Disconnected (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

Blake drives slowly down the graveled road to Aunt Rachel's house. I ask him to pull off to the side, behind the small shed, and tell him to wait for me.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Blake asks, parking the car.

“Yes, I'm sure.”

I get out of the car, dart across the yard, and race up the porch steps. Opening the door and crossing the threshold, my heart speeds up just from being in the house again. A nauseous feeling rises in my throat. I take a few deep breaths and run upstairs.

Hurry, Milly! Hurry!
Amelia screams out in my mind.

I dart in my room, getting a duffle bag from inside the closet, and feverishly pack my clothes. I rake my clothes off the hangers and stuff them into the bag. The room is spinning around me in a windwhirl of darkness. Just being here makes me sick. I imagine George downstairs as if he was still here. Knowing what I know now, it gives me the creeps.

I take a seat near the window, trying to catch my breath. From the corner of my eye, I see someone walking across the backyard. It's Aunt Rachel. I'm surprised to see her back from the funeral home so soon. Is she following me? No. She's headed straight for the garden.

The garden where the birth mother I never knew is buried. How many secrets? How many lies?

From the window, I see her standing there, right under the magnolia tree. I watch the light pink petals drift in the breeze. A prickle of goose bumps spread along my arms. The chill unnerves me.

I get up and race back downstairs. My heart gyrates inside my chest and is about to burst out of me when I reach the landing. I try to catch my breath as I glide through the front room and into the kitchen.

Pushing the screen door open, it sways shut behind me as I step out onto the porch. I run down the steps and into the open yard. I make it to the rose bushes and turn around the corner, hoping she's still there. I walk across some flagstone and reach for the gate. I swing it open. When it swings back and clinks on the latch, it startles her.

But my attention is on the statue, and the tombstone beneath it. “Isn't this your mother's grave?” I ask.

“No. My mother died a year before…before it happened.”

“Then…”

“Your mother, Amelia—her ashes are buried here. Beneath the tree where she ended her life. She always loved this magnolia tree.”

“Why didn't you tell me, Aunt Rachel?” I shout out as she stands near the grave.

She looks disheveled with her hair, once tightly wrapped in a bun, now falling apart with loose strands blowing in the wind. Her eyes are swollen with tears and her mouth drops open, searching for words to say as if she could gulp them in with the right gust of air.

“I'm so sorry,” she says, sucking in another breath, trying to calm down her cries. She pauses and looks like she could start sobbing again, yet she continues. “But I just couldn't….”

I stand there, feeling the wind whip my hair around, though I am still. I clench my fists as if balling all this in. “Why not?”

She turns her stricken face and looks at the grave. “Because I was so ashamed! Because, God help me, I didn't believe her.” Her voice gets shaky and she has to gasp for another breath. But then she steadies her words. “I yelled at her. Called her a liar. A whore. I was so horrible to her! Then I ran away, as far as I could go, and tried to never look back.”

She looks at me, her eyes welling up with tears again, yet she continues on. “And then she was dead. She was all alone when she gave birth to you, in her room in the attic. Then she bundled you up and—” She stops and buries her face.

My skin tingles. “But I heard crying in the attic when we first moved in.”

Aunt Rachel shakes her head. “That was me. I needed to get some old documents up there and all the memories came flooding back.”

I turn my head away for a moment, thinking Amelia was wrong about that too.

“It was George who found her body,” continued Aunt Rachel. She is oddly calm, her voice flat. “They got in touch with me and I came back—but I couldn't bear to look at you. All I saw was Amelia. All I could think was…what if I just believed her? Helped her. What if I had just done something different? Would she still be here? Amelia might not have died if you had never been born.”

I take a step back, anger building up inside me. “You do hate me.”

“I hated the world.” She throws her hands in the air then drops them as if they just went limp. “I hated George for what he did in a sick drunken fit. I hated Violet for not being there to help. And yes, I hated you for, because—” She stopped suddenly, and put her head in her hands. “No. I hated myself. Though I didn't realize it till you came back into my life. The guilt. Oh God! Maybe me not believing her drove her to it. I don't know. I'll never know, and that's what hurt the most. I had to leave. Violet and Frank agreed to take care of you. Violet was always maternal that way—unlike myself. You were safe with her.”

My anger bubbles up and I spit out, “How could you turn your back on my mother? She loved you so much! She wrote you every month!”

“And I read every one of those letters and heard all about you. I just couldn't reply. I tried, but it all came out wrong. Then I got busy…I kept putting it off….” There's a long pause between us.

“She told me how her relationship with Frank began to deteriorate. He spiraled down as his drinking got the better of him. Violet finally had enough and told him she wanted a divorce. Frank swore he'd sue for custody of you, just to cause her pain. They argued. At least, that's what you said after the fire…that you'd heard them, and it upset you terribly.”

She tells me as if I should remember saying this, but honestly I don't. Yet I am trying.

“The police said they were probably arguing when the fire started, and didn't notice until it was too late. They ran upstairs to save you—but you weren't there. The stairs collapsed and they couldn't get out. Keith found you at the other end of the house.” She stands still, with such sadness in her face, keeping in her sniffles. “It's hard to think of it. I came back again for the funeral and met you for the first time. Do you remember?”

“No,” I say in a curt tone. Amelia must have been keeping that from me too.

“You were devastated. Finding out you were adopted. Violet and Frank dying in such a horrible accident. It was too much for you. You changed. You were in the hospital for a while. For a long time.”

All this confusion makes my heart race and my cheeks flare up with heat. I am mad and hurt and baffled at the same time. But I need to hear it all.

“After that I went back to New York and Grandpa George took care of you. He moved out of the house to take you away from the burned-down guesthouse. He sent me updates about you. He said you were getting better.”

“You left me with a rapist,” I spit out. “Thank God, he never once touched me! Why would he even do something like that in the first place?”

She puts her hand up to her face, pausing for a moment as if trying to figure out why. Finally after several awkward seconds standing there, she takes her hand away from her mouth and says, “There was a time when George was a heavy alcoholic. I know that's no excuse, but it may have been the cause of it. But after you were born he sobered up and changed his whole life around.”

I can't believe what I am hearing. This is too much too fast. Yet I can't take my thoughts off her words. “The whole family is sick,” I choke.

Aunt Rachel takes a deep breath and sighs. She looks defeated and drained. “We had a difficult childhood. George was strict and remote, and mother submissive and sickly. Amelia was the center of my universe. I helped raise her. She was special. I've written and thought about her so much after it happened, trying to rationalize it myself.”

“She's the lost girl in all your books, isn't she?”

“Yes. In my books I could always have a happy ending. I could pretend it never happened. And in a way, I convinced myself it never did.” She wraps her arms around her, hugging herself, then flings her hands in the air again. “God, why didn't I just believe her?”

She twists herself around, swiping the loose strands away from her face as she glances at the grave, then swivels back and looks me dead in the face. “After a while I couldn't seem to write what I wanted. I lost my voice. My career fell apart. This was the last place I wanted to come to, but in the end it was the only place I had to hide. And after you and George moved in, I couldn't hide anymore. Seeing you, knowing you were suffering—it's like you were my Amelia. It killed me.”

“I'm sorry,” I cut her off before she can say more. “You're still doing it. Pretending nothing's wrong. Why couldn't you just get me help?”

“Honestly? I still resented you,” she says, unable to look me in the face. “Oh, I knew deep down none of this was your fault. I just thought it was best not to rock the boat. I didn't realize how sick you were until you went into the hospital.”

“You're lying,” I say, stepping back. “I know you've read my journal.”

She blinks, and her cheeks flush. “Yes. I'll admit it. I've read your journal. Blake gave it to me. But I only read a few pages. I was confused by it. It was so filled with anger. Yet it seemed like you knew the truth about everything. I was glad. I thought it meant I didn't have to tell you. I wanted to help you.”

“You are so in denial,” I say with a trembling voice. “You never helped me. You never helped anyone. You're a weak, selfish woman, who does nothing but turn away from the people who need her most. Lucky for me, George made a better guardian than you ever would.”

Tears stream down her shocked face. She reaches out to me, but I back away from her. Dropping her arms, she walks over to Amelia Livingstone's gravestone and drops to her knees and starts to cry uncontrollably. “Dear God, can you ever forgive me?”

I leave her crying there and head back inside the house.

I run up the winding staircase and to my room again to get my things. Jinks pops out of the closet and darts over to caress my legs, gently rubbing up against me.

“Oh, honey, I missed you too,” I tell him, picking him up. “Come on, Jinks. It's time for us to move on from this place.”

I grab my bag in one hand and carry Jinks in the other and head back to Blake's car.

Chapter Twenty-nine

It's been three weeks since George's death. All he is to me now is George, not my grandfather, not my birth father, not anyone I really know. All I knew of him was just one big lie.

After the funeral, I moved in with Blake. Blake's apartment is small yet quaint, with one bedroom and a little galley kitchen. It's on the second floor, and when we look out the balcony doors, we see the beautiful budding trees that surround us. It is like our own little tree house—our own little private place, just the two of us. Plus Jinks. It's sweet to see that Jinks is enjoying himself in our new place.

After moving in, I decided to switch schools and finish out my senior year at a high school nearby. I did it to not only get away from all the old memories I had there, but to stay away from all my old so-called friends.

Beth told to me the last time I saw her how sorry she was to hear that I was in the hospital. She didn't say anything about why she never called back and she never mentioned Matt. I guess she's pretty shallow, and is comfortable with hiding things from me. I've come to the conclusion she isn't the kind of friend that I need. I can't hold on to that type of unhealthy relationship anymore, even if it means not having any friends at school. In my heart I know I'm making the right decision to stay away from her.

Blake fixed the sofa bed for me, so I've been sleeping in the front room. At first I suggested we could just sleep in his room—together. It was funny to see the look on his face. He wants to take things slow, while I am all for it—sex, that is. But he treats me like the delicate flowers in the garden, making me food and showering me with such love and affection. He says it's too soon to be that close and that he wants to take things slowly and cherish what we have together. He often says I need to heal from what happened to me.

But in all honesty, I've been dealing with it all my life. My coping mechanism has always been Amelia.

Aunt Rachel sent me a letter a few days after I left. She wrote:

Believe it or not, I love you very much. Just as I loved your mother, Amelia.
In so many ways, you remind me of her. I hope someday you will be able to forgive me. Until then, Milly, please take care of yourself.

It's hard to process everything Aunt Rachel told me, yet I am trying. I know deep down she didn't mean to hurt me. In a way, I feel sorry for her. All these years she has struggled—and she's still not at peace. I feel her pain. But I just don't think I'm ready to have a relationship with her again. At least not right now. I need to heal from this.

However, I am ready to have a relationship with my Uncle Keith.

We've already spoken a few times over the phone and even met for coffee once. I'm really starting to enjoy our talks. He's told me things about Violet and Frank I never knew. And the few times he's reminisced about the past with me, I vaguely remembered him being in my life. I'm hoping I can restore some of those memories. I'm looking forward to having a relationship with him. Maybe being family. But all in due time.

As I unpacked my things, looking at the items I took and the clothes I wore before all this happened, I thought of the promise I made to myself in the hospital. I still want to help people when I graduate, which is actually in a few weeks. Hopefully someday I'll become a nurse or perhaps a doctor, who knows? Now that I'm eighteen and with my inheritance, I could pursue anything, really. But I plan to do something in the medical field, that's for sure. It will also help me better understand my own illness—something that will stay with me till I die.

I've maintained my health with regular visits to the doctor and therapist. Going to outpatient therapy has really helped too. Plus, I have my friends. Randy has come to visit with her son, Christopher. We are so supportive of each other and, in a way, I think if I hadn't ever been in the hospital, I don't know where I would be. I don't regret what happened. Cutting myself was a mistake, but everything happens for a reason. It was the only release I could think of at the time. I just wish I'd had some release that was safer. Now with my much healthier regimen, I do.

My doctor said that the new medication I'm taking may take up to six weeks to fully work, but the hallucinations about my birth mother, Amelia Livingstone, have stopped. I guess my parents tried to hide her existence from me, but I must have seen photographs of her in my youth. I blocked them out, but Amelia remembered and connected the memories to the statue and the magnolia tree. Ever since I found everything out, I've been able to come to terms with those memories, and it has helped me to move on.

Blake comes into the bedroom where I'm folding some clothes and stuffing them away in the dresser drawers. He asks me if I'm ready to go. I look at my journal lying on the bed as if it is some foreign object that I'm not familiar with. I never read it after that incident in the garden with Aunt Rachel. I didn't need to anymore.

“Yes, I'm ready, let's go.”

I grab the journal and we head downstairs to the front entryway doors. It takes about fifteen minutes before we get where we're going. The forest looks absolutely lovely this time of year.

We walk up to a small picnic area where the empty grills are. I take the journal out of my bag and lay it on one of them.

“Sure you wanna do this?” Blake asks.

“I'm sure.”

Blake walks over to the picnic tables and takes a seat.

I take the matchbox out of my pocket and strike a match. As the flame plumes out, Amelia whispers in my mind,
The fire
,
the fire
.

I drop the flamed match inside the grill and watch the paper char and burn. Amelia says again,
The fire, Milly, the fire
.

I stare into the fire and the vision of the child's room emerges—my room. I hear shouts from downstairs. My parents are fighting. I hear what they say about me. My mind starts to blur. When I open my eyes, I see a book of matches in my hand. Amelia forces me to the window and crouches my body down. There she uses my hand to strike the match and light the curtain on fire. As I watch the flame grow along the walls, I am channeled back to the present.

I look down at the matches in my hand and whisper into the sizzling fire, “Did you do it? Did you start the fire, Amelia?”

There's a long moment of silence between us. For a while, I don't think she will ever answer me. All I hear is the fire crackling and the spit of sparks dancing in the air. Then suddenly as I watch my journal go up in flames, she whispers back,
Yes. I didn't mean to hurt them. I just wanted the release
.

Even though she started the fires, I don't hate Amelia. Her life has been so sad, so full of fear and pain. I am no longer in denial of the truth. Nor do I harbor anger toward Aunt Rachel. Not even George. After all that has happened, I am now looking ahead and into the future instead of searching for what happened to me in my past. And I've come to terms with the idea that Amelia will always be a part of me—because Amelia and I are one.