My Best Memory: My Best Series, #3

By Carole Wolfe

She needs to feel in control. When it's all stripped from her, can a fifty-something mother build a bridge to a better tomorrow?

 

Helene Shaw's life is falling apart. She doesn't have her friends' respect, her eldest daughter moved to get away from her, and now her youngest is refusing her perfectly sensible advice on planning her wedding. But even with all that going on, she's still shocked by her husband's ultimatum: Cease her meddling ways, or he's leaving.

 

Dragged to couples' therapy, Helene is determined to shield her deepest trauma from the probes of their know-it-all counselor. But when an unexpected tragedy catapults her back to the worst moment of her childhood, she's terrified she's about to lose everything that ever mattered.

 

Can Helene come to terms with her painful past before she destroys all hope for a happy future?

 

My Best Memory - Helene's Story is the stirring third book in the My Best women's fiction series. If you like family sagas, strong-willed heroines, and emotional journeys, then you'll love Carole Wolfe's moving tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blind Vista Press
• Release date: Jun 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9780999358283

Carole Wolfe

Carole Wolfe started telling stories in the third grade and hasn’t stopped since. While she no longer illustrates her stories with crayon, Carole still uses her words to help readers escape the daily hiccups of life. Her debut novella, The Best Mistake, follows a single mom as she stumbles through one mishap after another. When Carole isn’t writing, she is a stay-at-home mom to three busy kiddos, a traveling husband and a dog who thinks she is a cat. Carole enjoys running at a leisurely pace, crocheting baby blankets for charity and drinking wine when she can find the time. She and her family live in Arizona.  

Book preview

1

Helene smoothed a wrinkle from her cream linen pants. She’d have to talk to the dry cleaner again. The quality of his work declined every few months, so it was about time she reminded him of her standards. Tucking a strand of her highlighted hair behind her ear, Helene wished for the thousandth time that she lived in a town with more than one dry cleaner. If she were anywhere but itty-bitty Glen Valley, she could threaten to take her business elsewhere. She still could, but it wasn’t convenient. Who wanted to drive forty-five minutes to pick up dry cleaning?

Her husband shifted in the chair next to her, and she glanced at him. Her usually animated and jovial spouse was still mad at her. Helene sighed. Ever since their daughter, Sara, had moved to Chicago, Max remained cold and aloof.

Which was why they were sitting in the office of Priscilla Austen, Marriage and Family Therapist. Helene stopped herself from rolling her eyes. She’d noticed the therapist watching them since they’d sat down fifteen minutes prior.

What a waste of time and money, thought Helene as she crossed her ankles. I can’t believe I cancelled my manicure for this. If Max thinks I’m going to be the one to start the conversation, he is sorely mistaken.

As if her husband could read her mind, Max turned toward her.

We aren’t leaving here until you talk to Dr. Austen.

Max, you know you’re welcome to call me Priscilla.

Helene smirked. When she’d agreed to attend marriage counseling, she didn’t know the therapist would be the same age as their daughters. How could someone with no life experience help them? Helene wondered if this was just a plan to steal Max from her. Memories of other women who thought they could cause problems between them came to mind, but she refused to dwell on them. Max was her husband and always would be.

Maybe. If she could get through this stupid therapy session.

Dr. Austen. Helene nodded again, refusing to treat this woman with any familiarity. She watched television. She knew how these shrinks manipulated people. Best to keep things as formal as possible. I’d be happy to talk, but you haven’t asked any questions.

Max grunted. "Helene, the first thing Priscilla asked when we walked in was if you knew why you were here. You said because I made you come. When you agreed to therapy, that should have meant you agreed to participate in it, not just attend it."

This time Helene did roll her eyes. I don’t understand what this—she waved her hands around the room—is going to solve. You think I chased Sara out of town and that I’m being overbearing with Tasha. Helene pointed at Dr. Austen. She can’t fix what you think.

Dr. Austen jotted down something in her notebook.

What did you just write down? Helene leaned forward. Say something. I know how much we’re paying for this session when we could use the money to rent that beautiful pergola for Tasha’s wedding ceremony.

Tasha doesn’t want it. Max rubbed his forehead before looking at Dr. Austen. See? She doesn’t listen. It wasn’t always like this, but it has gotten to the point where she doesn’t hear a word anyone says. Half the time, I don’t think she even listens to herself.

That’s not true, said Helene as she carefully folded her hands in her lap. She had no desire for Dr. Austen to interpret her fidgeting as a nervous tick or expression of guilt or shame. Her feelings were her own business and no one else’s. The problem is no one has anything helpful to say.

Max stood up and shook his head. You see? he asked Dr. Austen. I told her before we came today that unless she’s willing to give therapy one-hundred-percent effort on her part, I’m done. I will not spend any more time watching her alienate herself from her family and friends. Our daughter is getting remarried in ten weeks. Helene has until the wedding to figure out why she keeps pushing everyone away.

I don’t push people away, Max. You’re exaggerating.

He put his hands on the side of the chair and looked at her. Helene stared back at him and blinked several times at what she saw.

The man in front of her looked like her husband, but instead of a happy smile, his mouth scowled back at her. Where his eyes used to twinkle when he gazed at her, Max’s dull stare made her shiver. The clothes he wore seemed too big. Had he lost weight?

Are you okay? You don’t look well.

Throwing his hands in the air, Max turned to Dr. Austen. You see this, right? She is so wrapped up in whatever is going on inside her head that she has no clue what her behavior is doing to other people. Dropping back down in the chair, Max continued, "I’ve spent so much time trying to repair the damage Helene has done that I’m resentful of it. I don’t look well because I’m exhausted. All I do these days is apologize for her and her behavior. I’ve had enough.

We’ve got ten weeks to figure this out. If Helene can’t come up with some way to pull her head out of her ass, then I’m done.

Maxwell, watch your language, Helene said as she grabbed for his hand. Max pulled it away, and Helene’s stomach clenched. He was serious. A quick glance at Dr. Austen revealed the therapist was scrutinizing her. Fine. I’ll talk with Dr. Austen for the next ten weeks.

You won’t just talk to her. You’ll make some changes. Max stood up again and walked toward the door. This is your last chance, Helene. I love you, but I don’t love who you’ve become. I want back the girl I married. We weren’t perfect then, but at least I could support the things you stood for. Lately, your behavior makes me question if the old you is still in there.

He nodded to Dr. Austen before leaving the room.

Helene closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She couldn’t believe the situation in which she found herself. This wasn’t the way her marriage was supposed to end. Although it was a fitting close to the way it had started.

She opened her eyes at the sound of Dr. Austen clearing her throat.

Pen poised over the pad of paper in her lap, the doctor said, Well, it looks like we have our work cut out for us.

2

I suppose this is where you ask me about my childhood, right? Helene twisted her wedding ring. The one-and-a-half-carat princess-cut diamond comforted her despite the situation. I’ve heard everything stems from that. My daughters would agree with you—Sara particularly. It’s all my fault she moved to Chicago. At least now that Tasha is engaged to Greg she seems to be easier to be around.

Dr. Austen shrugged. We can start wherever you’re comfortable. She glanced down at her notes. I will say that with only ten weeks to come to a resolution, we are under a bit of a time crunch.

Helene waved her hand. As long as I’m working on it, Max will give us an extension.

Instead of the automatic agreement she expected, Helene paused as Dr. Austen frowned.

I don’t think you understand the seriousness of this. Your husband has been seeing me for several months, ever since you outed—she glanced down at her notes as if confirming details—Brad Gerome and his boyfriend, Carlton. And from the list of things you’ve interfered with, I have to agree that something needs to change.

Helene popped up from the chair.

I did no such thing. Brad’s relationship was obvious to everyone. This has nothing to do with why I’m here, anyway. Brad and Carlton are happy. They’re having a baby. Don’t tell me Brad’s complaining about me as well?

Crossing her legs, Dr. Austen steepled her fingers together and rested her chin on her forefingers as Helene continued ranting.

I bet next you’re going to tell me I should never have sent Tasha to speed dating. Well, if I hadn’t intervened, she never would have met Greg and they wouldn’t be getting married.

Dr. Austen raised a hand. She already knew Greg. I believe he’s your grandson’s soccer coach.

Eyebrows furrowed, Helene ignored the interruption and barrelled on.

And don’t get me started on Sara. My eldest daughter would never have had to move to Chicago if she’d just accepted my gift of the relationship coordinator. What a waste of money. That receptionist at her old law firm is going to get the man of her dreams, and Sara will be left to waste away.

"But didn’t you want to move to Chicago?"

The question stopped Helene. Max had been thorough when he gave their life history to this woman. Indignation disguised as heartburn flared in her chest.

Of course I did. I wanted to be anywhere other than Glen Valley. There is nothing good about that town.

Tell me where you grew up.

Helene shook her head. What did I tell you? Typical for the therapist to blame the childhood for what I am today.

Dr. Austen shrugged. Indulge me. Tell me about growing up. I understand you were an only child raised by your grandparents. Do you remember your parents at all?

Helene turned away from Dr. Austen. If she was ever going to get home and work on the wedding arrangements for Tasha, she needed to put this therapy session in high gear. Clearly, two could play at this game. Helene turned back to face Dr. Austen.

It was my sixth birthday, Helene said. She wondered what Max would say when he found out she’d told the marriage therapist about the party memory. He was the only person alive she’d trusted with it, and look where that got her: a therapist’s office. "Mommy made a chocolate birthday cake for me and my friends.

We were all outside. Someone tacked a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game on the shed, and we had hula hoops, and I remember the clown. She smiled. Edith, one of the girls from the neighborhood, had to go home because the clown scared her. But not me. I thought he was great.

Helene leaned back into her seat as she remembered that day.

---

Clarence the Clown sported bright-red curly hair that matched his bulbous plastic nose and big, floppy red shoes. Helene loved the scratchy feel of Clarence’s rainbow-striped jacket and pants. For some reason, she couldn’t stop grabbing his leg.

Leave the clown alone, Helene, her dad had said, then took a swig from the glass in his hand. You’re not a baby anymore.

She’s fine, Glenn. Leave her be, her mother said. She stood by the cake table, sipping her wine. She smiled at Helene before inhaling deeply from her cigarette. Helene grinned at the rings of smoke that passed out of her mother’s mouth. It’s her birthday. If she wants to hug the clown, she can.

Her father emptied his glass and headed to the makeshift bar.

She’s never gonna grow up if you don’t teach her some manners. But fine. If that’s the way you want it, then she’s your problem.

Helene watched her father walk away before turning back to her mom.

It’s okay, sweetie. Daddy’s in a bad mood. It’s your birthday. Do whatever you want.

For the rest of the party, Helene stayed within reach of the clown. She didn’t know why she liked him so much. Maybe it was because her father didn’t like him. Even at six years old, she didn’t feel the same way about her father as she did her mommy. He wasn’t like Edith’s daddy, who hugged and kissed her as soon as he got home from work. Helene’s daddy went straight to the bar, and he yelled at her if she appeared before he’d finished his first drink.

When it was time to blow out the candles, Daddy picked her up and held her over the cake.

Hurry up and make a wish. The guys are meeting at the bar, her father said. She felt her father sway forward, and the cake was close enough she could put her finger in the frosting.

Someone called out, Don’t fall in the cake, Glenn. You’ll never live that one down.

Her daddy cleared his throat when he steadied himself, then took a swig from his glass. Helene slipped a little from her perch and struggled to remain in her father’s arms. He glanced down at her.

You’re heavy. Without warning, he set her on the ground. Blow out the candles from there.

She wanted to complain, but Helene knew better. Daddy hated it when anyone talked back to him. Mommy had stayed inside for a whole week once when Daddy smacked her for lipping off. The memory of her mother’s black eye gave Helene an idea.

Closing her eyes, Helene blew out the candles and made her birthday wish.

---

That was the night your parents died?

Helene jerked at the sound of Dr. Austen’s voice. That was the closest she’d ever come to revealing what she’d wished for that night. She brushed away the tear that rolled down her cheek and leaned down for her purse. A movement caught her eye, and she glanced up. Dr. Austen’s eyes caught hold of hers as she held out a box of tissues.

Unease swept over Helene as the therapist examined her face, but Helene reassured herself.

She has no idea what I wished for that night. She can’t read my mind. I’m the only one who knows.

Helene pulled out several tissues and dabbed her cheeks. She needed to find her powder to repair the damage the tears had done to her foundation, but tissue would suffice for now.

Rather than thanking the therapist for her gesture, Helene answered the question. Yes. That’s correct.

And you know what happened?

My parents’ car hit a tree. They died on impact. She swallowed hard. Despite the knowledge that her wish hadn’t actually caused it, her parents’ accident always hit a nerve. She never talked about their demise, and she didn’t plan to start now. She planned on taking her secret to her grave. No witnesses. No way of knowing exactly what happened.

Dr. Austen looked down at her notes. Max seems to think the reason you’ve become . . . , Dr. Austen paused as if searching for the right word, overbearing, if you will, is because of what happened to your parents. She placed the paper in her notebook, closed it, and sat back.

Helene clenched her teeth. The audacity of this woman, thinking she understood anything about her. How dare she make judgments about how her life had ended up this way? There was nothing Helene could have done about her parents. She was only a child and hadn’t understood the situation. Grammy bore the guilt of not doing anything, and that was just fine with Helene.

Do you think that’s an accurate statement?

Tensing at the question, Helene reached into her purse and pulled out her mirrored compact. She reapplied her powder as she made Dr. Austen wait on her response.

Oh, how she hated that word. Overbearing sounded so negative. All she ever did was to make sure her family didn’t make preventable mistakes. She, of all people, knew what happened when someone made a wish that couldn’t be reversed, and she had lived with the consequences. Helene promised herself she would never let down anyone in her family. She would fight for them the way no one had fought for her.

Helene checked her handiwork in her mirror. Satisfied with the results, she clicked the compact shut and returned her gaze to the therapist. Dr. Austen wore a grim smile.

Good. Now you know who’s in control.

No, I do not think I’m overbearing, if that’s what you mean. My intent is pure. I want what is best for my family and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.

Helene settled back in her chair and crossed her legs. There was nothing wrong with her life. She might not be living in her dream location, but she’d long ago made peace with the fact that Glen Valley would have to do. She’d made it work. She’d raised two children here. Supported her husband. Made a name for herself. Just because not everyone liked the way she did things didn’t mean it was her problem.

She had learned long ago that she couldn’t control what other people thought about her. But she could control herself.

And she would, regardless of whatever this smug therapist threw at her.

3

Max adjusted the napkin and stepped back from the dinner table. The silver was polished, the china set, and the crystal sparkled. He wanted everything to be perfect for Helene when she got home. Their first appointment with the marriage counselor hadn’t gone as planned. It hadn’t helped matters that he’d lost his temper and left the office.

Running his hands through his thinning gray hair, he questioned whether he had done the right thing. He loved his wife. He wouldn’t have put up with thirty-seven years of marriage if he didn’t. He understood she’d experienced things he couldn’t imagine, and he gave her leeway because of it.

But had he let her go too far? Should he have stopped this nonsense years ago? Was it too late?

The ringing of the telephone interrupted his thoughts, and he walked into the kitchen in search of his cell phone. He smiled when he saw Tasha’s number on caller ID.

Hi, honey. How are you? Max asked.

Good. I just wanted to see how the therapy session went. And if you need any help with dinner.

The session was fine, and I’ve got dinner in the oven. All I have to do is follow the reheating instructions. He didn’t want to bother their daughter any more than he had to. What could go wrong?

Tasha laughed. Based on that question, I’m guessing Mom was pissed off after talking with a therapist. Which is why you’re treating her to all her favorite foods? Do you have the eggplant Parmesan in the oven? It needs at least an hour to cook. The Caesar salad’s in the fridge with the garlic bread and the tiramisu.

Did I tell you about the bakery down the street from Sara’s office that makes the world’s greatest tiramisu? Max asked. Too bad I didn’t think of this sooner. She could have shipped it to me.

Tasha cleared her throat. If she knew it was for Mom, I’m not sure she would help. She’s still upset over how things were left.

His smile vanished. Well, thank you for helping me plan this. I know your mother is a bit over-the-top lately—

When is she not? asked Tasha. Although, therapy might distract her from my wedding. Greg’s being so nice about things, but he has no interest in being carried down the aisle by his groomsmen on a litter. Where did she even come up with that?

"We watched Cleopatra a few weeks ago, said Max. I thought it would take her mind off the wedding and give you kids a break. Seems like it backfired."

He relaxed at the sound of his daughter’s laughter.

You are the best dad ever, you know that? said Tasha.

The alarm on the microwave went off, signaling the eggplant Parm was ready.

Gotta go. That’s the timer.

Okay. I love you. Good luck tonight, said Tasha.

Hoping he wouldn’t need luck, Max grabbed the hot pads from the counter and flung open the stove door. Steam from the golden-brown cheese hit his