The Heirloom Garden - A Novel - Viola Shipman Page 0,26
act not only as if I wasn’t just staring but also as if nothing has happened, and I click on my Blackberry.
The SUV bumps over the rocky drive out of the park.
There is a text from my mother, the Queen of Ignore the Elephant in the Room and Princess of Pretend Everything is Okay Even When Your World is Falling Apart.
Is Cory enjoying the game? Tigers up big!
My mother once thought smartphones were the downfall of civilization. Now she texts more than a teenage girl.
Went on a family hike. Wonderful day together.
I wait, knowing my mom is furiously typing something with her thumbs. This could take hours, I think, knowing how slowly my mom types. My heart booms in my chest, and I take a deep breath to steady myself.
Why would you take that man’s Saturday from him? He loves the Tigers. Just needs a normal weekend.
Normal weekend?
I shake my head and steady my thumb. I type So do we! Then I take another breath and erase it. Talk later, Mom. Driving.
I stare out the window. A small billboard for a local furniture store shows a happy family snuggled on a new sofa watching TV, the mom holding a tray of cookies.
That’s how my mom views the world, I imagine. Fake advertising.
Irony of ironies, my mom’s name is June. Just like June Cleaver. The quintessential mom from Leave it to Beaver, which I watched in reruns after school for years, along with Happy Days and The Brady Bunch.
And my mom was the quintessential mom.
When I was a child, I add.
June made me three-tier birthday cakes with moving carousels on top. She was my classroom mother every single year. She taught me to bake and sew and do all the things little girls are supposed to do when they want to be just like their mothers. The only problem was I didn’t want to be just like my mom. I loved her, but I wanted more. Out of everything. I think of my dad, who cheated on my mother for years. She knew and still stayed with him.
“How would it reflect on the family?” she always asked me.
No, Mom, how would it reflect on you? Even though you did nothing wrong. The ultimate secret keeper.
When I took AP science, she suggested I take home ec. When I took calculus, she asked how I would ever meet a nice boy if I acted smarter than they were. And when I got into college, she said, “At least we’re investing in finding you a husband.”
She was thrilled when I met Cory. He was a stereotypical Michigan man: strong, tall and blond. He was majoring in business. I didn’t know he was in the ROTC until I’d been dating him a few months.
Secrets, I think. Cory was as good at secrets as my mom.
And my mom was actually thrilled when Cory went to Iraq. He was a man’s man. I was now a military wife. I would put my silliness aside for the sake of my husband.
The car jolts to a stop. Cory has pulled off to the side of the road just before we are about to merge onto the highway.
“I can’t,” he says.
I reach out and grab his hand.
I take another deep breath for what I’m about to do. I am not my mother. I cannot be my mother. I cannot be a secret keeper, nor can my husband.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I say. I inhale. “But I can’t, either.” I stop. “What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says.
“You have to, Cory,” I say. “You’re not well. If you don’t want to talk about it with me, you have to talk about it with a counselor.”
Cory looks at me and shakes his head.
“Please,” I beg.
“I was driving,” he finally says, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are turning white. “We were in the middle of a sandstorm. Couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me. The tank in front of us hit a land mine. I swerved but caught part of a mine, too.”
Cory drops his hands from the steering wheel. I can see they’re shaking. He looks at me, his mouth a maw of grief. I reach out and grab his arm. “I’m so, so sorry,” I say. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“No one else needs to experience it,” he says.
“I’m your wife,” I say. “Your heart and soul.” I stop. “I am. I am experiencing it.”