Erosion

By Julie M.

Arthur and Joyce Richardson, a couple who had it all, thanks to a lifetime of unswerving control over every aspect of their lives, were stunned when Joyce became pregnant in her forties. Once the shock wore off, they swore to controland keep control overtheir child for as long as they could.

Born into a perfectionist marriage with no room for the chaos of a child, Kate Richardson wants for nothing except love. She is a beautiful child, but her beauty fails to inspire the natural affection that children need.

But from Ginny, her great aunt, Kate finally knows what it is to be wanted. At Ginnys, Kate discovers a world far greater than what she knew. Summers spent with her aunt are the happiest times of her childhood, but even there Kate finds it hard to escape her fathers domineering ways. When Ginny dies, Kate mourns not only the loss of her beloved aunt but the loss of her only safe and supportive relationship. Once again under her fathers control, a miserable Kate pursues the career he approves and marries the man he chooses.

When Arthur dies, however, Kate flees to the only place shes ever lovedonly to realize that unless she can escape the obsessive love that threatens her future, she will always be his to control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781475994599

Julie M.

Julie M. teaches elementary music to students in grades one through six. She received her bachelor of education degree from the University of Alberta. She lives with her two teenagers in Edmonton, Alberta. Erosion is her first novel.

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Copyright © 2014 Julie M.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-9457-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9458-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9459-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013910781

iUniverse rev. date: 04/08/2014

Contents

Author’s Note

PART ONE

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

PART TWO

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

PART THREE

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

For my children, Spencer and Rachel,

with all my love!

Author’s Note

Shortly after I turned 40, I was introduced to the music of the Canadian band Great Big Sea, a trio of handsome lads from St. John’s, Newfoundland, whose music became my companion; it lifted my spirits and simply made me happy.

Their song Graceful & Charming, from The Hard and the Easy CD, captured my attention with its beautiful melody and lyrics that spoke to me of love in a simpler time. I realized that that was what I longed for most: a love that was joyful and true—not one that made me feel unworthy, less than what I am and so much less than what I am meant to be. This ballad has become an important element in this story, and I encourage you to download it when the time is right.

Part One

Erosion / e’ro’sion / noun.

1a) the action or process of eroding.

1b) the state of being eroded.

1c) the gradual weakening, loss and destruction, over time, of a person’s sense of self.

Prologue

ARTHUR AND JOYCE RICHARDSON HAD Kate late in life and, quite frankly, didn’t know what to do with her. Kate—I really should call her Catherine, for that is the only name her parents ever called her—was the daughter of perfectionist parents. A child simply didn’t fit into their plans.

Arthur and Joyce had watched and critiqued at a distance the couples they socialized with who had children. Without exception, every child was ill-behaved, screaming for what seemed like the fun of it and taking great pleasure in wearing down its parents into giving it anything its greedy little heart desired. The parents were no better. They would do nothing to control or correct this awful behaviour and would simply complain or apologize, taking this behaviour very lightly—far too lightly in the Richardsons’ opinion. Arthur and Joyce would smile blandly and murmur sympathies to them. Everyone told them how smart they were to never have had children of their own.

They felt vindicated. That is until, in her early forties, Joyce found herself pregnant. Once the shock wore off and grudging acceptance set in, Arthur and Joyce began telling their friends their happy news. They received shrieks of delight and more than a few disparaging comments behind their backs about what kind of parents they’d make or how they would finally understand what it was like and just how difficult it was to raise a child. Right then and there, Arthur and Joyce vowed that no child of theirs would ever be allowed to behave like those other monster children. They were going to control—and more importantly, keep control over—their child for as long as they could.

And keep control they did.

Catherine was a beautiful baby; she really was. She was born with a full crop of hair, feathery soft, with springy little curls to frame her face. Those curls made her a baby to look at. Her curls, so soft to the touch, were a blend of warm brown, copper and gold, making her appear gilded and angelic, missing nothing but her halo. The colouring of her hair and eyes, as though created by an artist, made you not want to remove your gaze; they were so deep a blue, almost violet, that they appeared cut from sapphires set deep within a cherubic face the colour of fine porcelain.

Their friends, of course, would say all the things you’re supposed to say when looking at a newborn. Secretly, though, they would talk amongst themselves, attacking Arthur and Joyce for their quiet disapproval of their children, knowing that their turn was finally here. Arthur and Joyce would now see how impossible children were; their perfect child surely would be no better.

From the beginning, Catherine was a very good baby. Sadly, her parents failed to see how lucky they were. Arthur and Joyce simply were not cut from the same cloth as other parents. Instead of cuddling their baby, singing, or cooing softly, they would touch her only as necessary, placing her in her crib or stroller rather than sharing any physical contact. It was as if the mere touch of their baby would burn them, as acid burns through metal. They were right, of course. When you truly love someone, be it a child or a lover, its touch can burn you with its intensity, heat rising until you can’t help but reach for the very thing that sets your heart on fire—a hand on the knee, a caress of the cheek, a kiss.

As Catherine grew from baby to toddler, Arthur and Joyce began the first of many routines. Specific times each day were set aside for organized play or reading. Now, to scoop such a young, precious baby into your arms while she is giggling with delight and settle her on your lap for a story is a heartbreaking joy that keeps you smiling and warm well into old age. Yet with Arthur and Joyce, it was all about structure. Catherine was in her playpen or highchair, never on a lap, because she might drool on them and make a mess on their fine clothes. The thought of snuggling on a couch simply didn’t enter their minds. And so, from early on, Catherine had an innate sense of how to comfort herself, a sense that she would come to need desperately as she grew—it was that or face the erosion of her very soul.

Chapter 1

PACKING A SUITCASE NEVER TAKES as long at the end of a trip as at the beginning. The clothes aren’t folded as crisply, and they’re apt to be squashed by shoes or a hairdryer, maybe even some souvenirs. It’s probably because you are never as anxious to leave your holiday behind and get back to the routine that is your life. I certainly wasn’t in any hurry to return to the life that was waiting for me.

I never brought a lot of clothes with me during the summers. Unlike most teenage girls, I didn’t have many, and besides, most of the clothes I did own were prim and proper school clothes, most inappropriate for lounging around the house or running along the beach. During the last few years I had been teaching piano and saving most of my money, adding it to the money my great-aunt Ginny had saved all year so that we could go shopping during my first week in St. John’s.

Every year, while she waited expectantly for me to arrive, Ginny would pace back and forth on her front porch or dash around her yard weeding or deadheading flowers, anxiously passing time until we would pull up in front of her house and Father would abandon me to her care. She would take care of me as my parents never could, squeezing so much love into my summers with her, enough to last me until the next summer when I would see her again.

As I packed for my trip home, I was struck by the thought that changing my wardrobe was like peeling away the layers of my awful life. I felt clean and new when I wore my summer clothes, like a flower opening its petals toward the sun. Looking at the outfit I had come in, the same one I would wear tomorrow when Father came to pick me up, my heart sank again. With its formal blouse and cardigan, navy-blue skirt hemmed just at the knee, low heels and pearl necklace, it made me feel old. No wonder I kept being mistaken for a new teacher at school! I was no longer a new flower but one coming to the end of its existence, its petals curling in on each other, ready to drop when they’d had enough living.

I realized Ginny’s talk earlier had made me morose. Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I turned toward my nightstand full of treasures. Touching them one by one, I carefully put everything on top of my clothes: the sea shells, the latest letter and picture from my friend Jewel who had moved to Montreal earlier in the summer and the tape Ginny had made for me of her wonderful jigs and reels. It made me smile just thinking of the two of us kicking up our heels in her kitchen, do-si-doing in time to the music. She gave me the tape thinking that I could do some kitchen dancing of my own when I got home. I doubted it.

The last item on my nightstand was the painting of her that I had made earlier in the summer. As I held the frame in my hands, I traced the outline of her face gently, the watercolour background blurring the details of her image—or was that my tears? I couldn’t tell anymore.

I didn’t put the picture into my suitcase with the other memories, choosing to leave it on the nightstand so that I could see her face before bed; I’d pack it in the morning. I was sitting on the edge of the bed looking about the room, trying to imprint every aspect into my mind, when Ginny came in.

I’m going to miss this room … and this house, I whispered, trying to contain my emotion. Maybe next year, we’ll do some painting. Spruce things up a bit.

That would be nice. She smiled serenely as she came toward me, her hands outstretched for me to take. If you’ve got everything Kate, we should get going. It’s getting late and we’ve got a bit of a drive ahead of us. She turned and began walking toward the door.

Where are we going? I enquired, a puzzled expression draping my face. Ginny stopped walking and swivelled around, surprised by my question.

Have you forgotten where I take you every year before you go home? She sounded disappointed.

Of course I knew that she was referring to Signal Hill, but after our words-of-wisdom conversation earlier today, I had assumed that she’d said all there was to say and didn’t want to go anymore.

Ginny … are you sure you still want to go?

Why not! she exclaimed, before adding sadly, It wouldn’t be the same ending if we didn’t.

I’d never driven so far before. The farthest we’d gotten with me behind the wheel had been her doctor’s office downtown. It was nice to leave the hustle of the city behind and to smell the sea air fresh and ripe in my nostrils. After our emotional morning, we both needed a change of scenery to dispel the grey cloud that seemed to be hanging over us. I focused on driving, while Ginny sat quietly, only speaking to give me directions every now and then, both of us lost in our own thoughts.

We took our time with the climb, stopping frequently to look at the amazing vista spread out before us. Not wanting Ginny to become too exhausted, I suggested we stop and rest, not climbing as high as we usually did. Together we sat staring at the ocean, its immensity and power a stark contrast to our own fragile existence.

It was a calm day by sea standards; the waves glistened in the sun while the water lapped with enough force to crash into the rocks below. The fresh ocean breeze moved in and around us, caressing our skin, making the strands of our hair dance. A sense of peace descended over me, and I felt calmer than I had in days. Whatever was going to happen when I returned home, I hoped that Ginny’s love and my memories of this place would be a safe harbour to shelter in until the storms of my life blew over.

When I was little and we’d come here before the summer ended I would always snuggle close to Ginny, knowing that I wouldn’t have her arms, or anyone else’s arms for that matter, around me for a long time. I’d rest my head on her shoulder, and we’d reminisce about our summer, highlighting all our favourite things. Now it was Ginny’s turn to rest against me.

We sat for a long time, as still as the rock we were on, neither of us wanting to break the solitude of the moment. Stillness, however, can sometimes be overpowering, and finding a way to break the quiet—or tension—can be difficult, causing the silence to be elongated to the point of awkwardness. And awkward is how I felt. After the morning’s emotion and all the questions that had been raised, I wasn’t sure if I should mention Ginny’s ominous comments. It was so lovely sitting on this hill with her as if we were the only two people on earth. Did I really want to poison the moment by starting a conversation that would help me find the answers I needed but could potentially bring more pain to both of us?

We hadn’t eaten lunch before coming nor packed any snacks as we often did, so it was my stomach, grumbling like a storm cloud that broke the silence. Ginny giggled and sighed, almost in relief. Thankfully, it was Ginny who spoke first, saving me from my questions.

You know Kate, I was thinking … She paused to sit up a little straighter, adjusting her position on the rocky ground. With the exception of coming here and the beach, I’ve never taken you to see the wonderful sites around St. John’s. There’s so much history here, so many wonderful things to see and do. I’m sorry I’ve never taken the time. Do you forgive me? Ginny glanced up at me, as if she were trying to tell my answer by reading my face.

I wasn’t looking at her when she spoke but out over the water. I smiled, turning to face her. There’s nothing to forgive. The only thing worth seeing when I come to St. John’s is you; everything else is just scenery.

Ginny squeezed my arm, slid her hand down to meet mine, interlacing our fingers, and then turned her gaze back out to sea. We sat silently for a while longer before she announced that it was time for us to be getting back. I stood and brushed the dust from my jeans and then turned to lend a hand to Ginny. She was already standing and was watching me as I swept off my clothes. Looking at her, I smiled. She was staring intently at my face, as if she were trying to see right through me.

Kate, you will keep your promise, won’t you—that you’ll remember? Ginny’s gaze struck me as odd, her face searching mine as though for the final time.

Yes, Ginny. Of course I’ll remember everything. She put her hand in mine, gave it a firm squeeze and then began walking down hill without comment, signalling to me that our time here was done.

It was dusk when we arrived home. Starving, we stopped by the grocery store, hoping to find something for dinner that appealed to both of us. We ended up with a pizza shell, some parmesan and a tub of dark-chocolate-chunk ice cream. While Ginny picked some vegetables and herbs from her garden, I prepped the pizza crust with her homemade sauce and heated the barbecue. Ginny also had a tape of the traditional East Coast music, like the one she’d made for me, and we played this while we worked. The music got us moving, breathing life and happiness back into us with every refrain.

It was a fine night. Stars were beginning to twinkle overhead, reminding us of their constant presence and becoming brighter as darkness enveloped us. The night-blooming flowers Ginny had planted along the patio’s edge were intoxicating, their rich and spicy fragrance enticing bees to sink among their petals and fly out drunk as sailors.

When the pizza was ready, I cranked up the music so we could hear it from outside and then sat down across from Ginny to share our last supper. I had brought spoons but forgotten the bowls for the ice cream, which was softening on the deck, the frost on the tub melting and leaving its wet imprint on the peeling boards. When I offered to get some, Ginny chuckled.

Forget the bowls. I’ve seen on TV how skinny women stand in their kitchens eating ice cream straight from the carton. I’ve often wondered—maybe it’s the bowl that makes the rest of us fat? We hooted at this as she picked up the carton and dug in, savouring the chocolate, dark and slightly bitter. It was bliss.

When the music had ended and we’d had enough ice cream, we sat happily together in the dark, the only light coming from a few candles shining their flames like tiny spotlights placed throughout the yard.

Ginny seemed content, but as I watched her I knew her mind was probably churning like mine, all the thoughts of the day swirling around like cream being made into butter. I hoped her thoughts were giving her peace; the look on her face implied as much. She yawned widely.

Well, before I fall asleep out here, we should probably clean up before going to bed. She was standing now, gathering up the plates and cutlery. I was still relaxing in my chair, not wanting the moment to end.

Ginny, if you’re tired, why don’t I clean this up? I’m not ready for bed yet anyway. I’ll do up the dishes and then probably have a bath before turning in.

Ginny looked at me with gratefulness; she was more tired than I had realized.

Are you sure, Kate? she asked, looking at me.

Positive. You go on—I’ll lock up.

Ginny picked up the plates she had begun to collect and carried them and the ice cream inside, while I sat for a while longer listening in the dark. The garden breathed life even at this time of night, although it was more the sound of peaceful slumber. Branches were swaying in the breeze, combing their branches against the fence as though trying to keep them free of tangles. A cricket or two could be heard in someone else’s yard singing their friendly good nights in steady, rhythmic voices. And in the midst of all this peace I wondered: would I ever find out the reason for Ginny’s disquietude? I doubted it. She’d had several opportunities during the day to tell me but had seemed content to give me only her last bits of wisdom wrapped in her positive warmth rather than the chill of unease.

When I was ready, I walked through the yard, blowing out candles that had not been extinguished by the breeze. Before gathering the last of the dishes, I stood on Ginny’s patio, looking out over her yard one last time. This would be the last time I would see her garden for many months, and I was glad we had taken pictures, making copies for us both.

After cleaning the dishes, I walked from room to room; the house seemed to be already sleeping, making its night noises as it settled into slumber. As I went, I touched Ginny’s things, saying good night and goodbye in silence.

I ran my hand along the piano keys, careful not to press too hard, and then I tidied up the pile of music that I had left strewn across the bench. I picked up photographs, old black and whites of Ginny’s family, and read the faded names of people unknown to me on the backs.

There was a picture of her, not more than eight or nine years old, holding my father when he was a baby. Ginny was grinning in the picture, her smile filled with laughter and delight. She’d told me that my father, Arthur, wasn’t much for getting his picture taken and was trying to wiggle out of her arms to gain his freedom. His mother, Ginny’s sister, was standing alongside, staring blankly into the camera while her father, my great-grandfather, looked sternly ahead, piercing me with eyes I knew to be just like my father’s. Ginny would always smile when she began to tell this story, but her smile would fade, her happy memory turning to sadness, knowing that my father’s grandfather, the only male figure in his life, had raised my father to be just like him—controlling and unforgiving.

Ginny had let it slip once that his grandfather never let Arthur’s mother forget the circumstances of his birth and made sure Arthur knew it, too. Although Ginny would never elaborate on the story, I suspected that the absence of Arthur’s own father in the picture meant that his mother had made a mistake and was paying dearly for it. Ginny once said that my father’s memories and the influence of his grandfather were what made him the man he is today.

It’s the only way he knows how to be, she’d end sadly, a troubled look crossing her face.

As I stared at this picture, I thought about the influence past generations have over their descendants. Characters I didn’t even know were directing my life through my father, making me wonder whether my life would be different if the circumstances of my father’s birth had been acceptable to his grandfather. I placed the picture back on the table; I had done enough brooding for one day.

Nearby there was another picture of Ginny. She had been about twenty-five when it was taken a few months before her wedding. Her family had assumed she’d end up an old maid; she claimed cheekily that she hadn’t found the right man yet.

Several months before the photo was taken, she’d met Peter. Her eyes twinkled when she spoke of him. He was the stepbrother of one of her school chums and had been visiting St. John’s before enlisting in the army. They had had a whirlwind romance and were engaged within two months. Weeks before the wedding, he was sent to basic training before being shipped off to Europe. Everyone had pressured them to wait to be married until the war was over. It was Peter who finally convinced her that it was for the best, telling her that if he were killed, she would be free to marry someone else.

As if I would, she had muttered, glancing at his picture on the table, her hand lingering on the frame as though she were touching Peter’s face.

Peter was the man I’d been waiting for. Sure I had other offers before … and after. She had looked sideways at me, her eyes misty with memory.

But I was never in love with them. I’d rather spend my life alone than be with someone I didn’t love. I’ve always regretted not marrying him. I should have followed my heart and not what other people said. You’d do well to remember that, Kate.

Beside the photos of Peter and Ginny were my favourite pictures. One was of Jewel, my best friend, and me, taken just before she’d moved to Montreal in July. The other was of me with Ginny on the front porch, taken by her neighbour. We seemed to glow in these pictures, radiating joy at just being in each other’s company. I realized that I didn’t have a copy of the one of me with Ginny, and I made a mental note to tell her in the morning.

Before going upstairs, I crept over to Ginny’s room and opened the door as quietly as I could. As a mother can’t resist kissing a sleeping child, I could not resist touching Ginny. Seeing her there, dreaming happily, I leaned over and kissed her forehead, whispering a hushed thank-you, knowing that it would never be enough for all that she had done for me.

A cloak of exhaustion enrobed me then, and I crept out of her room and climbed the stairs to bed. I no longer felt like having a bath, not wanting the water to wash away the feeling of comfort that hovered around me from roaming through Ginny’s sleeping house. Changing into the nightgown Jewel had given me before she left, I took a final look at my painting of Ginny and then drifted off to whatever dreams awaited me.

When I woke the next morning, Ginny was already up and had a pot of tea waiting. Father wasn’t coming until two o’clock, so we had lots of time to savour the last of each other’s company, spending the morning outside to enjoy her yard as it came to life.

After a quick bite of lunch, I went upstairs to finish packing and to bring down my suitcase. We always took time then to say our goodbyes, to speak what was in our hearts, so that when father came our tears were as dry as a riverbed whose life source had run out. He was very much a stiff-upper-lip kind of man, and I never wanted him to see the depth of my attachment.

Taking my hands in hers, Ginny’s spoke in a quavering voice. Kate, I’ve spoken to you about keeping your memories of our time here safe and close to your heart. I know they will give you strength when you need it most. I know, because you have been my strength all these years. Thank you for breathing life back into an old lady! she said, touching my cheek tenderly.

I tried to speak, but my words lodged in my throat and my tears overflowed, cascading like a waterfall down my cheeks. Ginny held me tightly, giving me comfort.

Remember, Kate, I’ll always love you! she whispered, soft as a dove. Your father will be here soon. I’ll need to spruce myself up a bit before he comes. She kissed my forehead and then went to her room to change.

I went to the kitchen and splashed cool water on my face, the icy droplets reducing the redness that had erupted on my cheeks. As I wiped my face dry, I wandered into the living room to look out the window and, seeing Father climbing out of his rental car, announced to Ginny that he had arrived.

Ginny put her arm around me as we walked toward the door. I smoothed my skirt nervously and asked her how I looked. She stopped, placed her hand on my face and smiled. You look beautiful! she assured me. And together we answered the door.

Father was cordial as always, but his manner with Ginny seemed more abrupt, a remnant of their earlier phone conversation, no doubt. As I stood watching their interaction, a sinking feeling lodged in the pit of my stomach. Something wasn’t right. They were both hiding something from me, I could feel it. They were circling each other, wary as hunters sizing up their prey, ready to pounce when the other was unguarded, except I was there to make sure they played nice.

After several minutes of this, Father announced that it was time to go. Aunt Virginia, he stated formally, thank you for taking care of Catherine over the summer. I trust she wasn’t too much bother. Turning to me as though I were one of his employees, he made his next commandment. Catherine, take your cases to the car. I’ll see you outside shortly.

No, Father. I’d like to say goodbye to Ginny first. I was standing tall and proud, staring him down. Never had I disobeyed him, and I knew instantly that I’d regret my insubordination. His neck had gone red and colour was seeping up his cheeks; his eyes flashed wildly, making him seem suddenly dangerous.

Seconds later, when he had collected himself, his words were harsh. Say your goodbyes, then. I’ll wait for you in the car. Aunt Virginia, I’ll be in touch. We’ll finish our business then.

With that he turned, gave me a final glare and stormed out of the house, letting the screen door rattle closed behind him. We stared after him in disbelief. Then Ginny glanced at me slyly and grinned.

You, my dear, are very bold to stand up to him. I always knew there was strength in you! I smiled, more bravely than I felt.

But tread carefully Kate. He can be a viper! Ginny didn’t have time to explain this remark; Father was beeping the horn impatiently, anxious to be off.

Take care of yourself! we said simultaneously, causing us to laugh and breaking the tension.

I picked up my suitcase and purse while Ginny held the door for me, touching my arm as I passed. Go, was all she said as father honked the horn again. Her smile was wide and her eyes glistening with tears.

Go! she exclaimed again, shooing me out the door, not caring that my own tears had escaped and were flowing freely down my face.

I stowed my bags in the trunk and slipped into the front seat beside Father. He didn’t look at me, but I could tell my little act of defiance was making him boil inside; his jaw was clenched tightly, rippling the muscles in his face and neck and making them taut with tension.

Normally Ginny would have waved goodbye briefly from the porch and then gone inside. Today, however, she continued down the sidewalk and out the front gate, waving frantically as we drove away. In my mind this was another indication that there was more going on between them. Sobbing silently, I watched her through the window, until we turned the corner and she was gone.

Father and I hardly spoke in the car or on the plane home. That ominous feeling that had begun with Ginny’s comments days before was growing steadily inside me with each passing mile. What could it all mean?

During the flight, Father seemed lost in thought too. Anytime I glanced over at him, his body oozed with tension: his eyes were focused straight ahead and then darting back and forth; obviously he was thinking hard. His jaw muscles were clenched, causing the veins at his temples to move in the same current. His skin remained flushed, and he gripped the armrests with considerable force, his hands stiff from the pressure.

Anytime I sensed movement, I avoided his gaze by turning my head or feigning sleep. Childish behaviour, I know, but as the hours passed and I continued turning everything over in my head, I was legitimately scared of what my little outburst was going to cost me when we finally arrived home.

Arthur never broached the subject with Kate; he didn’t