The Other Side - J. D. Robb [157]
“And when it finally happened, I was as relieved for him as I was devastated. He suffered so. My poor, sweet, precious boy.”
“How old was he?”
“Just eight. Two weeks after his birthday.” She smiled. “He had so much fun at his party. All his friends came. We had a Superman theme. He could hardly sleep the night before.”
“And was it because Ruffie was so sick all the time that you didn’t have more children, the way you’d planned?”
“Oh no. The miracle of him only increased my desire to have more.” She got to her feet, as if suddenly agitated and restless. “Unfortunately, the loss of him gradually drove a wedge between Andrew and me. It was a difficult time for us both.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“No need. I’ve come to believe that we create our own fate. I don’t think that one day you can have all the luck in the world and the next you haven’t any. Once, I admit, I thought God just wanted to see me suffer, but truly, with all the pain in the world, did he really need my pain, too? If he existed at all, which I now doubt, as how could I possibly believe in a God who didn’t believe in me? . . . who also refused to give me a second chance to be happy? That’s not the kind and loving God I was brought up on.” She turned to one of the two large windows that overlooked the overgrown gardens at the rear of the house . . . and Jimmy’s backyard. She held her elbows and stood straight and tall and beautiful. “Don’t be sorry for me, Maribelle. I didn’t realize it at the time, but dying alone was the destiny I chose for myself by taking my son and husband for granted, by assuming I’d always be happy and making so little effort, taking so few steps to ensure it.”
“But, Imogene, no one’s happiness is guaranteed, no matter how hard you try. It’s crazy to blame yourself.”
“Who else is there?” she asked, her tone flat and certain.
It was a good question—one philosophers and scholars and people a lot more . . . intellectually profound than she had struggled with since the beginning of time. And somehow she didn’t think her own mind-set of Shit happens . . . deal with it would be of any comfort to her aunt.
Besides, who was she to judge Imogene? M.J. must have loved her father, but she could barely remember him and couldn’t recall feeling the bone-deep pain her mother spoke of when he passed away. She had missed Larry Biderman when her mother divorced him, resented her for it and vowed never to become attached to her mother’s husbands again. Even then she’d felt her mother’s capacity to love anyone beyond the walls she’d built around herself diminishing. And so, in self-defense, she’d fashioned her own shields to deflect what had seemed like her mother’s constant disappointment in her.
But she’d never lost a child. She’d never been abandoned by someone she loved. Her mother’s death had been a blow, and something inside her missed her like she might miss a limb . . . but she wondered now how much greater that grief might be if they’d been closer—friends even. She had nothing in her life to compare to Imogene’s great love . . . or her great despair.
“We’ll figure it out, Imogene. I promise you. We’ll figure out what it is you’ve lost so you can leave all the heartache and regret behind. That is what happens, right? You won’t feel this way on the Other Side, will you?”
At first she didn’t answer, but just as M.J. was about to repeat the question, she murmured, “I don’t know.” She turned from the window. “All we’re convinced of is that we no longer belong here. And we can’t move on because our spirit or soul or essence or whatever it is that made us who we were is no longer whole. We each lost a part of ourselves in this house, and until we know what it is, whatever happens to us next will remain a mystery.”
“You don’t think the Other