I haven’t written to Maryanne in months because I haven’t had the
energy to pretend things are okay, but if I did find the courage to write her and tell her the truth, I know that Maryanne would insist that things don’t have to be this way. She’d say they need to change, but she may as well be asking for the moon. It seems that this is the natural order of things: women are born to nurture and to care for the home, and men are Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 128
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born to lead and dominate. I love Patrick with a depth that still surprises me, but I’m not sure he has the capacity to love me back the same way.
The only thing I can’t decide is whether it makes me an optimist or a
slow learner that I’m only just figuring out that I care about Patrick a lot more than Patrick cares about me.
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9
Beth
1996
I try to consider every possible explanation that night when I
finally give up on sleep.
In her note Grace talks about Dad being unreliable, but the
Dad I know has never been unreliable in his life. Maybe her
perspective was warped. She was probably seriously depressed.
Maybe she had a serious mental illness. A delusional disorder?
Manic depression?
It does look like Grace was suicidal when she wrote that note.
How does that tie in?
Oh, my God. If the date on the death certificate is correct,
she wrote that note just weeks before her death.
I can’t think about that now. I need to think about something
calming. Maybe try to visualize those moments when she held
me in her arms—
But did she hold me in her arms? How could I remember if
I was only two when she died?
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This is it, Beth. This is the moment when you lose your mind al-
together.
When Hunter climbs out of bed for his shower at six, I’m still
every bit as awake as I was when I got into that bed eight hours
earlier. I don’t think I’ve closed my eyes for more than a min-
ute. I’m so exhausted now that I’m battling tears as I try to get
ready to drive Noah to Chiara’s house for the day.
“Beth,” Hunter says, abruptly breaking a lengthy silence as we
eat breakfast in the kitchen. I drag my gaze from my untouched
toast to his face. His lips are pursed, so I know he’s about to say
something I won’t like. “I don’t think you should go to your
dad’s place today. Stay here and try to rest.”
I know his suggestion comes from a place of love, but it feels
paternalistic and I bristle. I try to take some deep breaths to stop
myself from snapping at him, but anger and irritation are fierce
beasts, just waiting for a chance to pounce. I open my mouth,
but he holds up a hand before I can even say a word, and now
Hunter is impatient. “Will you please just listen to me for once?
I’m worried about you, Beth. You’re wound up like a spring.
Packing up your dad’s house can wait one more day.”
I’m gearing up to push back, even though I know I’m going
to make a meal of this and I’ll have to face his hurt and resig-
nation when I do. But Noah, who has been happily sitting in
his high chair, chewing on a teething biscuit, makes a gagging
sound and then a sickly, constricted cough. Hunter and I both
react before I even have time to acknowledge what’s happening.
We shoot to our feet and we run, coming to a stop on either side
of the baby. My heart is racing and my hands shake violently as
I grab the biscuit and dump it onto the tray of the high chair.
My thoughts are a turbulent torrent, instantly bombarding
me with worst-case scenarios and the most tragic of outcomes.
It’s only when Hunter laughs softly and picks up Noah that I
see the stunning disparity in our reactions.
“Silly bubba,” Hunter chuckles, nursing Noah against his
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Kelly Rimmer
cheek and rubbing his back to comfort him. “You can’t put
the biscuit all the way down your throat, no matter how deli-
cious it is.”
“He could have died just now,” I cry, staring wide-eyed at
my husband.
“What? No, he just got a bit too enthused about the biscuit.
He’s fine,” Hunter says, and he brings Noah with him as he
walks around the high chair to rub my back. My husband’s lack
of panic is as confusing as it is frustrating.
“You’re not taking this seriously enough!” I exclaim, step-
ping away from him. “He could have choked!”
“On a biscuit? Seems unlikely.” Hunter motions toward the
biscuit on the tray table of the high chair. “There’s no way he
could have kept that whole thing in his mouth long enough to
obstruct his airway. He gave himself a fright, that’s all.”
But I’m staring at the same object, and I see all kinds of pos-
sibilities that very much feel like probabilities. He could chew
on it for so long that it dissolves, but not all of it dissolves, and
what if a hard bit gets stuck in his throat and he can’t dislodge it?
How do you even do first aid on a five-month-old baby? Why
haven’t we done a first aid course together? What if something
happens to him and we don’t know how to help him? What
if we’re not paying close enough attention and something bad
happens and he’s hurt or he dies?
I only realize I’ve voiced these thoughts aloud when Hunter
carefully sets the baby back in his high chair and takes my shoul-
ders in his hands to stare at me intently.
“Beth,” he says gently. “Look at him.” I glance down at the
baby. He’s calm but determined, his grubby little fist already
reaching for the biscuit. Hunter squeezes my shoulders. “See?
He’s totally fine.”
Hunter pulls me against his shoulder and I all but dissolve
into him, sobs bursting from my lips as I struggle to dismiss a
sudden and intrusive daydream of Noah blue-faced and chok-
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ing, right there in front of me, while I watch on, helpless. The
incident didn’t play out that way. Things weren’t as drastic and
terrifying as all of that. But they could have been.
“Babe. You need to sleep,” Hunter says. His brown eyes are
fixed on me; his concern palpable. I’m sobbing hard now, even
as I shake my head and prepare to argue with him some more.
But it turns out that I can’t even find the energy for fighting
now, and I let Hunter lead me back to our bed. He arranges my
limp limbs against the pillows, and covers my body with the
blankets. He tugs the blinds closed and quietly, gently, closes
the door behind him.
I try to submit to my body’s de
mands for sleep. I use every
trick I know to try—I focus on my breathing; I consciously relax
my muscles; I even try to bring back those wonderful memo-
ries of Grace, but that fails now, and I try to force my mind to
conjure other peaceful scenes—family dinners, a peaceful for-
est, a calm blue ocean.
But hours later I’m still staring at the ceiling, reliving the
sound of my infant choking, over and over again.
Every single time I force myself to think about something
else, my mind returns to that biscuit, and all the ways that in-
cident might have ended differently.
When I emerge from my bedroom three hours later, Ruth and
Hunter are sitting at the kitchen table. Ruth is halfway through
a sandwich, but she sets it down on her plate to pin me with
her eyes. Hunter is staring into a steaming cup of coffee. I see
guilt in the way he avoids my gaze and I’m immediately wary.
“We have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon,” Ruth says
before I can even ask what’s going on. Adrenaline spikes again,
and I scan the room.
“What happened? Where is he?”
“He?” Ruth frowns, then her expression clears as she rises.
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Kelly Rimmer
“Jesus, Beth. Not for Noah. He’s fine. He’s at Chiara’s house.
The doctor is for you.”
“What for?” I ask. I look at Hunter, and he picks up the coffee
and sips it. Now his gaze is fixed on the dining room table, and
suddenly I am conscious of the details I have missed. His eyes
are rimmed red. He’s changed out of his suit and he’s wearing
jeans and a sweater. His shoulders are slumped and he’s lean-
ing forward on the table as if he can’t hold himself up. I look to
Ruth, and my awareness continues to sharpen. Now I see the
concern in my sister’s expression, the little crease in the cen-
ter of her forehead that indicates frustration, the irritating way
her heels are tapping…tapping…tapping against the tiles on my
kitchen floor. I’m not sure what this intervention is for, but I am
sure it’s ridiculous. “I didn’t sleep well last night. That’s hardly
cause for a doctor’s visit.”
“Beth…a little insomnia isn’t a problem. But you’ve hardly
slept in weeks. And I’m pretty sure you didn’t sleep at all last
night, and…” Hunter finally looks at me. As his gaze scans my
face, I see his expression fall further. “And you haven’t even slept
this morning, have you?”
“I… I slept a little…” I lie. The furnace is on too high and
it’s hot in here, too hot, and the air feels thick. I feel trapped by
their concern, like they’ve cornered me. I’m not even sure why
my sister and my husband are putting me on the spot. “One
bad night isn’t a reason to visit a doctor. You two are being ri-
diculous.”
“Beth, you know I’m worried about you. We both are. Hell,
we all are.” Ruth sighs. “Will you please just humor us and
come to the clinic?”
“And tell her what? A woman with a five-month-old baby is
having disrupted sleep? Tell her a woman whose father is dying
is upset? Lisa will laugh at us,” I snap at her as I finally unfreeze.
I need to convince them I’m fine. I need to go back to Dad’s
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house and keep looking for the notes—those notes might some-
how explain everything.
I open the cupboard and withdraw a mug, concentrating hard
on appearing calm and centered. The problem is that my hands
are shaking and clammy, too, so inevitably, the mug slips and
shatters against the floor. The sound of it breaking is unbear-
ably loud, and I immediately cover my ears and take a step away,
forgetting that my feet are bare, not even registering that there
are now shards of shattered ceramic all over the floor.
Pain shoots through my foot and I cry out, then finally, be-
latedly, burst into confused tears.
Ruth is on me in an instant. Her arms envelop me and she
pulls me tight against her. My sister smells safe like Grace and
I’m shrouded in the very real scent of vanilla and roses and love.
She is shushing in my ear and rubbing my back as she pulls me
away from the broken mug and onto one of the chairs at the
kitchen table. I’m vaguely aware of Hunter sweeping up the
mess and tending to my feet, but I’m so tired. All of the world
feels broken, and maybe I’m broken, too.
Just like Grace. And maybe, eventually, Grace couldn’t take
“Will you go to the doctor?” Ruth whispers when my feet
are patched up and there’s a cup of tea in my hands.
“Will you back off if I do?” I whisper back.
Ruth nods, and eventually, so do I.
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Grace
March 11, 1958
Beth is a beautiful child—huge blue eyes, heavy chocolate curls, chubby in that way toddlers are supposed to be chubby. She’s eighteen months old now and I’m ashamed to have only just noticed how extraordinary she
is. Until a few months ago if you’d asked me to name one remarkable
thing about my daughter, I’d have struggled to come up with even that.
But it feels like light is flooding over a horizon at dawn. Already, I can tell you all kinds of amazing things about Beth, and I could give you an endless list of the things I adore about her. Her ridiculously cute giggle whenever she does something mischievous. She can already count to six, and I’ve no idea how that happened, because I certainly didn’t teach her to do it. She’s brave, too. She still falls over a lot when she tries to run after the other children, but unless she’s really hurt herself, she never cries. And even though I’ve not deserved it for the longest time, she gives me incredibly warm hugs that go on and on and on and bring tears to my eyes, and when she says Mama , I know now that’s who I am. It’s not all that I am, of course, but it’s a big part of what makes me me. And lately, it’s a part of my identity that I actually love.
That night at the Aurora Bridge was eight months ago. Eight cycles
when we’ve been so careful for Patrick to finish away from me. Eight
months when my monthly came and I sometimes cried tears of joy at its arrival. But last month Patrick came home from work drunk and elated
after completing a big project at work. I rolled my eyes and offered him some water to try to stave off the monster hangover I feared was brewing. He was so charming that night, flirting with me and making me
laugh. It was fun and lighthearted between us as if our lives were fun and lighthearted, and we just got carried away, that’s all. The next morn-Truths I N_9781525804601_ITP_txt_275977.indd 136
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ing I prayed to God that He would grant me just a little mercy for this one mistake.
I’ve been waiting for my monthly for two weeks now. And then this
morning I threw up, so it seems that God has not granted me any mercy.
But I will not go passiv
ely into the darkness this time. I will not walk through those endless days of sadness again—I can’t.
I’m praying again tonight, just as I’ve prayed every time I realized I was pregnant. With Tim, I prayed for wisdom and strength and safety
for my baby. With the twins, I prayed that things would be different.
With Beth, I prayed for God to take the burden away.
And this time? Tonight I’m asking not for Him to intervene. No, this
time I know it’s up to me, and that’s why I’m begging Him to give me
the courage to do what needs to be done.
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10
Beth
1996
“I spoke to Ruth and Hunter earlier,” Dr. Lisa Gibbons says qui-
etly as I take a seat in her office. “They’ve given me their per-
spective on what’s happening, but I’d really like to hear yours.”
I’m embarrassed to be here. Ever since I arrived at my family
GP I’ve felt hot with shame and guilt.
Hello, I’m Beth Evans. Psychologist. Wife. Mother. Crazy
person.
I know better than most that mental illness is nothing to be
ashamed of. I also know better than most that in some profes-
sions, being diagnosed with a mental illness is the kiss of death
to a career. That’s why I’m just scared enough to come here
today, but far too scared to admit why.
“They overreacted,” I say, lifting my chin stubbornly. “Ruth
has forgotten what it’s like to have an infant. And Hunter has
never had a child before. He just doesn’t realize that it’s normal
for me to be a little strung out. And you know what’s going on
with Dad. I’m cleaning up his house, and it’s stressful. There
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are genuinely overwhelming environmental factors weighing
on my mind.”
If I can convince her, I can relax. If Lisa believes me, then
maybe I’m actually fine.
“Okay, then,” Lisa says mildly. She leans back in her chair
and links her hands behind her head—a picture of relaxation
and ease. I desperately envy her. I’m sitting stiffly, knees and
ankles close together, back ramrod straight. I’ve linked my fin-
gers in my lap, but I hold my elbows locked tightly. I’m vaguely