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The Secret

H.R. Kemp

    My toast sat untouched on the plate as I stared out of the window. Outside the breeze rustled the frangipani tree leaves, their steady motion, to and fro, slower than my breathing. It was Wednesday. The knot in my stomach tightened.
    Wednesdays always left me emotionally exhausted.
    “Mum,“ my daughter’s voice pierced the quiet.
    I looked up in time to catch Chrissy’s glare before she turned and stormed out of the room.
    I sighed. “What now?“ I yelled at her retreating form.
    “Doesn’t matter,“ she shouted back. “I’m going to school. Who needs to go on the stupid excursion anyway?“
    I’d forgotten. Again.
    I jumped up, grabbed my purse from my handbag, and chased after her.
    “Chrissy, wait“ I called out.
    I raced down the front steps and when I caught up with her, I pressed the $50 note into her hand. “Sorry,“ I said.
    It sounded feeble but I meant it. I was sorry. Sorry I’d forgotten to pay online. Sorry I hadn’t responded to her questions this morning, sorry for everything. I was always sorry.
    Chrissy’s face contorted, just slightly, like it did when she was about to cry. She shrugged, turned, and raced off down the road.
    My eyes welled. Every Wednesday started with a calamity. I should be better at managing my emotions, but I was getting worse.

    I drove the familiar Wednesday route. As always, that ache in the pit of my stomach clenched harder as I got closer to the nursing home. The drive was both fast and slow, and worst of all, I entered a time portal to again become the little girl who was desperate to please my mother but always failed. Emotions threatened to overwhelm me but I drove on.
    All too soon, I was walking through the clear glass front doors. I held my breath anticipating the acrid disinfectant smell but it still caught in my throat. I coughed.
    In the lounge, residents were arranged in armchairs facing the TV. Some slept while others stared unblinkingly at the flickering screen. I searched their tired faces but mother wasn’t there.
    I felt a momentary relief and played with the idea of escape. Instead, I shuffled down the corridor towards her room. What mood would she be in today? Illogically, I always dreamed of a warm welcome, but I hadn’t received one so far. You’d think I would learn but I’m stubborn, just like her.
    I peered around the slightly open door. Mother was still in bed, sleeping. How strange. She never slept late. Whenever I suggested she should rest more, she’d scold me. She’d screw up her nose and protest “I’d never be that lazy or give in to that ‘old biddies’ habit.“
    I studied her face. Wrinkles folded around her eyes and jowl, and her mouth drooped, courtesy of a stroke that forced her move into the home. Her face seemed softer in sleep and I could almost pretend she was a warmer, kinder woman. Almost, but not quite.
    A slip of paper twitching in mother’s hand caught my eye. I tiptoed closer. I could only just read the blue curly flourishes scrawled across pale paper.
    ‘... died on Friday... forgiveness . . ... not forget what you . . ...’
    I couldn’t see a signature and as I leaned forward, I lost my balance and accidentally jostled the bed. Her eyes flashed open and her hand twitched. She almost dropped the note.
    “Hello mother, it’s only me, Kaye. I didn’t mean to disturb you.“ My cheeks burned hot.
    I showed her the bunch of spring flowers I’d brought from my garden and I was that little girl again, no matter how much I tried to resist.
    She pulled herself up in bed, then deftly folded the note in her gnarled hands and threw it into the bedside drawer.
    “Who’s that from?“ I asked.
    Mother rarely got mail except maybe at Christmas or on her birthday. Perhaps my sister, Ruth, had written, although it would be a first.
    Her eyes darted back and forth, and her brow creased more deeply with each scan. Finally, she rested her gaze on me, as though seeing me for the first time. She took the flowers and plonked them on the bed beside her.
    “I need my private papers,“ she demanded.
    I should be used to her abrupt tone but it still upset me.
    “No Hello, or nice to see you“ I retorted.
    Mother shrugged. ‘Hello. Now, you heard me. I need my papers.“
    I sighed.
    “I think they’re stored in the cupboard in my spare room,“ I said, relieved I could remember at such short notice. “What do you need them for?“
    “They’re my private papers and I want them. You have to bring them to me next time,“ she cried, repeating more sternly, “They’re private, understand?“
    Her attention withdrew inward and I watched as words formed on her lips but disappeared without a sound.
    I ignored the chipped op-shop vase sitting on the shelf by the window and busied myself rummaging in the cupboards for the vase I’d bought her for Mother’s day. The distraction helped me gain some time and composure. I found the pretty crystal vase packed away at the back. I took the flowers into the bathroom, added water to the vase, and arranged them to show off the colours. I brought it back into her room and placed it on a cupboard where she could easily see the flowers. Mother watched me, unsmiling then turned to stare out of the window.
    “They’re from my garden,“ I said.
    Mother grunted.
    I swallowed down my disappointment.
    I pulled a chair up closer to the bed and unsuccessfully tried to make conversation. It was never easy but today seemed particularly hard. She stared out of the window, deep in thought, no matter what I tried.
    Finally, I gave up and said goodbye.
    In the hall, I almost collided with Margaret. She’d moved into the nursing home in the same week as mother and they’d formed a friendship of sorts. Her friendly and twittery nature was so full of life despite her health issues, in contrast to mother’s surly and often tactless ways.
    “Hello dear. How is she today?“ Margaret’s lilting voice soothed my nerves. She tutted as I explained mother had been napping.
    “Yes, she’s had a hard time lately.“ Margaret glanced at me sadly. “That news didn’t help, she —“ She watched my face as she spoke and suddenly she pressed her lips together and closed her eyes.
    “That letter, you mean?“ I ventured.
    “She showed it to you then?“ She raised her eyebrows and smiled.
    I nodded. It was only a little lie.
    “Well dear, she got such a shock to learn he’d died. Maybe she regrets sending him away. She won’t talk about it with anyone—“ Margaret looked up and her eyes widened with horror. My confusion must have shown on my face. Muttering, she shuffled away down the hall on her walker.
    My curiosity flared. A letter. A visitor. What was this about?
    I asked the nurse but she assured me I’d been mother’s only visitor. Instead, she regaled me with tales of mother’s rudeness to other residents and asked me to talk to her. I almost laughed.
    “It would do no good,“ I said.
    As I turned to walk away, the nurse added, “Oh, I nearly forgot. She did have a visitor, about six months ago. Her ex-husband visited. I don’t know how I’d forgotten that. It upset her terribly. She made such a scene that we asked him to leave.“ She tilted her head. “He hasn’t been back since.“
    “Are you sure it was her ex-husband?“ I asked, barely able to control the tremble in my voice.
    “I’m sure it was.“
    My heart missed a beat. The nurse walked away, oblivious to the turmoil she’d unleashed.
    Mother’s ex-husband. My father!
    I hadn’t seen my father since I was seven years old. My legs felt weak and I held on to the cabinet against the wall. Mother told us he’d died years ago. Why had she lied if he was still alive?
    I have few memories of dad. Being wrapped in fierce cuddles and giggling at his silly jokes were the only vivid events I can recall. There are also darker memories; Ruth and me hiding under the blankets on my bed as our parents shouted at each other in the other room. After he left, we weren’t allowed to talk about him. Ever. Mother told us we were lucky to be rid of him.
    That evening memories surfaced from hidden recesses in my mind and played out in a continuous loop, pulling up old hurts with them. Dad was physically gone but from that time, mother also went missing. Emotionally. Both of my parents had been lost to me, leaving a large painful space in my life and this constant striving for approval.
    Suddenly I remembered mother’s box of personal papers. Why was she so protective of it? What was in there?
    I lifted it down, placing it ceremoniously on the spare bed, and swallowed down a fleeting pang of guilt before lifting the lid. Inside were official papers; mother’s passport, her birth certificate, other memorabilia, and some photos. I picked up the photos first and studied them hungrily. I’d never seen these before. Unlike those in our family albums, these were intact.
    When I was nine years old, I found a family album hidden at the back of the wardrobe. Mother caught me leafing through it and in a fit of rage, she snatched it, grabbed a knife, and slashed dad’s image out of every photo. Her contorted face, screaming anger and hatred, still haunts me. I didn’t know what I had done wrong. Since that day, I can’t bear to look at those mutilated photos, the markers of our broken family.
    The photos in the box were different. A younger, softer mother, pretty in her cream wedding dress, radiated joy as she stood beside an equally young dad. I studied dad’s rugged and angular face. His eyes caught the light and sparkled jauntily as he grinned into the camera. Ruth has that same grin and those eyes.
    The photos of a dark-haired baby were a mystery. The slightly faded image couldn’t be Ruth because white-blonde hair framed her face until she was five, and it certainly wasn’t me. We had no cousins living here or friends with children to visit, so I didn’t know who this could be. The faint photographer’s name and date on the back didn’t help me.
    Searching the box, I found two fragile documents neatly folded into the bottom. They were hidden against the side flap and I almost missed them. One was a birth certificate for Daniel Benjamin born to Daniel and Catherine Forsythe. At first, I thought it strange that mother had kept dad’s birth certificate, but then the date and the mother’s full name leapt out at me. I struggled to catch my breath and lost my grip. The document floated to the floor. This birth certificate belonged to a son born to my parents. A brother. He was born after me but before Ruth.
    Spurred on by a need to know, yet dreading what I might find, I unfolded the other document carefully. Brittle, yellowed sticky tape held together torn fragments. The tape flaked off at my touch. It was a Death Certificate for Daniel Benjamin Forsythe who died an ‘accidental death as a result of injuries sustained in a fall.’ He was only eight months old. A tear trickled onto my cheek. I didn’t have the strength to wipe it away.
    I’d gained and lost a brother in the space of minutes. I couldn’t imagine the pain of losing a child. Why had mother kept this a secret?
    I didn’t tell my husband, Grant, or my children, instead I picked up the phone and dialled Ruth’s number. I read and reread the details to her, as though we would suddenly discover it was all a mistake.

*

    The next day I still hadn’t found the words to explain this to Grant. He says I worry too much about mother and should stop trying so hard to please her. He doesn’t really understand. Chrissy and Jake had their breakfast early and had left for school by the time I finished dressing.
    I called in sick at work and returned to the nursing home, my mind in a flurry searching for answers. I felt sad, tense, and angry, all at the same time.
    Mother was in her room sitting by the window in her wheelchair. I placed the box on the end of the bed and waited for her to look at me. My whole body trembled. I stood up straight, trying to be the 48-year-old adult and not the child.
    I cleared my throat and quietly asked her about the documents.
    “You searched through my box. How dare you. I told you, those things are private.“ Mother stabbed her arthritic finger in my direction.
    “Yes, I’m sorry, I did look inside.“ I swallowed down a vestige of guilt. “I’d like to know what happened.“
    “I don’t want to talk about it.“
    “Mother, Ruth and I have a right to know.“ I raised my voice. She was the only one who could explain. “What happened with . . ... our brother . . ... and with our dad.“
    Mother glared at me.
    “I need to know the truth,“ I said softly.
    Mother’s lips set in a hard line, but her hands trembled as she fidgeted with her rings.
    Stalemate.
    Then I had an idea. I threatened to involve the nursing staff and to ask Margaret about what she knew. She glared at me again, she was an intensely private person, but, finally, she wavered.
    “You’ve no right.“ She jutted out her chin. Her crooked fingers furiously plucked at her wrap.
    Eventually, she cleared her throat. “Yes, I had —“ She faltered, sighed, then continued, “a son. My precious Dan junior . . ... my darling boy.“ Her face softened and I almost missed the fleeting smile. Then she crumpled into her wheelchair, seemingly lost in her memories.
    “What happened?“ I prodded gently.
    “Why do I need to spell it out? You were snooping. You already know more than you need to know.“
    “I don’t know anything. I found documents telling me I had a brother I never knew anything about. I need you to explain,“ I said, trying to stay calm.
    “Explain what? There’s nothing to explain. My boy was taken from me by that monster. He was supposed to look after him. I wasn’t gone long. But—“ She stifled a sob and sunk further into her chair. “He wasn’t watching. Little Dan fell down the stairs and . . ... He killed him.“ Her lips stretched across her teeth in a frightening grimace. “He murdered my son. He had to pay.“
    “And you made him pay?“
    “I told him to leave and if he ever tried to get in touch with any of us, I’d tell the police that he’d murdered our son. I’d make sure he went to jail for a long time.“
    “But the certificate said it was an accident, not murder,“ I protested.
    Mother turned on me. “He was irresponsible . . ... negligent . . ... drunk. He killed my baby boy. Accident or no accident, he killed him.“ Tears flowed down her cheeks. I tried to console her but she batted my hands away.
    “But you stayed together. You even had Ruth. You must have forgiven him.“
    “No, I never forgave him. I tried to keep the family together. My mother insisted we should try again, to have another child. She said it would help.“ Mother glanced out of the window at the garden beyond, sad and disconnected. “It didn’t help. It wasn’t the same. I couldn’t forget or forgive. I couldn’t let him forget what he’d done either.“ Her voice had turned eerily quiet.
    “You didn’t just make dad pay, Ruth and I paid dearly for your decision,“ I clenched my hands to steady them. “You took our father away from us. We didn’t even know we had a brother.“
    Mother wiped her eyes fiercely with the back of her hand, as though she was swatting away the memories along with the tears. She looked away. “My son . . ... I don’t want to talk about this anymore.“
    That familiar mask descended. She looked so small tucked into her wheelchair, the object of both my pity and my anger.
    “That monster is dead now. I hope he burns in hell.“ She spat the words in my direction before turning back to the window.
    Tears overflowed my eyes. I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her. Didn’t she care about how she’d hurt us all with her need for vengeance? Dad not only lost his son, he also lost his daughters. How could she let our family fall apart? Shouldn’t this tragedy have brought us closer?
    “And what about Ruth and me?“ I muttered.
    Mother glanced at me, then looked away. I watched her fingers worry at her wrap. I don’t know how I would have coped in her place. I hoped I’d have cared for my surviving children enough to go on.
    Mother refused to answer any more questions. I wiped my eyes and slunk away.
    Margaret was in the hall and looked up as I approached. “I hope I didn’t cause any trouble.“ Her eyes searched my face intensely.
    “It’s OK. I’ve just learned some of mother’s secrets.“
    “She likes to keep secrets no matter how miserable they make her. It’s a shame, isn’t it? She can be such a hard woman; stubborn too.“ Margaret sighed and shuffled away.

    I was sitting on the sofa when Chrissy got home. She dropped her school bag on the hall floor with a thump and shuffled into the kitchen to make a snack. She glanced at me as she walked through, but then popped her head back around the door frame.
    “Are you alright mum?“ she asked.
    “I’m alright,“ I said, then seeing the frown on her face, I patted the seat beside me and invited her to sit. Maybe it was time to confide my secrets too.
    Chrissy awkwardly propped herself on the edge of the seat and I put my arm around her shoulder.
    “Actually, I’m not alright,“ I said more honestly and told her about my visits with mother and what I’d learned.
    I was drowning in sorrow and I wept.
    Chrissy wrapped her arms around me and we sat together quietly for a while.
    “I love you,“ I said quietly into her hair.
    “I love you too,“ she responded.

*

    Ruth and I pieced together the facts although mother refuses to discuss it further. Dad’s wife’s letter explained that dad carried the pain and guilt of Dan’s death all his life. He tried to make peace with mother once he learned he had terminal cancer but she rejected him. She kept her anger to the bitter end.
    I understand that mother suffered a terrible loss. I understand her anger and even her need to keep it a secret. But her anger and grief consumed her and her need for vengeance at all costs meant Ruth and I grew up thinking we weren’t wanted. We suffered from neglect despite being well-dressed and well-fed. Daughters are supposed to have their mother’s love, but we’re living proof this isn’t always the case. The scars on my heart have never healed.
    I’ve learned a lot from this episode. We can’t change the past but sometimes a burden shared can be lightened.
    Mother is still pushing Ruth and me away, but I’m determined to grow up. I’m no longer willing to be that desperate child striving for her mother’s attention and affection. I don’t think she wants anything to change even now, and her stroke and failing health mean we’re running out of time.
    Now the truth is out, I’ve stopped blaming myself for mother’s coldness. Ruth is too angry to forgive and, although forgive is too strong a word for me, I still visit mother, although less often. Each time I leave poorer but stronger than when I arrived.
    Holding on to the past crippled mother and I’m determined to not let the past cripple me as well. I can’t win my mother’s approval and love, I know that now, but I have my own family to focus on. My husband Grant says I ‘should let it go,’ and ‘move on,’ and I agree. There have been too many victims already.
    It’s not easy, but I’m concentrating my efforts on my family, the present, and the future. No more looking back.

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