Do I Know You?

DO I KNOW YOU?

“Harper Lee Goodwill, get in here, right now!”

I hated it when Momma used my full name. It always—and I mean always—meant that I was in trouble. For something—anything—she took umbrage with. My mind raced backwards scanning for any small transgression I may have committed today. It didn’t matter, big or small, real or imagined—f she was angry enough to use my full name, a tongue lashing that was about to be rained down on me.

My twin brother. There is no gender preference with her—she despises us both equally. His name is Atticus Finch Goodwill (God help us). Once I had read To Kill a Mockingbird I started calling my brother Boo, as in Boo Radley. It wasn’t long after that he abandoned his first two names, and started introducing himself as Beau, a derivation of Boo. It drove Momma insane—she stopped talking to us for an entire month. She is the only person in the entire world who insists on calling him Atticus, and he refuses to respond. He had his name legally changed once he reached the age of majority. Momma said it broke her heart. We’re not sure she has one to break.

“Harper Lee Goodwill, are you listening to me? Get in here, right now!” she bellowed from her bedroom.

I rubbed my face in exhaustion and exasperation. I was tired. I hadn’t had a solid night’s sleep in days. My eyes were bloodshot, and gritty. I had dark circles and bags under my eyes. I needed to change my clothes. And I was cranky. I was bone-tired, and completely over being summoned like I was the “help.” But cranky was not the suggested way to deal with Momma. If I snarked her, she’d lose her mind and strike out at me. Boo and I called her “the viper” when she did that. She held nothing back. There would be a stream of vitriol spewing from her mouth that would make a Merchant Marine blush. Once riled, Momma did not know how to reset—she’d rant for hours and hours. And it was getting worse now that she was older. But I will not blame the disease or her age—she’d always been like that, for my entire life.

I remember her and Daddy going after one another. The accusations flew like poison darts, back and forth, back and forth. It didn’t matter which one had started the fight, they both continued it. Momma spent too much—fight. Daddy was late coming home from work—fight. And if Boo or I did something wrong, it was either Momma’s strict nature that caused us to to misbehave, or Daddy’s lenient parenting that led us into trouble—fight. They couldn’t agree on anything. Then one day, Daddy left. And Momma turned her vexation towards Boo and I.

I remember asking Momma a couple of days after Daddy had stormed out, when he was coming home.

“Why?” she’d snapped. “Why do you care about that cheating, lying bastard? He’s not even your real father!”

I was ten at the time. I had no idea what she was talking about. Of course he was my Daddy. He’d always been my Daddy. I told Boo what Momma had said. He seemed to grasp more clearly what Momma was implying.

“She’s just mad,” he said, not making excuses for her horrible behaviour, but trying to protect me.

We never did get to see Daddy again. He died a week after he left. A hit and run, the police said. I don’t remember much, just a few scattered memories—Daddy didn’t live with us any more, and then he died. I remember Momma playing the grieving widow, wearing widow’s weeds, and crying incessantly whenever anyone was around. Even at ten, I understood the hypocrisy of her behaviour.

It wasn’t until we were in our early twenties, that Boo first broached the subject of Daddy’s death.

We were sitting on the floor in my dorm room at university, drinking cheap wine, talking. Boo and I both went to the same uni, and had the same friends. Those were the early halcyon days of freedom. It was the first day of reading week, and neither of us wanted to go home. Only a masochist would have returned to that house voluntarily. Consequently, we were almost alone on campus. Those students who hadn’t gone home, had gone south to Florida.

“We should have gone somewhere on spring break,” I said, flipping through a magazine, looking at all the beautiful people having the time of their lives in New Orleans.

“Yeah, but if Momma found out, she’d shit a brick.”

I sighed. Boo spoke the God-honest truth. Momma demanded that we return home when we weren’t in class. She threatened to cut off tuition payments and living expenses, and she was a woman of her word. If we dared to go on holiday, we would be cut off completely, forever.

“You know,” I said, a tone of melancholy in my voice, “Daddy’s been dead over ten years now.” I looked up at Boo. “Momma never talks about him. It’s like he never existed.”

In fact, it had been more than just not talking about our father. She had forbidden Boo and I from acknowledging that he’d ever existed. We couldn’t talk about him, we couldn’t ask questions, we could only share our memories about him when we were away from home. The first time she’d caught us talking about him, she’d screamed at us, so completely enraged, her normally beautiful face contorted horribly in anger. I remember thinking she looked like a monster. Her anger was so complete that I was afraid for both Boo and me. I was afraid she would kill us.

“Don’t you EVER speak that man’s name again! He was a liar and cheater who deserted us! I will wash your mouths out with lye soap if I hear you utter his name again! You have no father!”

“We were only—” started Boo.

“SHUT YOUR STUPID MOUTH!” she’d screamed at us. She’d throwm a glass, but we’d both ducked, and it shattered on the wall behind us.

“Clean that mess up!” she ordered, stomping out of the living room.

We never spoke of our father in our home again. But that night we weren’t at home, and we could talk about whatever we wanted to talk about. And I wanted to talk about Daddy—in particular, about his death.

“What do you remember about the night Daddy died?” asked Boo.

I shut my magazine and leaned back against the wall. I knew what he was getting at.

“I dunno,” I said. “He’d moved out and Momma was ranting and raving all the time, cursing him. I remember she said he wasn’t even my father.” I looked at him. “Or yours, either, I guess.” I smiled. “It went on for about a week. Then he died. And all of a sudden Momma was crying, and saying she didn’t know how she would ever survive without the love of her life. I remember thinking she never said that to us, only when people were at the house. When it was just us, she told us how much she loathed him.”

“Yeah,” said Boo. “She really poured it on thick for company. Do you remember her telling us that we were forbidden to tell anyone that he’d moved out? That if anyone asked, we were supposed to say how much we missed our Daddy?”

I nodded. “The thing was, I really did miss Daddy.” I sat there, thinking. “I’m ashamed to admit that what I really missed was the fact that when he was home, he and Momma fought with each other, not us. Sure they ignored us, but they didn’t yell at us.”

Boo nodded. “True.” Another pause. He took a drink of wine, then refilled our glasses. “What do you remember about the night Daddy died?”

I blinked, and took a long swig of wine. We’d never, ever spoken about how our father had died. This was new territory. “What are you talking about?” I said, my heartbeat ramping up, just a bit.

“Just …. Did you ever wonder …”

I had wondered. A lot of things didn’t add up. But I had thought that was just me. I took a big breath. “… where Momma’s car disappeared to?”

Boo nodded. “And where Momma was the night Daddy was killed?”

I looked at him, surprised. “What do you mean?”

He looked away, and shrugged. “I got up that night. I wasn’t feeling good. I thought I was going to throw up. I went downstairs to tell Momma. And, well, she wasn’t there. I looked all over. She was no where to be found. I did throw up, and went back to bed.”

“That wasn’t too unusual,” I said. “Momma and Daddy were certainly not adverse to leaving us alone at night if they went over to friends’ house, or down to the bar.” I said, a sinking feeling in my gut. I took another swig of wine.

“But do you remember what she told the police?” prompted Boo.

The police had landed at our door around two in the morning. I heard them ringing the doorbell, and I’d crept to the top of the stairs, thinking maybe it was Daddy coming home. Boo was already there. He’d put his finger to his lips, to shush me. We’d sat there listening to one of the officers notifying Momma of Daddy’s death. Boo and I had looked at each other, stricken. I’d started crying, quietly. The same officer asked Momma if she’d been home all night. She’d said yes, she’d been home all night—she had young children, for God’s sake, where else would she be?

“Where was your husband this evening?” the officer had asked.

Momma had sounded confused. “At home until he went for a walk around eleven. And I went to bed. I didn’t realize that he wasn’t home until you knocked on my door!”

No one ever asked us what we knew. No one ever asked about Momma’s car mysteriously disappearing. No one questioned the substantial insurance payout she received.

“You think she killed him?” I whispered.

Boo just shrugged. “Maybe?”

We never decided for sure, one way of the other. Maybe she sold the car. Maybe she was at home, and Boo didn’t see her. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But the suspicion lingered.

“Harper Lee Goodwill! I am your mother! Get in right now!”

Sitting on the chair outside her room, I took a big breath, and pushed myself up. I was in my forties, a grown woman with children of my own, and she still treated me like a child--a child she didn’t like.

I walked through the door, and looked at the old woman in the bed, her eyes closed, the perpetual scowl etched on her face. Alzheimer’s disease had taken its toll on her. Lucidity was more and more fleeting each day.

“Yes, Momma,” I said, but she didn’t respond—she’d fallen asleep. I sighed, and turned to go.

“I hated your father!” Her eyes had snapped open, and she was looking at me. “I couldn’t let it go on!”

My heart hammered in my chest. Had she just confessed to killing my father?

“What did you do, Momma?” I whispered.

She sneered at me. “I did what I had to do!”

I felt bile rising in my throat. “Did you kill Daddy?”

She squinted at me, her face screwed up in hate. “No one ever asked. I did what I had to do!”

Before I could say anything else, she closed her eyes, effectively ending the conversation. I stood there looking at her for a few moments, then took out my phone and texted Boo. His answering text dinged, and Momma’s eyes opened at the sound. Instead of sneering she looked at me suspiciously, her eyes narrowing.

“What are you doing in my room?” she demanded. “Do I know you? Who are you?”

“It’s me, Harper, Momma. Your daughter.”

She continued to stare, no recognition on her face. She was gone.