Chapter 2 - Nobody Explains Anything in Front of Lowri
My mother recovered first.
“Alwyn.”
“No.”
“Listen.”
“No.”
Lowri had stopped gathering photographs.
She watched all of us.
That was when I finally understood what I was doing.
Adults were turning my daughter’s mother into an argument around her.
Again.
I crouched.
“Lowri.”
Her eyes stayed on Beatrice.
“Come with me.”
“Pictures.”
“We’ll get them.”
“Thomasin tore Mommy.”
Her voice cracked.
“I know.”
I looked at my cousin Hannah.
She was a kindergarten teacher.
Trusted.
“Can you take Lowri inside?”
Lowri grabbed my wrist.
“No.”
I almost said:
You have to.
Instead:
“Do you want me to come?”
She nodded.
We went together.
I left Beatrice and Thomasin on the patio.
No explanation.
No interrogation.
Good.
Inside, Hannah took Lowri to the den.
I sat beside her.
We put the photographs on a coffee table.
Some damaged.
Most recoverable.
One corner soaked.
Several torn.
The handmade album itself was beyond simple repair.
Lowri touched the photograph with Celia’s handwriting.
“What says?”
I hesitated.
Not:
Nothing.
Children know when adults lie.
“Mom wrote something for me.”
“For you?”
“For me about taking care of you.”
“What?”
“I need to read it carefully first.”
She accepted that.
Then:
“Why Grandma step?”
I had no useful answer.
“Grandma made a bad choice.”
“She hate Mommy?”
“I don’t know.”
That was true.
Lowri whispered:
“Thomasin does.”
I looked at her.
“Why do you think that?”
“She takes Mommy down.”
“What down?”
“Pictures.”
There.
“How many?”
Lowri shrugged.
“Lots.”
“Where?”
“House.”
Our house.
I felt cold.
“When?”
“When you work.”
That sentence sounded too much like:
She does it when you leave.
Another kind of pattern.
I kept my voice even.
“Does Thomasin ever hurt you?”
Lowri shook her head.
“Hit?”
“No.”
“Grab?”
“No.”
“Scare you?”
She thought.
“She gets mad when I say Mommy.”
That was enough for now.
No interrogation.
I called Lowri’s therapist.
Dr. Miriam Cole.
Lowri had seen her occasionally since Celia’s death.
I explained the reunion.
Miriam said:
“Remove Lowri from the conflict. Don’t question further tonight.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Fair.
I asked Hannah to stay with her.
Then walked back outside.
Most guests had left.
Good.
The patio looked like the aftermath of a wedding no one wanted.
Broken portrait glass had been swept into a pile.
Thomasin stood near the driveway.
My mother sat beneath the umbrella.
I picked up Celia’s photograph.
Wiped dirt from the back.
The full note read:
Alwyn—
Don’t let her near Lowri alone again. She told Lowri that when I’m gone, Thomasin will be her new mommy. This happened before. I need to tell you everything.
C.
April 18.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
My mother stared at my face.
Thomasin whispered:
“Oh, God.”
I looked at her.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“You just said Thomasin.”
“She wrote my name?”
I held the photograph away.
My mother stood.
“Alwyn, Celia was very sick.”
“Do not.”
“She was frightened.”
“Did you tell Lowri Thomasin would be her new mother?”
Silence.
There.
Thomasin looked at Beatrice.
“Did you?”
My mother said:
“I was preparing a child for reality.”
Celia had still been alive.
Five months from death.
Lowri had been three.
I felt physically sick.
Then Thomasin said:
“Alwyn, before you decide I’m part of whatever this is, ask your mother what you signed after Celia died.”
The truth she had threatened.
I turned.
“What?”
Thomasin’s voice went quiet.
“The transition plan.”
I remembered a packet.
Months of grief.
Sleep problems.
Lowri screaming at night for Celia.
A counselor.
My mother organizing things.
My signature on a plan I barely read.
Thomasin saw recognition.
“Yes.”
Then:
“You agreed to remove things that were keeping Lowri stuck.”
My mother looked almost relieved.
As though one signature could erase April 18.
I stared at both women.
Then said:
“Get off my property.”
Thomasin laughed sharply.
“This isn’t your property.”
Right.
My mother’s house.
Family reunion.
I corrected.
“Then I’m leaving.”
I went inside.
Took my daughter.
Took every photograph we could find.
May you like
And left.
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