After Bitty blew her nose and collapsed against the seat, Mary unclipped the girl’s seat belt to give her a little more room.
“I didn’t know your mother all that well,” Mary said. “But I’m very sure, if she could have had those kinds of loving, normal moments with you, she would have taken them in a heartbeat. Violence is all-pervasive when it’s in the home. You can’t get away from it unless you leave, and sometimes you can’t leave so it colors everything. Do you think maybe it’s more that you don’t miss the suffering the two of you went through? That you don’t miss the fear and hurt?”
Bitty sniffled. “Am I a bad daughter? Am I . . . bad?”
“No. God, no. Not at all.”
“I did love her. A lot.”
“Of course you did. And I’ll bet if you think about it, you’ll realize you still do.”
“I was so scared all the time she was sick.” Bitty fiddled with the tissues. “I didn’t know what was going to happen to her and I was worried really about myself a lot of the time. Is that bad?”
“No. That’s normal. That’s called survival.” Mary tucked a piece of hair behind Bitty’s ear. “When you’re young and you can’t take care of yourself, you worry about those kinds of things. Heck, when you’re older and you can take care of yourself, that’s also what you worry about.”
Bitty accepted another tissue, putting it on her knee and smoothing it flat.
“When my mom died?” Mary said. “I was angry at her.”
The girl looked up in surprise. “Really?”
“Yup. I was bitterly angry. I mean, she had suffered and I had been there by her side for a number of years as she had slowly declined. She hadn’t volunteered for any of it. She hadn’t asked to get sick. But I resented the fact that my friends didn’t have to nurse their parents. That my buddies were free to go out and drink and party and have a good time—be young and unattached, unburdened. Meanwhile I had to worry about tidying up the house, buying groceries, making meals—and then as the disease progressed, cleaning her up, bathing her, getting coverage when the nurses couldn’t come in because of bad weather. And then she died.” Mary took a deep breath and shook her head. “All I could think of after they took her body away was . . . great, now I have to plan the funeral, deal with the bank account stuff and the will, clean out her clothes. That’s when I really lost it. I just broke down and cried, because I felt like the worst daughter in the history of the world.”
“But you weren’t?”
“No. I was human. I am human. And grief is a complex thing. They say there are stages of it. Have you ever heard of that?” When Bitty shook her head, Mary continued. “Denial, bargaining, anger, depression, acceptance. And all that’s largely what people go through. But there are so many other things mixed into it as well. Unresolved issues. Exhaustion. Sometimes there is relief, and that can come with a lot of guilt. My best piece of advice? As someone who has not only walked this road, but also helped other folks through it? Let your thoughts and feelings come when they do—and don’t judge them. I can guarantee that you are not the only person who has had thoughts they didn’t like or emotions that felt wrong. Also, if you talk about what’s going on for you, it is absolutely possible to move through the pain, fear and confusion to what’s on the other side.”
“And what is that?”
“A measure of peace.” Mary shrugged. “Again, I wish I could tell you that the pain goes away—it doesn’t. But it does get better. I think of my mom still, and yes, sometimes it stings. I think it always will—and honestly? I don’t want that grief to disappear completely. Grief . . . is a sacred way of honoring those we love. My grief is my heart working, it’s my love for her and that’s a beautiful thing.”
Bitty patted the tissue on her knee. “I didn’t love my father.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“And sometimes I got frustrated that my mother didn’t leave him.”
“How could you not have?”
Bitty took a deep breath and exhaled long and slow. “Is that all right? Is all this . . . all right?”
Mary leaned and took both the girl’s hands. “It is one hundred percent, absolutely, positively okay. I promise.”
“You would tell me if it wasn’t?”
Mary’s eyes didn’t waver. “I swear on the life of my husband. And what’s more? I completely understand where you’re coming from. I get it, Bitty. I totally get it.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
Assail had no clue where they were. As Vishous drove the BMW like a bat out of hell through the streets of Caldwell, and then out into farmland, Assail paid little attention to what they were passing by. All he cared about was measuring the breathing of the slave.
“Stay with me,” he whispered.
Before he knew what he was doing, he had reached out and taken the male’s cold hand. Rubbing it between his palms, he tried to will some of his body heat, his life force, into what lay so motionless beside him.
God, he hated those chains.
When he finally looked up out of the windows—because he was losing his mind with worry and wondering why the trip was taking so long—he frowned. All around, a fog had rolled in—or rather, visibility had decreased as if there were a mist in the air, even though the telltale pale cloudiness was absent from the landscape.
“I didn’t know your mother all that well,” Mary said. “But I’m very sure, if she could have had those kinds of loving, normal moments with you, she would have taken them in a heartbeat. Violence is all-pervasive when it’s in the home. You can’t get away from it unless you leave, and sometimes you can’t leave so it colors everything. Do you think maybe it’s more that you don’t miss the suffering the two of you went through? That you don’t miss the fear and hurt?”
Bitty sniffled. “Am I a bad daughter? Am I . . . bad?”
“No. God, no. Not at all.”
“I did love her. A lot.”
“Of course you did. And I’ll bet if you think about it, you’ll realize you still do.”
“I was so scared all the time she was sick.” Bitty fiddled with the tissues. “I didn’t know what was going to happen to her and I was worried really about myself a lot of the time. Is that bad?”
“No. That’s normal. That’s called survival.” Mary tucked a piece of hair behind Bitty’s ear. “When you’re young and you can’t take care of yourself, you worry about those kinds of things. Heck, when you’re older and you can take care of yourself, that’s also what you worry about.”
Bitty accepted another tissue, putting it on her knee and smoothing it flat.
“When my mom died?” Mary said. “I was angry at her.”
The girl looked up in surprise. “Really?”
“Yup. I was bitterly angry. I mean, she had suffered and I had been there by her side for a number of years as she had slowly declined. She hadn’t volunteered for any of it. She hadn’t asked to get sick. But I resented the fact that my friends didn’t have to nurse their parents. That my buddies were free to go out and drink and party and have a good time—be young and unattached, unburdened. Meanwhile I had to worry about tidying up the house, buying groceries, making meals—and then as the disease progressed, cleaning her up, bathing her, getting coverage when the nurses couldn’t come in because of bad weather. And then she died.” Mary took a deep breath and shook her head. “All I could think of after they took her body away was . . . great, now I have to plan the funeral, deal with the bank account stuff and the will, clean out her clothes. That’s when I really lost it. I just broke down and cried, because I felt like the worst daughter in the history of the world.”
“But you weren’t?”
“No. I was human. I am human. And grief is a complex thing. They say there are stages of it. Have you ever heard of that?” When Bitty shook her head, Mary continued. “Denial, bargaining, anger, depression, acceptance. And all that’s largely what people go through. But there are so many other things mixed into it as well. Unresolved issues. Exhaustion. Sometimes there is relief, and that can come with a lot of guilt. My best piece of advice? As someone who has not only walked this road, but also helped other folks through it? Let your thoughts and feelings come when they do—and don’t judge them. I can guarantee that you are not the only person who has had thoughts they didn’t like or emotions that felt wrong. Also, if you talk about what’s going on for you, it is absolutely possible to move through the pain, fear and confusion to what’s on the other side.”
“And what is that?”
“A measure of peace.” Mary shrugged. “Again, I wish I could tell you that the pain goes away—it doesn’t. But it does get better. I think of my mom still, and yes, sometimes it stings. I think it always will—and honestly? I don’t want that grief to disappear completely. Grief . . . is a sacred way of honoring those we love. My grief is my heart working, it’s my love for her and that’s a beautiful thing.”
Bitty patted the tissue on her knee. “I didn’t love my father.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“And sometimes I got frustrated that my mother didn’t leave him.”
“How could you not have?”
Bitty took a deep breath and exhaled long and slow. “Is that all right? Is all this . . . all right?”
Mary leaned and took both the girl’s hands. “It is one hundred percent, absolutely, positively okay. I promise.”
“You would tell me if it wasn’t?”
Mary’s eyes didn’t waver. “I swear on the life of my husband. And what’s more? I completely understand where you’re coming from. I get it, Bitty. I totally get it.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
Assail had no clue where they were. As Vishous drove the BMW like a bat out of hell through the streets of Caldwell, and then out into farmland, Assail paid little attention to what they were passing by. All he cared about was measuring the breathing of the slave.
“Stay with me,” he whispered.
Before he knew what he was doing, he had reached out and taken the male’s cold hand. Rubbing it between his palms, he tried to will some of his body heat, his life force, into what lay so motionless beside him.
God, he hated those chains.
When he finally looked up out of the windows—because he was losing his mind with worry and wondering why the trip was taking so long—he frowned. All around, a fog had rolled in—or rather, visibility had decreased as if there were a mist in the air, even though the telltale pale cloudiness was absent from the landscape.
