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Category:
Women
Publisher: Cambridge Books/WriteWords, Inc.
ISBN-10: 1613860090
Pages: 274
Copyright: January 2011
ISBN-13: 9781613860090
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
For seven decades Emily Carmichael kept diaries about growing up in Baltimore, her career, two marriages, and the infant daughter she gave up for adoption. Now those diaries are about to change the relationship between a mother and daughter traveling from Denver to Baltimore for Emily's funeral. Spanning fifteen hundred miles, three generations, and one life-changing secret, GOOD FRIDAYS is the story of how one person's decision affects many.
http://
goodfridaysbaltimorenovel.blogspot.com
GOOD FRIDAYS A novel by Diane MarquetteFor thirty years Sara has endured a relationship with Vicki, her manipulative, paranoid and narcissistic mother. After extensive counseling, Sara is now prepared to challenge her mother’s chronic abusive treatment.
The two women are beginning a five-day road trip from Denver to Baltimore to attend the funeral of Emily, an elderly woman with whom Vicki worked many years earlier when she and Sara still lived in Maryland.
Sara had already decided to have the confrontation with her mother during this trip, but now Sara has another reason to challenge her mother’s behavior. Immediately following Emily’s death, Sara received a box from Emily’s attorney. The box contained a three-ring binder filled with hand-written and typed pages. Also enclosed was a note from Emily explaining that her impending death made it imperative she tell Sara the story of her life, warning that it would have a great impact on Sara’s life, too.
Emily’s note also explains to Sara that she kept diaries during her life and because most of the significant events happened on Good Fridays, those are the diary entries Emily has chosen to share with Sara and include in the binder. Sara reads about Emily’s growing up Catholic in Baltimore during the Great Depression, becoming a war widow shortly after marrying her first husband, and then giving birth to their daughter, whom Emily is forced to put up for adoption.
Through her Good Friday diary entries, Emily reveals to Sara a shocking secret. Sara’s mother, Vicki, is the baby girl Emily was forced to abandon, meaning Emily was Sara’s grandmother. The pages in Emily’s binder tell Sara of her long and emotional efforts to find the baby she gave up, and how after finally finding her adult daughter, she is rejected by her.
Vicki lived a life of bitterness and anger because her mother abandoned her and so she felt justified in doing the same thing by turning her back on Emily when she found her daughter. And after Vicki married and gave birth to Sara, she carried her revenge even farther by forbidding Emily to tell anyone, not even Sara, that she was Vicki’s mother and Sara’s grandmother.
So now while on their road trip Sara is going to confront her mother about her mean and selfish actions of refusing to allow Sara to know she had a grandmother. And now it’s too late because they are going to her funeral.
Good Fridays is the story of how one person’s decision affects so many people.
Please visit my blog about the making of the novel Good Fridays.
http://goodfridaysbaltimorenovel.blogspot.com
Excerpt
Good Fridays
A Novel by Diane Marquette
TUESDAY, JULY 28, 2009
DENVER, COLORADO TO SALINA, KANSAS
I stood with my forehead against the living room window and watched the morning sun flickering through the trees. The light played across the asphalt and danced on the hoods of the parked cars, leaving little doubt Denver was in for another day of record-breaking heat.
My suitcase and laptop sat just inside the front door. I shifted my purse and tote bag higher on my shoulder and resumed staring through the glass.
“It’s only 7:20, Sara. Your mother said eight, didn’t she?” I nodded against the glass as Ryan sat down on the sofa.
“But I never know what to expect with her.” My breath fogged the glass. I turned and smiled at him. “I’m glad you came over to see me off.”
“Me, too,” he said, smiling. “Listen, I’ll take care of your plants and mail, so don’t worry about anything on this end. You need to stay focused on dealing with your mother.”
“God, I wish this was over. It feels like I’m going to my own funeral, not Emily’s.”
“Sara, it’s not the funeral you’re afraid of. It’s spending all that time alone in a car with your mother. Given her mental illness, anyone would be terrified.”
“Five days in a car with her. Each way. Oh, God.”
He stood and walked up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. “Try to think of it as an adventure, like Stuart Little.”
I forced a tiny laugh and then sighed. “Having contact with her on a monthly basis has suited me just fine over the years, but being together for nearly two weeks is unimaginable.” I sighed loudly. “Want to go with us?”
Ryan shook his head. “This doesn’t have anything to do with me, Sara. This is about you taking steps toward dealing with her psychosis to make your own life better.” Ryan slowly turned me around so I was facing him.
“If my mother could hear you say she’s psychotic, oh, my God, I don’t know what she’d do.”
“Yes, you do. She’d fly into a rage, but we both know the world would keep turning. Understandably her illness affects every aspect of her life, but it’s also affected your life, too, for thirty years, and that’s not going to change unless you take action.”
“Ryan, you said this doesn’t have anything to do with you but that’s not true. I want to marry you more than anything and I’ll move to Seattle with you, but not until I figure out how to break the news to my mother in such a way that both she and I can handle her reaction.”
“Sara, you can do this. Just keep remembering all we’ve talked about and everything Dr. Harper’s covered with you since you’ve been seeing her. People with personality disorders like your mother’s cannot change. “But it’s still hard to understand why she wouldn’t want to change.”
“Because basically she doesn’t realize there’s anything wrong with her, so why would she think she has to change? Maybe if she was threatened with losing something or someone very important, and going for therapy was a condition for keeping that something or someone, she might agree, but trust me, she’d go only because she was being forced to, and she’d likely spend the sessions playing games with the therapist’s head. Trust me. I’ve seen it.
“What you need to remember now is the only person you can change is yourself and the way to do that is by setting boundaries you won’t permit your mother to cross. You have rights, too, Sara.”
Looking into his eyes, I nodded after he spoke each sentence. I knew it all by heart. I knew what was wrong with my mother and that her illness really had nothing to do with me. I just happened to be the one who was usually in her crosshairs. “You’re right, of course. This has got to stop. I’ve had enough.”
Ryan took the tote bag from my shoulder. The handles rested across his palm as he lifted and lowered the bag a few times as though trying to guess its weight. “I’d say this was the last straw,” he said as he touched the black three-ring binder inside.
“That’s putting it mildly. Learning last week that my mother’s kept this huge secret from me all these years should give me motivation and courage to finally stand up to her.”
“Thank goodness you received this from Emily or you may never have known the truth about your family. Those secrets could have died when Emily died.”
I shook my head. “No. My mother’s known the truth all along. She just chose to ignore it and live her life the way it suited her. I can’t stop thinking about all the lives she’s affected with her selfish decision. My mother could have taken those secrets to her grave, but thank God I know the truth. Now all I need to do is confront her with it.”
“You sound good and strong. You’re ready to do this, Sara. Remember there’s so much for you to gain and for us to gain. Promise you’ll call me often and let me know how things are going, okay?” I nodded yes as he gently kissed my lips.
A sharp blast from a car horn caused us both to quickly look toward the parking lot.
“Oh, God,” I groaned.
“Stay strong. This time it isn’t about her, it’s about you. Remember that. And remember I love you, Sara.”
I was opening the front door as my mother’s white Mercedes pulled into an empty parking space in front of my apartment building. The second, longer honk no doubt woke up the rest of the neighborhood.
I hoisted the tote bag up to my shoulder and opened the front door. Ryan carried my suitcase out while I picked up my laptop, closed and locked the door and walked to the car idling in the sun. I heard the trunk release being activated by my mother and then Ryan hoisted my suitcase inside and closed the lid. He paused at the driver’s window and smiled at my mother. “Good morning, Mrs. Edwards. Have a good trip,” he called loudly through the closed window. I could see her staring straight ahead through the windshield. Ryan’s smile faded as he shrugged and walked away.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the passenger door and leaned down to make eye contact with my mother. The cool, dry air enveloped me, as did her familiar scent of gardenias mixed with furniture polish. “Good morning, Mom.”
She was still looking through the windshield, both hands on the steering wheel. Cradling my belongings, I sank into the leather seat and placed my tote, purse and laptop on the floor between my feet.
“We’ve got to get going, Sara,” she said as I closed my door. She pulled the gearshift down a notch and began backing the car out of the space.
I saw Ryan standing next to his car. He turned and gave me a hearty thumbs-up sign while mouthing the words “I love you.” I nodded and smiled just as my mother shifted gears and the car moved forward.
“Seatbelt, Sara,” she said. My buckle clicked loudly as she guided the car out of the neighborhood to what was certain to be one of the very worst experiences of my life.
When we stopped at the last traffic light before the ramp to the eastbound interstate, she said, “I’ve got the trip planned to keep the amount of driving time reasonable each day. We’ll arrive in Baltimore mid-morning on Saturday giving us plenty of time to get to the funeral,” she said to her reflection in the visor mirror. “It worked out nicely that Emily was cremated so we can take our time getting there.”
I turned my head slightly to view her profile as she fluffed the crown of her layered ash blonde hair and checked her teeth for lipstick. My gaze drifted down her sleeveless top, toned arm, cropped pants, and leather sandals. Elegant gold jewelry encircled her wrist and throat, and a thick gold hoop hung from the ear I could see. Vicki Edwards looked good for sixty-four, and she appeared to be well-aware of it.
“You look nice, Mom. That’s a good color for you.”
She shot me a quick glance. “How ironic. You admire the appearance of others, Sara, but you’ve never seemed to manage to pull yourself together.”
I looked down at my outfit: tank top, denim shorts, and flip flops. A long-sleeved shirt was tied around my waist and a large plastic barrette held my long brown hair in a pony tail. “I’m comfortable. Who are we going to be seeing today that we want to impress?”
“That’s not the point. You never did care about your appearance. It sends a message you obviously don’t care what people think.”
“I brought nice clothes for the funeral,” I said in a small voice. I swallowed hard and looked out the side window. I traced the outline of my cell phone in my pocket. Twenty minutes into the trip and already I wanted to call Ryan for moral support. No. Better just try and focus on something else.
I began reviewing all the key points Ryan had gone over with me about my mother and her condition, but soon found my thoughts straying to the first time we’d met in the group therapy session.
I’d grown up thinking everyone had a mother like mine, that I could do nothing right, and that I was responsible for her happiness or unhappiness. That was until I’d read a newspaper article which hit so close to home I felt like someone had been reading my mail. The story was about a young woman going through the same thing. My adrenaline pumped as I studied her photo, trying to reach out to her and tell her I understood. The last paragraph of the story gave a phone number for the therapist who had saved her life and who was going to have a huge impact on mine.
I’d known none of the others sitting around me on the cold metal chairs in the clinic, but the psychotherapist who led the meeting said we had a lot in common. We were all there because of the article about the woman with the domineering mother. For some, the controlling person in their lives was a spouse or a child or a friend, but among our group, he said most of us had a parent with borderline personality disorder.
The name of the therapist was Ryan Young and he explained most people know someone they’d probably describe as manipulative, authoritative, or self-centered and that would be the extent of it. But then he said in some cases those traits combined with others could mean a person has a mental illness. That person’s behavior could often create psychologically distressing situations for people in relationships with the individual, causing just as much emotional upheaval in the lives of the non-sufferers.
When explained in such clinical terms, it was hard to understand how my mother and millions of others were out there living and working among us and somehow fooling everyone into thinking they shouldn’t be institutionalized. One of the beliefs of someone with this disorder is they honestly believe they are always right and everyone else is wrong, a bizarre behavior which described my mother perfectly.
“We’ve got reservations at Crofton Inns in Kansas, Missouri, Ohio, and Maryland,” my mother was saying. “I haven’t decided on all the restaurants, Sara, but I do have a list of ones I expect to be acceptable. We may have to make do with some places we’ll find along the way.”
We drove in silence for more than an hour before my mother spoke again. “Have you heard from your father?” There was a slight edge to her voice.
“I got a card at Christmas. He was getting ready to sail to Bermuda, or maybe it was the Bahamas.”
“That’s so typical of him. Did he mention if anyone else was traveling with him?” The edge was now razor sharp.
“I don’t remember, Mom,” I said with a sigh. My safe answer.
“Well, let me tell you, you can bet it’s still one girlfriend after another, just like when we were married. Thank God I threw him out before you were old enough to understand what was going on.”
I knew this was not the way it happened. Maybe I remembered it or maybe I just sensed it, but I was positive my father had walked out on my mother. But her version was quite different and much less painful because at the heart of my mother’s mental illness was an intense fear of abandonment. In my mother’s mind, her feelings decided what made up the facts. The truth seldom entered into it. My psychiatrist, Dr. Harper, had explained this was why my mother often made so many ludicrous comments, so I knew not to react.
My years of therapy had given me the ability to understand her illness, but not enough nerve to stand up to her. If there was a God in heaven, that would change in the next few days.
The interstate stretched straight as a ruler toward the eastern horizon in the glaring sun and vast flat landscape. When she and I did speak, it was in short sentences about mundane things like the weather or the scenery. Soon I was revisiting my memories of my first meeting with Ryan.
During the group session, Ryan had explained he was affiliated with the community mental health clinic which offered counseling. He handed out business cards, inviting phone calls to set up individual appointments with one of the therapists.
I was the last person he approached with a card in his hand. As the others left the room, he looked into my eyes and lowered his voice.
“I know this sounds straight out of a movie, but I’d like to make you an offer.” I accepted the card. “I can be your therapist or your date, but I can’t be both.”
“I don’t understand.”
He extended his right hand and waited until I shook it. “We haven’t met properly. I’m Ryan and I’d like to take you out.”
“Oh.” I removed my hand from his and blinked a few times. “Well, my name is Sara and you caught me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting you to say anything like that. I’m here for a very different reason.” Ryan smiled.
“I know and I’m sorry, but I just didn’t want you to get away.”
“What was it you just said about being my therapist?”
“Well, I couldn’t date you if you were my patient and I couldn’t treat you if I was dating you. So, I’d rather refer you to another therapist than find someone else for you to go out with.”
I laughed at the seriousness of his explanation, but stopped when I saw the look of hurt on his face. “No, no, don’t worry. I’m not laughing at you,” I said quickly. “I accept your offer. Of the date, that is.” The look of relief on his face touched my heart.
Ryan took me out for pizza for our first date. We agreed we’d discuss any subject except my mother. That was going to be Dr. Tara Harper’s job and it turned out she was going to do a very good job of it over the next two years.
“It’s a good time to stop for lunch,” my mother announced. We drove down an exit ramp leading to a road lined with stores and restaurants.
She pulled the car into a patch of shade on the parking lot of an Italian restaurant and turned off the engine. We walked the short distance quickly, eager to get inside the air conditioned enclosure.
The restaurant was nearly empty, but dim and refreshingly cool. A waitress greeted us and placed two menus on the nearest table, but my mother continued walking. “We’ll sit in that booth by the window,” she stated and then slid onto one of the seats. The waitress stood staring at my mother. She retrieved the menus and tossed them onto the table in front of Mom before squaring her shoulders and walking away. “What’s her problem?” my mother asked in a loud voice.
When the waitress returned to take our order, she narrowed her eyes at my mother several times before retreating to the kitchen.
“How about I do the driving this afternoon, Mom?”
“No, I’m perfectly fine.”
“But that was what we agreed on, wasn’t it? You said there was no way you were going to fly to Baltimore, so I offered to help with the driving and you said okay.”
She shrugged and put on the light sweater she’d brought from the car. “Why do they insist on freezing people out of these places?” My mother beckoned the waitress and requested she turn the air conditioning off, but within minutes it got colder. I untied the shirt from around my waist and pulled it on, buttoning the cuffs and turning up the collar.
“I never knew you were afraid to fly, Mom.”
She held my eyes for a few seconds. “I’m not afraid to fly, Sara. As I’ve explained to you more than once, airports have become loathsome places. Passengers are automatically suspected of being criminals, an accusation which leaves no room for any dignity during the entire traveling process. People are mauled and degraded before they even board the plane. The flight itself is a joke; there’s no service, no food, no common courtesy anymore. I simply will not give airline companies any more of my business.”
I let a few seconds pass. “But my offer still stands. Will you be okay with me driving your car?”
“Well, at some point I guess I’ll have to be, won’t I? I certainly wasn’t going to agree to be driven across the country in that thing you drive.”
I took a few slow, deep breaths, and tried to figure out how to gently change the subject. “Did I already ask you if it was the same lawyer who called you as called me about Emily dying? Her name was Ms. Walters.”
“That sounds right.”
“Do you know how she knew to call each of us?”
She stared at me. “Why?”
“Just wondered,” I said.
She studied the ceiling for a moment. “She said Emily left instructions for me to be called after her death.”
“That’s the same thing she said to me.”
“Is there a point here?”
“Not really.”
We sat in silence while a few other couples entered and were seated. The waitress brought our food, sliding the plates and glasses onto the table without comment. As we ate, my stomach knotted while I summoned the courage to show her the binder.
“Mom, I brought something along I think you may want to see.” I reached into the tote bag on the seat beside me, lifted out the thick binder and placed it on the table between us.
She eyed it suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“Something from Emily, or to be more exact, from her attorney. It came a few days ago. She’d left instructions for Ms. Walters to send it to me when Emily died.”
Still looking at the binder, she said, “That doesn’t tell me what it is.”
“It’s sort of a book about her life.” I slid the binder closer to her and opened the cover, revealing a page covered with small, neat handwriting. “It’s a lot of pages copied from Emily’s diaries. Did you know she began keeping a diary when she was eleven?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Because you were friends with her at one time, Mom. And you even worked together for some time in Maryland. So because people talk about their pasts I thought she might have mentioned something about the diaries. They were really important to her.” A shrug was my mother’s response. “Did you know Emily didn’t go to college or how she began her career or that she was married twice?”
She glanced at her watch and signaled the waitress. “Is there a point to this line of questioning, Sara?”
I took a deep breath and held it. “There is.” I tapped the first page in the binder with my index finger. “This is a cover letter from Emily. It’s dated about two months before she got sick. She said she wanted me to know the entire truth about her life and mine because she hadn’t been allowed to be honest with me.”
“Well, this is just sounding more bizarre by the minute.”
I fought to keep my voice steady and strong. “Mom, I’ve read the whole binder. Twice. You should read it, too.”
“What for? Why should any of it matter? She was in her eighties, for God’s sake, we hadn’t seen her for ages, and now she’s dead.” She waved her hand over the binder. “It’s ancient history and certainly not relevant to anything.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said, leaving space after each word. Her head snapped up and she glared at me.
“I don’t like your tone, young lady,” she hissed.
“And I don’t think you’re going to like not knowing what I know,” I said.
The waitress approached and slid the check toward the center of the table.
My mother dropped some bills on top of the check, stood and announced, “I’m going to the ladies room.” She quickly walked toward the back of the restaurant. “Don’t take too long finishing your lunch, Sara,” she called over her shoulder.
I stared out the window toward the Mercedes, trying to imagine how I was going to live through the next five days until we reached Baltimore. I wasn’t even going to let myself think about being at the funeral or the trip home, which could be hell on wheels. I considered calling Ryan at work but remembered he had a business lunch that was probably still going on. I patted my pants pocket, feeling the familiar outline of my cell phone. I’d call him as soon as we got to the hotel.
A few minutes later my mother approached the booth, her hair and lipstick perfect, her sweater draped around her shoulders. “I’d better use the restroom, too,” I said, standing.
“Well, hurry up, I’m ready to go,” she said and continued walking to the front door. I watched as she pushed her way out into the harsh sunshine and I almost hoped she’d leave without me. I slid the binder back into the tote bag and picked up my purse before going in search of the ladies room.
She sat in the shade with the Mercedes running. I was again overwhelmed by her pungent fragrance when I opened the car door. I buckled my seatbelt and counted the hours until I could call Ryan.
We stopped for gas and a restroom about three hours later. “I really don’t mind driving, Mom. You must be tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“Did you get enough sleep last night?”
“Why should you want to know that?” she snapped.
“You’d said you’d had trouble adjusting to not working and hadn’t been sleeping well.”
“What does that have to do with anything? I’m fine and I’m just glad to be rid of that damn business. For years I’ve had to put up with laziness and stealing and people lying to me and quitting on me for no reason. Who needs that?”
“But when we first moved to Denver you liked having the store, didn’t you?”
“Like it? I had no choice, Sara. I had to work every day to provide for you because your jerk of a father left us with nothing. When we divorced, he was able to afford a better attorney so he got nearly everything, but he didn’t get you and according to him it hurt like hell. And let me tell you, that thought still delights me to no end.”
“It took a long time to find a buyer for the store, but now you can relax and do whatever you want, can’t you, Mom?”
“Don’t think I have it easy, Sara. I never have. I’ve always had to work for everything. And you know I had a difficult time when I was young because I wasn’t able to live with my mother and father. Mr. and Mrs. Edwards tried to be parents, but they weren’t suited to it. Too old. Too selfish. Too strict.
“I thought marriage was the way I’d find happiness, but of course, that was a disaster. And being a single parent was the worst experience of my life. Sometimes it still is.” I sighed.
“Things got a tiny bit better when I finally could afford a good attorney and took your father back to court and got a judge to extend my alimony payments for the rest of my life. Serves him right. I deserve it for what he put me through.” She glanced at me. “You didn’t know about all that, did you?”
I shrugged. Did she really not remember the dozens of times she’d told me that story? “But you should take it easy, Mom, because you have worked so hard.”
She laughed sharply. “I shouldn’t expect you to understand. You have no idea how I worry.”
“About what?”
“You know I don’t like that neighborhood you live in, your car’s a death trap, I’ve never liked anything I’ve heard about this Ryan person, and now you’ve been laid off. What are you going to do about everything that’s wrong with your life, Sara? You’re wasting valuable time going to this funeral and I told you so. You should be back in Denver going on job interviews right this minute.”
“Everything will be waiting for me when I get back, Mom. I told you they gave me a nice severance package when they let me go, didn’t I?”
“It’s a big mistake to take such a carefree attitude because life’s not that easy, Sara. Jobs are hard to come by, especially in the field you’re in. You should be out there getting your next position lined up right now.”
“My field is not a problem. Being an architect is a great career and it’s something I love. You know that. The only reason Mr. Adams let me go was because he wanted to retire and sold his business to a company with an office full of architects so they didn’t need me. Anyhow, Denver’s not the only place to look for jobs.”
Her head snapped in my direction. “What does that mean?” The edge was back in her voice. “Sara, tell me what you mean by that.”
I quickly shrugged. “I don’t know why I said it. Denver’s got plenty of job opportunities. Don’t worry. As soon as we get home, I’ll get busy finding another job.”
We rode in silence until nearly 5:00 when we pulled up to the Crofton Inn in Salina, Kansas. We checked into our rooms, freshened up, and asked the desk clerk for a dinner recommendation. My mother finally approved the fourth restaurant he mentioned, mainly because it was right across the street.
After dinner, as we rode up in the hotel elevator, I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Mom? I brought Emily’s binder in from the car and it’s in my room. I’ll get it for you in case you want to read some of it tonight, okay?”
She shook her head. “I have absolutely no interest in doing that, Sara, and I’m going to sleep early. Remember, we’re leaving tomorrow morning no later than 8:00.”
Without a word, we each went to our adjacent rooms and unlocked the doors. I grabbed the tote bag containing the binder from right inside my door and quickly carried it to my mother’s room, arriving just before the door closed.
I planted my flip flop in the doorway. “Maybe you’ll change your mind,” I said, thrusting my arm toward her through the narrow opening. She stood motionless, staring at the bag. “Sara, I’ve told you how I feel. Don’t you dare pressure me.”
“Look, Mom, there’s so much you don’t know about Emily. You’re going to her funeral in three days, so that shows you must have cared about her, at least at one time. Aren’t you the least bit curious to know more about her life?” Now I was the one who stood motionless. Finally she snatched the bag from my hand. She took a quick step back and I pulled my foot out of the way just before she closed the door in my face.
My heart pounded as I closed and locked my own door. I quickly called Ryan on my cell phone. He answered on the second ring.
“Ryan? Hi. I didn’t text because I wanted to hear your voice.”
“Me, too, honey. Are you okay?”
“Basically, yes. Maybe a little bruised but that’s nothing new.”
“How did the day go? What did she say about the binder? Tell me everything.”
I told him every detail of the drive, every snippet of conversation we’d had, and my reactions and responses to her. He supported the assessments I’d made of my mother’s behavior throughout the day.
“From what you’re saying, in one day she’s exhibited most of the indicators of someone with borderline and narcissistic personality disorders. She’s textbook.”
“Somehow I don’t think she’d take that as a compliment.”
“No, I’m sure she wouldn’t, but you know what I mean.”
“Uh-huh. I pray she’s over there right now at least wondering what’s in that binder, if not actually reading it. Wouldn’t you be curious? I did my best to make it sound tempting but I guess I won’t know until morning if she took the bait.”
“What will you do if she refuses to read Emily’s pages?”
“I guess I’d just have to come right out and tell her I know all her secrets and how unfair it was to keep them from me and make Emily keep them from me.”
“You know with an out-and-out confrontation like that, she’ll likely fly into one of her major rages.”
“Oh, believe me, I know.”
“And you also know it’s pointless to ask her to calm down because that only makes her worse.”
“I know and I can handle that if it happens. There are so many things she could do. What if she denies everything Emily’s written? Emily’s gone; she can’t defend herself. Another option could be for my mother to fall on her knees and apologize, but we all know that’s not going to happen in a million years. She could leave me stranded in Kansas or wherever in the world we may be at the time this finally happens. That actually could be a big relief if she left me. Or she could become a maniac behind the wheel; that one’s got me worried most of all.”
“Me, too, Sara, but you can pick and choose the time to bring up the heavy stuff and make sure she’s not driving then.”
“Sure, but it could come up pretty soon because we don’t have much else to talk about. We’ve already done the ‘You should have stayed home and looked for a job’ part, as well as her criticizing my clothes, house, car and you.
“Ryan, I like my neighborhood and I love my little apartment. My car’s not new and it’s not flashy, but it’s paid for and I like it. There’s nothing wrong with any of that, is there?”
“Of course not. Don’t let her get to you, Sara.”
“And I’ll get a job when I get back home and keep it until we move to Seattle and then I’ll get another job there.”
“Sara, please stop. You know she’s creating chaos for you because it makes you more vulnerable and an easier target for her to hit.
“Remember about the short-term and long-term payoffs of your actions when it comes to dealing with your mother. Being a doormat is the easiest, but it does nothing to get you closer to your goal of a more sensible relationship with her, and you know keeping your anger inside isn’t healthy for you, mentally or physically.” Sitting alone in the dark I nodded to myself.
“What you’re trying to do is set personal limits of her treatment of you. When she talks to you, listen to what she’s saying and try to separate the lies from reality. The trick is to respond, not react, to her in a way that acknowledges her feelings without letting her control you. Stop taking on her problems because she’s the one who created them. And simply refuse to accept the blame for everything.”
I let out a heavy sigh. “Can we please change the subject? I’m pretty saturated right now.”
“Sure. Sorry. You know once I get started I’m like a speeding train.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re so good at what you do and when you get your degree and get set up in private practice, you’re going to help so many people.”
“Thanks for your confidence in me, honey. It means a lot and I love you for it.”
“I mean it, Ryan. I feel so much stronger when we talk. After being with my mother it’s as if someone’s let all the air out of me. I feel like I’m a pillow on a sofa and some huge person came along and sat on me, but then you fluff me back up and make me feel all better.”
He laughed. “That’s a great visual, Sara. Keep that in mind, okay?”
“Oh, Ryan, I wish you were with me. You make it all sound so easy.”
“It’s not easy, but it’s possible. Just imagine I’m right there in your pocket, okay? Stay focused and strong.”
“Okay. New topic. Any word from the caterer?”
“Yes, they faxed me some price lists today. We’ll need to go over these when you get back and they need to know the wedding date ASAP, so we’ll have to get to work on that, too.”
“We’re still talking about getting married at Christmastime, right? I know it’s a busy time for everyone, but we’ll keep it small and have the reception at St. Mary’s.”
“If that’s what you want, Sara.”
“It is. Maybe you should talk to your folks about what dates would be good for them.”
“I’ll take care of it. Have you said anything to your mother yet?” he asked.
“Good Lord, no. Please. One crisis at a time, okay? We need to check with Father McDermott to make sure when he and the church are available.”
“Yes, I think he’s the first one to ask. I’ll do it,” Ryan said.
After we hung up I checked my laptop for new emails and had two. I’d asked my friends to email rather than phone me because I’d anticipated having difficulty carrying on a private phone conversation because Mom and I would be spending so much time together.
My only bridesmaid, Amanda, was asking when I’d be home to go shopping for dresses and begging me not to choose black, saying it was the worst possible color for her to wear. Carrie, my maid-of-honor, wanted to know how things were going with my mother. I gave her the short version of day one of our road trip.
I loved Amanda and Carrie like sisters and was grateful to have them in my life. My mother didn’t like either of them. As I relaxed in the tub I thought about how my life could have been different if I’d had brothers or sisters, something else I’d been deprived of.
The long bath was meant to be relaxing but it had the opposite effect, making me fidgety and anxious as I lay in bed wondering what my mother was doing next door. I breathed deeply and closed my eyes trying to visualize her propped up in bed, holding the black binder on her lap and reading the pages that had changed my life.
April 10, 2009, Good Friday
To My Sweet Sara,
For years I’ve considered sending you this information and have finally found the backbone to do it. There may be those who feel I should not divulge what I am about to tell you, but I’m too old to keep these secrets any longer.
During the years I’ve known you, Sara, you have asked me so many questions. I have always tried to answer them honestly, but in many cases, I have not told you the entire truth. I believe with all my heart that now you need to be told everything.
You already know a lot of the truth about me. I was born in Baltimore, raised a Catholic, and was a little girl during the Great Depression.
You know that Jack and I married in 1970. What you don’t know is that I was married to someone else before I ever knew Jack.
When our country was fighting in World War II, I met the man who would be my first husband. Oliver had just enlisted in the service, and as so many young couples in love did back then, we got married just before he left. I was married for only seventeen days before he went off to fight in the war. Oliver was someone I’ve never told many people about, but he is a very important part of this story and therefore a very important part of your life, Sara.
I don’t know where the time has gone and that’s why I feel a sense of urgency now to tell you so many things, Sara, so I hope you will allow an eighty-six-year-old woman to share with you the parts of her life you know nothing about.
When I made the decision to tell you the true version of my life story, I was unsure how to go about it. It seemed a daunting task to say the least and I was concerned the details would be overwhelming in some places and boring in many others.
I prayed that I might find the best way to do this and I believe I have. I’ve kept diaries since I was eleven and have turned to them to help me tell you my story. Who knows me better than these dear, old friends? And their memories are so much better than mine! They have also helped me keep things in the proper order, because I don’t seem to be doing a very good job of that on my own these days!
As I picked up each of my diaries, I found myself turning right to the pages of early spring, my favorite season. My birthday is in the spring and so is Easter, the most sacred of all Christian holidays.
In each diary, I saw the words “Good Friday” written by my own hand next to a particular spring date. In pretty short order I realized it was these exact Good Friday diary entries that hold so much of the information you need to know. Sara, not all of these were in fact, good Fridays, you understand. Many times I wrote of incidents almost too sad and tragic to put into words but these are the very events that you must know about, Sara.
I was born on March 30, 1923 in the city of Baltimore. It was Good Friday and two days before Easter. My birthday has fallen on Good Friday only three other times since then. My strict Catholic upbringing taught me to observe Good Friday as a day of mourning and sadness because Jesus had died for me. My friends were allowed to be joyous and excited on their birthdays, whatever the date. But when mine coincided with Good Friday or on one of the days just before, I felt cheated.
Sara, you can’t begin to imagine how different the world was then! The year I was born, George Gershwin wrote one of my favorite musical pieces, Rhapsody in Blue, and Time magazine printed its very first issue. That year a man I was later going to have a huge crush on, Mr. Frank Sinatra, turned eight. Believe it or not, there was no such thing yet as an Academy Award.
My parents were Irene and Daniel Carmichael and I was their only child. My mother was a very controlling person and at a very young age I learned that when my mother was happy, my father and I could be happy.
We lived on Barclay Street in a neighborhood that was quite respectable. Most of the families had children and none of the parents were divorced. Those fathers retained their jobs during the Great Depression; Papa’s job was secure with the U.S. Post Office.
One side of the street was lined with a string of identical brick row houses, their marble steps scrubbed and gleaming in the sunshine. Our house was on the other side of the street, which was filled with individual single family or detached homes, as they were called. We lived smack dab in the middle of the block in a two-story, brown shingle model that had a small covered front porch and a separate one-car garage behind the house.
One of my earliest memories is that of playing hopscotch with my cousins, Rosemary and Ruth, in front of my house. They lived at the end of Barclay Street with their parents, whom I knew as Aunt Katherine and Uncle Joe. Our fathers were twins although not identical.
I remember all too well those sweltering Baltimore summers when it was too hot and humid to even play hopscotch. Those were the days our mothers admonished us to sit quietly on the porch in the white wicker rockers and wait for the inevitable afternoon thunderstorm that would finally bring relief.
Rosemary was one year older and Ruth was one year younger than I was. Although I had other friends at school, my cousins were my year-round companions and best friends. We went to the same school and spent time together each day after we got home, and we were also inseparable during the summer breaks from school. We also saw each other at church on Sundays and on holidays when our families took turns visiting each other’s houses.
We girls loved nothing better than going to the movies. Those were special times because they happened only when each of us had a quarter. If we had less than that we had to settle for ice cream at the soda fountain two blocks from our street. Such simple pleasures they were but they meant everything to us back then.
Our world was small. We attended St. Mary’s Elementary School five days a week from September until June and St. Mary’s Church on Sundays and Holy Days of Obligation. The farthest we traveled from home was to our grandparents’ house near the Maryland-Pennsylvania border. Those excursions always included my Uncle Joe, my mother and Papa in the front seat and my Aunt Katherine squeezed into the back with Rosemary, Ruth and me. Fortunately spring and fall were the designated seasons for these visits so the weather was usually quite pleasant. We sang and laughed, our voices trailing out the open car windows as we cruised along the country roads. We counted billboards and cows on the drive going there, but we three girls always fell asleep on the way home.
My mother was very active at St. Mary’s, both the school and the church. She headed the committees for ham suppers and spaghetti dinners and the spring fair was always conducted under the joint supervision of my mother and Sister Ursula, the principal. During the Depression my mother worked with the Catholic Charities organization dispensing food and blankets to the people of our community who had been greatly affected by the situation. Sister Ursula and Father MacDonald said my mother was the most effective organizer ever at St. Mary’s. It was widely acknowledged that the food tasted better, the attendance was greater, and the donations were larger when my mother held the reins.
And now, Sara, that brings you up to the time of my very first diary entry. Hannah, one of the nice young ladies who volunteers here at the home where I now live, has helped me assemble these pages for you. She made photocopies of the Good Friday entries that I selected from my diaries. As I read those words they jogged my memory about other details and important events that happened on days between those Good Fridays, and so Hannah has been listening to my stories and writing down on her computer all the rest of this information that I want you to know.
Love,
Emily
March 30, 1934, Good Friday
Dear Diary,
My name is Emily. I am 11 years old. Today is my birthday. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to write in here. My cousin Rosemary (she’s almost twelve and a half) has a diary, although she has never let me read it. I know she keeps it in her underwear drawer. She told me once she has written things in her diary that she has never told anyone, not even me or her sister, Ruth (she’s 10).
This afternoon my mother and I went to St. Mary’s for the Good Friday afternoon services. I don’t like having my birthday on the same day Jesus died on the cross. I don’t want to be sad on my birthday. I already gave up licorice for all of Lent. Honest. I lit two candles today, one for me and one for Jesus.
After dinner, Rosemary came to our house for my birthday party. My mother got a little cake from Mr. Samuels, the grocer. She told me most people cannot afford to buy cakes so Mr. Samuels doesn’t bake many cakes anymore. My birthday cake was white inside and the pink icing was just plain. There were no words written on it. I think that must have been because it’s supposed to be a sad day. My mother didn’t put any candles on the cake but that’s okay. The way candles smell when you blow them out always makes me think of being in church.
I got two books for my birthday presents. My parents gave me a dictionary. You, “My Dear Diary,” I got from Rosemary. I like you much better.
Your friend,
Emily Margaret Carmichael
Sara,
I sound like such a sad child! I don’t remember it being that bad, but I do remember that particular birthday. Dinnertime at our house was always a solemn affair and even more so during Lent, so Good Friday was positively somber, birthday or not. My mother practiced Lenten discipline every day of the year.
My parents did not speak about the Depression or money in specific terms because it apparently didn’t affect us. I always had pretty clothes; my mother loved to buy outfits for us at the finest department stores in downtown Baltimore. I never had much say in what I wore; I would just discover new garments hanging on the rods in the huge mahogany wardrobe in my bedroom. Of course I wore a uniform to school everyday as did all of us good little Catholics. The nice clothes were for Sundays and holidays and parties at other people’s houses.
Everyone in my family loved to read, hence, the gift of a dictionary for an 11-year-old’s birthday. I didn’t really mind getting it; I used it for many a year. But the diary I received on that birthday was very special. It made me feel that I was growing up, the way Rosemary was, and that I would soon be having secrets to write in it.
I was already a hopelessly romantic spirit at the ripe old age of eleven. I loved tales of damsels and princes and castles and happy endings. I thought about falling in love and living happily ever after. I just couldn’t picture doing it with any of the boys in my class at St. Mary’s. No, my knight would have to come from the “outside world.”
My daydreams took on new dimensions at the movie theatres on Saturdays when Rosemary, Ruth and I sat spellbound in the dark balcony, our eyes wide and our imaginations racing. The following week we would act out the scenes we’d witnessed and take turns making believe we were each the leading lady who had captured the hero’s heart.
Please visit my blog about the making of the novel Good Fridays. http://
goodfridaysbaltimorenovel.blogspot.com
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