Old Wounds (25 page)

As he neared the comfortable-looking house nestled on the mountainside, its peaceful aspect called to him. It seemed to offer a promise of quiet content—of shared joys and deep companionship. The three dogs trotted to greet him, just as he had seen them greet Elizabeth—not sounding an alarm, but wagging and bowing, as if welcoming a returning family member.

Phillip pulled his belongings from the back of the jeep while the dogs milled about him, demanding his attention. He squatted down and patted each in turn, rubbing Molly’s sleek chest, scratching behind Ursa’s ears, fending off James’s frantic leaping attempts to lick his face. All the while, his thoughts kept churning—a continuous, inescapable loop of uneasy foreboding.
She’s let me into her bed. But will she let me into her life? Will I lose it all if I tell her the truth?

20.

R
EFLECTIONS

Sunday, October 16 and Monday, October 17

“They were in
the very back of my closet, underneath an old science fair project—fourteen in all.”

The cache of “spy notebooks” unearthed, Rosemary had spent most of the afternoon curled up on the sofa opposite the fireplace, head bent over the little hardcover composition books, occasionally sharing a delicious tidbit: “Listen, Mum, this is what Grammer Grey said when she came to visit and found out we didn’t have a real bathroom yet, only an outhouse.” But there had also been long stretches when she was silent, her face grave and her mouth tight as she read.

After supper, Phillip set up shop at the dining table, grading test papers. His face, too, had been solemn, as he groaned at some hapless student’s particularly unfortunate response to an essay question.

Stretched out on the other sofa, a well-worn copy of Dorothy L. Sayers’s
Gaudy Night
unopened on her lap, Elizabeth basked in the warmth of the cheerful fire and the comfortable, companionable presence of the others.
I hadn’t realized it, but I’ve been lonely. This—this family life—is what I’ve missed.

She looked from her daughter to Phillip, both so engrossed in their reading.
He’s not what I might have imagined for myself…if I’d felt like looking. He’s intelligent, but not much of a reader, and he’s spent his life as a cop—really, what do we have in common beyond Sam? But here he is, and I like it.

She glanced down at the book in her lap.
I’ve read this probably ten or fifteen times—and it’s
still
romantic when Harriet finally gives in to Peter. At one time I might have said that Peter Wimsey was my idea of an ideal man—that literary turn of phrase and clever banter, not to mention the title, money, and perfect manservant.

She studied Phillip, mentally comparing his stocky frame and shiny balding head to Lord Peter’s slim, athletic form and buttercup yellow hair.
I like the way he looks—and, after all, Lord Peter’s monocle would have been a bit much.

As if aware of her gaze, Phillip looked up. He seemed on the point of speaking, then, with a quick smile, looked away and resumed his labors.

Elizabeth’s face flushed.
But the thing that really mattered about Lord Peter, mattered to Harriet Vane, was that he respected her independence, that he prized her for it—all the other stuff just got in the way of her caring for him. It wasn’t until she realized he saw her as an equal that she gave in to him. Is that what I find so appealing about Phillip?

She turned her attention to her daughter. Rosemary’s face—high cheekbones, dark eyebrows, and thick lashes—had taken on an added beauty in the fireglow. Elizabeth watched her as she read, luxuriating in the pleasure of having her older daughter near again. Just as Phillip had done, Rosemary seemed to become aware of Elizabeth’s scrutiny. She looked up. “I’m not much company tonight, Mum.” Her smile was rueful. “But you can’t believe how amazing these are—how much stuff I wrote down back then.” She nodded at the stack of notebooks. “I’m about halfway through. There’s a lot that may be useful, but I want to go through all of them before I come to any conclusions. If…if you want, you can read them too.” A look of embarrassment flitted across her face. “Some of the stuff I wrote…well, I know better now. Remember, I was just a kid.”

Sensing her daughter’s reluctance to offer her private diaries, Elizabeth feigned a disinterest she did not feel. She tapped her own book. “Thanks, sweetie, but I’m involved with Lord Peter Wimsey right now. Besides, I think I’m about ready to turn in. I’ll look at the notebooks another time, if you like.”

A look of relief flooded Rosemary’s face. “Sure, another time would be fine. And once I’ve gone through all of them, I’ll have a better idea of what’s important and what isn’t.”

A short while later, Rosemary gathered up her notebooks and said good night, carrying all fourteen slim books upstairs to her old room.

It feels ridiculous to be sneaking around like this, but…What do I say? “By the way, Rosie, Phillip and I are sleeping together now.” I don’t know—maybe I’ll tell her when she comes back. Though, it’s more likely that she already knows, and is too polite to embarrass her silly old mother.

As Elizabeth made ready for bed, she could hear Phillip showering in the guest room’s bath. She brushed out her hair, rebraided it loosely, and climbed into bed, taking the side farther from the door, just as she had done when Sam was alive. She propped herself against the pillows, put on her reading glasses, and opened her book. The dogs, settled in their accustomed places, were already deeply asleep.
That won’t last, not with the full moon. They’ll be whining to go out around two.

A light tap, and Phillip, modestly clad in a white terrycloth bathrobe, opened the door. A wonderful aroma of soap and shampoo and man flowed into the room. He came in and shut the door, careful to make no sound, then, without speaking, he stood by the bed, seemingly unsure what he was doing there. He cleared his throat, as in preparation for a solemn declaration. Elizabeth put down her book and waited.

“The thing is…” he began, then faltered. “The thing is, I…Elizabeth, are you sure—”

Elizabeth leaned across the vacant side of the bed to tug at the damp terry cloth.

“Phillip, I’m as sure as I’m going to be. We can talk about it another time.”

“And your mother allowed the abuse to continue, even after you had told her about it?”

“Well, kind of…You see, Trish, the thing about it was—”

“No, I don’t see, and I don’t want you to tell me ‘the thing about it’ I want you to answer my question. I’ll repeat it, just in case you didn’t quite understand. And this time, I want a yes or a no. No ‘kind ofs,’ okay?”

There was a sniffle, a pause, and a choked sound that was probably a yes. Elizabeth paused in her cleaning of the empty bookshelves and turned up the radio volume. She had decided to listen to the morning broadcast of “Tell Trish” in preparation for the Thursday meeting with her erstwhile neighbor.

Trish Trantham’s hectoring tones continued.
“Bethany, you have to take responsibility for your memories—you have to remember things as they were, not as you
wish
they had been. You’ve spent your life excusing your mother’s behavior, trying to be the good little girl whose mommy loved her. Now, I’ll ask you again, and I want a direct answer—no qualifying, no explaining—did your mother continue to permit your stepfather’s sexual abuse of you?”

A stifled gulp was followed by a whispered
“Yes.”

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it, Bethany?”
Trish’s harsh, demanding voice suddenly became warm and nurturing, her honeyed syllables rewarding the caller who had at last responded correctly.

A sob of relief and then Bethany quavered,
“No, I guess not. Th-thank you, Trish.”

“And do you see now that you don’t owe this evil woman anything? You don’t have to invite her to live with you; you don’t have to spend time with her; you certainly don’t have to allow her any contact at all with your children. Bethany, you have my permission to put this horrible woman out of your life forever.”

“But, Trish,…she’s…she’s my
mother
.”

“We’re going to commercial break right now. Meanwhile, remember, if you have a problem, ‘Tell Trish!’ My number is—”

“That’s enough of
you,
Mrs. Barbie.” Elizabeth dropped her cleaning cloth as the radio began to burble the praises of vinyl siding. She jabbed the button to switch to CD and shoved in a reggae disk.

She had driven Phillip and Rosemary down to their cars a little before nine that morning so that they could be on their respective ways: he to his ten o’clock class at AB Tech, and she to Chapel Hill.

“I’ll be back Thursday,” Rosemary had promised. “Mum, how about if I meet you at the Trish Trantham Lifeworks place at one? That’s when she said she could see us.” With an enthusiasm she did not feel, Elizabeth had agreed. She had kissed her daughter good-bye, and watched her drive away. Phillip had taken his time, first opening his trunk as if in search of something, then going into the greenhouse to speak to Julio. Finally he returned and stood by the jeep’s open window.

“Julio says that he and Homero will be right here all day and they’ll keep an eye on the road. I’ll feel a lot better once you’ve done some target practice.” He started to say more, then stopped himself. His hand started up in the familiar gesture.

Elizabeth reached out the window and grabbed the hand, halting its upward sweep. “I know; you want me to be careful. And I will. It’ll take me most of the day to vacuum all those books and put them back in order. And I’ll keep Sam’s gun nearby.”

Phillip leaned to kiss the hand that held his. “Take care of yourself, my love.”

She worked her way steadily through the stacks of books, vacuuming and returning each volume to its alphabetical destination. Slowly the newly cleaned shelves across the living room’s back wall began to fill again. Douglas Adams
…Watership Down…
all of Jane Austen…Robertson Davies…Hermann Hesse
…Lost Horizons…
Kazantzakis (and the plangent sound of bouzouki music filled her head)
…The Just So Stories…
Michener’s
Hawaii
and
The Source…
Ayn Rand (but she has no
compassion
! a philosophy professor had warned her); each volume that she touched recalled a time and place in her life.

And so many demanded the quick rereading of a favorite passage or a glance at a remembered illustration. Mary Renault’s wonderful retellings of Greek history and myth…Salinger
…Treasure Island
(with the N. C. Wyeth illustrations: cobalt skies and billowing rosy clouds)
…Vanity Fair
and the lively Becky Sharp…Thoreau.

A copy of
Walden,
one of the icons of the back-to-the-land movement. She slid it from its faded green sleeve. The front cover was a woodcut, green on cream, showing Henry David Thoreau’s famous little “tight-shingled and plastered house, ten feet wide by fifteen long.” Elizabeth held the book in her hand and remembered.
I owe you a copy,
Sam had said, handing it to her on his return from a trip, the same year of the deadly plane crash.
The one you gave me when we first met didn’t make it back from Nam. But the ideas stayed with me. Besides, it was only a paperback—I hope this will be around a lot longer.