Dear Maisie, I'm Sorry by Diane Maender

Author:Diane Maender
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
Published: 2021-12-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

The Truth Can Hurt

Grandmamma set the terms: The following day, tea on the back porch, where she would sweeten the ugly truth with pralines and sugary iced beverages.

I rolled my shoulders, circled my neck in my room as two o’clock drew near, vowing to act as an adult or—more fearsome yet—a lady, no matter how terrible the tale. But, mostly, I vowed to pay attention.

Grandmamma wouldn’t easily deceive me. Not again.

I arrived at precisely 2:01 p.m. Grandmamma was already seated in her wicker chair. Under her powder-blue merino sweater, her collar was starched and white as snow. Her face was still as stone but cast into a pleasant smile. She sat properly with her hands folded on her lap, never raising her voice above a ladylike decibel.

Maisie, Grandmamma meant business.

Pleasantries were exchanged. I was encouraged to sit. A glass of water offered (and declined). Then, a pause.

“Thing is, sugar, your biological mother, Natalya, is, a…Russian. A real-life Russian,” Grandmamma began. She paused, apparently struggling to find the right words. “Now, I know it might be hard to hear that you’re not a full-blooded Acadian…”

“…I know that already, Grandmamma,” I said, cool as sweet tea.

“Well, well. Alright then.” Grandmamma took a sip from her tall glass. The ice clinked as she set the glass back down on the table. “Thirteen years ago, Natalya and your father had a little illicit affair, you see, because Walter’s…your father’s…”

Grandmamma turned her chin down, looked at me with her eyebrows raised, urging me to understand without having to utter the words aloud.

I tortured her with silence.

“…your dad’s a spy, sugar. I know you know it already. And Natalya, being a Russian diplomat, well, he wasn’t permitted to…liaise with her. The whole situation was terribly inconvenient. As these things often are…”

Grandmamma grabbed a praline from the delicate china platter in front of her. She nibbled.

Russian diplomat indeed.

I looked out, across the gardens and then, beyond, the vast back lawn of Black River. As with everything else on the estate, the grounds looked perfect. Any wild thing quickly trimmed, pulled, removed.

“But when Natalya fell pregnant with you, sugar, she made plans. She hid her growing tummy. Got ready to skedaddle, disappear. Made plans for a new life for you, her, Walter, wherever y’all could all live without…trouble. But…”

Grandmamma stood, walked over to the bar cart in the corner and poured herself a new glass—a short glass of something dark as amber. Before she turned back to me, I caught a flash of a dark look, like the kind that sweeps across one’s face with sadness, anger, or regret.

“…but your father made a choice. And then all those plans to skedaddle got…thrown out. He left her, sugar. Left her knocked up and alone.” Her lip curled up at the words.

I watched Grandmamma’s eyes closely, willed her to look up and to the left, to fill in the gaps with unnecessary detail, to show me some, any, sign of deception. But Grandmamma’s eyes remained locked and loaded. Straight as an arrow.

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