“Impossible. You used to tell me stories of your childhood. You had adventures before she died. I named our daughters after her because . . . because you loved her.”
“I did . . . I still do.”
Dad shifted his attention to his father, who sat in an armchair near the window. Not part of the cluster near the fireplace.
“Your mother never should have told you those stories.” Grandfather’s voice fell heavy. “They served no purpose but to fill you with fantasies. There was nothing to do but forget and move on.”
“I could never do that.” Grandmother shuddered as if an unpleasant film was playing in front of her and she wanted it shut off. “But we weren’t to talk about her. Not once after that night. Father was very clear. Then after the war, the nation came together, but there was still fear. Among our friends. Everywhere. For years we said she died in the war, and everyone forgot.”
“Then why the polio story? You said she died as a child.”
She regarded my father again. “You were young. You saw her picture and started making a hero of her. She was magnetic and lovely and you wanted to know so much. I couldn’t have you hate her. Or what if you researched the war, found the truth, and tried to find her? So I lied. I said the pictures you found were of someone else and I packed every piece of her away again. I left her young and innocent so you could keep her and love her.”
Grandmother pressed her lips together as if fighting memories or tears, I wasn’t sure which. “I couldn’t survive otherwise.”
“Survive?” Grandfather cut in. “Margaret, is that what you call this? If you had simply let her go, we could have done better than this.”
“I’m not the only one who held tight,” she barked at him. “Nine years. You waited nine years before you—”
“Before I what?”
“Married me.” She deflated into the armchair.
Grandfather’s glare was sharp and hard. It cut like steel. “I let her go and yet you still punished me.” He rose and dusted the knees of his trousers. It was a rote action and, once accomplished, he was at the door before he said anything more. “Please don’t wait on me for dinner this evening. I’ll dine at the club.”
Thinking back now, I didn’t see my grandfather again that trip. In fact, I never saw him again. The next time we traveled to London was eight years later, in 2010, for his funeral. We crossed the Atlantic on a Tuesday and flew back two days later.
My dad did not follow him out the door that evening—he wasn’t invited. He stared at his mother so long that Mom called his name three times before he registered her presence.
“Jack. Perhaps you should sit down.”
Without answering or sitting, he returned his attention to his mother. “So it was my fault? All my questions?”
“You found a picture of her from a visit home from Paris. She’d become so sophisticated. I told you the lie I wanted to believe, that none of it ever happened. I had only told you childhood stories, the golden ones before my illness, before her love story, before her treachery, so it was easy to end your questions there by saying the picture was of someone else.”
“What really happened?” Dad dropped to the settee.
“It doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t affect you.”
“How can you say that? We’re here, right now, because it does . . . this house . . . my whole childhood. Grandmother never left her room; you never smiled; Father hates everybody. You sent me away to the States.”
“I did what was best.” My grandmother’s conviction crumpled with her next breath.
“I was fifteen.”
“I was heartbroken.” She tried to reach for my dad’s hand, but he pulled it away. “I wanted you to be free. Your father, me, this house . . . It’s been so very heavy.”
Recalling how old and frail she looked in that moment surprised me anew this morning that she lived fourteen years after that evening.
Mom tugged at my arm then and slid her hand down until she reached my hand. Squeezing it tight, she led me from the room. “We should let them talk.”
We turned at the door as my dad called to me. “Not a word, Caroline. Do you understand me? We will not speak of this or share it with anyone.”
I could only nod. It wasn’t Dad’s request that kept my silence all these years—it was the lost look in his eyes. The hollowness of utter defeat.
I turned to my mom after the door closed behind us. “We can put the letter back. Wasn’t it long enough ago we could just put the letter back and no one would know?”
“That’s what we’ll do. Come on.” She started climbing the stairs. “We’ll put it away and everyone will feel better in the morning.”
Mom’s tone was soothing, but her eyes were wide with surprise and concern. “They just need to talk. Your dad and grandmother will sort it out. Don’t you worry.”
We did put the letter back. I retied the black ribbon myself. But Mom was wrong. Nothing got sorted. No one felt better.
And it didn’t stay secret.
Four
I sat up and reached for my phone: 5:25 a.m. It was much too early to call anyone or do anything. I had wanted to call my brother the night before, but old admonitions held firm. Although I hadn’t recalled the exact words until the morning’s early hours, the weight of secrecy, of some undefined and unspoken promise, had pressed upon me since speaking to Mat.
Does Jason know?
I pulled on a Tracksmith top and shorts and laced up my shoes. I hadn’t taken a long run since my last marathon, but ready or not, this was the morning I needed one.
I headed out my apartment door and turned left on Charles Street in the direction of the Appleton Bridge and the bike path. To the Boston University Bridge and back would give me six miles—enough to settle my mind without injuring my cold legs. I hadn’t thought about when I’d begin running again. Usually after a marathon I rested for several weeks then started back slow, running a couple miles every other day for the first few weeks, and gradually built from there. Not this time. I’d gotten caught up in trying to make life work—trying to do my best at Mednex, help Dad in any way he’d let me, and reconnect with friends—catching short runs whenever I could. Two weeks turned into seven months.
I huffed a long breath as I reached the path in an effort to clear my head. The sun caught my attention and I paused to watch it rise in a wonderful orange tipping to yellow. As it gained degrees in the sky, shadows dissipated and the Charles River burst to life. I continued my run, heading southwest as boats hit the water and fellow runners poured from the nearby buildings onto the path.
I stopped again at mile three to check my email—clearly the run wasn’t long enough yet to distance my thoughts.
Mat Hammond.
I dropped to the nearest bench and breezed past his brief email to the attached article.
To: Jessica Burgess, Editor, The Atlantic
Fr: Mat Hammond
Re: Divided Loyalties: The Importance of a Multifaceted Approach to Our Past