Page 115 of Wicked Minds
Peering inside, I first notice a stack of photos and cautiously lift them out. My eyes go wide as I look at the top one. I recognize Gran, although she’s a lot younger. Beside her is a tall, stern-looking man who must be my grandfather. He died when I was a baby, so I have no memories of him.
However, the smiling young woman beside him has all of my attention. It’s been years since I’ve seen a photo of her, and she’s younger and healthier in this photo than I ever remember, but there’s no mistaking that smile.
“Mom.”
Her vivacity shines from the photograph and I can’t look away. In my memories, she’s always so tired-looking. So exhausted. Her face gaunt and pale.
I stare at her face for several long moments before forcing myself to move to the next one in the pile.
There she is again, and just like in the first photo, she’s smiling broadly, brimming with life and happiness. She’s wearing a white dress, and beside her stands my father, stoic as ever.
Their wedding day.
With Gran’s accusations burning through my mind, I scour both their faces, yet they seem like the picture-perfect couple. Mom certainly looks happy to be marrying him, and while my father is as unreadable as always, just because he’s not good at expressing his emotions doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the same way.
The next few photographs are similar. Family vacations. Mom when she was pregnant with me. As I go through each one, I can’t find anything to justify Gran’s allegations.
I’m in the next few photos as a newborn. Mom looks more tired in these, but that’s only to be expected, right?
Flipping to the next photo, I pause, confused about what I’m looking at. What it means.
It’s a close-up of a woman’s side. Her top is pulled up, exposing black and blue bruising all down her ribs. There are noidentifying features. Their face isn’t in the shot, but an ice-cold chill seeps into my bones.
Turning it over, I recognize Gran’s handwriting on the back. There’s a date, and the wordspushed her down the stairs because she spoke back to him.
What the fuck?
I quickly go to the next photo. There’s more damage. This time, there’s no mistaking that it’s my mom. Her lip is split and her left eye is swollen shut and a deep blue color. Searching her one open eye, gone is the vivacious girl from the earlier photos. In its place is a broken woman. Someone who has given up on life. She looks… dead.
Turning it over, Gran has written another date and reason:Didn’t attend a gala because Grayson was sick.
I physically recoil. He did this to her because of me? Looking at the date again, I wouldn’t have been more than a year old.
My stomach spasms and unable to look at any more, I set them aside, mind reeling as I return my attention to the box.
Next, I lift out a bunch of pages. Scanning them, it becomes apparent that these are copies of the evidence Gran handed to the police that got Dad arrested.So it wasn’t the Alzheimer’s talking.
Sludge settles in my veins. Was Gran telling the truth about everything?
There’s only one more item inside the box: a small, worn leather book. Lifting it out, a scent I faintly recall from my childhood wafts up to me, and I lean in to sniff the book. Lotus flower. Immediately, memories of my mom assault me. Her cheering me on while I swung on the swing. Her praising my fingerpaint artwork. Evenings curled up in bed while she read to me. Sundays spent watching TV on the sofa together.
Tears burn in my eyes as I stare down at the book—herbook.
Reverently, I pull it open. Inside, in precise penmanship, are journal entries, and I flip to a random one.
Fear is an emotion I’ve become grimly accepting of. It’s such a prominent part of my life that fighting it is only a waste of energy. Energy I’d rather put into loving my little boy. Grayson makes everything I endure bearable. He’s my beacon of hope in the harshest of storms.
Swallowing roughly, I flick through to another entry.
I thought giving him a child would make him happy, but today, he looked at Grayson like he was nothing. How can a father look at his child with such apathy? It scares me in a way nothing else ever has.
Hands trembling, I move to another.
I read once that Ted Bundy was so successful as a serial killer because he was attractive and charming. I believe that. Late at night, I often find myself wondering how no one can see the monster lurking beneath my husband’s smile, but then I didn’t see it either until it was too late.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until a tear drops onto the page, and I wipe it away as I turn to the last entry.
I’m sick. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong, but it’s ravaging my body faster than anyone can figure out how to stop. I fear I’m not long for this world. I’m ready to go. Ready to shed myself of this existence. However, I worry about leaving Grayson. He’s such a sensitive boy. What will happen to him if I’m not here to protect him? To show him what love is?
