Look Closely - Laura Caldwell [61]
Suddenly I began to doubt myself. Had we had these talks, and had I somehow pushed them out of my mind, the same way I had shoved away my memories of that night?
“Maybe we did, Dad. But I just can’t remember, and I’ve been wondering. So please, tell me.”
He made a sound, like a coarse breath escaping his lungs. “Your mother fell down the stairs. She hit her head and died of internal bleeding in the brain.” He took a small sip of his drink.
There it was. The same story. The story that Chief Manning had settled on, the story that I, myself, had apparently told the police.
When I didn’t say anything, my father put his glass down and looked at me directly, his eyes full of concern, grief, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, that wariness again. “Are you remembering now?”
Remembering now? What did that mean? I could feel my father watching me, waiting for me to answer. “No. I don’t recall anything about it.”
It sounded so simple. My mother had fallen down the stairs. Tragic but simple, so why couldn’t I remember it like that? Why couldn’t I remember it at all?
My father sat back, his face clearing a little. Why did he look relieved?
“Were you there?” I asked. I knew from Della, and from Chief Manning’s version of events, that my dad was out of the house, separated from my mom by then. But I had never heard my father say that. I wanted to see if he would be honest with me. I prayed he would.
He hung his head. “I wish I was. But no.”
“Where were you?”
He sighed. “I don’t know if you knew this, if you remember this, I mean, but your mom and I had taken a break.”
I took a quick breath. I was asking and my father was telling. It was the truth, as far as I knew it, and the realization sent relief coursing through me. “I don’t remember that.”
“Well, we’d had some problems, and we decided it would be better if I moved out for a while.”
“Where did you go?”
“The apartment in Chicago.”
I nodded. I’d assumed as much. “And so how did you find out about Mom?”
“Find out what?”
“About her death. Her fall or whatever.” What had he thought I meant?
“Your brother called me. It was about seven in the morning on a Saturday, and I was getting ready to go to the office for a while.” He paused for a second, then said in a low voice, “What a terrible day that was.” And I could tell he was reliving it. I could see from the way his eyes stared at the table without really focusing that he was back there again.
“What did he tell you?” I couldn’t bring myself to use Dan’s name, as if it might startle my father too much.
He was quiet for a moment, then looked at me. “He said your mother was dead. That he’d found her in bed. You and your sister were in the room with her.”
Your sister…your brother. I wondered at my dad’s use of these terms instead of calling them Dan and Caroline, but I couldn’t place any significance there. It had been so long since we had talked like this at all, since we’d talked about the family that had once been.
A clap of laughter rang from the bar where a few guys in their forties had planted themselves, suit coats off, ties loosened. My father flinched at the noise, and I found myself thinking that he looked older now than I had ever seen him. His posture, normally ramrod perfect, sagged at the shoulders, his eyes slightly unfocused.
“And what did I say when you talked to me?” I asked. This was what I wanted so badly to know. What had I seen that night?
Again, he didn’t answer the question right away. He sat up straighter. “You said she fell. She just slipped and fell down the stairs. After that, she wanted you to help her into bed. You did, and you fell asleep. She must have died sometime during the night.”
I felt tears sting my eyes. I wanted so badly to remember this. It seemed a disservice to my mom not to do so, but none of it was familiar except the image of her standing at the front door with her hand to her head, the recollection of being in bed with her that next morning, Dan calling from outside the room.