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You know the scripture.
Perhaps it excuses what I did. Perhaps not. But I did what I had to.
He took the life of your baby, my grandchild. So I took his. And I do not regret it. That night you’d fought back and gotten away. Next time you wouldn’t be so lucky.
I might have been a shit mom to you. I didn’t have the best examples myself growing up, and the drinking and pills didn’t help. Probably, I failed you in every way. But no one was going to hurt my grandchild, no one was going to hurt you and get away with it.
I’ll say this here, so you may keep it always, because I suspect you may not believe it otherwise. I love you.
I would ask for your forgiveness, but I am beyond all of that now, if you are reading this.
So I will just ask for you to go to confession. Cleanse your soul. My reminders didn’t work, so I pray that your mother’s dying wish might start your journey with Godover.
Love,
Mom
I swallow back a mix of so many emotions I’m surprised I’m not choking. My body feels as though it’s vibrating as I read the letter again, and then again. I picture Noah in the driveway the other morning, how he said he didn’t know who killed his father, how he suspected it might have been his mother.
But it wasn’t his mom after all.
It was mine.
Because she loved me.
CHAPTER
45
Ten months later
How was your week this week?” Dr. Sterling folds her hands on top of her notebook, the one that’s always on her lap.
“It was good. I slept through the night twice with no sleeping pill.”
“Oh, wow. That’s a big deal.”
I nod and smile. “It is.”
Ten months ago, when I returned from Louisiana, I expected things to improve—things like my mental health and insomnia. Minton Parish was behind me, and there were no more chapters coming in since Mom was gone, and, well, dead people take their tales with them. So I assumed I’d settle back into the way life had been before Hannah had thrown it into a tailspin. But too much has changed. I’m no longer only Elizabeth Davis. I’m also Jocelyn Burton—she didn’t stay down south like I’d hoped. Neither did my mother. I’ve felt a lot of guilt for not being with Mom at the end, when it turned out she’d done so much for me. So instead of my mental health getting better, things got worse. I wasn’t hungry and couldn’t sleep. My ability to concentrate was virtually nonexistent. Grading exams for a class of forty students went from taking me two hours to almost two weeks. And then therewere the physical manifestations of stress—heart palpitations, muscle fatigue, and the worst heartburn.
I went to the doctor a few times. But with all the new symptoms, she wanted me to see a psychiatrist or a therapist—get to the root of the problem. I’d yessed her at my visits, like I was going to look into it. But after she wouldn’t prescribe me sleeping pills anymore, I had no choice but to actually do it. So I made an appointment with Dr. Sterling. I figured she already knew I had some pretty big issues, so she wouldn’t be a hard sell to get what I needed. I had no intention of letting her dig into my psyche, but I did need someone to prescribe me those pills so I could sleep. As it turns out, she’s done a lot more. I think she’s actually helping me.
“So tell me about your week,” Dr. Sterling says. “You’re finished with classes now, right?”
I nod. “Thursday was my last day of the spring semester.”
“Will you teach any summer courses?”
“Not this year. It will be the first time since I started teaching that I have three full months off.”
“I think it’s good you’re taking a break. Do you have any plans for the summer?”
“Not too many. I’m mentoring a student who just completed my full-year novel-writing seminar. She’s shown a lot of promise, so I’m going to keep reading the chapters she writes and giving her feedback until she finishes. I really think she has something, and the book could sell to a publisher.”
“That’s wonderful. It must give you a sense of accomplishment to see your students succeed.”
“I guess.” I look out Dr. Sterling’s window, my mind already wandering to a new topic. “I went into a church the other day, Saint Paul’s.”