Normally, on Sunday mornings, Harry made pancakes and the three of them sat around in their pajamas, reading the comics and doing the crossword puzzles until noon. It was Izzy’s favorite day of the week. Those few hours when they laughed and talked, and Peg and Harry helped with her homework, made her feel like she was part of a real family. Now, her stomach growled thinking about the crisp bacon and fluffy buttermilk pancakes covered with sticky maple syrup. But when she entered the kitchen, Peg and Harry were dressed and sitting at the table, coffee mugs in their hands, the Sunday paper folded neatly between the placemats. Peg looked up, startled, her lips in a grim, hard line. Harry turned in his chair and considered Izzy, his eyes serious.
Izzy’s heart dropped. Somehow, they’d found out about the party on the beach. She had lied to them about staying at Alex’s and now they were going to tell her she had to leave. She just knew it. She let her duffel bag slip off her shoulder and sat down, holding her breath as she waited, staring at the picture of President Clinton and Monica Lewinski on the front page of the newspaper.
“Did you have a good time last night?” Peg said, attempting to smile.
“It was okay,” Izzy said, wondering if this was a test. She decided to come clean. “But I—”
“We have something to tell you,” Harry interrupted. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and wiped his hands on his pants. Peg shifted in her chair, her knuckles turning white as she tightened her grip on her coffee mug.
“First, we have some good news,” Peg said. Her voice shook and she cleared her throat. Izzy stared at her, a hot lump threatening to cut off her breathing. What could Peg possibly say to soften the blow? “I found a nurse who used to work at Willard. We think she might have taken care of Clara. We can go talk to her, if you’d like.”
Izzy nodded, her heartbeat picking up speed. “Do you think she knows what happened to Clara?” she managed. “Or her daughter?”
“I don’t know,” Peg said. “But we’ll ask her. If she doesn’t know, we’ll try to find out together. I promise.”
Together. Izzy’s eyes filled. Peg said they would try to find out together. They weren’t sending her away after all. She took a deep breath and exhaled, waves of relief washing through her. But then Harry glanced at Peg, as if for reinforcement.
“There’s something else,” he said, his brows knitted. “It’s your mother.”
Izzy stiffened. Harry and Peg rarely mentioned her mother. Whatever Harry was about to tell her, it was bad. Really bad. She could see it in his face.
“What about her?” Izzy said, her stomach knotting. Peg put a gentle hand over Izzy’s. Izzy felt something move in her head, as if her brain was shoring up, preparing for shock.
“She had a stroke last night,” Harry said. “She was in her cell and no one knew anything was wrong until this morning.”
Izzy swallowed.
“I’m sorry,” Peg said, her eyes brimming with tears. “But she’s in a coma. They don’t think she’s going to pull through.”
Izzy stared at Peg, trying to form words. Her tongue felt like lead, her lips heavy and useless over her teeth. Peg rubbed Izzy’s hand, her soft fingers catching on Izzy’s torn knuckles. She looked down and gasped.
“What happened?” she said.
Izzy pulled her hand away, clenching it into a fist on her lap. “Nothing,” she said. “I fell trying out Alex’s Rollerblades.” Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was surprised at how easily the lie came. What had changed between yesterday and today? She reached for her duffel bag and stood, pushing her chair under the table.
“Are you okay?” Harry said. “Do you want to know what the doctors are saying?”
Izzy shook her head, her body numb. “Um . . . not right now,” she said.
“We can take you to see her after school tomorrow,” Peg said. “If you want.”
Izzy dug her nails into the back of her chair. What good will that do? she thought. “I’m really tired,” she said. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to take a shower and a nap.”
“Can I get you something to eat first?” Peg said.
“I’ll make pancakes if you’re hungry,” Harry said.
Izzy shook her head and left the room, her legs like elastic beneath her. Halfway up the staircase, she slowed and grabbed the banister, her heart booming as she pulled herself upward. At the top step, the hallway teetered in front of her. She gripped the newel post, waiting to regain her sense of balance. After a long minute, she went to her room, dropped her duffel bag on the floor, and hurried into the bathroom.
She opened the toilet and threw up the Rice Krispies she’d eaten at Alex’s, dry heaving until it felt like her esophagus would come spilling out, slithering into a bloody coil in the bottom of the toilet bowl. Eventually, she was able to take a breath without gagging. She spit into the toilet over and over, then wiped her mouth and straightened. Half a can of Coke sat on the edge of the sink. She drank the rest of the flat soda, hoping the caramel-flavored liquid would wash the sour taste from her mouth.
Still dizzy, she stumbled into her bedroom and fell on the bed, lying on her side and gripping her pillow against her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stanch her tears, but it was no use. For ten years, she’d been too afraid to visit her mother in jail. Too afraid her mother would look and act crazy, or wouldn’t know who she was. Now, there was nothing she wanted more. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d hoped the day would come when her mother would be cured, or released from all charges. Maybe, by some miracle, it would be discovered that her father’s murder was a big misunderstanding. Maybe a burglar had shot him. And Izzy’s mother, having witnessed her husband’s violent death, had temporarily lost her mind. When the truth came out, her mother would be set free and she and Izzy could be a family again. Over the years, a hundred different scenarios played over in Izzy’s mind, but she always pushed them away, certain they were nothing more than the impossible imaginings of a lost little girl. Now, it was final. None of those things would ever come true. Izzy was going to be an orphan. The chance of ever having a real mother again, no matter how infinitesimal, was gone.
Izzy’s shoulders convulsed and she bit down on the pillow, surprised by the depth of her emotions. She’d kept her head high and held herself together for so long that she’d convinced herself she was invincible. Now, it all came crashing down. She knew someday things would change. But not yet, not now, not like this. She blinked against her tears, then lifted her head and looked at the dresser. Her mother’s cards and letters were still there, stuffed in a manila envelope behind her socks and underwear.
She sat up and wiped her eyes, her heart slogging in her chest. Reading the letters could make things better, or make things worse. She thought about the envelopes in Clara’s trunk. Clara’s life might have turned out differently if they had been mailed, if Bruno had had a chance to read them. Maybe he would have gotten Clara out of the Long Island Home before she was sent to Willard. Maybe they would have gotten married, raised a family together, and lived happily ever after.
Now, Izzy wondered if things would have been different if she’d read her mother’s words. Maybe the answers she’d been looking for had been right there all along. Her stomach churned. Regardless of what the letters said, it was too late for things to change. And yet, she needed to know the truth. Either her mother’s letters would paint a picture of the woman she used to be, full of love and adoration, or reveal once and for all that she really was a lunatic.
Izzy stood and retrieved the letters from the back of the top drawer, then sat cross-legged on her bed, the bulging envelope on the comforter in front of her. She undid the metal clip, opened the flap, and let the cards and letters spill out. The tilting pile of differently sized and colored envelopes reminded her of Valentine’s Day in elementary school, when everyone got cards from their classmates. She always wondered if she’d get as many Valentines as the rest of the kids, eager to see how they were signed on the back. Would
there be just a name, or would it include the initials BFF, best friends forever, or even BF, best friends?
One by one, she turned her mother’s envelopes right side up, checking the postmark and putting them in chronological order. She would read them year by year, starting with the first months after her mother’s incarceration. At first, there had been a letter a month. Then, as time went on, the frequency dwindled to three or four times a year. Izzy guessed that, along with the regular letters, there were birthday and Christmas cards. All had the same return address: Bedford State Prison.
She took a deep breath, picked up the first letter, postmarked July 1986, the month after her mother was sentenced to prison, and ripped open the envelope. It was now or never. She put her fingers over her trembling lips and began to read.
Hi, baby girl,
How are you? I hope you’re doing okay. I miss you so much! I want you to know that I’m so sorry about what happened to your father. I know you don’t understand what’s going on right now, but someday you will, I promise. I’m sorry I was sick for so long and wasn’t able to be there for you. By the time I got better, it was too late. I know you’re sad and confused, baby. And I’m sorry about that. Please come and see me. I miss you so much my heart hurts. Please be a good girl for your Gramma. I’ll see you soon.
Love you to the moon and back,
Mommy OXOXOX
Izzy’s eyes burned. Love you to the moon and back. Her mother had said that every night after tucking her in, before turning off the light and slipping into the hall. Somehow, Izzy had forgotten. She ripped open the next envelope. It was a birthday card.
The front of the card read “Birthday Wishes for a Sweet Eight-Year-Old.” Inside, her mother had signed, “Miss and love you to the moon and back!” Where does an inmate go shopping for a birthday card? Izzy wondered. The next letter was more of the same; a letter to an eight-year-old girl whose life had been turned upside down. More apologies and requests for a visit. Eventually, in the letters, her mother stopped asking Izzy to come, instead saying all the things she wished she could say in person, all the advice she wanted to impart to her only daughter. Izzy had to remind herself to breathe, waiting to read that one sentence, that one group of words that would confirm her mother’s mental illness. So far, she hadn’t found it. The other thing she hadn’t found was any further mention of her father. It was as if he never existed.
Izzy felt cold shards of regret forming in her chest. Could she have been wrong all along? Had she wasted years being afraid? On paper, her mother sounded normal. The more Izzy read, the more it felt like losing her all over again. And yet, she was no closer to understanding what happened than she was ten years ago.
By three o’clock, Izzy had read nearly forty letters. Peg had come up several times, softly knocking on the door and asking if Izzy was okay, if she could get her something to eat or drink. Each time, Izzy refused, saying she needed to be alone and thanking Peg for the offer. In truth, Izzy couldn’t have eaten anything if she’d tried. Her stomach felt sour, like it was boiling.
An hour later, the words were getting fuzzy and it was getting harder and harder for Izzy to keep her eyes open. The letter in her hand had been folded inside her thirteenth birthday card, the creases making it even harder to read. She decided to finish one last letter, then shower and take a nap. But in the next instant, her breath caught in her throat and she sat up. She read the words again.
I shot your father because I caught him in your room, doing things a father shouldn’t be doing to his daughter. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, but I wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand what goes on between a man and a woman. Don’t worry, sweetheart. I stopped him before he went too far.
Izzy dropped the letter and clamped her hands over her mouth, acid rising in the back of her throat. No, it couldn’t be. It was just a bad dream! Who tells their daughter on her thirteenth birthday that her father had been molesting her? Her mother had to be lying! She was crazy after all! Izzy’s father would never do anything so horrible, would he? Shaking, Izzy curled into a fetal position and stared at a single rose on the bedroom wallpaper, her blurred vision filling with pulsing red petals, like an animated drawing of her broken, bleeding heart.
Then her nightmare came back to her full force, the demon’s sweaty hand between her legs, his heavy arm holding her down. The demon sat up and grinned, a strange mixture of disgust and ecstasy twisting his features into a terrifying mask. Then the mask morphed into a human face and Izzy recognized the demon. It was her father.
Izzy scrambled out of bed, ran to the bathroom, and fell to her knees in front of the toilet, her chest and stomach aching as she dry heaved again and again. Finally she caught her breath and leaned against the tub, pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes. Hot waves of panic lit up her neck and chest, pulsating around her heart like an electric charge, making every inch of her skin prickle with goose bumps, every muscle in her arms and legs jitter. She tried taking deep breaths and exhaling slowly, her head spinning as she came to realize that everything she’d believed was a lie. A lie she’d fabricated entirely on her own.
Her mother had given up her life, her freedom, to protect her. All these years, Izzy had thought her mother was a lunatic, her father a loving man who paid the ultimate price for his wife’s insanity. All these years, wasted because she’d never been brave enough to ask her mother’s side of the story!
Then something clicked in Izzy’s brain, like a giant puzzle piece finally dropping into place. Suddenly, it all made sense. Her mother had always been over-overprotective, the slightest infraction in her perfect plan to protect Izzy sending her into panic mode. Once, while grocery shopping, Izzy had let go of the cart while her mother was examining cantaloupes. Izzy had only moved a few feet away, around the end of the aisle to look at a toy display. But when her mother couldn’t see her, she screamed Izzy’s name over and over, loud enough to make the store manager come running. Izzy hurried back to the produce aisle and touched her mother’s elbow, looking up with fear-filled eyes, afraid her mother had lost her mind. Her mother fell to her knees and sobbed, telling Izzy to never, ever leave her side again.
Seeing her husband violate her little girl would have easily put Izzy’s mother over the edge. It would for most mothers. Granted, most mothers would have called the police, not shot her husband in the head with his hunting rifle. But at least Izzy understood what happened now.
In the letter, Izzy’s mother admitted shooting her husband was wrong, that she had lost her mind for just a little while. She knew why she was being punished. Her lawyer couldn’t convince the judge to offer leniency because he had no proof Izzy’s father had done anything wrong. Izzy’s mother refused to put Izzy through a physical examination, choosing instead to give up her own freedom. She believed she’d get out on parole someday and they’d be reunited.
Izzy bit down on her lip. All these years, the truth had been right there, waiting for her to open an envelope and read it, written in black and white. But she’d been too stubborn to see it. And now her mother was in a coma! Izzy would never be able to tell her she finally understood. She’d never be able to apologize for not coming to see her.
She thought about Shannon, whose mother had ignored what her husband was doing. How could Shannon live with her mother day after day, knowing she hadn’t protected her? It had to be the worst feeling in the world. Despite the horrible things Shannon had done, Izzy’s heart ached for her. If only Shannon’s mother had done something to stop her husband, Shannon’s life might have turned out differently. How could Shannon face her mother every day? How could she ever forgive her?
Izzy put her hands over her face. Unlike Shannon’s mother, her mother had spent all these years alone, thinking her daughter would never forgive her, thinking she was no longer loved. Then Izzy remembered reading that comatose people could sometimes hear their loved ones speaking. Her mother was on life support, she wasn’t dead. There was still time to see
her, to say good-bye. She would ask Peg to take her to Bedford tomorrow. And maybe, just maybe, her mother would hear her apology.
When Izzy thought she could trust her vibrating legs to hold her upright, she stood and peeled off her clothes. Her knees, elbows, and feet were still sore from pounding on the inside of the vault and now her head throbbed too. She climbed into the empty tub, the cold, hard porcelain like tombstone against her skin, and struggled to push the stopper closed and turn on the hot water, her hands shaking like a hundred-year-old woman’s. As the tub filled, she stared into the blackness of the overflow drain, her mind blank, aware of nothing but cold and the beginning of heat as hot water pooled around her feet. When the water was to her waist, she filled a washcloth with shower gel and lathered up her skin, scrubbing it back and forth with more pressure than necessary, watching in a trance as white bubbles formed over her arms and legs. She looked at the thin scars on her arms, wondering now if she’d been cutting herself to repress the horrible memories of what her father had done. She turned off the faucet and lay back in the soap-clouded water, soaking without moving, a slow, steady drip echoing like an underwater clock in her ears.