Page 53

ATTENDANT:Here’s your medication.
DAPHNE:Give it here; I’ll take it later! We’re busy!
[Door slams.]
Chapter Twenty-Five
I will never tell Ruth what happened to James. I’ve never told anyone.
On a good morning when I wake up, before I’m really conscious, I find myself reliving my favorite memories as if they were happening for the first time. They always feature James. Sometimes I’m back in our tiny apartment, feeling his toddler body sleeping peacefully next to me in the dark, his soft skin pressed against my cheek. Sometimes I’m driving down the street in a flashy convertible, with my best boy riding beside me. And sometimes I’m back at his graduation, watching him get his degree from Yale.
This morning, I was graced with the dream of his graduation. Watching James cross that stage, so tall and dignified in his black robes, was the proudest moment of my life. All the struggle and pain was worth it to see this man, such a wonderful man, succeed, knowing that I had loved him as hard as I could. And James was graduating from an Ivy League school with not a cent of debt. I had paid for it all. Not bad for a girl who never went to high school. The thought of watching him move through his twenties, finding success and happiness, filled me with indescribable joy. He was my triumph.
It was a shame my husband Roy felt too ill to attend the ceremony. Or the reception. Not even the celebratory dinner. I had been married to Roy for two years at that point. He was long and lean, like a cowboy, with a thick moustache and eyebrows that needed trimming so that they didn’t droop in his eyes. He’d made a fortune in industrial agricultural machines, but he seemed more like an old ranch hand than a millionaire. Usually he loved being outside, fixing things in the garage and carting junk off to the dump in his truck. Lately, however, he’d been sick and spent most of his time in bed. The twins were off doing a semester at sea (a cruise ship masquerading as a college) and I was secretly glad that it was just my son and I out on the town that night. We ordered martinis and clinked our glasses together and I stared at my beautiful boy and felt proud that I had pulled it off: I had raised a good man.
“Congratulations, James,” I said, as we sipped our drinks. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mom, I’m glad you came. I know it must not have been easy, raising all of us. . .I hope someday I can take care of you,” he said earnestly, his face shining.
“Oh, honey, don’t worry about that,” I said, secretly thrilled. “I can take care of myself.”
“And Roy of course,” my son said, arching his eyebrow. And suddenly, my sick husband was hanging around the table, an invisible mood-killer.
“Yes, I can take care of Roy.”
A few weeks later, James came out to our Montana ranch to sort through his things and plan his next move. We stayed up late talking most nights, sitting out on the porch where we wouldn’t disturb Roy’s sleep. James was so good to my husband: delivering his trays upstairs and reading him the newspaper when he felt too weak to do it himself.
One morning, I slipped out of bed at 5a.m.and stole into the kitchen. The house was quiet, and the sky was tinged with the first pink rays of light. My mood matched the sunrise, and I felt buoyant, as if life was easier than usual.
I heated up water and added porridge oats, leaving them to cook on the stove. Then I pulled out my secret stash of pills and began to grind them up. I was so lost in my own happy thoughts that I never heard him walk in.
“Mom, don’t,” James said, putting his hand on my wrist. I jumped, my nerves jangling.
“James! Don’t what?” I asked. He looked so solemn even though he was wearing an old high school T-shirt and some plaid boxers.
“Don’t put those pills in Roy’s food,” he said.
I froze. “I wasn’t. . .”I began unconvincingly. But one look at his face confirmed that he was certain, that there was no room for me to make him believe.
“I suppose I’ve suspected it for a long time. The different names, the constant moves, the fact that I went to more funerals as a kid than some people do in their lifetime,” James said slowly. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Come on, two husbands got cancer and one killed himself! That’s just horrible luck—” I began but he ignored me and kept talking.
“But it all seemed impossible. And I never saw anything that proved it, that even let me name it. Until now,” James said. I didn’t say anything, and he stepped forwards, taking my hands. For a moment his face softened, and I could feel my bones melting like butter. What could I say to my boy?
“Please, Mom. Don’t make me feel crazy. Tell me the truth,” he pleaded.
If it had been anyone else, I would have lied. But this was James. I didn’t want him to suffer.
“Yes. It’s true,” I whispered, saying it for the first time. “But I did it for you and the girls.” He frowned and dropped my hands.
“No, you didn’t. Geoffrey was rich. We could have lived a nice, normal life off what he left us. And David? He was like a father to me! But you just kept thrashing around, looking for something else. I used to feel sorry for you, for all the people you lost. But you caused this,” he said disdainfully.
When someone who loves you looks at you with disgust, a part of your soul dies.
“I wanted to give you everything—” I began, but he kept talking over me.
“And I can’t turn you in. You’re my mom. And all you’ve ever done is love me.” His voice broke, and I could see tears rolling down his cheeks.