blame her. My initial reaction back at the office was shock, confusion, and worry, but now that I’ve had time to dwell on the new information, impatience and frustration add to the mix. I know it’s not Dr. Becker’s fault, but we’ve been left without concrete answers for weeks now, and the stress of not knowing what’s happening to Molly’s body is taking a toll on all of us.
Douglas rests a hand on his wife’s arm to calm her. “White matter? What exactly does that mean?”
Molly and I spend the next few minutes going over what Dr. Becker told us, leaving out the part about the mysterious disease. There’s no sense mentioning it yet. It’ll only worry them more. They ask questions, most of which we don’t have answers to, but we give them what we can. I can sense the more we talk, the more despondent Molly’s mood gets. I hate the change. Molly is usually very cheerful and carefree.
After a few tense and silent moments, where the four of us contemplate the latest news, I get up from my chair and hold my hand out to my wife. “You ready to head out?”
She nods and takes my hand. Her parents follow us into the house as we go gather the kids from the living room. Nancy hugs Molly extra-long when we say goodbye.
The sun is starting to set when we get home—after stopping at the game store for Gray—but it feels later than what it is. Exhaustion hits me, and from the drained expression on Molly’s face, she’s just as tired from the day’s revelations.
I pull ground beef from the fridge for dinner. Molly tries to intervene when I start forming the meat into hamburger patties, but I force her to go take a shower, hoping it’ll help her relax and shift her mood from the negative thoughts I know she has in her head.
These next two weeks are going to be mentally and physically taxing on the both of us, more so for Molly.
I only hope at the end of them we’ll have the answers we’re looking for.
Chapter Eight
MOLLY
“Where is it at?” I mutter. “It has to be here somewhere.”
I throw the lid back on the box and barely refrain from kicking the stupid thing. Instead, I grab it and set it on the floor beside the others. When I start going through the one beneath it, I soon realize I’ve already gone through the damn box.
“Damn it,” I growl under my breath and throw my hands on my hips. I spin in place, hoping there’s a box I somehow missed.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Lincoln asks, strolling into the room.
I blow the hair out of my face with frustration and turn to face him. “Are you sure you got all the boxes of journals from the attic? Could you have missed one?”
“That was all of them. I made sure of it.”
“But it can’t be,” I insist, growing irritated. “There has to be another box somewhere.” A thought occurs. “Or maybe it was never up there,” I finish reluctantly.
“What’s going on?”
“There’s a journal missing. Betsy’s journals abruptly stopped, so there has to be more.”
“Or she could have stopped writing them,” Lincoln offers.
I purse my lips as I think about his suggestion. “I guess that could be the case.” I pause, hating that he could be right. “But I don’t get it. She’s written in them since she was a child. Why would she stop all of a sudden? And why at such a crucial point in her life? What if something happened to her?”
“I don’t know.” Lincoln bends down and rights a box that must have fallen over. “I know this is important to you, but maybe she didn’t feel the need to do it anymore.”
I’ve kept Lincoln in the loop of what’s written in the journals. It’s nice to have someone to talk to about them. I could with Lindsay or Mom, but it seems less intrusive to Betsy to talk to Lincoln.
The thought that she stopped writing deflates me. I may have never met this Betsy woman in the flesh, but through her words, I feel like I’ve come to know her. I want to know more of her life. What happened with William? Did he make it back to her after the war? How did their life end up? And Mary…. Did their child grow up healthy and happy? So many unanswered questions. It’s more than just a want; it’s a deep-seated need to find out.