“You got any of our old decorations?” Imogene’s voice sounded sullen. But at least she’d asked a question.
Mary handed Imogene the oldest of the boxes. “A few ornaments. You’re welcome to look through and see what you remember. Take anything you’d like.” She’d gotten rid of all the holiday decorations related to her daughter, because seeing the little handprint ornament, or the angel with Daisy’s face pasted on, was just too painful. But she’d kept a few of Ben’s decorations that hadn’t seemed so personal, hadn’t hurt so badly.
“You trying to soften me up, being all sweet and family oriented?” Imogene flipped roughly through the box of ornaments and then shoved them away as she spoke, not looking at Mary.
Mary braced herself, hearing the tension in Imogene’s voice and knowing it was likely to rise into a full-out display of histrionics. Maybe, not likely but maybe, she could tamp that down. “You were upset about Thanksgiving, about not being involved with any family activities, so I thought you might like to get involved with some Christmas things. Besides, I want to talk to you.”
“You think I have extra time to sit and shoot the breeze with you?”
It seemed to Mary that Imogene had nothing but time. “Come eat first.”
Imogene followed her into the kitchen and watched, leaning against the counter, while Mary took the steaming pot of oyster stew off the stove and poured it into a pretty tureen. The table was already set, and she pulled a skillet of cornbread from the oven she’d turned off right before Imogene arrived. “I remember how you always loved cornbread, so I made some,” she said brightly. “It goes perfectly with the local specialty of oyster stew.”
“I just can’t believe you live in such a little place with all the money you have.” Imogene looked around the modest kitchen, her lip curling. “You don’t even have a dishwasher.”
Weariness pressed in as memories of trying to reach the teenage Imogene rose in her, along with the heavy sadness that had punctuated that time in her life. “Well, dear, I live alone. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to use a dishwasher. Some of the houses up and down the street have them, but I never got around to the purchase.” She considered handing Imogene the tureen of soup to carry in, decided against it and handed her a plate of cornbread instead. If Imogene dropped it, whether accidentally or on purpose, there’d be less to clean up.
They sat down, and Mary decided to forgo her usual prayer. It would do nothing but annoy Imogene. She ladled soup into her stepdaughter’s bowl and handed it to her, then passed her the cornbread and butter.
“Got any wine?” For the first time, Imogene’s voice was a little humble. “I could really use a glass.”
Mary didn’t like to lie, but this time she felt it was the lesser of two evils. “I don’t tend to keep alcohol in the house.”
“You’re kidding me.” Imogene stared at her, looking disgusted. Then she ate a couple spoonfuls of oyster stew and made a face.
Mary did deep breathing while she served herself. Imogene really hadn’t changed a whole lot since her teen years when Mary had met her.
Some people just never grew up, apparently. After she’d taken a couple of bites of stew, and Imogene had eaten a large piece of cornbread, Mary figured she might as well break the silence. “Have you ever heard of PTSD?”
Imogene glared. “I wasn’t raised under a rock.”
The windows rattled, and outside, pine branches whipped and swayed. Mary forced herself to take a bite of cornbread, chewed it, took a sip of water. “Have you ever thought that the incident we witnessed could have caused you to have it? That maybe that’s been part of your problem all these years?”
Imogene shoved away her dishes, sloshing stew out of her nearly full bowl. “I don’t have a problem. Why would you say I have a problem?”
Being gentle was getting Mary nowhere. “Well, let’s see. You’re almost fifty years old and you’re broke and begging money from your stepmother, who you can’t stand.” Mary pushed her own dish away and met Imogene’s eyes with a steady gaze. “If that’s not a problem, I don’t know what is.”
“Is that what you invited me here for, to insult me?” Imogene stood quickly, her leg bumping against the table, causing more soup to slosh out of their bowls. “Look at you. You live here alone, a pathetic old lady in a crappy house with no friends. Here I’m trying to help you, and you’re acting hateful.”
Mary raised her chin. “You’re trying to help me?”
“That’s right! I’m trying to show you what you can do to make up for the horrible accident you caused. You can help the only thing you have that’s close to a family, me, but you’re too selfish to do it.”
Mary was no stranger to beating up on herself, but she could also recognize a line of baloney when she heard it. “Look, if you ever want to talk about PTSD in a civil way, I’m here. I’ll work with you to find help, counseling, support. It’s out there.”
“Shut up, you hear me?” Imogene’s voice rose to a shrill cry. “Just shut up!” Her fists clenched.
The doorbell rang, and Mary slid out of her chair and almost ran to open it. Only now that someone had come over did she realize that she was actually afraid of Imogene, of what the younger woman might do to her in a rage. She was even glad to see Kirk on the other side of the door, and she opened it immediately and invited him in.
“What’s he doing here?” Imogene said. Her voice had modulated from the earlier shrillness, but only by a few degrees, and her face was an open sneer.
