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Beth
1996
Once Ruth goes back to work, I fetch heavy gloves and some
trash bags from downstairs, then pick my way cautiously across
the carpet of junk. First order of business is to remove anything
that looks like it was once food, and to air the place out. I climb
over the trash, gingerly at first in case I disturb any rodents, and
open the windows. It’s windy outside and it’s going to be cold
up here, but that’s still better than dealing with the smell.
I do one pass of the room, scooping up plates and bowls and
packets of what once contained junk food. I’m becoming less
anxious about disturbing critters, and a little bolder as I move
about the place, trying to formulate a plan. My gaze lands on
one of the canvases, and I’m suddenly drawn to it, almost on
autopilot.
This one falls somewhere in the middle of the color spectrum
that Dad used—neither dark nor bright. It’s componsed of muted
shades of blue and green—the colors of the ocean on a cloudy
day. I lift the painting, revealing the surface of a table beneath
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it. Ruth’s crack earlier isn’t far off the mark—I wouldn’t make
much of an art critic and I don’t have an eye for visual aesthet-
ics. Even so, I stare at the image for a while, trying to figure
out what it means.
I can see part of a capital B in this painting, but I’m not con-
vinced that’s what he was trying to represent. It could be almost
anything—it could be nothing. I gaze around the room, tak-
ing in the other artworks, finding that same mysterious shape
in all but one. I’m suddenly struck by the way this collection is
different from the other pieces Dad produced over the past few
years. Even when he painted a series, each piece was unique.
Most of these canvases seem to represent a manifestation of an
idea that captured my father’s imagination and refused to let go.
What on Earth am I going to do with them? Even before I
start digging through the piles of trash, I can see at least half
a dozen canvases scattered around the attic. I decide to clear a
space and pile them up out of the way. I don’t want to damage
them, so I go downstairs and retrieve some towels and sheets
from the linen closet. Then I sit that first painting down on a
table, facedown, resting on a towel.
That’s when I notice the date.
It’s written on the back of the frame, right at the top in the
center. It’s been scrawled with a blue ballpoint pen, but my fa-
ther obviously pressed too hard, and he’s etched the numbers
into the wood. I recognize Dad’s awful handwriting. It’s a run-
ning joke in our family that Tim might be the doctor, but Dad
has the doctor’s handwriting, because Tim writes with a beau-
tiful, almost feminine, script and Dad’s handwriting is consis-
tently close to illegible.
December 5, 1957
I turn the painting over again, even more intrigued. I set it on
the table and walk to pick up one of the other canvases. When I
turn the second one over, there’s another date. This one is later,
December 28, 1957. It’s noticeably darker. But now that I really
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think about it, if I were to line these paintings up in just the
right order, the colors might shift gradually, like frames from
an animation, or a series of time lapse images. And maybe that
movement starts with the bright image mounted on the wall
near the door, gradually shifting through to this calm blue/green,
and working its way through to the darkest, angriest color—the
black, white and gray visible on the canvas resting on an easel
at the other end of the room.
After that I climb around the room like a madwoman, picking
up every canvas and ferrying them back to the table. The dates
are in the same location on every painting. On all but one, the
motif is identical—two mismatched, slightly offset semicircles.
The one exception is a canvas I find behind a basket at the
back of the attic. It’s less skilled than the others—perhaps it’s
unfinished. On a silver background, he’s painted a white circle,
with a burst of light blue at the top—like a blue sunrise over a
hollow earth. This canvas has a date on the back, too—but it’s
much later than the others.
January, 1961.
Over the period when Dad painted these paintings, his hand-
writing changed, but I’m sure he painted them in order. I can
track the deterioration in his mind, not just through the dark-
ening colors in the images, but by the way the numbers on the
back on the frame become more slanted, etched deeper into the
wood, harder to read.
There’s a particularly dark painting still resting on Dad’s easel,
and as I approach it, something gives me pause. The colors are
just so bleak. As I step closer to pick it up, I notice a note pinned to a clipboard on the table beside the image. The handwriting
is beautiful—at first, I think Tim probably wrote it. But this
couldn’t have been Tim; the date at the top of the page is March
24, 1958—Tim was only four years old. I pick up the clipboard
and scan the words.
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I’ve spent the past few weeks considering my options. Grieving,
never once celebrating. I’ve realized that there is only one thing left to do but it is the worst, most drastic option. I just need to escape—
I simply can’t face this again. The fear looms big and bold, and I
cannot even convince myself to live in its shadow.
There is only one way to outrun it. There is only one way to
peace. It’s bad enough that I’ve come back to this place—my chil-
dren deserve for me to choose not to stay here. Even Patrick deserves
bet er than this.
I know it is a mortal sin, and I have no idea how I’m ever going
to convince myself to go through with it when I can’t even bring
myself to write the word, but I have run out of options, haven’t I?
It’s death, one way or another, and at least this way I have control.
May God forgive me for what I have to do.
I drop the clipboard. It clatters against the tabletop then falls
with a thump to the floor, but it lands right side up and I can’t
take my eyes off the page. Even so, I take a panicked step back.
Who the hell wrote that note?
It mentions Dad.
It mentions Dad.
My foreboding grows as I step toward the dark canvas on the
easel. I turn it over, and there’s a whooshing sensation in my gut as I confirm that the date in the top of the frame matches the
date on the note.
My mother wrote this note. My mother wrote this note and
this loo
ks like a suicide note.
My father always marked my mother’s death every April 14.
At first, he took us kids to the Lake View Cemetery to leave her
flowers, but as the years passed and we all started to grow up, it
became more and more difficult to convince us to join him. By
the time I was a preteen, he’d changed tactics; instead of drag-
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ging us all to her grave, he’d bring out a framed picture of her
and we’d say a little prayer for her soul before a special dinner
at home. So I’ve always known the date, but over time, I’ve for-
gotten the year it happened. But I do know she can’t have died
in 1958, because I was only two years old then—far too young
to retain memories, and I can remember Grace Walsh. Besides, Dad, understandably, didn’t like to talk about her death, but he
did tell us that died in a car accident.
Maybe she was contemplating taking her own life, but she
didn’t go through with it. I try to draw some comfort from this
realization, but I can’t, because the broader implications of this
discovery are just starting to sink in.
I cover my mouth with my hand as I spin back to the pile of
canvases. Ten other canvases so far, and each one has a date on the
back. Do they all represent notes from Grace Walsh? I can barely remember where the canvases were originally. Are there other
clipboards…other notes? I didn’t see them if there were, and
now I don’t know where to look.
What if there are notes buried in all of this chaos? I’m going
to have to sort through every single article of trash individually
and with extreme care. What was already a mammoth job has
now become utterly overwhelming.
I exhale then inhale, breathing in the scent of paint and dust.
I could drown in panic right now—the task seems impossible,
and I feel completely alone with it.
Ruth will freak out if I tell her about the note. So would Tim,
and Jeremy, too, most likely. They’d insist on getting involved,
or maybe even try to take over the task completely. If that hap-
pens I’m right back where I started, at home with Noah alone
every single day, wishing away the hours and struggling to fig-
ure out how to manage.
No, I’ll keep the note to myself, at least until I know if there
are others. It’s the smartest approach, for sure.
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* * *
I’m lost in my own world as the afternoon passes. I set a goal
of sorting through one particular section of mess before I go
home for the day, and I dig into the task with gusto. It takes
longer than I thought it would—mostly because I’m now sort-
ing past each item as if there might be a precious, fragile note
lost among the clutter. Sometimes I throw pieces of trash into
the bin, then panic and fish them out to double-check. I’m so
focused on the work that when I hear the front door downstairs
slam, I almost jump out of my skin.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
“Jesus Christ, Beth!” Ruth calls back, frustration and anger
ripe in her voice. I scramble to my feet, glancing at the windows
in the attic as I rise. The sun is surprisingly low in the sky, and
just like that, I remember that I was supposed to be back at Chi-
ara’s place by two-thirty. I look down at my watch.
4.30 p.m. Oh, shit.
“I lost track of time,” I exclaim, skipping down the stairs to
the hallway. “I was supposed to be back at Chiara’s by—” I trail
off when I finally reach the hallway and see Ruth standing there
with my son on her hip. “Oh, no. Was she mad?”
“She missed Tia’s recital. She convinced herself that you’d
slipped and banged your head and knocked yourself out cold
or worse. She called Hunter at work in a panic, because she
doesn’t have a car seat in her car so she couldn’t come check on
you herself. Hunter was in court and couldn’t come home, but
his secretary got a message to him, so he panicked, too. Chi-
ara then called me because she’d run out of other options. And
yes, I’m mad at you too, because I tried to call you, and you ig-
nored my calls as well.”
“I didn’t hear the phone,” I protest, craning my neck to peer
toward the living area. The answering machine is flashing a
bold angry 18 messages on the screen, and I groan. “You know
it’s hard to hear the phone up there. I’m really sorry.”
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Ruth passes Noah to me, then runs her hand over her hair in
exasperation before she points at my chest.
“Bethany Evans,” she says abruptly. “Take your son and go
home. Get a good night’s sleep, and if Chiara ever agrees to
babysit for you again, take the goddamned cordless phone up-
stairs with you.”
“I will,” I promise. She still looks a little frantic, and I take
a step toward her to rub her upper arm gently. “Honestly, I’m
sorry to scare you.”
“It’s not just me,” Ruth says, abruptly pulling away. “Chiara
is worried about you, too. See? It’s not just me being paranoid.
We can all see something is up with you. When you didn’t an-
I frown at her, then my eyes widen as I long jump to a con-
clusion, the note upstairs too fresh on my mind.
“Seriously? You thought I’d kil ed myself ?”
“ What?” Ruth gasps, hand flat against her chest in horror.
“Have you thought about doing that?”
“No! Of course not! I just…why else would you all be so
worried?”
“Jesus.” Ruth slumps a little, then shoots me a fierce look.
“Because you’re acting weird, Beth. You won’t tell us what’s re-
ally going on, and we’re all trying to keep an eye on you until
you’re ready to explain. So be more careful.”
“I will. I’m sorry.”
“I have to go,” she sighs.
“Sure,” I say, motioning toward the doorway. I want her to
leave before me, mostly because I don’t want her to go upstairs
and stumble upon the note. “Go ahead, I’ll lock up. Talk to
you soon.”
“Talk tomorrow,” Ruth corrects me, still frowning. “I’ll call
you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
When she leaves, I leave, too, locking the door behind me.
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But before I start my car and pull out of Dad’s street, I peer up
at the windows that lead to the attic, wishing I could go right
back to untangling its secrets.
By the time Hunter gets home, I have Noah bathed and in
bed, and I’m busily cooking pasta for dinner.
“You really scared Mom today,” Hunter says as soon as he
steps into the house. He sounds pissed, and that’s not an easy
feat. My husband is so laid-back, it’s rare for him to react with
anger to anything. Even so, I’m distracted, and only half paying
attention to him as I stare down at the pot I’m stirring.
“I know, Ruth told me. I don’t know why she overreacted
like that. I just forgot she had to go out, and I didn’t hear the
phone,” I murmur.
The note. Did she really write the note? It has to be her. Who
else would talk about “Patrick” like that? Why was Grace so
distraught? Did she actually kill herself? Would Dad have lied
to us? Is it too late to ask him?
“Mom didn’t overreact, Beth,” Hunter says abruptly. “You went
AWOL on her and she had no idea where you were. Anything
could have happened to you, for God’s sake! You knew she had
something important on. Shit, the whole reason she panicked
was that she assumed for you to be late like that, something
drastic must have held you up.”
I wince, shaking my head.
“I know. I didn’t mean it like that. It was just… I just spoke
without thinking.”
Hunter scoops up a slice of tomato from the salad on the table
and pops it into his mouth, then raises his eyebrows at me.
“So I assume you’ve called her to apologize?”
“You always take her side,” I blurt. His eyebrows draw in and
his mouth opens in surprise. It’s kind of true—Hunter does adore
his mother and he’d defend her to his last breath, but it’s also
not at all true, because Chiara and I get along and I’m a peace-
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maker by nature, so even when she’s a little pushy, we never
argue. After eleven years, there’s been no real cause for him to
take sides at all. I feel my face flush, because I have no idea why I just said that. I just feel so defensive, and I don’t really understand why they all panicked just because I lost track of time.
“Just… I’ll call her. Okay? Christ.” I drop the ladle heavily onto the sink, spin on my heel and leave the room.
“Where are you going?” Hunter calls incredulously.
“To bed,” I snap. “Don’t worry. I’ll call your mother first.”
I slam the door to our bedroom. I flick the lamp on, change
out of my clothes and into pajamas, and then I sit on my side of