For me, her loss was an open wound. Sometimes it only throbbed, other times it shot bolts of pure agony through my entire being. The knowledge I had missed out on having a genuine relationship with her, that I didn’t get to celebrate the new and improved version of my sister, was like losing a limb. Phantom pain for something that wasn’t there and, in my case, never had been.
But it was the torment of never understanding the catalyst for her transformation that plagued me the most. Without that, I would continue to obsess over what I might have done to save her. That missing piece of information prevented me from accepting her death. It left both our relationship and my soul incomplete.
By the time I got home, I had fallen into a frenzy of sadness and guilt.
Miss Scarlett, however, was having none of it. It was impossible to focus on my misery when my four-legged companion was frantic with delight.
I shut the garage door before releasing her. She ran wildly around the vehicle three times. Leaping and barking, she followed me until I opened the patio doors and let her bound into the backyard. I watched from inside as she sniffed and peed and rolled in the stiff, frozen grass. Finally, she returned and jumped up to lick my face.
“It is good to be home, isn’t it?”
It was almost midnight, and I couldn’t remember the last time I ate. I whipped up a can of tomato soup for me and a bowl of kibble for her. My phone rang shortly after we finished.
“Hey. I hope I didn’t wake you. I wasn’t expecting you to answer. I was planning to leave a message.” It was Justin.
“I wasn’t sleeping. Scarlett and I were enjoying a late dinner.” I gave him a summary of my visit with Mom. I spared him the details about our mutual epiphany, concerning the different ways people love one another.
He explained he had work to catch up on the next day but wanted to come by tomorrow evening if that was okay. It was way more than okay, but I played it cool and said seeing him would be nice.
I’m not sure who was happier to be back in our bed, me or Scarlett. Before turning off the lights, I stared at the ceiling, considering how to approach the subject of Uncle Roy with my mother. Thoughts of whether Eva would ever call and worries about Adelmo crossed my mind, but I was too spent to concentrate on them. I fell asleep and didn’t wake until after nine.
After rolling out of bed, I unpacked my suitcase and checked in with a few clients. I answered a message from Cara Frazier and set up a meeting to help her with some promotional material. Around one o’clock, Lesroy dropped by with sandwiches from our favorite deli. He insisted it was because he missed me so much, but the way he and Scarlett fawned over each other, I was certain it was the dog he came to see.
We talked about Stella, and I shared my misgivings about leaving Ecuador with so many unanswered questions. I asked him if the two of them ever discussed the night his daddy disappeared.
“What made you think of that?” He hid behind his giant corned beef on rye.
I told him that while the lightning itself failed to score a direct hit, it jostled puzzling memories. I was careful not to say too much. Since Stella remembered the details of our uncle’s disappearance before they returned to me, I suspected she had brought up the subject to Lesroy. But if I was wrong, I didn’t want to be the one who delivered the news my mother killed his father.
“Finally.” He set down his sandwich and took a swig of soda. “We always wondered why you didn’t remember. I said we should get it over with and tell you, but she worried it might do something to your delicate psyche.”
“So, she told you about it?”
“About how Gran and Aunt Marilyn pushed Daddy’s truck into the lake with him in it? No, Grace, Stella didn’t tell me.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Mother did.”
I sat speechless, trying to piece it all together. Rita’s break-down, her avoidance of our family—it made sense now. Lesroy said she grew suspicious after a few months with no word from his father. She noticed them acting strange whenever she brought up the subject of her missing husband but never suspected they had done anything drastic. Until our grandmother slipped up and mentioned something about my uncle’s pickup being a worthless piece of shit just like Roy and how neither would be missed.
As soon as the words left Gran’s mouth, Rita’s bullshit detector went off. She kept on and on at them. But the women didn’t break, not until the cops fished the truck, with her missing husband in it, out of the lake. That was when she confronted them, and they copped to the crime.
Instead of going to the police, Rita flipped out. Screaming and sobbing, she shared the story with her young son. If she expected him to be angry or vengeful or even sad, she’d been disappointed.
“I told her she shouldn’t be mad at Gran and Aunt Marilyn. They’d been taking care of us the best way they could.” He took another bite of sandwich. “And we never talked about it again.”
“Holy shit, Lesroy! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“Thought you knew.” He shrugged. “Stella did. But when we figured out you didn’t remember, we
