Falling For Us Again

25. THE JOURNAL

Chapter 25

THE JOURNAL

Jenna

I wake up feeling the adrenaline rushing through my veins.

Today is the day. The day I find the courage to go through my mother’s room. It’s the eve of my mother’s death, and I’ve found myself in a state of mind that matches the gray, overcast sky outside.

Her absence continues to be a void that I’m desperately trying to fill, or at least understand.

The day drags on, slow and heavy, as if the world itself is mourning along with me. I’d barely slept a wink last night, all I could think about was what I might discover.

The doorbell buzzes, and I know that it’s Lola. I set my cup of coffee on the table before going to answer it.

Lola’s voice, normally cheerful and light, is subdued today. She gives me a hug.

“You ready?”

I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m here for you, Jenna.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

I lead her down the hallway to my mother’s room.

“Here we are,” I say, my hand automatically finding the locket around my neck. I’m wearing it today as if to feel my mother’s presence more closely, as if to have her lead me.

Lola pushes the door open.

The room is filled with the scent of dust and old paper, the remnants of my mother’s life mingling with the smell of cleaning supplies.

Lola immediately gets to work, methodically dusting the shelves and packing away old trinkets. Her hands move quickly, her focus steady, but I can tell she also feels the weight of what lies ahead.

“The most obvious thing apart from the fact that this room hasn't seen a soul in years, is that your mother loved irises and the color purple,” she says, pointing out all the purple items and pictures of iris flowers on a board in the corner of her room.

I laugh softly. “Well, her name was Iris.” I run a hand over the now faded pictures on the board. “She had an interest in gardening and photography. She geeked out every time she found an Iris flower outside. She would always bring it home to tell me all about it.”

Lola smiles. “I’ll never forget her famous pasta and especially her apple pie. The best I’ve ever eaten. You had a great mom, Jenna.”

“You were always begging me to tell her to make those.”

We both smile as we recall the memory.

I dig through a stack of old photo albums, their edges frayed, the pictures yellowed with age. I flip through them absently, memories flashing by—a younger me, my parents smiling, my father looking at my mom with an adoration that tugs at my heart.

What happened to them? Why did everything fall apart? How did he go from being a good husband and father to being an abusive one? There's no excuse for everything he did, but I’d still like to know.

Tears prickle at my eyes as I remember the times my father would get drunk and yell at my mother. He’d lock me up in my room while he beat her.

I put the picture away to catch my breath.

Lola’s voice pulls me back. “Jenna, I think there's something back here,” she says, pointing to the wall where her dressing mirror is hung.

I step back and see the distortion in our reflection in the mirror. I knock on the wall, and it sounds hollow.

“Let’s lift the mirror.” Carefully, we remove the mirror, and behind it, there’s a door.

Lola’s eyes widen. “What the?”

Slowly I open the door to reveal a small closet. It’s filled with my mother’s clothes, and what must be some of her priceless possessions.

There, sitting at the bottom is a wooden trunk.

My heart races with anticipation of discovering hidden secrets.

“Oh my God Jenna, this is insane. She was clearly trying to hide something from someone.”

“I’d bet anything it was to keep it away from my father. I imagine this is the last place he would think of looking.

I feel a rush of pride for my mother for coming up with this secret place. My father had either burned or thrown out every sentimental possession of hers, and if he’d known this existed, it would have been too.

This clearly contained something that she did not want him to see.

My heart races as we move the dusty, old trunk from its hiding place. The trunk is surprisingly heavy.

I move over to inspect it, brushing away a layer of grime. Its surface is scuffed, and the metal clasps are tarnished but otherwise in good shape, and has clearly kept its secrets.

Lola and I exchange a glance.

“Have you seen this before?” she says.

I shake my head. “No. My father must not have seen it either, because if he had, he would have destroyed it.”

“How are we going to open it?”

“There’s got to be a key in here somewhere.”

We turn the room upside down, but there’s no key in sight. I frown, feeling waves of frustration.

“Of course, the key is missing,” I say, disappointment seeping into my voice. “Figures.”

Lola sighs, her expression sympathetic. “I think we’ve done everything we can today. Let’s leave it for now. We can figure it out later.”

With a final, resigned glance at the trunk, we start putting the room back together. The hours pass, and the room starts to take on a semblance of order.

Lola receives a call from a client.

“Alright, I have to head out,” she says, standing up and stretching. “You sure you're fine by yourself?”

I manage a weak smile, nodding. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for all your help, Lola.”

“Anytime,” she says, giving me a quick hug before heading for the door. “Call me if you need anything, alright? I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

“Will do,” I reply, watching her leave.

Once she’s gone, I turn back to the trunk, my curiosity gnawing at me. I kneel beside it, running my fingers over the tarnished metal. There’s something almost sacred about it now, as if it holds the secrets of my mother’s life that I’ve yet to uncover.

My fingers stroke the locket around my neck, absentmindedly tracing the shape of the key.

Wait... the locket.

In my excitement, I almost break the clasp trying to remove it from around my neck.

The locket is in the shape of a key that opens to a picture of me and my mother. I’ve always wondered why it was in the shape of a key, but now it makes sense.

I try the key into the trunk, and it fits perfectly into the hole. I turn it slowly, and with a click, the latch releases.

My hands tremble slightly as I lift the lid, and the musty smell of old paper and leather wafts out.

Inside the trunk is a single weathered journal. I hesitate for a moment, then with a deep breath, I reach in and pull it out.

The journal is heavy, its cover cracked, and the leather soft from years of handling.

I open it carefully, revealing pages filled with my mother’s neat, flowing handwriting, and I have stop to take a deep breath.

I close my eyes for a moment to calm my nerves. Could this hold the answers to my questions?

The words are a blur at first, but as I read on, I begin to make out phrases, the passages about her daily life and longings, about a life that seemed distant from the one I knew.

I flip through the journal as she writes about me and my father. The first few entries are about her mundane routine, and she writes about me a lot.

Through my mother’s words, I see myself growing up in the eyes. There's an undeniable love there that breaks my heart into pieces all over again.

“Jenna started high school today. She didn't want me to, but I drove her to Hartlow High myself this morning. She's gotten to that stage where being driven to school by your parents is thoroughly uncool.

She complains every time I try to help her with anything, claiming she can do it herself. But she's still my baby. My beautiful, smart baby Jenna.

I can't wait to hear all about her first day at school. I hope it’s a great one for her!!

The sun is high up in the sky now, and I'm sitting in the dining room. I’m the only one at home at this time of the day. Richard traveled for work today, and he won’t be home until next week.

I’m going to do some gardening and then make apple pies for Jenna and Lola.

They're going to be so happy!”

Tears stream down my face in torrents, and I press a hand to my chest. God, this hurts badly. If I could go back in time, I’d let her drive me every day to school; I’d never complain about anything she does. I’d tell her how cool she was and how much I loved her apple pies.

My tears subside as I flip through the pages. She was writing more often now, and the words are clearer.

“I saw him today! My Dearest is here in Hartlow!! I can’t believe it. He was with his wife and I felt my heart breaking all over again.

They recently moved to town. I thought I’d die when we first separated, but now I feel like I might truly die to know that he lives so close yet so far away.

He was just as surprised to see me. I haven't seen him in years, since that day, I told him that I was getting married to Richard.

I will never forget the look of pain in his eyes but he had no right. My dearest hurt me first by not fighting for our love and marrying the woman his parents wanted him to instead of the woman he loved.

Even now as I write this, my heart is hammering in my chest. I’ve never forgotten him, he’s haunted me day and night all these years, reminding me of the choices we both made.

I feel a pang of guilt when I look at Richard now. He’s never going to be him. He’s not the man who makes my heart race, who makes me feel alive, but I made this choice.

I married Richard because I was pregnant.

I’ve got the best daughter in the world though, so I'm grateful.

I’ll find strength in my Jenna. I’ll stay.

I’ll smile and pretend that everything is fine.

As if a part of me is not dying every time I see him.”

I sit back, my mind reeling.

My mother was having an affair with another man?

It all starts to make sense —the arguments, the anger, the tension, my father’s resentment, the way he always seemed to look at me with that hard, unforgiving gaze. It was never about me. It was about the secrets my mother kept about the other man she never stopped loving that he couldn’t forgive.

I turn the pages, desperate to understand, to make sense of the choices she made. Each entry is a window into her torment, a record of a love that consumed her, even as it destroyed everything she held dear.

I told him this was the last time I’m going to meet with him, but as soon as I sent the letter, I knew it was a lie.

I will never stop loving him. I love him more than life itself.

I miss him every second we’re apart. Our stolen moments are the only things I look forward to lately.

His touch and his kisses, his loving whispers… They hold me until we meet again. Yet, I can’t have him. It’s too dangerous.

Richard is a jealous man. I can see it in the way he looks at me when other men are around. I’m terrified of what he might do if he finds out.

The room around me fades as I become lost in her words, in the raw emotion that spills across the pages.

I can feel her fear, her desperation, her longing. My heart clenches as I read on, each word lifting a veil on this woman who was my mother.

Richard knows everything!

When I came home, he was drunk. He found the old pile of letters from My Dearest that I thought was hidden well, and he burned them in front of me.

Then he beat me.

He doesn't know who My Dearest is, and he thinks he can beat the truth out of me, but I’ll never tell him. He says he’ll kill him if he finds out, and I believe him.

I am so scared, yet a part of me can’t blame him. Maybe I deserve it. The betrayal in his eyes hurts my heart but I can’t stop myself.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop wanting My Dearest. My heart has never stopped belonging to him, not since the day we first met in high school back in Tennessee.

I always knew he was too good for me. He comes from a wealthy family, and I’m just a poor farmer’s daughter. Something that his parents never let me forget.

Somehow, he fell in love with me, and I felt like the luckiest girl on earth. Just like before though, every time we try to take a step back, we end up falling back into each other’s arms.

This time however, it’s not his parents standing in our way.

Oh, fate, how can you so cruel!

In the journal is a letter folded between the pages and two pictures. They are both of my mother with a man I don’t recognize. In one, they’re standing close together outside of a school, and in the other, they look like college students.

It’s him.

He was her first love, she once mentioned to me. She had spoken about him once when I asked her a question about boys.

Something about how you never get over your first love.

I remember there was a wistfulness in her eyes as she talked, and then she stayed in her room for the rest of the day. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

The journal contains entries of my father’s relentless abuse and how scared she was of his jealousy, even when she stopped seeing him. She was scared that he might start abusing me as well with how angry he was.

I open the letter, and the handwriting is unfamiliar.

“Sweet Iris,

I’ve tried to convince myself that I can live without you and that I can survive on the memories of the moments we’ve shared, but each day without you feels like a lifetime of longing, a wound that refuses to heal.

How can I stop loving you? How can I erase you from my heart when you’re all I’ve ever wanted?

Every time I see you in town with him, I die a little. I cannot bear the thought of you in his arms, of him claiming what should be mine. The jealousy, the rage—it eats away at me, but I have no right to feel this way.

I know it’s selfish to say this; after all, I let myself be controlled by my father’s wishes. I love my family, but I can’t help but think about how differently things could’ve turned out.

I can’t bear to lose you again, but I cannot stand to see you suffer anymore.

I’d like to report him to the police and make sure he rots in prison for the rest of his life, but you’ve said not to do that. I’d do whatever you want me to. Yet, Iris, I cannot stand to watch you suffer.

In your last letter, you said you'd run away from him with Jenna. I’ll come with you. We’ll go somewhere where he will never be able to find you. You deserve a life of happiness.

Please, my love, let me help you. This is our chance to have the life that we deserved. I’ll be waiting to hear when you think the time is right to make our move.

Your Dearest.”

The letter falls to the ground as I read it. The implications are sinking in. I flip through the pages to the last entry with shaky hands.

I’m running away with Jenna and My Dearest today. Richard is out of town for a few days, and I must take advantage of that window of opportunity.

I need to leave him before he kills me. I’m starting to worry about the hostility he’s now showing towards Jenna. His drinking has made him more violent, and I can’t take the chance that he gets violent with her too.

My Dearest is coming with us. I know he feels awful for leaving his wife and children, but he hopes that after things have settled down, he’ll be able to make amends with his kids.

I’m so scared and nervous that Richard will somehow be able to stop us. Jenna’s asking where we’re going, and I tell her to her Aunt Mila’s house.

I hear My Dearest car pulling up outside.

Goosebumps scrape my skin.

This was her last entry, which means my mother died while escaping. That flash of memory I had really was connected to her death.

But who is this man?

He lived here in Hartlow, but I don’t remember seeing my mother with another man or leaving the house suspiciously. Is he still here in Hartlow? Did his wife find out?

Does his family still live here?

My mind is reeling, my heart pounding in my chest as I try to process everything I’ve just read. The woman in these pages isn’t the mother I knew. She’s a stranger, a woman torn apart by forbidden love and guilt, trapped in a life she died trying to escape.

Tears prickle my eyes again as I read my mother’s final words over and over. My heart aches for her, for the pain and fear she must have felt as she wrote this letter, not knowing it was going to be her last day on earth.

The finality of it is crushing.

My mother’s affair, the love she felt for this man, the guilt, and my father’s relentless abuse, which pushed her to her death. The weight of it is almost too much to bear.

The air in the room is suddenly too thick, and I can’t breathe. I run out into the hallway, gasping for air as I lean against the wall.

The cool air is a relief, but it does little to calm my frayed nerves. I slide down the wall, burying my face in my hands as the sobs finally break free. The pain is overwhelming, a deep, aching wound that feels like it will never heal.

I cry for my mother’s lost happiness, for the way she tried to make amends too late, for the way she was forced to live a lie. I cry for the way her death has left me with more questions than answers, more pain than solace.

I don’t know how long I sat there, lost in the darkness of my thoughts. But eventually, the sobs subside, leaving me empty and drained. I look around at the remnants of my mother’s life, her secrets laid bare, and I feel a strange sense of both relief and sorrow.

My mother’s life was complex, filled with both love and regret, and understanding that might help me come to terms with my own feelings.

It might help me find a way to move forward and heal from the wounds she left behind.