“What you need to be doing is preparing your speech for the presentation on Monday,” my father says, diverting the conversation.
He’s only told me he was sorry once. I’m sorry every goddamn day of my life. Hurting her was meant to be a small sacrifice and would ultimately lead to saving her. My father promised it was for the best. Her name wouldn’t be mentioned if we weren’t together.
The papers called wanting a lead, and suggested my relationship with her father involved more than just dating his daughter. The angle of the article was that her father’s scheming was a family affair.
It didn’t just help me for my father to tell them we weren’t together any longer. It was to keep her name free of it all too, or so he said.
She wasn’t supposed to come home and bear the brunt of it. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Her father is a bastard for dying when he did.
“Show them around town, deliver your speech.” My father continues, emphasizing each action with a rap of his knuckles on the hard maple desk. “The next morning, you put that pressure on until they sign the deal.”
“I’m aware.”
“Good.” The single word is a strong indication this meeting is over, so I prepare myself to leave, to deal with everything else. An endless to-do list and emails that can’t wait. Unfortunately, my father’s tone softens and he asks, “Have you spoken to your mother?
“Have I spoken to her about what?” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Four years ago when she was first diagnosed, it was upsetting, but my mother was still my mother. Alzheimer’s has a way of stealing people from you. The progression has been slow but sure. The thread in our family has withered away just as much as her memory has. My mother’s friends hardly call on her anymore. They don’t know how she is these days. No one in this town knows … except for Magnolia. Although she doesn’t know the extent of it. Only what I’ve told her at my weakest moments. My mother was never kind to Mags. The two didn’t get along and I know it’s because of the way my mom talked to her … and about her.
“That you asked her to marry you.”
“To hell with that. I haven’t. No.” She barely remembers who Magnolia is anymore. Bridget, though, she remembers.
“She’s beside herself.”
Guilt worms its way in and I find myself adjusting in the chair uncomfortably.
“I haven’t seen her.” The guilt eats away at me as my father’s eyes gloss over.
“What did she say exactly?”
“Mom? I didn’t tell her.”
Before I can reply to that, my father shakes his head and says, “No, no, no.” He takes in a steadying breath before meeting my gaze to clarify, “What did Magnolia say when you asked her?”
Although my father’s tone is gentle, my response is anything but. “She said no.”
“I thought there was something … between you two?” His voice is low, his words careful and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a hint of loss in his gaze. He clears his throat, casually reaching into a drawer as if this conversation isn’t important. It’s a telltale sign that he’s anxious over my answer.
“She said it was too soon.”
“Too soon,” he repeats in a huff, as if he doesn’t like the taste of the words. I prepare for more, although nothing else comes but a stack of papers from the drawer landing with a harsh thud on the desk. He aimlessly riffles through them, but doesn’t really look at a single one, the corners of his lips decidedly turned down.
“You should come to dinner soon.” His suggestion weighs down my already heavy heart. He says that when she’s worsened. I wish I could say I didn’t know how much worse it could possibly get. Unfortunately, that’s not the case.
My first instinct when I finally leave is to tell Magnolia, but for the first time in years I hesitate. With the message waiting to be sent, I know I can’t hit that button. It’s my burden, not hers. When it comes to Magnolia, I’ve been selfish for too long.
Magnolia
Eight years ago
“Is this the one?” Robert asks, a charming smile teasing me as he picks up his pace and rounds the angel oak tree. Ever since I was little, I’ve loved what people say about this tree. It’s the tallest oak in the center of town and I know there are prettier, larger trees in the world, but this one is my favorite.
It’s a promise tree.
“This one, right?” he asks again.
“You know it is,” I answer Robert as he lets go of my hand. The roots poke out from the ground, and I take a moment to slip off my wedges rather than trip on them. We have at least a half hour until sunset, but the ambers have already taken over the skyline.