Secrets in the Lowcountry--The River (26 page)

Follo
w
ing like a puppet, Martin collapsed in the chair, folded his arms on the table top and bo
w
ed his head.

“
W
hat are you experiencing no
w
?”

His head remai
ned buried in his arms. “Regret
, anger, rage, guilt and relief.”

“Let’s talk about these one by one.
But let’s start
w
ith guilt.
”

Taking a deep breath
, Martin shifted his position and sat back in his chair staring at the star filled sky.
“Perhaps, I didn’t do enough.
I’m very a
w
are of AA’s steps.
I’ve had professional counseling, still I
w
onder
…
”

“Could you have changed anything in your life to prevent Julia Ann’s addiction?”

Martin
w
aited a fe
w
minutes
, not changing his focal point,
w
hile he revie
w
ed his actions and his
w
ife’s. “
Logically, no, but
…
”

“
All right,”
Mike
interrupted.
“A
nger.”

“At Julia Ann. At Rod, for disappearing and being a primer for the events that
led to her death. At myself for,
w
ho kno
w
s
w
hat
else
. The anger
,
maybe
resentment
is a better
w
ord
,
that
I bare
and bore
her
hurts
like a festering sore
.”
He looked directly at
his friend
.

“
For a goodly portion of your life, you hid your inner hurt
—protecting
w
here necessary, soothing
w
hen needed, and ke
eping
a stable environment for Taylor.
My telling you that you did all you could,
w
on’t solve the inner ache. You must ackno
w
ledge and accept the truth and reality of those facts.”

Martin listened.
Can I accept that?
He
w
asn’t sure.

“Regret
.”
 

As he stared off into the open space that separated the porch from the river, he
w
ondered ho
w
to ans
w
er. Finally, he said,
“
Regret
because of
w
hat
w
e might have had.
”

“Oh. Re
w
riting life. All of us
w
ish
w
e could do this
,
some more often than others.
W
hen I lost my family, I blamed myself for not driving them to the game. Didn’t matter, that the field
w
as half
w
ay bet
w
een home and my church and that
w
e’d planned to meet at the game. The guilt lay heavily on me. Almost everyone
w
ishe
s
he or she could change the past. No one can. Does that prevent us from
w
ishing to? No. R
egret is another part of the h
ealing. The hardest one is next
relief.”

Silently, Martin prayed
for strength to continue. “Relief that Taylor and I no longer have to live in fear
,
and I do mean fear
,
of
w
hat Julia Ann
w
ill
do. As the saying goes,
‘
w
aiting for the next shoe to drop
.’ For years, I expected a phone call from the police or the hospital. Fortunately this didn’t happen until the other night. That
w
oman lived a charmed life.” He shook his head as he
mentally
recalled some of the stories he’d heard or some of the events he’d
w
itnessed.

“
P
lease
don’t misunderstand
w
hat I’m going to say next.”

“Priests hear many things.
W
e listen and try not to judge.”

“
W
ith Julia Ann’s passing, I can have my o
w
n life.
W
hile she lived
,
every day
w
as restricted for fear of
w
hat
w
ould happen if I
w
asn’t here.
If I
w
ant to take a vacation, I can. If I
w
ant to move, I can.
I never divorced her because I
w
orried about her survival.

“I don’t believe I have loved her for a very long time.” He allo
w
ed his in
n
er emotions to sho
w
.

“Martin, unrequited love only
w
orks in novels.
Love doesn’t exist in a vacuum.
Love is a give and take, a sharing of everyday activities, a desire to be a part of someone, to help, to laugh or cry
w
ith
them. If none of these exist or
haven’t existed for years, love can’t survive.

“
Time and prayer are truly the only healers.
W
hen I lost family, I almost lost my religion, too.
My relief
w
as because they hadn’t suffered, but a
ll of the
other
emotion
s you express filled me as
w
ell.
M
y
w
hole being ached
w
ith hurt
.
Talking does help. I’m al
w
ays here for you and yours. Don’t be ashamed of your feelings. Accept them. Live with them. Acknowledge them, but don’t dwell on them.

“Any other problems or questions?”

Martin shook his head.

Mike
stood. “I’ll see you
tomorro
w
. My prayers are
w
ith you.” He
gripped Martin’s shoulder
w
ith one hand, before turning to
w
ard the door.

Martin remained in his chair thinking.

The long, black, funeral limo’s tires screech
ed
on the dirt and stone drive
w
ay as it
pulled up to the front steps of the
Harris
home.
Taylor had been standing at the screen door
w
aiting.
She’d
w
orn the black, silk, sheath many times before, but after today, she
w
ould give the dress a
w
ay.
The memories from this day
w
ould totally over shado
w
the happier times.
“Dad, the car’s here.”
Taylor heard her father’s footsteps on the stairs.
She turned around and looked.
He seldom
w
ore a suit
,
probably didn’t have more than t
w
o or three,
preferring an open-necked,
short-sleeved shirt and Dockers.
Today, he
w
ore a black suit
w
ith small, almost invisible,
w
hite stripes.
His face sho
w
ed little emotion, but Taylor recognized this expression.
W
hen he faced an unpleasant situation, he
w
ore a mask
.
She took his hand. L
eading
the
w
ay
, they
w
alked out the
w
ide front door and entered the back seat of the limousine.

“Good morning, Aunt
Bertha
,” Taylor and her father said
in tandem, as they sat opposite her.
Her aunt had been picked up first. She sat facing the driver
w
earing
her funeral dres
s, so called since only for those
occasion
s
was
the outfit
w
orn. Ho
w
old the dress
w
as or
w
hat style, Taylor had no idea. Ho
w
ever, the skirt filled almost the entire rear seat
and the hat and short veil reminded Taylor of
old
pictures of Dwight Eisenhower’s wife,
Mamie
.

“Good morning, my dears. Although
w
hy
w
e say ‘good’ on such a day, I have no idea.” She opened her purse and pulled out a black handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. Taylor had asked about the hanky and
w
as told it belonged to
Bertha
’s grandmother.
W
hy am I thinking about such trivial things? I should be praying for my mother.
 

Taylor found her father’s hand and held it
for the t
w
enty minute drive to the church
. T
he only sound
s
in the car, the occasional
w
hirl of the air-conditioner fan clicking on
and off
and an occasional sniffle from her aunt
.

Cars, SUV’s, and trucks packed t
he parking lot ac
ro
ss the street from the church. T
he spaces in front,
plus those
on the side
streets
and in the back
of the building
,
w
ould also be occupied
.
Taylor recognized thi
s as a tribute, not so much to
her mother, as for her father.
She glanced at him.
He
w
as a good man. H
e deserved better than Julia Ann.
Perhaps,
w
ith her gone, he might find the peace that her mother had denied him.
A terrible thought, but
true
.

The driver held the door open.
Her father stepped out and offered his hand to Aunt
Bertha
.
W
ith difficulty, the older
w
oman exited the limo. As Taylor climbed out, s
he
heard the bells p
ealing. The sound continued until she’d joined her father and aunt then suddenly, they
stopped
. S
ilence replaced the calling of the faithful to service.
Taking a fe
w
steps, she glanced at the church
’s strong
w
hite shape and received strength from
w
hat it stood for.
Her father
and aunt
joined her
. S
he
copied
Bertha
by placing
her hand around her dad’s
arm
,
glad for the comfort of this
w
onderful man.

He
snatched a
look
at each of his companions, as if
w
aiting for a sign. Her aunt bobbed her head in response as did Taylor. She
tightened her hold on him.
He nodded his head
. The three of them
w
alked along the brick pavers to
w
ards the large, stucco church, built more than t
w
o hundred-fifty years before.
St. Alban
’s had been her family’s church for several generations.
The graves, on eith
er side of the
w
alk
w
ay,
contained
the remains of friends of her ancestors.
Her
family
’s
vault lay across the street in the annex
cemetery
.
Later in the
w
eek, h
er mother’s ashes
w
ould be placed
there
during
a private ceremony.