Does she know what happened? Have they told her about the baby? Has she even been awake yet? My legs start to move, when I see my mother asleep in the chair. A blanket is pulled up around her neck, and her face is lined with sadness.
In that moment my past, everything I’ve done, pushes me back. I remember the years of sadness growing up. I remember my father and his selfishness. Year after year he wore her down. She did everything he wanted, lived wherever he said, and she only smiled when he was gone. I can’t remember a day she was happy with him.
Just like your father…
The words trickle into my brain like a cruel truth. I reach for the doorjamb as they move through my chest. I have to let Mariska go. I can’t hold onto her when I’ll only hurt her. I can’t watch the light fade from her eyes as she slowly grows to hate me.
My heart breaks as I turn away. I return down the hall, my eyes fixed on the glossy beige linoleum. One of the nurses speaks to me, but I don’t stop. I leave the small hospital and drive through the night back to the ranch. My mind is silent. My stomach cramps with pain, and I grip the steering wheel as heat burns my eyes.
I drive for what feels like hours until I’m at the quiet house. My idea is to gather clothes and things so I can stay away, but instead I take the last fifth of crown off the wet bar and leave.
I go back to the cabin, back to the floor. My knees are bent, and my head is in my hands. Scrubbing my fingers against my scalp, I whisper her name as my entire body burns for her. “Mariska.”
I have to let her forget me. I have to let her go back to her life. I won’t be like my father.
The sharp toe of a boot nudges me awake. I’m on the floor, and the half-empty bottle of Crown is on the coffee table. My head feels like it’s been hit with a sledgehammer.
“You don’t look so good.” My uncle sits on the sofa, arms on his knees. His brown eyes are sad.
Pushing against the floor, I sit up, pulling my knee to my chest to steady myself. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Not surprised,” he grunts. “Have you eaten?”
“Not hungry,” I manage through my cottonmouth.
“Well, I brought you some food anyway.” He pauses a beat before reaching out and holding my shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
My hand goes over my eyes, and I rub the heat away. Pain radiates through my chest at his words, and even though I don’t have the right to ask, I need to know. “How is she?”
He exhales deeply, leaning back. “She’s coming home. She’s asking for you.”
More pain twists in my chest. “As if she needs me.” My voice is ragged. “As if I didn’t take everything from her.”
“You’re working on it.” Brown eyes level on mine, and for the first time, I detect a slight edge in his voice.
Confused, I meet his gaze. “It’s not a work in progress. I’ve done a damn good job.” Pushing all the way up, I go to the window and look out at the miles of empty grassland. I wonder how long this torment will rage in my chest. “Everyone was right. I’m just like him. I’ll only break her down, make her unhappy…”
“I don’t know what kind of lies you’ve been out here telling yourself, but you’re not your father. The choices you make right now are your choices, not his.”
A small echo seems to resonate in the cabin behind his words. I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t turn. I search for a point far on the horizon as I think about what he just said.
Clearing my throat, I answer. “I have to let her go. She needs someone more like her.”
He pushes off the couch and walks to where I’m standing. “How about you let Mariska decide what she needs.” He pauses, and the warmth of his hand is on my shoulder. “Your sister planned a memorial service. Get yourself cleaned up and come to the house.”
Going to the door, he pauses to look back at me, but I don’t turn. I don’t believe he’s right, but I will go back to say goodbye.
16
Returning
Mariska
It’s evening when we gather for the memorial service. Amy found a secluded location on a hill not far from the house. A cluster of young trees provides shade over a small thicket, and a spray of happy yellow flowers mixes with bluebonnets in the tall grass.
The hospital sent me a certificate stating how she died. I don’t want to look at it, so I tuck the envelope into my suitcase. The doctor released me to return to Bayville on the condition I would see a doctor there. I agreed, although I doubt I will. I’ve reached a point where I don’t care. It doesn’t matter anymore.
I watch as Amy sets a bouquet of purple flowers in front of a small white cross that stands near a mound of dirt where we buried a small box containing the yarn we used to measure