Chapter 5: The Night My Mother Died
My father drove us home without turning on the radio.
The city outside his windshield glittered with Christmas lights. Families carried shopping bags along the sidewalks. Couples hurried beneath scarves, and children pressed their faces against brightly decorated store windows.
The world had continued celebrating Christmas.
Mine had stopped at a silver necklace.
I sat in the passenger seat wearing my father's spare coat over my stained dress. He had given it to me after we left Evelyn's house, but I hadn't bothered changing.
His hands gripped the steering wheel.
“Dad,” I said, “what happened the night Mom died?””
He didn't answer immediately.
The silence stretched between us until I could hear the tires moving over the road.
“Please don't tell me you don't remember,” I whispered.
“I remember everything.””
“Then tell me.””
He pulled into the driveway of his quiet brick house and switched off the engine.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Finally, he turned toward me.
“Your mother died in a hospital,” he said.
“You know that much.””
“I was twelve. I remember the hospital.””
“She had been ill for months. Some days were better than others. Toward the end, she became very weak.””
I swallowed.
“You told me she died peacefully.””
“She did.””
“Then why did you look at Vanessa as if you had seen a ghost?””
His face tightened.
“Because I recognized the necklace.””
“That's not enough.””
“No,” he admitted.
“It isn't.””
We went inside.
The house smelled faintly of cedar and the cinnamon candles my father lit every December. A small Christmas tree stood beside the living-room window, decorated with the same handmade ornaments I had created as a child.
I walked past it and stopped at the framed photograph on the mantel.
My mother was smiling in the picture, her head tilted toward my father. She wore a blue dress and the silver necklace.
I touched the glass.
“Why didn't you tell me there were things about her I didn't know?””
My father removed his coat and draped it over a chair.
“Because I wanted you to remember your mother as she was when you were young.””
“That was your decision, not mine.””
“I know.””
He sat down slowly.
For the first time, he looked older than I had ever seen him.
“After your mother died, I was barely functioning,” he said.
“You were a child. I was trying to keep your life stable. There were decisions I made because I believed they would protect you.””
“Did those decisions involve Evelyn?””
He looked at me sharply.
“Why would you ask that?””
“Because she recognized the necklace. Because Vanessa knew things about our family. Because you looked terrified when Evelyn mentioned a house.””
My father lowered his gaze.
I sat opposite him.
“Dad, I need the truth.””
He rubbed his palms together.
“Your mother and Evelyn knew each other before you were born.””
I waited.
“How?””
“They moved in the same social circles. Evelyn's family had money, and your mother worked for a time with a charitable organization supported by people Evelyn knew.””
“Were they friends?””
“Not exactly.””
“Enemies?””
He sighed.
“Your mother never liked Evelyn's habit of treating people as if they were possessions. They disagreed about a lot of things.””
I thought of Evelyn's hand closing around Vanessa's wrist, the way she had ordered her to sit and then demanded that she leave.
That sounded familiar.
“What did they disagree about?””
“Your mother believed some things should never be bought. Evelyn believed almost everything had a price.””
I looked back at the photograph.
“That still doesn't explain the necklace.””
“No.””
“Or Vanessa.””
“No.””
I rose and walked to the window.
Outside, a neighbor was hanging a wreath on his front door. His little girl ran around the yard, laughing as snowflake-shaped lights blinked above her.
I pressed my fingertips against the cold glass.
“Was Mom buried with the necklace?””
My father didn't answer.
I turned.
“Dad?””
He stared at the floor.
“I saw her before the funeral,” he said.
“The necklace was around her neck.””
“You said she was buried wearing it.””
“I believed she was.””
The distinction struck me immediately.
“You believed?””
He looked up.
“After the funeral, I never saw it again. I didn't have any reason to question what I had seen.””
I shook my head.
“You told me she was buried with it. You told me that for twenty years.””
“Because I thought it was true.””
“And now?””
He looked toward the mantel.
“Now I don't know what to believe.””
I sat down again, suddenly exhausted.
My mother had been gone for two decades. Her grave had been visited every birthday, every Mother's Day, and every Christmas Eve. My father had left flowers there faithfully, even in years when he could barely afford them.
The thought that something might be wrong with the story surrounding her final days made my chest ache.
“Did you ever suspect anyone had taken it?””
“No.””
“Did anyone have access to her before the funeral?””
He hesitated.
“There were people at the hospital. Nurses, doctors, family members.””
“Evelyn?””
My father looked at me.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
“She visited your mother near the end.””
I felt the room grow colder.
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because the visit was brief. Your mother was tired. Evelyn left before I returned to the room.””
“What did they talk about?””
“I don't know.””
“Did Mom tell you she had come?””
“No.””
I stood abruptly.
“This makes no sense.””
“I know.””
“Then why are you still protecting people?””
My father flinched.
I regretted the words immediately, but I didn't take them back.
He looked down at his hands.
“Because I have spent twenty years trying to honor your mother's last wishes.””
I stopped breathing for a moment.
“What wishes?””
He rose and walked to a small cabinet beside the bookcase. From the top drawer, he removed a sealed envelope, its edges yellowed with age.
My name was written across the front in my mother's handwriting.
I stared at it.
“What is that?””
“Something your mother gave me shortly before she died.””
“Why have I never seen it?””
“Because she asked me to wait.””
“Wait for what?””
My father looked at the envelope, then at me.
“She said I would know when the time came.””
I stepped toward him.
“Dad, it's been twenty years.””
“I know.””
“Then why now?””
He swallowed hard.
“Because she told me that if anyone ever came looking for the necklace, I should give this to you.””
The room seemed to fall silent around us.
I reached for the envelope, but my father didn't release it immediately.
“There's something you need to understand,” he said.
“Whatever is written inside, it may change how you remember your mother.””
I looked at his hand.
Then at my name.
“I'd rather know the truth than spend the rest of my life guessing.””
He finally let go.
I broke the seal.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded twice.
My mother's handwriting was unmistakable.
The first line read:
My darling Ava, if you are reading this, someone has come looking for the heart I left behind.
I covered my mouth.
The letter continued.
Do not trust anyone who claims they know why I wore it.
May you like
At the bottom of the page, beneath my mother's signature, was a sentence that made my father sit down abruptly.
Especially not Evelyn Carter.
