Page 1 of One Last Regret

PROLOGUE

I expected to feel something standing here. Anger, grief, closure, perhaps even comfort. I expected to remember my mother and feel relief at her passing and remorse that our relationship was never… well, never. Never anything that could be described as a relationship, at least.

But I feel nothing. I look at the marble slab in the dirt with my mother’s name etched into the stone, her birthdate, her date of death seven years ago, and the caption, MAY GOD GRANT HER PEACE.

That caption is the only thing that sparks a memory. I recall being asked what I wanted her gravestone to say. At first, I was confused. I answered, "Well, her name and the appropriate dates." The poor funeral home director had to explain that I could choose a wish or a statement in her memory. I chose the first one that came to mind that wouldn't appall people.

My name is Mary Wilcox. The woman buried here is Angela Wilcox, my mother. She died seven years ago today. She was a bitter woman until the end, and the last words she spoke to me while still of sound mind were, “I can’t believe what a fucking waste you turned out to be.”

I don’t typically swear, but there is no need to soften my mother’s hate. And hate is exactly what it was. It took me decades to admit it to myself, but my mother hated her children. She saw me and my sister Annie as the reason for her misery and boredom. I don’t know for sure that she was narcissistic, but she was certainly uninterested in anyone’s happiness but her own. A pity, since she was never happy.

Next to her grave is that of my father, Bernard Wilcox. He died twenty-three years before my mother, felled by a stroke when he was not much older than my current age of fifty-two.He was happy once. I recall him smiling, laughing and behaving affectionately with us. By the time of his death—actually for several years prior—he was like her, miserable, bitter, and sarcastic.

But never cruel. No, my mother’s cruelty was a specialty all her own.

I look at the plat to the left of my mother's grave. It's blank. Nobody occupies it. It was intended for my sister, Annie, which I find odd considering that she hated Annie even more than she hated me. Perhaps she wanted Annie within reach even after death.

In any case, it’s empty because we don’t know when my sister died. Or evenifshe died. She ran away when she was twenty-one years old. I’ve never heard from her since. However, my beau, Sean, discovered that she wasn’t murdered in Boston but managed to travel across the country to Monterey, California. She was there for six months before moving on to parts unknown.

I’m going to find her. I’m going to find out what happened to her. Then, if I must, I will purchase a gravestone and place it here next to my mother and father. I am not so superstitious that I feel I will be disrespecting the dead by placing two women who hated each other near each other. Despite my brushes with paranormal experiences, I don’t truly believe in ghosts. Only memories.

I leave the gravesite and return to the house. I have no interest in remembering my mother right now. As for my sister, I will learn nothing more of her past from staring at an empty grave.

I walk inside and see that Sean has returned. His coat hangs on the hook just inside the door. I hear him in the kitchen and call, “Sean? You’d better not be grabbing a beer before even saying hello to me.”

He pokes his head out of the kitchen. “Hello.”

I hear the top of a beer bottle pop a moment later and roll my eyes. Sean’s drinking has toned down considerably since he’s moved in with me. He drinks only on his nights off now, and never more than two. Still, I feel it’s my duty to disapprove of his drinking lest it get any worse.

I have to admit I’m excited to hear the beer open. It means he has the night off, which means he has tomorrow off. That means he and I will have some time to spend together. Call me a silly old woman if you’d like, but I still get giddy when I can enjoy my boyfriend’s company.

“How was your day?” he asks. “Did you make any progress?”

I sigh. “No, I didn’t do much investigating today. It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. She was a cruel woman, and I’m better off without her.”

“Ouch. Strong words, my love.”

“And yet true.”

He comes to the living room and wraps his arms around me. I sigh and melt into him, grateful for his comfort even though I’m not nearly as upset as I’m pretending to be. “If I told you not to dwell on the past, would you listen?” he asks.

I smile. “You know the answer to that question.”

“I do,” he agrees, “but I had to ask anyway. I care for you, you know.”

“I know.” I push away from him. “But I don’t dwell on my mother. It’s Annie I want to know about.”

“Oh, I know. You only remind me every single time we have a conversation.”

“Do I? I’m sorry to bore you,” I reply cheekily.

“You could never bore me, Mary,” he assures me.

“Thank you. I’m glad to know I excite someone.” Before he can reply with a cheeky comment of his own, I ask, “How was your day? Have you made any progress on the Cheetah Fur Bandit?”

---