More Than You Know (6 page)

7

“W
e’re going to need a lot of boxes!” Rumer groaned, looking at the mountain of clothes on the bed. “I’m beginning to think Mum kept everything. There are clothes in this closet that I wore when I was twelve!”

Beryl laughed. “Well, it’s all your stuff and you didn’t get rid of it either.”

“We’re going to have to hire one of those estate companies,” she said, dragging a box out of the back of the closet and pulling open its flaps. “Hey!” she exclaimed. “Here are our games!”

Beryl looked over her sister’s shoulder at the contents of the box. Lined up, side by side in their original boxes, were all the games of their childhood: Parcheesi, Clue, Scrabble, Checkers, Monopoly, and Yahtzee; there was also a plain black box with no name.

“There’s our Ouija board! I always wondered what happened to that.”

Rumer laughed. “Do you remember the time we had Sarah Jacobs over for a candlelight séance?”

Beryl sat down on the corner of her old twin bed—which was the only place left to sit—and grinned. “Yeah, we told her we were contacting old lady Johnson so we could ask her what really happened to her husband. Isak was so good at acting like she was possessed—even I believed it for a minute.”

“Yeah, and Sarah was so scared she went down and told Mum she had to go home. I honestly thought she was going to wet her pants!”

“And Mum was so mad—do you remember?”

“I remember,” Rumer said. “She said we were mean, but it was so funny—and Sarah deserved it.”

“We were mean,” Beryl said remorsefully.

“Ber, girls
are
mean—and manipulative. It’s in their nature, except in rare cases—like you! Knowing how I acted at times makes me very glad I have a son.”

“Well, Mum was right.”

“I know, thank goodness we outgrew it.”

“I wonder what happened to Sarah.”

“She married John Winston and moved to Vermont. They have a dairy farm and something like ten kids—all under the age of fourteen.”

“How do you know that?”

“Facebook. You should join. It’s fun to see what old classmates are up to—and what they look like!”

“Well, at least she got married,” Beryl said gloomily, ignoring her sister’s enthusiasm for Facebook.

Rumer looked up from where she was kneeling in the closet. “Ber, marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be—trust me! Besides, would you want to be married to John Winston and have ten of his kids?”

“No—but I’d like to find out for myself that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Rumer sat down next to her on the bed. “You just haven’t found the right guy yet.”

Beryl shook her head. “Rumer, I’m almost forty-five and I have zero prospects—it doesn’t look very promising—and having kids is almost completely out of the picture. Even if I was pregnant at this very moment, it would be risky, and I don’t want to be an old mom.”

Rumer sighed, knowing she was right. “You’ll meet someone, Ber. I just know it. Remember what Mum used to say: ‘God has a plan, and even when it doesn’t look very promising, you just have to trust that He has something good in mind.’ And, Ber, if anyone deserves something good, it’s you! Besides, Mum’s up there now and I’m sure she’s pulling some strings.”

Beryl laughed, knowing she was right. “I wonder why Mum never remarried.”

Rumer shrugged. “It would’ve taken a very brave man to marry a woman with three little girls.”

“That’s true . . .”

“Besides, she used to say that Dad was irreplaceable and she didn’t want to bring another man into our lives. I think she worried that it might not work out.”

“I don’t know, Ru. I’ve always had this feeling that there was something else that held her back, something going on in her life that she didn’t talk about.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s hard to explain. At first, I thought it was just a normal mother-daughter connection, but then, in recent years, it was as if I could feel what she was feeling—with the same intensity she was feeling it.”

Rumer frowned.

“I know, it sounds weird. Maybe I’m crazy!”

Rumer shook her head. “You’re not crazy. But I wonder if it has something to do with the accident,” she offered. “Mum was pregnant with you when they had the accident—and it was so traumatic.”

“Maybe. I honestly don’t know, but the older I got, the more I felt it. Anyway, I’ve also always had this feeling there was something in her heart that she never told anyone. I don’t know what it was, but in the last year, as her memory declined, I heard her say the name
David
on several occasions. I couldn’t figure out who she was talking about, and the one time I asked her, she just gazed out the window and didn’t answer. I forgot all about it until yesterday when I was putting away her wedding rings and came across a different ring and a card in her jewelry box. The card was signed:
Always, David.
”

Rumer’s eyes grew wide. “Really?!”

Beryl nodded. “Come see.”

Rumer followed her sister across the hall and Beryl pulled open the drawer of their mom’s jewelry box. The sapphire ring sparkled brightly. “Oh, my,” Rumer said softly. Then her expression changed from one of amazement to one of puzzlement. “How come I never saw Mum wear this?”

“I don’t know—I didn’t either,” Beryl answered, reaching for the card. “That’s funny,” she said, “the card’s not here.” She looked behind the dresser and then under the bed and found it surrounded by dust mice. “I must have dropped it when I ran outside to get Flan before . . .” She looked at her sister and shook her head. “Long story—anyway, that’s it.”

Rumer studied the delicate painting of the cardinal and then opened it to read the inscription. “I have no idea who David is . . . or was. Maybe Isak knows.” Just then, a car door slammed and they looked out the window to see a red Ford Mustang parked next to the Mini. “Speak of the devil,” Rumer said with a grin.

8

T
he morning clouds melted away as Mia’s daughters stood in the driveway, embracing, smiling, and crying—all at once—their grief overwhelming them as they realized their beloved mom would never stand in the sunlight with them again—to hug . . . or cry . . . or laugh.

“Listen,” Beryl exclaimed, pulling back tearfully. “Do you hear that?” Her sisters stopped talking and listened. “Peepers!” Beryl exclaimed, her heart lifting. “Mum loved that sound.” A chorus of high-pitched chirping filled the air and Rumer and Isak smiled, remembering all the times they’d scooped clear, gelatinous eggs and pond water into jars and watched the little black centers of the eggs hatch into tadpoles. Then they’d pulled on their muck boots, marched dutifully back to the pond, and gently released the tadpoles into the cold, gray water. A month or so later, on a warm, sunny afternoon, they would trip down the driveway from the school bus and hear the cheerful, welcoming sound of peeping. And night after mild spring night, they’d drift to sleep listening to the wonderful sound of new life. “Mum is smiling too,” Beryl said matter-of-factly, and Isak and Rumer both nodded, knowing it was true.

Suddenly realizing there was another new guest, Flannery trundled over from the direction of the pond and jumped up on Isak’s tan slacks. “Oh, Flan,” Isak groaned, leaning down to brush away the muddy smear. The old dog looked up and wagged her hind end, blissfully unaware of any wrongdoing. “I would’ve said hello to you. You didn’t have to jump up,” she said, scratching her big blocky head.

Beryl smiled and picked up Isak’s suitcase while Rumer clicked out the handle of the rolling carry-on. Isak followed them, stopping to look up at the old farmhouse and then, with Flan at her heels, went inside.

They set the luggage just inside the door, and Isak ran her fingers lightly over the kitchen table and shook her head. “Some things never change . . .” she said wistfully as new tears spilled down her cheeks. “And some things will never be the same.” Beryl put her arm around her and Isak leaned against her little sister. “And you had to weather the worst of it, Ber. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. You got here as soon as you could,” Beryl reassured her. “There was no way to know how quickly she would go.”

“And . . . how bad was it?”

“It was sad . . . and really hard, but she wasn’t in any pain, and I’m glad I was there.”

Isak nodded, wiping under her eyes. She smiled through her tears. “Thank goodness for waterproof mascara and hemorrhoid cream.” Rumer and Beryl both looked puzzled and she laughed. “Didn’t Mum ever tell you? Hemorrhoid cream works like a charm for puffy eyes.”

“Really?” Rumer asked incredulously.

Isak nodded. “Yup, just don’t get it in your eyes.”

“Mum never told me that,” Beryl said. “We’ll have to get some before Saturday.”

“No need,” Isak said as she reached into her bag and produced a new tube of Preparation H.

Beryl laughed. “Well, that’s one less thing we have to think about.”

As she spoke, there was a light knock at the screen door and they all looked up. Beryl immediately recognized the tall, thin figure standing on the porch and hurried over to open the door. “Hi, Mr. O’Leary.”

She turned to introduce him to her sisters. “This is Mr. O’Leary—he owns the funeral home. He’s also a faithful customer at Tranquility.” The old gentleman smiled and reached out to shake their hands.

“I’m so very sorry for your loss,” he said solemnly. “Your mother was a lovely lady.” Isak and Rumer thanked him while trying not to notice his wayward appearance. Mr. O’Leary’s khaki pants, held up by worn leather suspenders, were hitched well above his waist, making them three inches too short and revealing sagging wool hiking socks; his blue oxford shirt was threadbare and wrinkled, and his once-white-now-mare-gray undershirt was frayed around the neck. “Please forgive me,” he said, apologetically, “I forgot my tie.” As he spoke he reached up to close his collar with fingers gnarled by arthritis.

Beryl gave her sisters a warning look. “That’s okay, Mr. O’Leary, we aren’t dressed up either. Would you like some iced tea?”

“That sounds good,” he said. She filled four glasses with ice, poured chilled tea into the glasses, and added a sprig of mint to each. He thanked her and they all sat down around the kitchen table of their childhood to discuss the burial plans for their beloved mother.

“He was very nice,” Isak said after Mr. O’Leary had left with the bag of clothes for their mom—of which she had approved—and a check for four thousand dollars.

“He was,” Rumer agreed, “and funny too. I never expected him to be funny, but I guess—in a business like that—you have to have a sense of humor.”

“His wife passed away a year ago,” Beryl said, eyeing them admonishingly. “I’m sure that’s why he looked a little disheveled. He used to come in and buy Irish breakfast tea all the time—and he was always neatly dressed—but I hardly ever see him anymore.”

Isak and Rumer nodded a bit remorsefully, and Isak commented, “Well, I’m glad he takes the body to the crematory himself—I don’t want to end up with someone else’s ashes.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to see her before . . . ?” Beryl asked.

Rumer shook her head. “I’d rather just remember her the way I do now.” Isak nodded in agreement.

The phone rang suddenly, breaking the somber silence that had settled over the kitchen and Beryl stood to answer it. Isak and Rumer both listened quietly as she spoke. “Hi, Reverend Peterson. Yes, I think so. Hold on.” She held the mouthpiece against her hand. “Are you guys all right with meeting at the church in an hour?” Rumer and Isak both nodded. “Yes, we can come,” Beryl continued. She looked at the clock. “Five o’clock? That’s fine—okay, see you then.”

“I’m going up to change,” Isak said as Beryl hung up the phone. She turned to get her bags.

“Well, before you do, we have a question for you,” Rumer said, grabbing the carry-on and following her. Isak set her suitcase down in the hall outside their mom’s bedroom and peered into the familiar sun-swept space as Beryl walked around the bed, opened the jewelry box, and picked up the ring. “Have you ever seen this before?”

Isak walked over, tucking her hair behind her ear, and Beryl dropped the ring into her sister’s hand. Isak smiled slowly. “Not only have I seen it before . . . I’ve worn it.”

“When?!” Beryl and Rumer asked in surprised unison.

“To my prom . . .”

Beryl and Rumer blinked in astonishment, and Isak continued, “Mum didn’t know. I tucked it into my clutch before I left and slipped it on in the car, and then I put it back the next morning.”

“How did you know about it?”

She shrugged. “Do you remember how we used to dress up and wear all of Mum’s beads and clip-on earrings?” They nodded and she continued. “Well, one time I accidently pulled the drawer out all the way and I saw the ring . . . and I never forgot it.”

“How old were you?”

Isak shrugged. “I don’t know, seven or eight. Why?”

“Well, we were wondering how long she’d had it because we never saw her wear it.”

Isak nodded. “I don’t know why she never wore it.”

“Didn’t you worry you might lose it?”

Isak ran her fingers through her thick mane of red hair, fluffing it up, and grinned impishly. “Ber, when I was eighteen, I didn’t worry about
anything.
Life was all about having fun and seeing how much I could get away with.”

Beryl shook her head—it would never have even occurred to her to do such a thing.

Isak smiled, reading her mind. “Berry, how are you going to write the next great American novel if you don’t live a little—if you never take any chances? What will you write about? Mum never wore this gorgeous ring—she never did anything out of character—and now, she’s gone. Her life is over. Is that how you want your life to be?”

Beryl searched her sister’s face, trying to wrap her mind around what she’d just said, and when she answered, her voice was edged with anger. “Mum lived a good life, Isak. Maybe it wasn’t as exciting as yours, but she raised three little girls all by herself, and she never lost her faith in spite of tragedy, loss, and heartache. She helped those who were less fortunate, volunteered at soup kitchens, helped little kids learn to read, and gave generously to her church. Mum made us her life, and I know she felt blessed. I don’t know how many times I heard her say her cup runneth over.” Tears had filled Beryl’s eyes as she spoke. She couldn’t believe she had to defend their mother’s life to her own sister.

“I’m sorry, Ber, I didn’t mean to upset you. All I meant was she could’ve lived a little.”

“You’ve lived a little, Isak. You’ve snuck out of the house, run wild, traveled the world, driven expensive cars and hosted parties until the wee hours of the morning. Does that make your life better somehow?”

Isak swallowed hard and stared. Her youngest sister—so like their mom—wasn’t fooled by her bravado. She had looked straight into her heart and seen the emptiness, and she had spoken with brutal honesty. “You’re right, Beryl,” she said, her voice edged with sarcasm. “I do feel like something’s missing.”

Beryl’s mouth dropped. “I . . . I’m sorry, Isak,” she stammered. She took a deep breath. “I’m just tired and stressed, and that didn’t come out the way I—”

But Isak held up her hand and shook her head. “No, Ber. You’re right. Mum did live a good, full life and I . . .” She stopped as tears spilled down her cheeks. “I just wish I could ask her her secret.”

Beryl nodded slowly. “I wish I could too,” she said softly.

Rumer, who’d been sitting on the bed, cleared her throat. “Well,” she began hesitantly, “there’s actually more to our question . . .” Isak looked up and Rumer handed her the card. “Did you ever see this?”

Isak opened the card and turned it over. “No—you know me . . .” she said with a weak smile. “Blinded by bling! All I saw was the ring.” Her rhyming words rang true and they all laughed. Isak studied the handwriting again and slowly shook her head. “Who is David?”

Rumer shrugged. “We were hoping you would know.”