I was pushed from the room, and the next time I saw Penny she was dead. Even in death, she was stunning, but she no longer shined.
As her only known relative and next of kin, the baby became mine.
Have you guessed it yet, Lennon?
The baby is you.
You’re named Lennon, not because I loved the Beatles, but because Penny did.
So there I was, grieving my sister, consumed with guilt for being angry with her when she died, and thrust into the world of diapers and diaper rash cream. You were a screamer. You screamed for hours on end, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do with you. I had no money, I begged neighbors to watch you while I went to work, and every cent I made went to feeding you. Mother’s milk, I did not have.
I was a harsh mother. I know how much you hated me. You never said it, but I saw it in your eyes. You’re not very good at hiding your emotions. What you feel is seen on your face. It’s not a bad thing; it’s what showed me how you were feeling when you stayed silent.
I did things I wasn’t proud of, Lennon. I won’t go into the details, mostly because I don’t need to. You seem to remember all my transgressions, despite being so young when many of them occurred. I was young, too. I made mistakes. Bad choices are compounded by grief. Looking back, I can see things a little more clearly.
Marrying Ted was both a mistake and a blessing. (Stop making that face, Lennon. That one where you can’t believe what I’m saying so you scrunch up your entire face.) Ted took us out of poverty; he gave you a life I never would’ve been able to give you. As with everything, you have to take the good with the bad. For me, I didn’t know any of the bad until after Ted died.
You told me what happened, and I didn’t want to believe you. Finding Ted unresponsive and being told he had died was devastating, and in my upset condition, I told the police I overheard your conversation with Finn and Brady. Later, I felt badly about that, and chose not to allow an autopsy. I wondered if you had somehow managed to kill Ted, and if I allowed the autopsy, they’d find out.
I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you told me what Ted did. I believe you now.
Two years ago, I found evidence that he had an... inclination. I destroyed it. What would be the point of blowing up Ted’s good name? It certainly wouldn’t do anything to him. It would only hurt the congregation who loved him so dearly.
But, you were right, Lennon. You were telling the truth.
I’m sorry you’re finding all this out in a letter. Having difficult conversations was never my strong suit.
I wasn’t a good mother, and I know that. There isn’t much that can be done to make up for that now, but there is something I want you to have. In the top drawer of my desk is a key. Use it to open Safe Deposit Box twenty-six at the bank. Also, I added you to my accounts there. Clear them out. Whatever is in there is yours to keep.
I know I didn’t show it in the way I should have, but I do love you. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but maybe I’ve taught you what not to do when you become a mother.
I hope the remainder of your life is happy, Lennon. Also, you look just like Pretty Penny.
Love,
Mom
Loud breaths drawin and out of my nose. I can’t breathe through my mouth; it’s covered by my hand. My stomach is gone. It left me somewhere in the first part of the letter. Right around the spot where I learned my mom was actually my aunt.
Oh my god.
My eyes skim the letter, not reading the words but instead taking in her handwriting. How could she have kept this a secret? And why? What was the point?
I’ll never know. I’ll never be able to ask her.
And Ted... He had an inclination? What does that mean? He had a habit of forcing himself on teenage girls?
The only thing I know for certain, is that the fucker deserved to die. Maybe God really did strike him down, right there in his own bed.
I need to tell someone. I need to say the words, to feel them leave my body and no longer belong to me only.
I push back from the desk, and in my haste, nearly knock over the chair. It topples, righting itself, and I rush from the office, my mother’s letter in my hand.
I find Laine asleep on the couch in the living room. Her head is tipped back, her mouth open. Soft snores slip from her. I want to wake her, but I can’t bring myself to.
I go to the kitchen and grab my keys off the counter. I’m stuffing them in my pocket when I look out the window into the dark night. An arc of light from the neighbor’s patio shines on a small section of the backyard, illuminating the tomato plants.
In seconds I’m outside, striding across the small yard. I grab the first plant I reach by the stalk, yanking with all my might. It doesn’t give right away, so I yank two more times. It’s the third pull that does it. I stumble back as the plant leaves the soil it’s been living in for who knows how long.
