locations, and turned it in to the authorities. According to the on-site counselors, Marjorie had begged them to let her stay, and cited that she hid them in hard-to-reach places because she wanted to quit. Unfortunately, they couldn’t bear the risk of her hurting any of the other tenants, so she was evicted.”
Peter distinctly remembered this element of the story: the conundrum of hiding the drugs to quit, instead of disposing of them altogether. He supposed he would never understand the mind of a user despite any books or degrees that could be acquired. This puzzle would occasionally float into his mind as he pondered the subject; he imagined himself in the shoes of an addict, with a strong desire to quit, and trying to decide what to do with a remaining stash of drugs.
“That was three years ago.” The stranger had reached the conclusion of his story. “I have heard nothing from her since she was evicted, and nothing about the child since I left the camp. The Ferapont house contacted me with the news on her passing as it was published, and now I am here.”
Small talk ensued while Mom and Aunt Sherry led Gramma outside. Brody gave Peter and Trini an inquisitive look by raising his eyebrows, but Peter was unsure of what to say. To him, the whole story sounded like something that was only ever on TV, so he let the subject of discussion drop.
What would even make for a condolence? Peter was dumbfounded. He was used to an occasional death in the family, but this was an entirely different scenario. His estranged aunt’s prolonged absence put the grieving process in an entirely different light.
Brody furrowed his brows, and addressed the two siblings. “You know what? It’s gotta be really weird for them right now. Especially Gramma. On one hand, her daughter died way before her time. That’s close family we’re burying today. We never knew her, but remember that she grew up with everyone else. Her childhood happened completely, and everyone else here was a part of it.”
Peter had been pondering what the stranger in the casket had been like growing up with people he also knew and loved, like his own Mother and Uncle Tim.
Brody continued, “But on the other hand, all those years of wondering, ‘Where is my daughter? Is she safe?’ and never having any conclusion are now over. Gramma will no longer ever have to prepare a holiday feast with the empty hope that Marjorie will miraculously show up. I don’t even have kids, and neither do you guys, that I know of,” he elbowed Peter in the ribs, “but you know how you have dreams and nightmares about things that concern you? Like tests or sports or friends or anything like that? Imagine having the same set of nightmares about the mystery of one of your children. For fifteen years. That is a relief if I can imagine one.”
Peter conceded the point to his older, wiser cousin, who continued his point, “Thing is, right now, they probably don’t know whether to make heads or tails of it! First they’re sad that this person they grew up with has died, never to be seen again. But then, this long-gone-but-not-forgotten source of worry, and her miserable campaign is over.”
Brody reclined back into his seat. Uncle Tim remained towards the front of the parlor, having some small-talk with the very informative stranger. Peter was unsure how to feel… it was a strange feeling.
Normally, he could think back to a time he was growing up and decide from this instance how to behave or act in any particular scenario. He imagined Mom’s piercing gaze and how at that moment he knew exactly the difference between right and wrong. For this though, he was inconclusive.
He had been about ten years old for this seminal directive of conscience; Dad was home for a few weeks and Mom had prepared a delicious dinner of grilled tuna steaks and sauteed vegetables for everyone on a balmy Saturday evening, towards the end of summer. They had just finished eating, and Dad was listening to all of Peter’s stories about elementary school, Trini was picking through her food and Mom was soaking it all in.
Trini, four years old at the time, and a little squirt even then, was paying more attention to annoying her brother than eating her food. Peter was explaining to his parents that he wanted to try playing clarinet or saxophone for the school band, but he did not want to skip study sessions after school to make the band practice. Trini was complicating the task.
Dad imparted his advice, “I think the band is a great idea. If you do want to play an instrument, your mother and I can lease one. You’re so young that you don’t know what you like yet, so you should try out as many things as you can, while you can. Before you get old enough to commit to a handful of things, anyways.”
“Yeah Pete, before you get too old!” Trini chimed in through a mouthful of food.
Mom provided her wisdom as well, ignoring the interruption. “I’m sure the teachers and the band instructors have dealt with kids who want to stay at study sessions and play in the bad, too. It won’t be a big deal for you to work out a deal with each of them and explain your schedule.”
Trini’s cheeks were bursting full when she piped up, “Yeah Pete! No big deal!”
She was hushed, and the conversation continued. Mom and Dad exhibited near-infinite patience when dealing with his sister; this was something he never shared with them, even as he grew older and into the roles of protector and friend. He was livid by the end of dinnertime, given the continuing interruptions aimed at him.
Mom had concocted a fruity, refreshing dessert for everyone: jumbo-size chocolate-covered strawberries, fresh from Uncle Tim’s. Eight in all; two for each person. Trini excused herself to go to the bathroom and wash her hands free of tuna grease, presumably because she knew it would not mix well with strawberries. After a few minutes, she disclosed from upstairs that she was staying in there for an “emergency,” as everyone else was wiping strawberry juice from their chins. Mom went up to help, and Peter helped his father clear the table.
She had returned downstairs, explaining that Trini would be down after she changed her clothes. Must have been quite an emergency, Peter said to himself. Dad went upstairs to investigate. Mom was washing and drying dishes and silverware while Peter brought out everything from the table, when he came to Trini’s dinnerplate and saw her two perfect, untouched, chocolate-covered jumbo strawberries. He eyed them up like a predator.
Mom won’t even notice they’re missing if I clean the plate before I take it up, he thought. Plus she wouldn’t even be able to finish two of these because she’s so young and small. He thought about her expulsion of food particles over the table in between two engorged cheeks and a meal full of interruptions. She doesn’t really deserve them anyways, with how she was behaving during dinner.
It was at this time, looking up from the strawberries to the doorway into the kitchen, that he saw Mom looking over her shoulder, her hips at about a corner turn behind her and both hands still in the sink, with suds running up her forearms. She’s reading my mind! Her eagle-eyes pierced into his soul, and forever told him the difference between doing what’s right, and doing what’s wrong.
This was a universally applicable lesson as he grew older. When a substitute teacher was dozing off in the chair on a test day in algebra, everyone seized the opportunity to share answers; Peter saw Mom’s gaze. Clive, his best friend and inherent troublemaker, once asked Peter’s help in setting off a series of firecrackers in the school bathroom during a testing week; Peter saw Mom’s gaze. Skylar, shortly before leaving for college, took a bottle of wine out with them while they were driving around one night; Peter saw Mom’s gaze.
Peter sat in his chair, between his cousin and his sister, staring up at the casket, considering what his cousin was saying. He thought back to his Mother’s piercing gaze, and if she was looking at him right now, what would that gaze implore him to do? Of course feeling sad would be natural, but for him, this was really no different than seeing the grandparent of a classmate in the obituaries. He felt bad for his Mom, and the rest of the family, sure; but he recognized that it was the same feeling he had for a classmate with a dead grandparent.
What about the relief aspect? Now, the whole family, all these people for whom he cared and loved, no longer had to worry about their estranged sister. Gramma would no longer be haunted by nightmares of irresolution concerning her youngest daughter. Did Mom’s