Authors: Kimberly Belle
33
Dear Brian,
As I sit here writing your name, I wonder if you still go by Brian. Your parents were of course free to choose their own name for you, but to me, you’ll always be Brian.
You were born Brian Mitchell Cooper, a name you share with my father, your biological grandfather. You kind of looked like him, too. Long lashes dark as coal, face scrunched up like a bulldog chewing on a hornet, hollering your little lungs out. He died of a heart attack last July, but of course you wouldn’t know that. I wonder if you’ve grown into his thick black hair, or if your feet are long and bony like his were.
I don’t know anything about you. Are you handsome and smart and funny? Do you love thunderstorms, skinny-dipping and lemon pie? Do you believe in God? Have you ever loved someone so much it hurts? I wonder so many things, mostly if a tiny little part of me—I pray the best part—made it inside of you.
But the one thing I’ve never wondered is how your life would have been if I’d kept you. I have so many regrets, but giving you up for adoption that day in August is not one of them.
I know those words are not easy to hear, and probably aren’t the ones you thought you’d find when you tore open this letter. They don’t mean I didn’t come this close to changing my mind when the nurse took you from me, didn’t cry myself to sleep your whole first year with a piece of me missing, didn’t think about your angel face every single day. For the past eighteen years I’ve searched my soul and can’t find any hint of not wanting to keep you. It would be like not wanting air. And yet, I know handing you to that nurse was the best decision I ever made.
I loved you enough to give you a better life. Isn’t that the most clichéd phrase on the planet? Still, it’s true. I handed you over to parents who could give you everything this world has to offer, ones who could love you like you deserved to be loved.
Because Lord knows I couldn’t. My life hasn’t exactly been a shining example of how a person is supposed to live. Twice divorced and headed for a third, married to a man I no longer love and sleeping with a man whose idea of love terrifies me, sexually, emotionally, physically. Talk about a cliché. I’m the biggest one there is.
But the good news is, I finally get it. I finally understand why I’ve been running around town like a harlot, searching in another man’s bed for something that wasn’t there. It’s because I’ve been trying to fill the hole that losing you left inside of me. I should have known better than to try to fill it with the next-door neighbor, a man who is as malicious on the inside as he is beautiful and charming on the outside.
Love should bring you joy and not drive you to despair. It should make you want to laugh and sing and skip, not weep. It should be measured in stomach butterflies and skipped heartbeats, not in bruises and broken spirits. If nothing else, Dean taught me these lessons, but he did so the hard way, with threats and fists and fury.
You’re probably wondering why on earth I’m telling you all this. And why reach out to you now, after almost two decades?
You see, Brian, I’m pregnant. And this little baby growing inside me is dragging up so many memories of how I felt when I found out there was you. Shocked. Scared. Unsure which of two men got me in this way.
Except this time, I’m also determined. Determined to keep this baby, and raise him or her by myself. Determined to do better, be better, love better. And this time around, I am determined enough to be a real mother.
I’m so sorry I wasn’t ready to be yours.
All my love,
Ella Mae
34
“HOLY MOTHER OF
Christ.” Woefully inadequate words, I know, but they’re the first ones I could think of to do the situation any sort of justice.
Next to me on the backseat of Bo’s parked car, Lexi puffs out a breath, short and sharp as if she’d been holding it in the entire time it took her to read Ella Mae’s letter. “No fucking shit.”
The Andrews sisters are nothing if not eloquent.
“If Dean was abusive,” Bo says, twisting in the driver’s seat to face Lexi and me, his tone filled with excited anger, “then maybe he was capable of murder, too.”
Lexi and I don’t respond. As scientifically brilliant as our brother is, he is the last to grasp the letter’s biggest implication: that our father and his attorney have had evidence that could have released our father from prison, or at least gotten him a new trial, and they did nothing. Nothing.
Cal makes a scoffing sound and shakes his head. “That there’s a half-cocked conclusion if I ever did hear one. There’s not one word on that paper to suggest Dean Sullivan was capable of anything more than cheating on his wife.”
I cock my head and study my uncle, slumped in the passenger’s seat. If Dad’s known about the letter for a good five years, I have to assume Cal has, too. As his attorney, as his brother, why didn’t Cal do anything? Why did he let my father waste the last years of his life away in prison?
“What are you talking about?” Bo stabs a finger at the letter, still lying on the middle console. “It says right here she was scared of him, that his idea of love was with insults and fists.”
“Son, as a scientist, you should know better than anybody in this car the danger in making assumptions based on anything other than the straight-up facts. Maybe Ella Mae was exaggerating. Maybe she was using some fancy-ass metaphor, or said it out of spite for something Dean had done. The point is, we don’t know and we never will, because Ella Mae’s not here to ask.”
Lexi looks over at me. “But Dean is.”
Cal twists to face us so fast that both Lexi and I jump a good inch off the backseat. “No. You two will not go over there again. Not even to borrow a doggone cup of sugar. Do you understand me?”
And this is where I lose it—my patience, as well as my faith that Uncle Cal is working only in Dad’s best interests. I push up to the edge of the backseat, leaning my entire upper body into the front seat.
“No, Cal, I don’t understand why I shouldn’t talk to Dean. There are, however, some things I do understand. Like that you lied to me about the affair, about Dad knowing about the affair, about Dad knowing it was with Dean, about the letter. Shall I go on? Because with a little effort, I could probably come up with a couple more.”
“I suggest you don’t be usin’ that tone on me, baby girl. I’m still your elder, and you’ll treat me with respect.”
“What are you going to do? Ground me? Besides the fact that I’m thirty-four, you no longer have the authority, something you lost when you looked me straight in the face and lied the first time.”
Cal jolts like someone stuck him in the backside with a pitchfork, but he doesn’t raise his voice. “Out of protection for your father. I already told you that.”
“Protection from what? He already knew everything! As a matter of fact, I’m starting to think the only person you’re trying to protect here is yourself—” Cal’s face turns an alarming shade of purple, but I raise my voice and crank up my pitch anyway “—for fucking up so spectacularly when you decided not to expose Dean Sullivan as Ella Mae’s lover at the trial.”
“You are on dangerously thin ice, young lady.”
“Yeah? Well, so what, because you’re fired.”
Next to him, Bo’s eyes go wide and he fidgets on the vinyl seat, but he doesn’t challenge my decision. Neither, I notice, does Lexi.
Any leftover facade of composure Cal managed to hide behind collapses. He sputters around for a bit, then says, “I’m what?”
“Fired. Canned. Dismissed. Sent packing. Your services as our father’s attorney are no longer desired.”
He pushes off the dashboard until he’s facing the backseat, his indignant air giving off fumes, choking the oxygen out of Bo’s car. “You can’t fire me. I have power of attorney, which pretty much makes me the ultimate authority as far as your father is concerned.”
I snort. “That’s pretty damn convenient, since you’ve always liked to think of yourself as the Lord God. Well, I hate to tell you, Jesus, but you’re nobody’s savior.”
“Enough!” Lexi hooks a finger through a belt loop on my jeans and tugs my bottom back onto the seat. “Hush up, both of you. Let’s just all settle way the hell down, okay? Insults and blame aren’t getting us anywhere but pissed.”
Cal and I don’t agree, but we both draw a deep, calming breath, and we hush up.
Lexi takes in our bunched shoulders and scowls. “You know things have gone to pot when I’m the voice of reason. All right, Cal. Gia makes a number of reasonable points. Perhaps you would care to refute them?”
My sister should have known better than to give the floor—especially such a poorly defined floor—to a seasoned attorney. With a nod to Lexi and another withering glare at me, Cal straightens in the passenger’s seat, fills his lungs with air and proceeds to refute my points one by one. He talks, and he talks, and he talks, pausing only long enough to haul another giant breath and talk some more. The shadows grow stubby and the sun rises higher and higher in the sky, and Cal is talking still. After forever, we lose interest. Bo closes his eyes and leans his head back, Lexi stops bothering to stifle her yawns or cover her gaping mouth, and I find myself lamenting the state of my own cuticles. If Cal’s intention is to bore us to death, he damn near succeeds.
But he doesn’t succeed in convincing me. His verbiage is lengthier than it is persuasive, mostly because it is built on three questionable arguments: 1) that he didn’t learn about Dean until after the first (and only) appeal, 2) that without Ella Mae or Dean or another eyewitness around to corroborate, any talk of an affair between Ella Mae and Dean is just that, talk, otherwise known in courtrooms and judges’ chambers as hearsay, and thus inadmissible and 3) ditto for the letter.
Finally, Cal launches his closing argument. Tennessee vs. Ray Andrews has been and gone. The case is closed. And now, with our father at home on his deathbed, we should be putting our energy into making his last days as comfortable and pleasurable for him as possible, rather than in arguing about what could have been.
In that respect, at least, I suppose Cal is right. We’re too late to save Dad from either death or prison.
But judge and jury are not the only courts in Rogersville.
I slide Ella Mae’s letter from the middle console, and Cal is still too busy expatiating to pay much notice when I fold the paper along its seams and tuck it in my coat pocket. Lexi watches me silently, her expression confirming she approves. Because if the affair between Dean and Ella Mae is the proverbial smoking gun, then I’m holding the silver bullet. And by now I think it’s safe to assume that the Rogersville court of public opinion won’t mind one little bit that it’s hearsay.
A chirp from inside my pocket rips the needle off the Cal recording, especially when it’s followed by a symphony of electronic beeps and dings from every seat in the car. We fumble frantically in our jeans and jackets for our phones.
When Cal finds his and breaks the silence first, we all know what’s coming. He turns to Bo, his face grim. “Son, how fast can you get us home?”
* * *
Though we don’t speak on the short ride home from town, I think all of us are assuming the worst. Even more so when Fannie throws open the door and motions for us to hurry as we’re pulling into the driveway. We take off at a dead sprint for the house.
I rush inside, breathless and stiff with panic, and in the very back of my mind notice that Keith Urban is crooning from a radio somewhere, and the air is thick with the cloying aroma of freshly baked cookies. A tray of them—peanut butter sugar cookies, by the looks and smell of them—balances across Dad’s lap. Dad picks up the plate and smiles. Smiles.
Cal blinks at Fannie. “I thought you said this was an emergency.”
“It is. Ray is having a good morning, and I wanted y’all to be here for it. Coffee?”
“I’ll take mine with a shot of bourbon.” Lexi tugs on her scarf, loosening it around her neck, and collapses onto the couch. “You people are killin’ me.”
Fannie nods and shuffles off to the kitchen.
“Everybody sit down,” Dad says. “I’ve made some important decisions I’d like to talk to y’all about.”
After a few exchanged looks we sit, Cal at the wing chair by Dad’s shoulder, the rest of us either on the couch or in chairs by the foot of his bed. Once Dad is satisfied he’s got our complete attention, he begins.
“Call somebody over at Davis and Son. That old Clyde Davis was a mean son of a bitch, but his people always did plan the best funerals. They’ll know how to spread the word about the service. Is Reverend Bulloch still alive?”
Lexi nods. “He’s about a hundred and twelve, but yeah. He’s alive.”
“Good. Ask him to say a few words, and I mean a few. He likes to talk into next week, and by now he’s probably too blind to notice if half the place falls asleep.” Dad’s gaze lands on me. “I’d like you to give the eulogy.”
I sink farther into the couch. “Me? Why me?”
“Because you always were the best at seeing both sides of the coin. I think forgiveness would be a relevant topic all around, don’t you? No wailing or gnashing of teeth, you hear? Just tell things like you see them. And anybody else who has something to say is welcome to also, good or bad. I’m sick of worrying myself to death about which one it’s gonna be.”
Dad chuckles, but no one else sees the humor in his statement.
“Bo, I want you to make sure the service feels like something I’d approve of. I don’t know what all they do at funerals nowadays, but you and I always did have the same taste, so just choose whatever you think is best. I trust you.”
Bo clears his throat. He’s nervous, fiddling with the zipper on his puffy coat. “I’ll do you proud.”
“I know you will, son.” Dad turns to my sister.
“Can you handle the money? It’s not much, but you’ll know how to pinch it enough so the insurance covers the cremation, cost of a simple service and a nice dinner for y’all afterward. And don’t have other people spending theirs, especially on flowers I’ll never see. If they want to give something, get ’em to donate to the hospice that sent us Frannie, okay?”
Fannie,
I think.
Lexi’s bottom lip quivers and her face is flushed, but she sits up straighter next to me and looks damn pleased. And then my father turns to Cal, hauling another breath as we hold ours, waiting.
“I hardly dare to ask any more of you, Cal, but I’m gonna need you to take care of my ashes.”
Cal sucks in a sob, one he covers by scrounging around in the blanket for Dad’s bony hand. “Of course.”
“You know that spot up at the top of Roan Mountain, where Rosalie and I used to go camping back after we just got married?” He pauses to receive Cal’s nod. “I want you to go up there this summer when the flowers are at their peak. You know where, on the Tennessee side at the high knob. Make sure you find a spot with the best view of the bluffs, then pick the prettiest rhododendron bush and put half of me there. At the very least I’ll be good fertilizer.”
Cal nods again, then clears his throat. “And the other half?”
“The other half of me goes in Ella Mae’s garden.”
At first I don’t understand. An avid gardener, Ella Mae kept the yard full of blooms pretty much all year around, but she’s been dead for almost two decades. What flowers didn’t follow her to an early grave have been taken over by crabgrass and overgrown with weeds.
Cal must understand, though, because his face goes thunderous. “No. That garden is to remember her by, not you. I won’t put you there.”
Ah, Dad means the memorial garden in town. I can’t say I blame him. I’d be hard-pressed to think of a more beautiful final resting spot.
But Cal shakes his head so hard his cheeks wobble.
“I’m a dyin’ man. These are my last wishes.”
My uncle pops off his chair, his body looming above Dad’s. “These past sixteen years I’ve done everything you asked. Everything! Even when I didn’t agree, even when it wasn’t in your best interests. But this is something I will not do, do you hear me? You are not gonna spend eternity in that woman’s garden.”
“Technically, it would be only half of me.”
“Not even one teeny tiny flake of you. It would be a goddamn travesty.”
“That seems a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Bo says, stepping to his feet to look our uncle in the eyes. “Besides, it’s not our decision to make. It’s Dad’s, and I think we need to respect his wishes.”
“I am respecting his wishes, dammit.” Something about the way he looks at Dad as he says it—and something about the way Dad looks away—makes me think he means other wishes, more secrets Lexi and Bo and I don’t know about. “But this is where I draw the line. I’ll respect every wish but this one.”
Dad dribbles a hand at Cal and Bo. “Sit down, both of you, and listen up. I spent the first half of my life loving Rosalie, and the second half Ella Mae. I still love them both. It’s only appropriate I share my everlastin’ life with them equally, too.”
“It’s illegal,” Cal says, something in his tone grasping at straws. “I can’t just go spreading your ashes around wherever you see fit.”
“Do it in the dark.” Dad hisses out a breathy laugh. “I won’t tattle, I promise.”
Cal doesn’t find him the least bit funny. “I’m not gonna do it, Ray. Forget it.”
I think about all the possible reasons Cal might have to refuse. Because it’s against the law, because he doesn’t think it’s proper, because he’s worried what others might say. None of them seem strong enough for Cal to call it a “goddamn travesty.”
But even if Dad somehow manages to convince his brother to agree to this last wish, I’m not entirely certain Cal would actually carry it out. He’s already lied and threatened to pull the power-of-attorney card. What would keep him from doing either of those things after Dad is gone?