are you okay, Lil? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“The wine made me dizzy. If you’ll excuse me.” I flee the porch without so much as a glance at my sister.
Lillian
I go up to my room, but the key Marcus gave me is burning a hole in my pocket. Although I’ve had too much to drink to go snooping in Dad’s study, I need the liquid courage to face whatever is so important for my eyes only. After I hear the soft click of Layla’s door closing, I wait thirty minutes before sneaking back down to Dad’s study. Locking the door behind me, I sit down in his leather chair at his desk, an English antique with secret compartments that has always fascinated me. Running my hand across its beautiful mahogany wood, as I often do when I’m working here, I think about the generations of Stoney men who’ve paid bills and written correspondence, both business and personal, for nearly two centuries.
I insert the key in the silver lock on the inside of the desk and slide open the drawer. An envelope addressed to me in my father’s neat cursive is lying across the hanging file folders.
* * *
My dearest Lillian,
If you are reading this letter, our time together has come to an end. Don’t be sad. Celebrate the happy times we shared. You brought great joy into my life. We are kindred spirits, you and me. My hope is that you’ll one day experience the same unconditional love for your own child.
I’m devastated over having to leave you in financial trouble. I did my best to be a responsible custodian of the Stoney fortune. Unfortunately, the downturn in the economy during the recent recession wiped us out. I was in the preliminary stages of putting the house on the market when I fell ill. In this same drawer, you’ll find a file with the contact information for the real estate agent I’ve been working with. The proceeds from the sale of the house will free you from debt and give you a considerable nest egg to start anew, to spread your wings and fly. Be free, my darling. Find your happiness. You deserve it.
I’m also leaving behind unfinished business relating to your mother’s death. Something happened to you on the day she died, something so traumatic you buried it deep in the recesses of your mind. I have a strong suspicion your sister was somehow responsible for that something. And that something is the reason for your deep-seated animosity toward her.
Dr. Hudson and I have kept in touch over the years. I trust you have heard from her by now. She’s a good friend and a wonderful listener, should you ever need either. After three years of therapy, when Dr. Hudson failed to connect with the ghosts from your past, we agreed to leave you be in the hopes you’ll one day have a breakthrough on your own. I believe in my heart that It’s not too late for that breakthrough.
One good thing came from your therapy. Dr. Hudson discovered your talents in the drawings she requested of you. You can find your first masterpieces in another file folder in this drawer. While you may find them disturbing, perhaps the drawings will enable you to reconnect with the past and move toward recovery and reconciliation with your sister.
This is your journey, Mouse. Do with it as you will. If you choose to proceed down this path of discovery, you’ll need to know more about my life with Ivy. Look to Hemingway to guide you.
Love,
Daddy
I fall back in my chair. Mouse. That was Dad’s childhood nickname for me. He never would tell me why he called me that. “Don’t you remember?” he’d say when I asked.
“Damn it, Dad! Of course I don’t remember. Why are you making this so difficult for me?” I sit up straight again. “Right. Because it’s my journey, my discovery to make. But I don’t get what Hemingway has to do with anything. Why didn’t you ever mention Alice Browder or the missing greeting cards?”
I run my fingers across the hanging file folders, reading the labels. There’s nothing much here of interest to me. The balance sheets and brokerage account statements are over my head. I find the file for the Realtor, but I’ll have to be desperate before I contact her. I come across the thick folder with my drawings and spread it open on the desk. They are organized in chronological order beginning in June of 1993, seven months after my mother’s death.