Page 31 of All We Thought We Knew
“Mattie,” Mama said, her voice stern. “God doesn’t mind us asking questions when hard things happen, but when we start telling him who should live and who should die... well, that simply isn’t something we should ever do. Nash survived for a reason, and I’m grateful he did. He’s hurting, Mattie, and I don’t just mean because of his missing arm. I think it goes back to his childhood, long before the war. Deep inside, he’s wounded. If a friendship with your father helps heal that, then I thank God for it.”
I wouldn’t argue with her. There was no point. The truth is, I didn’t wish Nash had died in Vietnam. I just wish Mark had lived.
I noticed the lid to the old trunk in the corner of the room stood open. Mark and I used to prowl through the musty chest from time to time, looking for treasures. What we found, however, was old-fashioned clothing, baby things, and some miscellaneous items I couldn’t recall.
“I was feeling nostalgic,” she said when she found my attention on the trunk. She reached for something in her lap and held up a miniature nightgown. “You and your brother were such tiny things when you were born. I remember how excited we were to have a boy and a girl.”
My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard.
“Neither your dad nor I could recall anyone in our families ever having twins,” she continued, not realizing how painful it was for me to listen to her share her memories. “It was such a blessing, especially because I never became pregnant again.” She sniffled as she looked at the gown. “Seems like yesterday I was running afterthe two of you. Two peas in a pod, I called you, but Mark—” Tears filled her eyes as her voice cracked.
I couldn’t do this. Not now. Maybe not ever.
“I just remembered I need to take some chicken out of the freezer.” I stood, feeling like the worst daughter in the world. I couldn’t help it though. Her journey down memory lane was simply too painful for me to join. “You said you wanted soup for supper, isn’t that right?”
She wiped a tear that slipped down her cheek. Then she smiled, albeit, not as broadly as earlier. “Yes, soup sounds nice. Especially on a cold day.”
“I’ll bring your lunch up in a little while.” I didn’t wait for her response before I fled downstairs. So as not to be a liar, I took out a package of rock-hard chicken and set it in the sink with athunk.
I blew out a breath.
I know Mama wanted to talk about Mark. About his life and his death. But I’d spent the past year doing everything I could to forget. To push the memories, even the happy ones, to the deepest, darkest part of my soul where they couldn’t hurt me. Unearthing them now was the last thing I needed. Nothing good could come from reliving that kind of pain all over again. I was on shaky ground as it was, just being back in this house, dealing with Mama’s cancer and my rocky relationship with Dad.
I stared out the window at the gray, wintery day.
The way I saw things, I had two choices if I was going to survive: set boundaries and make sure no one penetrated them, or catch the next bus to LA and never look back.
I kept busy in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for soup and baking some corn bread, mainly to avoid going upstairs. When that chore was finished, I threw a load of laundry into the washing machine, folded towels that were in the dryer, and swept the porch despite the frigid breeze. When I couldn’t stall any longer, I prepared a soft-boiled egg and toast and carried them to Mama’sroom. I found her curled in bed, the tiny nightgown clutched in her hands, sound asleep.
Quietly, I set the lunch tray on the side table. I hated to wake her, but the food would be cold soon. I’d wait and see if she awakened.
The lid of the trunk remained open. It looked as though Mama had rummaged through it to find what she was looking for. Seeing the familiar items brought a flash of pain, but I refused to let it settle.
I set about putting the contents of the chest back in order. When I came to a shoebox I assumed held photographs, I was surprised to find it contained an old leather-bound book and two bundles of yellowed envelopes, each tied with string.
I sat back on my haunches and lifted out the book. The edges were quite worn andDie Bibelwas stamped on the front cover in faded gold lettering. A crackling sound issued from the book’s spine when I opened it to the first page. Fancy printed letters repeated the wordsDie BibelwithBerlin, 1908beneath them. A handwritten message would surely give a clue as to the ownership, but I couldn’t make out the words. It was written in a different language.
“What are you doing?”
Dad’s voice startled me, and I dropped the book. I whirled to find him in the doorway, his hard glare fixed on me.
“Mama was feeling nostalgic. She wanted to see some of...” I faltered. “She took some things out of the trunk.”
His gaze landed on the book in my lap. “Put that away. You have no business looking through things that don’t concern you.”
Taken aback by his harsh tone, I huffed. “I wasn’t being nosy. I was simply cleaning things up.”
He stood there a while longer before he turned and left the room.
What in the world was that about?
I picked up the book again. What was so important about the old tome?
With a stealthy glance toward the doorway to make certain he was gone, I studied the cover.Die Bibel.If I had to guess, it saidThe Bible, but why would Dad get all worked up about an old, foreign Bible? He’d never shown any interest in religion. Never went to church with us. Never prayed over a meal.
A door banged somewhere downstairs. I heard Dad’s voice as he spoke to Nash.
I returned the book to the box, put the box in the bottom of the trunk, and threw a quilt on top of it. With everything back as it was, I woke Mama and helped her with her lunch. All the while, however, my eyes drifted to the trunk.
