“I didn’t tell anyone, not even your father,” my mother said. “Certain things are just too hard to talk about. Certain things are meant to stay private.”
My mother stretched out her arm. I wove my fingers with hers. I am Sonia’s daughter, I said to myself. Sonia Kelman Jonas Becker.
I thought about Anna—Anna and Kurt and Mom—as my mother squeezed my hand gently, very gently. And then she did the most amazing thing. My mother said she loved me.
Chapter 21
Pick Up the Pieces
Now I lie awake at night and pray Mom’s cancer’s gone for good. The doctors say it might be.
I picture her at my graduation tomorrow: Mom in her new light blue dress, so much better looking than the other mothers. Dad will escort her to one of those folding chairs in front of the bleachers. She will sit tall, her back perfectly straight again, and wait for me to walk by in my cap and gown. My mother will be smiling. And so will I.
Now I know my mother’s story, and now I understand. My mother could never have bounced me on her knee. That was reserved for Anna’s ghost, the one that slipped into the hospital the day I was born. There was no room for outsiders, no room for hopes and dreams. All my mother had were her memories, the stories she eventually gifted to me. I treasure those images of my mother before her world broke apart. How had she managed to pick up the pieces? What courage, to cobble splinters into a whole new life. So I forgive her for not being able to love me the way I needed her to. Forgave her, in fact, last year as I watched her fight to live.
“Your mother is so proud of you, Amy,” my father told me earlier this evening, while Mom was washing up for bed. Dad had come into my room to congratulate me, for the tenth time, on the scholarship to NYU and on my English award.
“Dad, it’s just high school. It’s not like I’m graduating summa cum laude from college or anything.”
“But it’s still a big accomplishment, honey. I’m just so glad your mother’s here to see this.”
We stayed silent for a moment, both of us probably thinking about Mom—about Charlie too, I was sure. My father and I had never spoken of Charlie’s accident. I hadn’t told him of my guilt. It was my mother I had tried to tell. It was my mother whose burden I had wanted to lighten.
“You know,” Dad went on, “the very first time I saw your mother, I thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. And not a day has gone by when I haven’t thought I’m the luckiest man in the world. No one can hold a candle to her, Ame. And you? Well… you look more and more like your mother each day.”
I’d seen it too lately: my mother’s face looking back from the mirror.
“Dad, I need to tell you something.”
“Sure, honey. What is it?”
I shut my eyes and focused on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. No outer world in; no inner world out. “Certain things are just too hard to talk about,” my mother had told me.
Hard, yes. But on this night before graduation, I needed to talk about Charlie, to nudge his ghost off my chest. Scoot, scoot, skedaddle. It was time to tell the truth.
Charlie and Takawanda knotted in my thoughts. “Dad,” I said, my voice catching, “why’d you make me go to camp?”
In my mind, Rory raced into the dining hall. She slammed the door to shut me out.
I wanted to tell my father what had happened that summer. But all I could say was, “It was awful. Just because Uncle Ed bought Takawanda, I shouldn’t have had to go. He didn’t have a clue about what really went on there. I’m glad he doesn’t own it anymore.”
“You know, honey, I thought I was doing the right thing then. A whole summer by a lake in Maine. A chance to be on your own for a while without worrying about your brother.”
“But if you wouldn’t have sent me, then Charlie wouldn’t have died.”
“What are you saying?”
“I never told you how Robin teased me and what she said about Mom.” My voice became a whisper. “And I never told you about the accident.”
My father sat next to me on the bed. He put his arm around me. “I think I know what happened.”
“But Mom said she didn’t tell you.”
“She didn’t. She never said a word. No one keeps secrets better than your mother.”
What secrets was he talking about? My mother and her past? Mom and Uncle Ed? Did my father know about that, I wondered for a moment, though I realized it didn’t matter anymore. Even when my mother welcomed questions, I knew not to ask about my uncle. “Certain things are meant to stay private,” Mom had whispered. Her affair with Uncle Ed was one of those things.
“But if Mom didn’t tell you about Charlie, about the accident, then how do you know?”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out, Ame. When I thought about it, I realized you and Charlie couldn’t have been playing together outside when that dog came, because if you were there when Charlie started running, you surely would have caught him.”
Tears came from a place so deep I couldn’t stop them—nor could I stop the questions that rushed from my mouth. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t we ever talk about this?”
My father pulled me to my feet and hugged me tight. “I assumed you’d talk about Charlie when you were ready.”
My words rolled out with sobs. “I killed him, Dad. I killed Charlie when I let him wander away. If I hadn’t been snooping in Mom’s things, Charlie wouldn’t have taken off. And he wouldn’t have died, Dad. He wouldn’t be dead.”
My father held me for a long time. “Amy,” he finally said, his voice shaky and soft. “Amy, I’m so very sorry. I should have talked to you about this long ago. I hope you can forgive me. Forgive me for not talking about Charlie. Forgive me for sending you to Takawanda. But more important, honey—so much more important—I hope that, someday, you’ll forgive yourself.”
I heard my mother’s voice as if she, not my father, embraced me. People don’t always do the right thing, even when they think they are. And somehow we just have to forgive them, forgive ourselves.
“Dad,” I said, before my courage faded, “why didn’t you ever tell me about Mom? Why didn’t we talk about her life in Germany? And why didn’t I know about Anna?”
My father took a step back and rested his hands on my shoulders. “Your mother’s tried so hard to shut out the past. It’s just so painful for her. And when you were born, she made me promise I wouldn’t talk about it either. She saw you as a fresh start, Ame. And she wanted to forget. She needed to forget. But she just can’t. She can’t ever forget.”
“She told me, Dad. When she was really sick, she told me about Anna.”
“It was her story to tell, honey, not mine. I’ve always respected her privacy. I just love her so much.”
I looked up and saw a tear run down my father’s cheek. “It’s okay, Dad. I understand.”
My father wrapped me in his arms again. I breathed in his aftershave, that woodsy scent of my childhood. “Your mother has spent her whole life feeling guilty about Anna—so guilty she couldn’t even talk about her. I’m glad you can talk about Charlie now. You were a wonderful sister to him. He was so lucky to have you. So please, honey, please don’t repeat your mother’s mistake. You’ve got your whole life in front of you. Don’t waste it feeling guilty. All your mother and I want is for you to be happy.”
Sometimes in my dreams, Charlie gives me lovely things: building blocks and endless hugs.