Her Thirties Part 87
I was waiting to drive Marilyn back to Havelock Street again—she insisted on revisiting the past and I complied.
It was risky but she wanted to face the trauma head on and resolve the riddle of her life.
How could I refuse her that?
“I’m ready,” she said.
I turned and stared at her.
She was wearing a high-waist caramel wrap skirt with a green vee-neck cardigan and a simple white blouse. With her soft blonde curls and vintage makeup, she looked like Marilyn Monroe transported back to the Thirties.
“It’s a little casual,” she apologized, mistaking my silence for disapproval.
“You look absolutely gorgeous.”
Every time I saw her afresh, I fell in love with her all over again.
“You always say stuff like that, Joey,” she demurred, but her eyes flashed a joy she couldn’t conceal.
“I guess I’ll be saying it forever then.”
“Even when I’m old?”
“Goddesses don’t age.”
She reached out a hand and caressed my cheek. “You’re a hopeless romantic and I love you for it—but we have to go—Now!”
It was a stern command—more for her, I think, than me—but I complied.
As we drove, she lapsed into a silent melancholy, staring out the side window. I sensed her introspective state and gave her space.
But as soon as we turned into Havelock Street, her mood changed. She began fidgeting and worry lines furrowed her brow.
“It’ll be okay, Love,” I reassured her, “I’m here with you.”
She looked at me sympathetically, as she’d react to a child. “You can’t shield me from everything, Joey. I have to do this alone.”
I felt she wasn’t seeing me at all—that she was already transported into another time and place.
I parked the car directly opposite the house. She got out and stared at the laneway and yard as she had before.
She seemed rooted to the spot—just standing and staring. It was a repeat of the last time.
A hand gently touched my elbow, and I turned to look into the kind eyes of Maria Carlucci, her neighbor.
“Is Catherine feeling any better?” she asked softly.
“She is. She wants to come back and confront the past—I have no idea if this will help or hinder.”
At that moment, Marilyn started slowly across the street as if sleepwalking.
We both trailed behind, observing, but not interfering.
She stopped at the end of the driveway and stared down at a section of sod.
“That’s where the garage stood,” Maria whispered in my ear. “Someone’s been maintaining the property and had the charred remnants removed and the area sodded.”
Marilyn looked at the lawn, then back to the house. Suddenly, she put her fist to her mouth and began to moan.
Then, she dropped to her knees, and began sobbing uncontrollably.
Maria ran to her, knelt down beside her and cradled her head in her arms. “It’s okay, It’s okay,” she soothed, “You’re safe.”
I was standing over her. She looked up at me with tear-filled eyes, “He killed her Scott—he killed her!”
Maria’s terror-filled eyes met mine.
Okay ... but who is He and who did he kill. Catherine's mother:) A double whodunnit here.
I would have let it run further but as experience has taught me, I have to be wary of going much over 500 words here :)
I'd agree ... better to parcel it out. So people will read:)
Oh my goodness.....who is he? This is so sad. She lapses from Joey to Scott. She doesn't mean Joey did it does she???? Not good..
No, not Joey - someone else. She is straddling two worlds though, and dealing with the trauma of recalling a horrible situation that caused her to dissociate and lose her present identity
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