Not Everything is Black and White

I sip my water, hoping it might wash down the bile rising in my throat. "What do you mean my father didn't die in a car accident?" I move closer to her bed, hoping I misunderstood what she just said. "I killed him. I did it to survive. You're nothing like him, I was worried, but you're nothing like him. My name isn't Naomi Briggs. It's Amanda Storey. I'm sorry, Abigail. I'm so sorry; I should have told you. I just loved you too much. Remember that," she squeezes my hand, and with that last effort, her heart stops. I sit there beside her bed, stunned. What is she talking about? Perhaps she was hallucinating from all the drugs they gave her. Amanda Storey, I repeat the name she called herself; it feels foreign on my tongue. I look at her and try to imagine her as Amanda. I want to believe that it was just the drugs talking, but I know deep down she is telling the truth. I lean forward and kiss her forehead. My tears drip down my cheeks and land on hers. I gently wipe my tears from her face. Her death feels like a crushing weight on my chest, and I'm finding it hard to breathe. I pick up my phone and google Amanda Storey. There are too many hits. It seems like a common name. I change my search to Amanda Storey, New York. That's where my mother met my father; at least, that's what she told me. I look down at her lying on the bed. I know she's gone. Her face has gone white. I need to get the nurse. What am I doing? I put my phone in my pocket. I need to get out of this room. I can't be here anymore. It's too sad.

I go down the narrow staircase at the back of the house. I need a minute before I get to the kitchen, where my mother's best friend, Jules, is waiting. Jules is like my second mother, and I don't want to face her with so many questions rolling around in my head. My mother and Jules are the only family I've ever known. My mother always called us the triple threat: three strong, capable, unstoppable women. I stop and take a deep breath. I suddenly remember something my mother once said after I lied to her as a teenager. There's a difference between being a liar and telling a lie to protect someone. I don't know why I remember that now.

Jules is sitting looking out the kitchen window. "She's gone," as I speak the words out loud, a tear runs down my cheek. Jules moves toward me to take me in her arms, but I shake my head, "No, no, I can't do that now." I look at her face; she's been crying, and we both have black lines under our eyes; it was a stupid idea to wear mascara today. I'm not sure what to say to her. I desperately want to ask her about the bomb my mother just dropped in my lap, but I need time to think. It has to be a mistake; she always said my father died in a car accident when she was pregnant with me and that they had no other family. Her mother died when she was seventeen, and she never knew her father. My father, Bradley, lost both of his parents before she met him. She used to tell me that they shared what she called desperate love. The kind that consumes you and pulls you into a whirlpool until it feels like you are drowning. That she lost herself in him and that it was both exhilarating and heartbreaking. If she loved him like that, how could she possibly have killed him?

Jules is talking to me. "I'm sorry, Jules, I can't think straight right now. I'm going to go upstairs and lie down for a little while. The nurse is calling the doctor to make arrangements to take Mom to the funeral home." She is looking at me like she wants to tell me something. Instead, she nods as I turn back up the stairs toward my room. My legs are heavy as I climb the stairs. I'm not going upstairs to lie down. With shaky fingers, I type Amanda Storey, New York, and add the word murder into the search field. I realize I am holding my breath. The first headline reads, Police Investigate Murder of Bradley Storey and are unable to locate his missing wife. Why is this happening? I click the link to open the article.

Bradley Storey was found in his bed early this morning. The cause of death was a single gunshot wound. Police have no suspects at this time but are looking for anyone with any information about his wife's whereabouts, Amanda Storey. Amanda is 27 years old. Police describe her as 5'4 weighing about 110 pounds. She has long, sandy brown hair and hazel eyes. Anyone with any information is asked to contact the New York City Police Department.

There's a wedding photo under the news article. I look closely, it's definitely a younger version of my mother, but it's not my father. I've seen photos of my father. He doesn't look like this man. The man in the picture looks like me. His hair is dark, and his eyes are emerald green, like mine. I continue my search, going down a rabbit hole I know I will never recover from. The sun is going down. I stare out the window and watch the fall leaves blow across the lawn. I feel like the room is closing in on me, and I can't breathe. Jules knocks on my door. "Abs, I'm coming in." The door opens, Jules is carrying two mugs of tea. "I know she told you." I look up at her as I bring the mug to my mouth and utter, "That I'm the daughter of a murderer." Jules lets out a deep sigh. "That can't be all she told you." I look her in the eye. "Seriously, I'm not sure how you top that one." I am drinking my tea slowly; it's hot, and the steam is fogging up my glasses. "Abigail, I need you to listen to me. Your mom, she was a survivor." I feel like my life has been shattered into pieces, and they are too sharp, too jagged to put back together. Jules spent the next hour telling me that my mother did what she had to do to escape an abusive marriage to a man with money and power. Then she handed me a worn, leather-bound journal. "Your mother wanted you to have this. It's the journal she kept while married to your father. All I ask is that you read it before you judge her."

The truth is too heavy. It's weighing me down like a wet blanket, one I can't shed. I want to scream into the silence that has fallen between us. "What you do with the information, Abigail, is completely your choice. Your mother didn't know she was pregnant with you when she left him." I'm angry, "You mean killed him." Jules takes a deep breath, "She was trying to survive, to start over. You'll understand after you read this." She looks toward the journal lying on the bed. "It was her only way out. When I met your mother, it took a long time for her to trust me. She told me after we'd been friends a long time. She believed it's not how you fall but how you get up. She told me killing your father was the only way for her to get back up." I need space. I need to find a way to hang onto the love I always felt for my mother. I'm left holding onto pieces of a broken history, a puzzle that maybe shouldn't be solved. I think about what will happen if I contact the police. It's been twenty-five years, and my mother and father are both dead.

It takes me two days to read three years of journal entries. With each entry, I'm stunned by the brutality of her truth. Horrified by what my father was capable of. Occasionally, my body betrays me, and I sob uncontrollably. By the time I reach the end, I don't need to think about what to do with the knowledge that my mother murdered my father. Her last entry is one line and is dated the day before she killed him. "I'm tired of living just to die."

Today, I will bury her in the cemetery in town. I glance at the journal and know that it is time to bury her secret with her.