Chapter 2 - My Mother Was My Aunt
The ballroom emptied slowly.
Nobody wanted to leave.
Everybody pretended they did.
People hugged Vivian.
People whispered to Rachel.
People looked at me when they thought I wasn’t looking.
I stood near the ruined cake and felt nothing.
My mother was my aunt.
The sentence made no sense.
Rachel approached carefully.
“Nathan.”
“Don’t.”
She stopped.
I hated the hurt in her eyes because part of me knew she did not deserve my anger.
Another part needed somewhere to put it.
“You knew before tonight.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Two weeks.”
“And you decided to announce it in front of two hundred people?”
“No.”
She looked toward Vivian.
“She decided that.”
I laughed bitterly.
“She forced you to throw a cake?”
“No.”
Rachel’s voice hardened.
“She tried to burn the photograph.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“I brought the documents tonight because I was going to show you privately after the party.”
“Then what happened?”
“Vivian saw the sleeve in my bag.”
Rachel glanced toward the demolished cake table.
“She grabbed it while everyone was singing.”
My mind replayed what I had seen.
The cake between them.
Vivian covered in frosting.
“She tried to take it?”
“She tried to throw it into the candle flame.”
I stared.
Rachel continued.
“I grabbed her wrist. She pulled away. The cake cart moved.”
“You pushed it.”
“I pushed the cake away from the flame.”
“And into her.”
“Yes.”
The difference mattered.
Not enough yet.
But it mattered.
Vivian sat across the room with my uncle Raymond.
Except apparently he was not my uncle.
Maybe nothing meant what I thought anymore.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I did.”
I checked my phone.
Seven missed calls.
I had been in a meeting.
Rachel whispered:
“I sent you three messages.”
I remembered one.
Please come now.
I had replied:
Five minutes.
It had been forty.
I sat down.
Rachel crouched in front of me.
“There’s more.”
I looked at her.
“Of course there is.”
“I don’t know how much.”
“Then stop.”
She swallowed.
“All right.”
“No more surprises.”
“I promise.”
Across the ballroom, Vivian stood.
She walked toward us.
Her gown had been cleaned as much as possible.
White stains remained.
She stopped several feet away.
“Nathan.”
I looked at her.
“You’re my aunt.”
Her eyes filled.
“I raised you.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I became your mother.”
“When?”
“After Mara died.”
“How?”
She looked toward Rachel.
“This is exactly why I didn’t want you digging.”
Rachel stood.
“No. You didn’t want him knowing.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then explain it.”
Vivian looked at me.
“Your mother was unstable.”
Something about the phrase made me recoil.
“What does that mean?”
“She had problems.”
“What problems?”
“Men. Drinking. Money.”
Rachel’s face tightened.
“Interesting.”
Vivian turned.
“What?”
“The hospital file says Mara was a pediatric nurse.”
Silence.
“And the old tax records show she owned the yellow farmhouse.”
Vivian stared.
Rachel continued.
“So she had employment and property.”
“People can still have problems.”
“True.”
I raised a hand.
“Enough.”
They stopped.
I looked at Vivian.
“How did she die?”
Her eyes shifted.
Not much.
Enough.
“Car accident.”
I thought of the certificate.
“Undetermined.”
“The car went into the river.”
“Why doesn’t the certificate say drowning?”
Vivian’s lips parted.
Then closed.
Rachel whispered:
“That’s what I’ve been trying to understand.”
I stood.
“Where did you find everything?”
“Your mother’s attic.”
Vivian snapped:
“My attic.”
Rachel looked at her.
“Apparently.”
That one word nearly restarted the fight.
I stepped between them.
“Tomorrow.”
Both women looked at me.
“We talk tomorrow.”
Vivian said:
“Nathan—”
“No.”
My voice surprised even me.
“You lied to me for thirty-four years.”
Her face broke.
“I protected you.”
“From what?”
She had no answer.
That frightened me more than anything.
Rachel and I went home separately.
I drove.
She took a car.
I needed silence.
At 1:20 in the morning, I sat alone in my study staring at the photograph.
Mara.
My biological mother.
My aunt’s sister.
The woman who had once carried me.
I tried to remember her.
Yellow curtains.
Lavender soap.
A humming voice.
A wooden rocking chair.
I had always thought those memories belonged to Vivian.
Now the face would not fit.
At two, Rachel came downstairs.
She stood in the doorway.
“You’re still awake.”
“So are you.”
She entered.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“The party.”
I looked at the photograph.
“Did you mean to expose her publicly?”
“No.”
I believed her.
That almost hurt.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I tried.”
That hurt more.
I remembered every interruption.
Every dismissal.
Every time I told her:
Not tonight.
Not now.
Mom has been through enough.
Rachel sat opposite me.
“I found the first photograph while making the slideshow.”
“Why did it bother you?”
“The boy.”
She pointed at the scar.
“I knew it was you.”
“Okay.”
“But the date on the back said 1986.”
“So?”
“You told me your mother hated cameras when you were young.”
I nodded.
“Yet there were twenty pictures of Mara holding you.”
My chest tightened.
“What else?”
“Letters.”
“What letters?”
Rachel hesitated.
“You said no more surprises.”
“I changed my mind.”
She stood.
Went upstairs.
Returned with a shoebox.
My mother’s shoebox.
Inside were letters tied with faded ribbon.
Mara to Vivian.
I opened the first.
Viv, please stop telling Nathan I’m sick. He’s starting to look at me like he’s afraid of me.
My hands began trembling.
Second letter.
You cannot keep making decisions about my son because Father left you control of the company.
Third.
If you try to take him again, I will go to the police.
I looked at Rachel.
“What does ‘take him again’ mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Then I found the final letter.
No envelope.
No date.
Only five lines.
Vivian, I know what you did with the trust.
I have copies.
Nathan belongs with me.
If you don’t return him tomorrow, I’m going to Samuel.
This ends now.
My heartbeat became loud.
“Who is Samuel?”
Rachel shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
I read the line again.
May you like
If you don’t return him tomorrow.
The next day, according to the death certificate, Mara Holland died.
