57. Jessica
September, Present Day
Maple Ridge
I step into the backyard,a stack of paper and a pen in my hand. The blue September sky is free from clouds that might have otherwise been a nightmare for the festival today. Troy couldn’t have asked for better weather.
I shove down the pang of pain that has sat in my chest since the day I pushed him away. The antidepressants I’ve been taking for the past three weeks can take up to six weeks to fully kick in.
But even then, expecting them to heal my heart is probably asking too much.
Troy hasn’t texted or called me. He hasn’t made any attempt to reach out, not even as a friend. I lost him as that too.
His brothers—especially Garrett and Kellan—have regularly come by to check on me during the past three weeks. Garrett mostly talks about writing novels and gardening. Kellan just sits and doesn’t say much, which I appreciate more and more with each visit. I gave him the noise-canceling headphones Troy lent me and asked him to return them to Troy.
Simone, Zara, Emily, and Avery have also come over to make sure I don’t bury myself too deep in the novel I’m writing…and too deep in my grief.
I sit on the wrought-iron chair where I’ve spent the past six weeks writing about Angelique’s time in occupied France. Anne is due to drop by in a few hours. I told her I have something important for her.
Bailey picks up her toy fire hydrant from the grass. The loud squeeeeeeeak startles a small bird in the tree. The bird flies away.
I draw in a long breath, filling my lungs with the soothing scent of pine and the early days of fall. Autumn began three days ago, and the colors of the leaves are already starting to change.
I open the article “Confessions of an Abused Wife” and read through it for the final time. I do the same for three other articles I’ve written since I poured my heart out on that one. The articles have become part of my therapy. Like journaling.
As expected, each one is raw and hopefully eye-opening and compelling. They don’t include quotes from experts I’ve interviewed—because I haven’t—or from other people going through the same things that I have.
The articles are completely based on my experiences, with quotes from credible sources to solidify my points. Points about discrimination against those who have spent time in prison for minor crimes or who have been wrongfully imprisoned. About the misguided beliefs some people have toward the victims and survivors of domestic abuse. They are a voice for those who don’t feel like they have one. Fuckers, maybe I still don’t have a voice. For me to have a voice, people have to hear it.
I reread the carefully crafted pitches and press releases I wrote over the past week. Each one is for a different article and for a different media outlet. None of the places are the ones that had requested an exclusive interview with me when I had pitched the PTSD articles.
Once I’m satisfied with everything, I email the query letters and articles to the appropriate individuals. It might be that in the end no one will be interested, but if I don’t take this baby step, I’ll never be able to move forward. I’ll always be stuck in the past, buried under a shitload of shame and regret.
With that done, I pull out my phone and click on the photo Grace sent me of Amelia playing with her dog. She’s so beautiful. So happy. I can do this. It’s time I move on, as much as it hurts.
I put the phone on the table, pick up the pen and paper, and get to work on writing the letter I’ve been thinking about for the past four days. A letter I’m not sure I could write if not for the medication that is beginning to help with my anxiety and depression.
Dear Craig and Grace,
I promise this is the last time I plan to reach out to you about your daughter Lia.
I fill my lungs again with the soothing pine scent and push past the pain of using the name that isn’t the one I gave my baby.
I understand your fear of letting me into her life. I would feel the same way if our places were reversed. You never had the opportunity to get to know me. To see me as someone not linked to your brother. You made your decision based on your painful past, and maybe due to what you heard from other people. People who don’t necessarily know me. People who don’t care to know me.
Craig told me his decision to exclude me from Amelia’s life was because I was a reminder of the bullying he’d endured as a kid, but I know it’s more than just that. How can the decision not be impacted by everything that has been going on lately with regard to my past?
You believed I was a victim in my marriage with Wayne, and I thank you for acknowledging that. And thank you for taking Lia in when there was nowhere else for her to go, other than the foster care system or with your brother Lincoln. You have given her a wonderful life and a chance for a wonderful future. You gave her something I couldn’t. You have given her a home filled with love and happiness. I never want to take that away from you or Lia.
All I wanted was to be part of her life, as a family friend or her aunt. I guess in a way that’s what I am—Lia’s aunt. I would have loved to be that aunt I never had but dreamed of growing up. I would have been the best aunt ever to your daughter.
Thank you for all you have given me. Without your kindness, I would never have had the chance to start my life over. Granted, I’m still looking for that new start after the truth about my past was laid naked for all to dissect. I hope one day I’ll get to experience the love and happiness you two have found together.
I wish you all the best for the future.
Sincerely,
Jessica
I put the letter in an envelope and write their address on the front. This is my first step in moving on and letting go of my daughter. I seal the envelope and stare at it for a moment through the tears that wet my face.
I let the tears steal some of the pain in my chest. It’s not enough to help me breathe again. Only one person can do that, and I pushed him away.
I put a stamp on the envelope and walk Bailey to the nearest mailbox before I can change my mind about the letter and rip it up. I push the envelope through the slot.
It drops to the bottom with a soft thud.
* * *
The doorbell rings,and my heartbeat stutters. I stop flipping through the photos on my phone of Troy and of Troy and Nova together—something I’ve done a lot of during the past three weeks—and answer the door, already knowing who’s on the other side.
Anne and her husband, Dan, step into the house. “I almost don’t recognize the place,” he says, smiling approvingly.
Dan hasn’t been here since I moved to Maple Ridge. The house has come a long way from the time it was overfilled with magazines and everything looked dated. The magazines with articles about World War II and D-Day had been an important part of my research for Angelique’s story, but they didn’t help me as much as the journals that now sit on the coffee table. The rest of the things I found in the secret room are in the box next to the journals.
Anne hugs me, her arms warm and welcoming and just what I need today. The day of the festival that I can’t attend. “I love the new look,” she tells me. “Your hair looks so pretty like that.”
I grin for the first time since acknowledging to myself this morning just how hard the day will be for me. I don’t even have Angelique’s story to get lost in. The finished manuscript is sitting on the coffee table with everything else. “Thank you. Did you want a tour of the house first?” I ask.
Anne’s eyebrows disappear under her bangs. “First? There’s something else you want to talk about?”
I nod. It’s time she finally learns the truth about Iris’s relationship to her, and what a truly amazing woman she was.
I show them around the house. There are lots of “Oohs” and “I love this” and “Auntie Iris would have adored that.”
We walk into the room that has given me so much solace, in part due to the secrets I discovered behind the wall.
“I bet Mom would’ve loved the window seat.” Anne runs her hand over the cushions and the bookshelves, and her gaze roams over the newly decorated room with sage-colored walls. “It’s so beautiful.”
“There’s something else I want to show you.” I lead them into the closet, turn on the light, and kneel in front of the bookshelf.
I pull it away from the wall, revealing the hiding place and turn to them. “Did you know about this?” Based on her wide-eyed expression, that would be a no.
She drops to her knees next to me and peers into the space. “Holy, shit!”
I press my lips together to smother a laugh. “I take it you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t. I don’t think Mom knew about it either. If she did, she never let on.”
I’m pretty sure her mother didn’t know; otherwise, Anne would already know what I’m about to soon show her. “I found the space while I was clearing out the magazines that were in here. That wasn’t the only thing I found behind the bookshelf. And that’s the real reason I asked you to come over today.”
I rise to my feet and take Anne and Dan downstairs to the living room. I point to the couch, gesturing for them to take a seat. I remain standing. “I found a box in the secret room. And these journals.” I pick up the first journal. “Inside them, Iris talks about a time in her life that changed everything for her. I started reading them while you were away, not realizing at first they were about Iris, and got sucked into the story. Your—” I bite back the word I was going to say.
Anne needs to read the journals to learn the truth. I won’t ruin the surprise.
“Iris was an incredible woman,” I tell Anne. “Incredible in ways you didn’t realize. The room behind the bookshelf wasn’t the only secret she’d kept all those years. She once led a life that you, and I’m guessing your mother, didn’t know about.” I hand her the journal. “The journals are difficult to read because of her arthritic hand and because the ink has faded with age.”
I pick up the thick binder from the coffee table. “I took the liberty of typing them out so the content would be easier to read. That’s why I didn’t tell you about them once you returned from Europe. I was still typing them out and hadn’t gotten to the end of her story.” My face heats at how I hadn’t been totally honest with Anne back then.
I open the flap on the box. “The journals aren’t the only things Iris left in the secret room.” I lay out on the table the French Croix de Guerre medal, the unopened letter to Anne’s mother, and the heart pendant—the one Johann had given to Angelique.
A confused frown scrunches on Dan’s brow. “Is that…?” His gaze jumps up from the medal.
“It’s the French Croix de Guerre from the Second World War. Well, after it, actually. The medal was Iris’s. The journals explain why she had it. The same with the heart pendant. It’s all in there.” I flash Anne a smile that I hope comes off as the apology I mean for it to be.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner and I kept reading them without your permission. I couldn’t stop at that point. I had to know what happened.” I pick up the blue binder from the coffee table. It’s narrower than the other one but still a considerable thickness.
I hand it to Anne. “And this…I wrote a historical novel based on Iris’s journals. To bring to life the great acts of heroism she performed during the war. It’s yours. You can decide what you want done with it. She was your relative. It’s your choice if you want her story made public.”
I really hope Anne does. More people should learn what Iris did to earn the medal. How she was part of the plot to bring down the Nazis and end the war.
And Anne deserves to know more about the Austrian family she’s never heard of.
The family I never even had a chance to tell Troy about. And now, I likely never will.