Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
She nods, cupping her tea in her hands. “The good and the bad,” she whispers.
“The good and the bad,” I echo. Bad … there was something so very bad.
There still is.
“I found a psychic of sorts who specializes in interpreting near-death experiences. She’s a parapsychologist. Colten thinks I saw a ‘specialist’ at the university. This woman is…” I shake my head “…a very different breed.”
“What did she tell you? Did she confirm that you were one of the victims?”
My head eases side to side while I pick at the brownie.
“Then what did she say?”
Again, my emotions rush to the surface, desperate to release.
I lost him.
“Will you tell me the truth?” The words squeak past my throat.
“About what, Josie?”
“I know I’m your daughter, and you’re a good mom.” I glance up with a shaky smile. “If I wanted to be a mom, I’d want to be you. Not grandma, even though she said I’m like her. Not Vera. Not anyone I’ve known or can even imagine. I’d want to be you.”
Her eyes gloss over with tears, and she smiles. “Thank you, Josie. That’s…” she wipes the corners of her eyes “…that’s the kindest, most loving thing anyone has ever said to me.”
For a breath, for the briefest of moments, I feel human. I feel something that’s truly of this lifetime. “My point is I know you’re hardwired to love me unconditionally. I know you’re hardwired to see the best in me. To see nothing ‘wrong’ with me. But I know I’ve never fit into the range of normal in so many ways. Have you…” I force my gaze from my brownie back to hers “…have you ever wondered if my soul is not a good one because of my biological father?”
She winces. “No. Not once. Your soul? Are you kidding me? Josie, you are one of the kindest souls I know. You are the kindest soul I know. That’s what makes you special, or as you have said for years, … different.”
“You’ve never wondered why I don’t want to be a wife or a mom? You’ve never wondered why I brought home every dead thing I happened upon? You never wondered why I spent so much time with Roland Tompkins? You never wondered why I spent an unhealthy amount of time studying mass shootings starting with Columbine? Does my choice of profession not give you pause for a tiny second? Did you know that I’m really good at what I do? Does that all seem like something a kind person with a good soul would do?”
More tears collect in her eyes. “What did she say to you?” she whispers. “What did she do to my baby?”
I open my mouth to speak, but the thick and suffocating words lodge in my throat. All I hear is the truth. All I see is the pain in my mom’s eyes. I don’t want to bring it all back to her, but I am. I’m unearthing her past like I unearthed those bodies, and I can’t undo it.
Then I think of Colten, and all the tears release.
Mom covers her mouth to hold back her sob as she shakes her head. “Tell me what she said.”
I hate myself. I’ve harmed myself, but I’ve never truly hated myself until now. Rubbing my quivering lips together, I wipe as many tears as I can. “She said I wasn’t one of the girls he killed. I was …”
“Him,” she whispers while her face contorts into anguish while her eyes fill with more tears.
I hold my breath to keep from sobbing. Clench my teeth. I don’t breathe a single breath while returning a slow nod.
Mom tries to stifle her own sob, and I don’t know who should be consoling who. It feels like this shared burden. Like we’re carrying something heavy, and we don’t know who will give out first.
Who will stumble?
Who will surrender under the weight of truth?
I feel guilty for sharing this with her, but at the same time, I feel seen. Even if I don’t have a mother’s love in my soul, I recognize it as the realest, most undeniably perfect part of human existence. Not all mothers are good ones, but I believe the ability to nurture without expecting anything in return is what makes women the sole reason humanity still exists.
They are the peacekeepers.
The givers of life.
The healers of hearts.
And there is me. I am an imposter. An undeserving punishment to anyone who has let me touch their life.
And … I hate myself.
“I’m sorry,” I say, wiping the tears from my face.
Mom shakes her head. “No. God no …” She’s out of her chair and wrapping her arms around me from behind my chair. “Don’t you ever apologize for anything. This will not define your life. I am the one who is sorry that you have to experience this.”