Whispering Through Water


 
 WHISPERING THROUGH WATER
 
 
 
 REBECCA WENRICH WHEELER
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 for my mom
 and to the girls who went away, may someone tell your stories.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Copyright © 2022 by Rebecca Wenrich Wheeler
 All rights reserved.
 Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intentional unless otherwise stated.
 Publisher: Monarch Educational Services, LLC
 Original Art/Section Illustrations: Terri Moore
 Developmental Editor by Kelly Martin; Line edits by Haley Hwang
 Cover Design - Monarch Educational Services; Licensed Adobe Stock Photo
 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Thank you for respecting the work of authors. www.monarcheducationalservices.com
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CONTENTS
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1. Grape juice
 
 
 2. Heirlooms
 
 
 3. Uncle Beckett
 
 
 4. Doodles
 
 
 5. The Upstairs Room
 
 
 6. The Letter
 
 
 7. Andrew
 
 
 8. The Trunk
 
 
 9. The Shoebox
 
 
 10. Brenda Quigley
 
 
 11. Bagels
 
 
 12. Fireworks
 
 
 13. Sorting
 
 
 14. Isaac
 
 
 15. Details
 
 
 16. Daydreams
 
 
 17. Plans
 
 
 18. Adulthood
 
 
 19. Skinny-dipping
 
 
 20. Frenzy
 
 
 21. Fairy Tales
 
 
 22. Resolve
 
 
 23. Honesty
 
 
 24. Liars
 
 
 25. The Truth
 
 
 26. Morning
 
 
 27. Aftermath
 
 
 28. Heart Monitor
 
 
 29. Uncertainty
 
 
 30. Stillness
 
 
 31. Shifting Sand
 
 
 32. Peace
 
 
 33. Settling Summer
 
 
 
 
 Whispering Through Water Reader’s Guide
 
 
 Author’s Note
 
 
 Acknowledgments
 
 
 About the Author
 
 
 Untitled
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1
 
 
 GRAPE JUICE
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Truth has rough flavours if we bite it through. — George Eliot
 
 
 I drove the toe of my Doc Martens into the pile of the living room carpet and twisted my foot to make an indention. I don’t know what angered me more—my aunt’s harsh words, or that I let her get to me. I fiddled with the large safety pin that adorned my plaid miniskirt, repressing the urge to stab something with it.
 “Young ladies look adults in the eye,” Aunt Delia said, her voice wrapped in confidence. She shifted in her chair and crossed her legs.
 “So, what exactly do you want me to say?” I asked, tilting my head toward the ceiling, hoping the tears would somehow drain back into my body.
 I wiped my eyes, smearing blue mascara across the back of my hand, and squeezed the disintegrating tissue. “If you had these ridiculous restrictions on my college education, you should have told me earlier. My God, Aunt Delia, it’s already April!”
 I clenched my fists until I could feel my veins pulse. The tissue bits, wet with perspiration and mucus, stuck to the ridges in my palm.
 “Ridiculous?” My aunt lowered her chin and peered at me over the rim of her glasses. Her small frame was deceptive. Aunt Delia’s inner lioness pounced when it came to maintaining her order. “Gwyn, it’s my money to give, and it’s my money to take away. My house, my rules.”
 “Rules, what rules?” I made eye contact with my mom, who stood in the archway separating the living room and the staircase. “Mom, are you hearing this?”
 Mom turned away. The dizziness of frustration traveled through my body.
 I choked back tears. “Aunt Delia, you told me my whole life that you would pay for my college tuition, that you wanted me to earn a degree. I thought I only needed to get accepted. Why are you changing this on me now?”
 “I expected you to attend college here”—she tapped her finger on the coffee table for emphasis—“in Virginia. Besides, you already accepted your admittance into William and Mary.”
 “Aunt Delia, the letter arrived today that I was off the waitlist. It’s my number one choice. I am going to call and rescind my acceptance to William and Mary this week.”
 “I’m not sure why you would give up your seat, so many students would love the chance to go there. Plus, it’s only thirty minutes away. You could even commute.”
 Aunt Delia folded the Massachusetts College of Art and Design acceptance letter dated April 1, 1998, and handed it to me as if it was just another grocery store flier.
 “If only being thirty minutes away was the expectation,” I said, “then you should have told me a heck of a lot earlier. If I was told, I wouldn’t have even applied out of state, and I could have avoided getting my hopes up.” I tugged on my black T-shirt, my torso damp with perspiration.
 “Honestly, Gwyn, I never imagined there would be a need for this conversation.”
 “Why not?”
 “Because I didn’t expect you to get in.” Aunt Delia’s words were deliberate and icily calm.
 I pressed my palm against my chest. Her words winded me, as if, instead of catching a basketball, it had hit me square in the gut. I couldn’t tell if those were my aunt’s actual feelings, or if she had just demeaned my intelligence to end the argument. I was out of comebacks. I turned, hoping to find empathy from my mom, but she had already left the room.
 My aunt adjusted the collar of her blouse. She picked