Chapter 53

53

It’s freezing out there, Blythe, does she not bring mittens to school?” Your mother winced as she bent down, pulling off her wet boots. She had come to stay for a few nights to spend some time with Violet and had gone to pick her up from school. Violet sat in a puddle of melting snow, brushing off her pants.

“They’re in her backpack, but she won’t wear them.”

Violet wiggled past me to the kitchen.

Your mother fluffed her thinning hair in the hallway mirror and I could tell by the way she fiddled that there was something on her mind. I stood against the wall and waited for her to speak.

“You know, the teacher said Violet had a tough day. That she seemed angry. She wasn’t willing to join in any of the class activities.”

I felt my chest tighten. “Fox thinks she’s bored there.”

“She was sitting alone in the corner of the schoolyard when I arrived. Not playing with anyone at all.” She raised her eyebrows and looked toward the kitchen to make sure Violet was still out of earshot. “It hasn’t even been two years. You have to remember she loved him, too, like we all did. Despite everything.”

Despite everything—her words surprised me. She never brought up the death of our son. I didn’t know if she knew what I knew. I had always wanted to ask her. She was the closest thing I had to an ally.

“Helen,” I whispered. “Has Fox talked to you about the day Sam died? About what I told him happened?”

She looked away and then turned to straighten the coat she’d hung in the entryway. “No. And I don’t know if I can talk about that, to be honest with you. I’m so sorry. I know you were there, you lived it, but—I can’t.”

“You said ‘despite everything,’ I thought—”

“I meant how seemingly unaffected she’s been.” She spoke sharply. “How well she’s adjusted at home even though you haven’t been available for her.” I shot a look toward the kitchen and she lowered her voice again. “I don’t mean that as a criticism, Blythe, I promise you. You’ve been through hell.”

I nodded to defuse any tension I’d caused. She looked so feeble to me then, so much older than her sixty-seven years, and I realized then that losing her grandson had taken a toll on her, too. Of course you hadn’t told your mother what I believed. Violet called out for her to make chocolate chip cookies and I could hear her digging through the cupboard for mixing bowls. Your mother had walked to the store in the snow that morning to buy all the ingredients. I reached out for her hand and squeezed it.

“You’re a strong person,” she said quietly. Those words meant nothing to me—they weren’t true. She loved me, but she didn’t know me at all.

When you came home that night, I saw her pull you aside into the dark living room. You spoke together in low voices. I heard your hands pat her back. Afterward you smelled like her strong rose perfume and I thought of that embrace all night.