Susan—or is she Julie? she wonders—continues reading this letter from a mother—hers?—to two daughters, Julie and Jeannie:
In time, another miracle came to me: you, my dear Jeannie, a premature gift, and a sweet sister to Julie. Do you remember, either of you, how we spent our days wandering in the woods by our cottage, picking up acorns and pine cones and digging up mushrooms for dinner? Or tending to our garden full of chard, lettuce, zucchini, strawberries, and whatever else we liked to eat? You, Jeannie, helped with planting marigolds and daisies in and around our garden while you, Julie, dug the planting holes to receive your sister’s offering. Remember the stories from books I read to you as the sun descended through the trees and, on those winter days, when we played games by the fire? I do. I remember everything. I’ve had time here to recollect and savor these memories over and over.
But I need to tell you more: It was one of those nights your father visited. He had been away for two months and I thought, joyfully, he was losing interest, perhaps had met someone who appealed to him sufficiently without the need to visit me. His overnight stays, which initially happened every two weeks or so were never pleasant for me, nor for you I imagine. He’d come with a smile, gifts for you both, a bottle of wine and one of whiskey, and a not-yet rough, but eager kiss for me. As the evening wore on, both the bottles of wine and whiskey dwindled. Soon, alcoholic rants, booming anger, hurtful reproaches, and self-pity would drive him to lash out at me. You never saw this, I hope, but you must have woken to hear the commotion. After he left, I would come into your bedroom to console you.
Read Episode 19.
