Visits to her mother were never fun-filled events. Long ago, Hattie Foster had forgotten she’d had more than one child, and every time Rachel confronted the woman, she had to convince her that she wasn’t her dead daughter returning from the grave.
It was actually for the better. Hattie was a woman Rachel was happy to forget, and the fact that her mother was barely conscious of her existence made it easy to stay away. Whenever she felt that tug of obligation that coaxed her to stop by, the confused look in Hattie’s eyes reminded her there was really no reason to return. Instead of seeking comfort in the daughter she still had, Rachel’s visits would just set off delusions that Carrie had never died, and her ensuing attempts to remind the woman who she was just left both of them in a worse state than they’d been before she’d arrived.
But Travis Gage had stirred a pot of doubts Rachel couldn’t ignore, and she knew she’d be tormented by the words in that diary if she didn’t go back and see for herself.
It had been years since she’d looked through the pages. Many of the passages were forever burned in her mind. But, she had to admit, Travis’s claims of a break-up had left her wondering if there was anything she’d overlooked, and despite the dread she felt at returning, she had to get hold of the diary and see for herself.
Slowly, she turned the corner, relieved to see the driveway was vacant. At least, if her mother was there, she would be alone.
She pulled up to the curb, got out of the car and proceeded to the door, shaking her head in dismay when she found it unlocked. It was just like her mother to leave the latch unturned. Heaven forbid she’d need to leave her bed to allow passage to the brothel she called her home.
She reluctantly pushed open the door and stood for a moment, wondering what she might find when she walked inside. The house was deathly quiet. Was her mother gone, passed out, or had she already taken her last breath?
She stepped over the threshold and jumped at the sound of tinkling glass. Looking down, she saw she had accidentally knocked over an empty bottle of bourbon that had been left by the door. The echo of the glass left a morbid tone against the dusty hardwood floor. She closed the door behind her, then crossed the room and headed for the stairs. She climbed them quietly, hoping that she could grab the diary and leave without notice.
At the top of the stairs, her mother’s bedroom door stood ajar, and Rachel peeked her head inside to see the woman splayed over the bed on her back. Rachel stood and stared, like she’d done so many times before, waiting for the rise of her mother’s chest to indicate she was still alive.
One of these days, Rachel knew she’d see no movement, and the last shred of her painful childhood could finally be put behind her. It was a shame that a daughter could actually feel relief at her mother’s passing, but Rachel had let go of any guilt for those feelings long ago. Too many therapists had concurred she had every right to want her mother gone, and after a while, she had finally believed them.
The slow rise of her mother’s silk nightgown told her today would not be the day, so she quietly backed from the doorway and tiptoed down the hall.
Carrie’s room was the only room in the house left perfectly intact. Aside from a layer of dust, not a photo or hairbrush was left out of place. It had become a shrine for Hattie Foster, the bed made perfectly, Carrie’s things set precisely where she’d left them. Hattie wouldn’t allow it any other way. She was certain some day Carrie would return and be angered if her belongings had been touched.
A swell of pain and rage clogged the passage to her throat. Carrie had been Rachel’s only saving grace, the only bright flower in a garden that had withered and died years ago. Until Carrie chopped off her own stem, leaving Rachel alone in the world.
How Carrie could be so selfish, so unconcerned with leaving her behind, she never understood, and standing in Carrie’s room, all the bitterness returned as if her death had occurred just yesterday.
The dust filled her nostrils, the room went stiflingly hot. A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead as a cold shiver left her stomach nauseous with anger and resentment. It didn’t take two minutes in Carrie’s room to leave Rachel’s lunch hovering dangerously close to her throat.
Unable to take it, she dashed to the bed, lifted up the mattress, and began fumbling for the diary. She felt the cold metal of the gold latch that enclosed the leather-bound book, grasped it in her hand then turned to rush from the room.
No longer caring about making a sound, she rounded to the top of the stairs and made her way down. She needed to get out, into the cool afternoon air, to quell the sickness that rose in her throat.
Dashing down the stairs, she heard a murmur from her mother’s room and her need to flee heightened. Soon she would hear her mother calling to the dead sister who never had to hear that voice again, and Rachel wasn’t going to stick around to listen herself.
She crossed the living room and bolted through the open door, slamming it behind her.