Audrey’s voice shook.
“There isn’t one.”
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Caroline said, “You need to stop digging around in things you don’t understand.”
Audrey stared at the phone.
“What?”
“You were a child. There were circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“Audrey.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t discuss this over the phone.”
The call ended.
Audrey stood motionless.
Then she called back.
Caroline didn’t answer.
She tried again.
Voicemail.
By evening, her aunt’s number was no longer accepting her calls.
Audrey drove to Lancaster the following Saturday.
She didn’t tell her father.
Caroline lived in a narrow two-story house with green shutters and a small garden that had always smelled of lavender.
Audrey had spent summers there as a child.
She knew which step creaked.
She knew the kitchen window was difficult to open.
She knew her aunt kept old birthday cards in a drawer beside the refrigerator.
When Caroline opened the door, she looked as though she had been expecting someone else.
“Audrey.”
Audrey stepped inside before she could be refused.
“We need to talk.”
Caroline closed the door.
She had aged since Audrey last saw her.
Her hair was almost entirely grey.
There were deep lines around her mouth.
But her eyes were alert.
Too alert.
“Your father’s worried about you.”
Audrey stopped.
“You talked to him?”
“He called.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you’ve been asking questions.”
Audrey set her handbag on the kitchen table.
“Was my mother in that coffin?”
Caroline looked toward the window.
“Please sit down.”
“No.”
“Audrey.”
“Was she?”
Caroline’s hands began trembling.
She reached for the back of a chair.
“Your mother was unhappy.”
Audrey stared.
“What?”
“She had been unhappy for years.”
Audrey felt her stomach tighten.
“What does that have to do with her funeral?”
Caroline looked at her.
Then she said, “She wanted to leave.”
Audrey’s breath caught.
“Leave Dad?”
Caroline nodded.
Audrey waited.
“She had met someone.”
The kitchen seemed to tilt.
“Who?”
“A man from Connecticut.”
Audrey stared at her aunt.
Caroline continued.
“She said she couldn’t go on living the way she was.”
Audrey’s voice emerged barely above a whisper.
“So she left.”
Caroline looked down.
“Yes.”
“And then?”
Caroline began crying.
Audrey felt something cold spread through her chest.
“And then what?”
Her aunt covered her face.
Audrey stepped closer.
“Did she die after she left?”
Caroline shook her head.
Audrey stopped breathing.
For a moment, the refrigerator seemed unbearably loud.
“Is she alive?”
Caroline didn’t answer.
Audrey grabbed the back of a chair.
“Is my mother alive?”
Her aunt lowered her hands.
Tears moved down her cheeks.
“Yes.”
Audrey didn’t scream.
Later, she would wonder why.
She had imagined that discovering such a thing would produce a sound large enough to shake the windows.
Instead, she pulled out the nearest chair and sat down.
Her legs would no longer hold her.
Caroline stood by the sink, clutching a dish towel.
“Audrey.”
“Don’t.”
Her aunt fell silent.
Audrey stared at the patterned tablecloth.
It was the same one Caroline had used at Christmas when Audrey was little.
Red berries.
Green leaves.
A faded cream background.
Her mother was alive.
The sentence didn’t fit inside her head.
It remained there without meaning.
Finally, Audrey asked, “Does Dad know?”
Caroline shook her head.
“No.”
“Did he ever?”
“No.”
Audrey looked up.
“He buried her.”
Caroline began crying harder.
Audrey’s expression didn’t change.
“He stood beside that coffin.”
“I know.”
“He took me to her grave every birthday.”
“I know.”
Audrey stared at her.
“Then why are you crying?”
Caroline stopped.
Audrey leaned forward.
“Why are you the one crying?”
Her aunt looked away.
“Your mother begged me.”
Audrey went still.
“What?”
“She said she couldn’t leave if people knew she was alive.”
“Why?”
“She was afraid your father would find her.”
Audrey stared.
“Did he hurt her?”
Caroline shook her head.
“No. Graham never hurt her.”
“Then what was she afraid of?”
“Being made to come back. Being judged. Losing you.”
Audrey gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Losing me.”
Caroline closed her eyes.