To Have and To Hold (24 page)

fol owed her and sat next to her on the couch. He made a move to hold her hand but then

quickly put his hand back on his thigh. She knew he was trying to comfort her, but she didn’t

think anyone or anything could comfort her at the moment. She avoided eye contact with him

because she knew if she didn’t, she’d break down and cry, and she was tired of crying because

of her mother.

Grace left the entryway and sat in the chair next to the window. Surprised, Mary lifted her

gaze in her direction. Grace shrugged. “I think Mother has enough people going over there.

She doesn’t need me.”

Mary appreciated what Grace was doing but couldn’t let her fol ow through with it. “You should

go.”

“She won’t even notice I’m not there.”

That’s where Grace was wrong. Their mother would notice, and that would only make things

worse. “Do it for your children then. They need a grandmother who’s happy to see their

mother. I won’t be coming back to Maine. There’s no reason for you to bear the brunt of her

anger because of me.”

“But Mary—”

“Grace, go.”

With a long sigh, Grace stood up and slowly walked over to the entryway where Katie was

getting her hat on. Mary dug her fingernails in the palms of her hands. It took her a moment to

realize she hadn’t done that peculiar habit since she arrived in Nebraska. In Nebraska, she

hadn’t felt the cold grip of anxiety either. And she certainly didn’t feel like an outsider. Her

relatives were gathered together to console her mother, but she wasn’t welcome to attend.

Though she couldn’t recal a time when her mother special y forbade her to be with the family,

she got the distinct impression that she was used to sitting by herself except when Grace was

around.

“I don’t think we should stay for the funeral,” Dave whispered.

“He’s my father,” she replied softly, blinking back the tears from her eyes.

“I know he is, but he’s not going to be there. His body wil be, but he won’t. Besides Grace

and Calvin, I don’t think anyone else cares if we’re there or not.”

The fact that he said “we” instead of “you” didn’t go unnoticed. He real y did love her.

As everyone headed out of the house, Grace looked back at Mary with a question in her eyes.

Mary mouthed the word “go” and Grace reluctantly obeyed.

After Grace shut the door behind her, Dave took Mary’s hand in his. “I can see why you stayed

here while Grace lived here. She’s a good sister.”

“Yes, she is. She reminds me of a mix between Sal y and Jenny.” He chuckled, and she settled

against him, her body relaxing. “I like your entire family.”

“They like you, too, and not just for your food.” A moment of silence passed before he

continued, “What do you say? Want to leave in two days?”

She bit her lower lip and tried to think of one good reason why they shouldn’t, but she knew

there was no point in staying. He was right. Her father wouldn’t be there, and she’d already

spent time with Grace. There was no reason to linger here, not when she’d have to deal with

her mother ignoring her and the rest of the family not caring.

She nodded. “Alright. We’l leave then.”

Dave let go of her hand so he could slip his arm around her waist. Closing her eyes, she

rested her head on his shoulder and pretended they were already back home where Isaac

would be searching for a frog and Rachel would be playing with her dol before Dave had to

take care of the evening chores.

Chapter Twenty

Mary stirred in her sleep. Once again, she dreamt of mirrors. This time the voices were more

distinct and the images in the mirrors better defined. They were her memories, and while they

were scattered throughout the hal ways in a dimly-lit house she floated through, they were

piecing things together for her.

She saw herself as a child playing marbles with Grace on the porch. One of their brothers and

his friends came along and made fun of her for being ugly. Grace told them they were mean

and that they needed to go away, but the words hadn’t bothered Mary at that point because

she’d been too young to understand what the words meant.

But as she grew older, the boys and her sisters, most notably Katie and Leah, would join in the

taunting. At one point, she went to her mother and asked her if it was true. Was she truly ugly

like they said? “We can’t al be beautiful, Mary,” came her mother’s reply. “You need to make

yourself useful. Then people won’t notice how you look.”

She saw herself taking comfort in doing solitary activities where no one commented on her

looks or—as she got older—talked about courtships and getting married and then having

children. None of those things seemed to be in her future. No young men took an interest in

her.

They’d ask her about another woman, but none of them wanted to take the time to get to know

her. “Do you know if Maggie has her eye out for anyone?” her brother’s friend once asked

her. “Wil you ask Betty if she’d say yes if I asked to court her?” a young man at the restaurant

asked her another time.

There were others on occasion, and she’d politely smile and answer the question, even if, deep

down, it bothered her to no end that they didn’t want her. Her father used to say, “Mary,

someday a man wil come along, and he’l appreciate you.”

Other memories of her life in Maine connected together, weaving a complete picture of her past

and why she was eager to leave and never return. And while she was stil asleep, the images

in the mirror began to laugh at her. She told them to stop, but they didn’t so she tried to find a

way out of the hal ways of mirrors that lined the wal s.

She turned corners, but no matter which way she went, she found herself trapped in the maze

of mirrors and, worse, the mocking laughter grew louder. Every self-doubt she’d ever had was

amplified.
You’ll never get married. You’ll never be loved. You’re dull. You’re ugly.

On and on the things she used to tel herself echoed through the corridors. She broke into a

run. It seemed to her that there was a light ahead, as if someone held a candle to guide her

out of the maze. She eagerly fol owed it, but no matter which hal she went down, the light

shifted in another direction.

Out of breath, she slowed to a stop. A look down both ends of the hal showed how fruitless

the pursuit was. She col apsed against the wal , only to realize too late she was touching a

mirror. She turned to it and saw her reflection. She knew it wasn’t how she real y looked. It

was how she’d seen herself while she was in Maine. It was why she refused to have a mirror

in her bedroom.

Grace had questioned the mirror removal when Mary turned twelve, saying it wasn’t necessary,

but Mary insisted it needed to be done without explaining how hideous her reflection looked to

her. And now Mary was coming face to face with the part of her past she worked so hard to

get rid of after she moved to Nebraska. The mass of tangled brown hair refused to settle in

place and stuck out at al ends. Her nose dwarfed her face. She had trouble making out her

eyes and mouth. Her reflection became distorted, and her neutral expression turned into a

scowl.

Another memory, this one her first one in Nebraska, came back to her. She came off the train

in Omaha and searched the crowd for the man she came to marry. She found him soon

enough, recognizing him by the way he described himself in his letter. Despite her

apprehension, she pressed through the crowd and introduced herself.

As soon as she did, she saw the horror in his eyes. The marriage she’d hoped for wasn’t going

to happen. She’d have to find employment in Omaha and live her life alone. The only comfort

she had was knowing she wasn’t going to return to Maine and admit her mother was right in

thinking the man would take one look at her and tel her to go back home. Except Neil’s exact

words were, “I couldn’t get drunk enough to get you with child.”

The memory slipped away and her attention returned to her distorted reflection in the mirror.

Her reflection shook her head and smirked. “Plain Mary Peters. That’s al you were and it’s al

you’re ever going to be.”

As her reflection laughed at her, Mary picked the mirror off the wal and smashed it onto the

floor. Then she started pul ing the other mirrors off the wal and threw them to the floor,

breaking as many as she could before she woke up with a start.

It took her a moment to realize where she was. In the darkness, it was easy to imagine she

was back inside that horrible house, desperately trying to break al the mirrors that mocked

her. She remained stil for a good minute, slowly adjusting to the waking world. It was a

nightmare. Just a nightmare. But it was the link she needed to remember everything that had

happened in the past. Even though she realized it, she missed not remembering her life in

Maine. She got amnesia, and for the first time in her life, she’d been able to look in a mirror

and not recal how she’d once seen herself. She had seen herself as she truly was instead of

how she was told she looked and that had been nice.

Sighing for she knew she’d never get that ability back, she rol ed over in the bed, surprised that

Dave wasn’t holding her. She missed being in his arms. She reached out for him, seeking his

warmth but he wasn’t in the bed. Sitting up, she examined the dark room, wondering where he

went.

***

Dave never should have tried to help a very drunk Bert to the porch. He should have left the

outhouse and went back to his room. But he saw Bert fal down as he stumbled out of the

house, so he went to help him up. And now he found himself afraid to leave Bert alone

because the man had a gun and given his current state, Dave wasn’t sure what the best course

of action was.

So far, Bert remained seated in the chair on the wraparound porch. Dave sat close by,

monitoring him in the moonlight and debating his options. Bert kept the gun pointed toward the

floor, so Dave didn’t sense any immediate danger. Even so, he tried to figure out the best way

to get the gun from him.

Bert leaned his head back and slumped in the chair. To Dave’s surprise he let out a bitter

laugh. “You drink?”

Dave shook his head, his gaze stil on the gun. Bert held it but his finger wasn’t on the trigger.

Dave wasn’t too far from it. Perhaps if he got Bert talking, he’d be distracted enough to loosen

his hold on the gun and Dave could safely take it from him. Straightening in his chair, he

determined how he should proceed. “No, no I don’t drink.”

Bert sighed and shook his head. “Course not,” he slurred. “You got Mary.” He laughed again.

“Joke’s on us. We al said, ‘She’s ugly. Poor fool in Omaha would be stuck with her.’ Didn’ see

what mattered.”

Dave knew the man was drunk and therefore not in ful control of what he was saying, but even

so, he grew tense. Yes, he put the pieces together and knew what her family thought of her.

He detested it, but he couldn’t change it. Her family seemed to thrive off division and

manipulation. It wasn’t something he was used to, and he was never more relieved that Mary

left Maine.

Bert let out a long sigh. “But we are the fools. Me included.”

Dave shifted forward, thinking to take the gun since Bert’s hold on the Colt .45 loosened, but

then Bert picked it up and rubbed his jaw with it. Dave remained stil , unsure if he should grab

the gun or if he’d startle Bert who’d shoot himself in the face. His heart pounded as he watched

Bert press the end of it into his cheek. Surely, he wouldn’t actual y pul the trigger! Nothing

could be worth pul ing the trigger for, no matter how many regrets he had. Bert swal owed and

then rested the gun back at his side.

Dave released his breath, but only slightly. “Look, it’s alright. We’ve al thought or done things

we wished we hadn’t, and you don’t need to worry about Mary. She doesn’t hate you or

anything.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I shoulda married her, not Katie. That’s what I meant.”

“Oh.” Dave didn’t know how to respond to that. He’d dealt with Neil Craftsman when he tried to

run off with Mary. Mary was a desirable woman. Any man would be lucky to have her, but i t

wasn’t Dave’s fault none of them understood it before he did, though he was grateful they

hadn’t.

“Did the foolish thing, alright,” Bert murmured, staring at nothing in particular. “Learned the