Chapter 1 Mourning a Living Woman
The technician yanked out the cable, and the screen went black. His face had turned deathly pale. He couldn't bring himself to look at me.
"Mrs. Hawthorne, this was...the wrong feed."
I didn't question him. I recognized the burn scar behind my mother's ear, the way my sister touched her earlobe when she spoke, and the scratch on Alexander's wedding ring.
He'd scratched it while repairing a cabinet during the first year of our marriage. Now he ran a shipping empire worth 100 billion dollars, but I still remembered how he'd saved the last bowl of hot soup for me when he worked in our college cafeteria.
"Did you record what was just shown?" I asked.
The technician nodded.
"Give me the video."
He hesitated, then handed me a flash drive with a copy of the footage.
Music drifted in from outside the ballroom as the staff prepared to welcome the guests. No one had arrived yet. I could have gone straight to Seabrook to confront them, or waited for the ballroom to fill and played the video in front of everyone. Instead, I braced a hand against the table and sank into a chair. I didn't even have the strength to stand.
There was an ultrasound photo in my purse. I was 10 weeks pregnant, and that morning I had heard my baby's heartbeat for the first time. On my way to the gala, I had planned to tell Alexander once it was over. After so much grief, I finally had something happy to share with him.
But they were already preparing to welcome another child. I was the only one still trapped on the day my mother jumped from that bridge.
When Alexander answered my call, I heard a car door close on his end.
"Darling, I'm already on my way back. Something came up at the board meeting."
"Where are you?"
"Ashbourne."
I looked at the video. Beyond the window in the footage, the Seabrook lighthouse had just come on.
"Can we cancel tonight?"
He paused, and his voice softened.
"Thinking about your mother again? Irene, it wasn't your fault."
He'd been saying those words for 3 years. Every night, when I closed my eyes, I saw my mother let go. He'd hold me and tell me it wasn't my fault, then visit the living woman after sunrise.
"If it wasn't my fault, why do you make me speak at the memorial every year and apologize for what happened?"
The line went quiet.
My sister's voice came faintly from the background. "Alex, I'm going to be sick."
He didn't answer me. His voice receded from the phone.
"Easy. Let me help you."
When he spoke to me again, the patience was gone from his voice.
"The guests are about to arrive. We'll talk at home. Just get through tonight."
More than an hour later, the host invited me onto the stage. The screen now displayed a black-and-white photo of my mother, with a list of the memorial foundation's expenses from the previous year underneath. One line item was for search costs. I had paid the money. My uncle had said that as long as I refused to give up, they would keep looking for her.
My aunt sat in the front row with her phone raised. The tribute began:
Mom, I miss you so much.
I managed to say only "Mom" before I stopped. She'd been smiling on the screen earlier too, except her hands had been resting on Leah's belly.
"Take your time." The host turned the page for me. "Finish what you want to say to your mother. Say what you need to say."
The next page contained the same words I'd read the year before:
If I hadn't pushed you that day, you'd still be here.
I turned the page back. My aunt came onstage, clasped my wrist, and lifted the microphone to my mouth.
"It's been three years. Tell her you'll look after Leah. That's what she'd want."
In a low voice, she reminded me that someone in the audience was filming. I stepped back, but she didn't let go.
"I don't want to say that today."
The smile on her face faltered. Then she turned to the microphone and told the audience I simply missed my mother too much. Applause broke out, and she used the moment to stuff the speech back into my hand. The edge of the paper nicked the skin between my fingers. I clenched it and still said nothing.
That was when Alexander walked onto the stage. He took the microphone, thanked the guests on my behalf, and explained that his wife was feeling unwell and couldn't continue. My aunt didn't release me until he led me down the steps.
In the side room, he took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders.
"Why are your hands so cold?"
His jacket still carried the familiar scent. My rigid shoulders relaxed for a moment, then tensed again. He'd heard what my aunt said, yet he'd never told anyone that I didn't owe my mother a life.
"Will you come home with me tonight?"
"Of course." He took my hand.
I didn't pull away. I still hadn't shown him the ultrasound photo in my purse. I had rehearsed what I wanted to say for so long, but not a single word had left my mouth. When it was just the two of us, would he keep lying to me?
