I sigh. I know I should say something about her attitude, but there’s a sense of helplessness that set in the moment I signed the divorce papers. A realization that she could leave me, if she wanted to. That she’s only a few months away from leaving me anyway. I just want her to feel at home here, whatever it takes.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance down.
“Aunt Lydia.”
Her voice is soft in my ear. “Hey, honey. Sorry, I had to run to town, but I just had a chance to look at your picture.”
“And? Do you recognize the little girl?”
She sighs. “I do. I recognize both of ’em, but, honey, it’s not you in that photo. It’s your mom.”
“What?” We look just alike, if so. “Are you sure?”
“Couldn’t be more positive. And that little girl…” She pauses. “It’s your aunt Violet.”
Impossible.
“What?”
“Your mom’s sister.”
“My mom doesn’t have a sister.”
“Vi was just a baby when she disappeared. Your grandma didn’t talk about her much after… It was too hard. Especially with your grandpa having passed just a few weeks earlier. It was a lot for Hazel’s heart to carry all at once. But Violet existed. I should say I’m surprised your mom didn’t tell you about her, but I guess I’m not. They were so young.”
I pause, processing. “You’re telling me I have an aunt who…disappeared? Died? What?”
“Well, far as I know, we never got answers. She was only one, I think—maybe two—when she disappeared. So right around when that picture was taken. The police came in and did a whole investigation. I was stationed in Arizona then, but I took leave and came home a few months after it happened. Your great-aunt Marie came into town, too. Your grandmother was a mess,as you can imagine. It shook the whole family, you know? And, well, they questioned a bunch of the people in town and all your family’s acquaintances, but nothing ever came of it.”
“And they just, what, gave up on her?” Something cold slithers through my stomach.
“Well, not so much gave up on her as lost hope. It was too hard on your grandma to talk about. Too hard on all of us. Doesn’t mean we didn’t miss her, or think about her, but…she was gone. Wasn’t anything any of us could do about it once the police gave up. Case turned cold, or whatever they call it. They seemed to think she’d fallen into the creek, and if that was the case, there was no telling where she ended up.”
I shiver as if I’m the one in the icy cold water. I’m not sure what to make of this story. It feels impossible that this entire person was once part of our family, and I’ve never even heard her name.
“I, um…” I clear my throat. “What doyouthink happened to her?”
She’s quiet for a while. Almost too long. But eventually, her answer comes. “If I had to say, I guess I agree with the police. Those woods are perfect for exploring, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. It would be easy for a child to get lost, to slip and fall into the water or into a small ravine. I think she and your mother were out there playing and she fell.”
“Do you think Mom remembers it?”
She sniffles. “Now? No. But then…it’s possible she knew what happened without realizing what it meant. She was just a baby, too. So young. Your grandparents were always comfortable with the woods—they let those girls play outside all day, every day—but that doesn’t mean they were safe. Your grandma told me the police asked your mom about it, of course. Like your grandmother did, but she claimed not to know. If she wasaround when she fell or slipped, or whatever it was, I’m sure she was terrified she’d be in trouble.”
I press my lips together. The fact that such an unspeakable horror is just a casual part of our family’s history makes me feel ill.
“Is that all you needed, honey? The weather’s about to come on, and I want to see how it’s looking for tomorrow.”
“Oh. Um, yeah. That was it,” I tell her. “Thanks. I’ll, uh, talk to you later, okay?”
“Anytime you want,” she promises, then ends the call.
I drop my phone on the couch, staring blankly in horror at all that I just learned. It feels impossible. This place seems colder now. Those woods—the woods where they let me play as a child without a word of warning or, seemingly, a care about what might’ve happened to me—no longer feel like a place of solace. The trees here witnessed what happened. The dirt, the water. They know.
The earth here knows the truth, but we never will.
I want to call Mom, to ask her about it and why she never bothered to tell me, but what would I even say?
I know you aren’t talking to me because I skipped your wedding and got divorced instead, but what about your dead sister? Why didn’t you think I should know about her?
