by Karen White
Caroline looked with some surprise at her old room. It was unchanged—even down to the rose-colored chenille bedspread and the big yellow dog Jude had won for her at a long-ago Harvest Moon festival. It still had the smear on the faded yellow of its cheek where ketchup had dripped from her brother’s hot dog as he’d tried to show her how he could shove it into his mouth in one bite.
She absently stroked the dog’s head as she glanced around at the old unpainted pine furniture with pink drawer pulls and the plastic beaded ropes that hung in front of her closet door. Caroline had thought them cool and magical but her mother considered them tacky and not appropriate for their Atlanta home. But they’d been a Christmas gift from Jude, so they were allowed to hang in her closet at the lake house, where it wasn’t possible for anyone who mattered to know that Margaret Collier allowed hippie beads into her home.
Caroline heard her mother gently open and shut the screened door before the tapping of her heels across the pine floors marked her passage to the kitchen. Silverware clinked on the wood surface of the kitchen table, followed by the sound of the oven door screeching open. She’s baking the steaks with the chicken breast. Caroline stifled a grin at her mother’s ineptitude with the outdoor grill and lifted the hippie beads, listening to them clack against the pale white closet door frame.
“Dinner’s ready,” her mother called out.
She wanted to say she wasn’t hungry, but her stomach grumbled as she stuck her head out the door. Glancing back into her room, she spotted her now-empty suitcase sitting against the wall near the dresser and remembered how there had once been two twin beds in the room. The second bed had been moved to the adjacent bedroom at her own insistence when she was twelve and much too old to be sharing a room with a brother who was eleven months younger than her.
“Coming,” she said, taking a deep breath and counting slowly to ten before heading for the kitchen. She’d stick to safe topics like the weather and the cost of milk. The soft notes of a Chopin prelude drifted through the great room from tiny Bose speakers poised inconspicuously behind a large fern and a framed child’s pastel drawing, the telltale scrawl of Jude’s signature blasted across the bottom in blue crayon. She scanned the walls quickly for the Andrew Wyeth print she’d given her mother for Christmas the previous year and felt the familiar stab of disappointment when she didn’t see it. She let her fingers slide over the closed top of the piano, and wondered briefly why her mother still kept it.
Walking toward the kitchen, she heard the first drops of rain against the skylights. Rainstorms in the mountains always caught you by surprise, like jumping into cold water on a hot day. She watched her mother toss the salad, studying her in her high heels and apron for a moment before she became aware of Caroline’s presence.
Margaret Collier had one of those faces that seemed to get better with age. Instead of filling out and sagging, her skin had tightened over beautiful bones, sharpening her nose and her chin. It was as if life had shrunk her somehow, made her more compact and better able to duck the sharp winds life had a habit of blowing at you.
Her mother turned her head and smiled, her makeup fresh and perfect. Caroline couldn’t think of a time she’d seen her without makeup. Even Christmas morning her mother never appeared downstairs without at least powder, eyeliner, and her signature red lipstick. Jude used to say that he wasn’t sure if he’d recognize her without it.
“Have a seat, dear. I’ll be done in just a minute.”
“I don’t mind helping. Why don’t I finish the salad?”
Her mother waved her toward the table. “Don’t be silly. You’re here on doctor’s orders to relax. Take a seat and I’ll have this on the table in just a second.”
“Smells good.” Caroline pulled out a chair and sat down, noticing the linen napkins and silver napkin rings. Their starched whiteness and perfect creases were as formal as the strange, polite dance she and her mother seemed to be performing.
“You’ve done a lot with the house.”
Margaret smiled. “Yes, I suppose I have. It’s been a sort of experimental work in progress. Do you like it?”
Caroline watched her mother take out a pitcher of sweet tea and set it on the table, and avoided meeting her eyes. “It’s . . . different.” It was all she could allow. How could she explain that it wasn’t about liking it or not? It was more like staring at the stump of a severed limb. It was about missing something that was no longer there.
To change the subject she asked, “Where’s that Wyeth print I gave you last year?” and then immediately wished she hadn’t said it. Her comment went beyond white starchiness and crisp creases. It bordered on real emotions and deep hurt, of things not spoken aloud by implicit agreement.
Her mother sat down, an uncomfortable flush rising in her cheeks. “I haven’t hung it yet. Guess I’m still looking for the perfect spot.” She raised her eyes to her daughter’s. “Actually, I thought you’d let me hang it in your apartment. You don’t have a thing on the walls—or on the windows for that matter. I wish you’d let me do the whole thing—pro bono, of course.”
Slowly Caroline pulled her napkin from the shiny sterling ring and placed it on her lap, listening to the pelting of rain on the roof. “I don’t like living around a lot of fuss. Besides, I’m rarely there. My job keeps me at the office.”
She watched her mother mirror her own movements with the napkin. “Maybe you’d feel more of a desire to leave your office if you had a nice place to come home to. I hope you’ve been listening to Dr. Northcutt. You’ve got to stop working so hard. You’ve been lucky with just a stress attack as a warning. It could be worse next time—much worse.”
Caroline absently rubbed the part of her shirt that lay over the slight ridge of the old scar. “I like my work. That was just . . . a bad day.” She began scooping salad onto her plate. “I thought you had choir tonight.”
Margaret took a sip of tea. “I do, but I thought I’d stay with you because it’s your first night here since . . .” Her voice trailed away.
Caroline tried not to sound overeager. “No, you should go. I don’t mind being by myself. Really. Besides, I’m kind of in the mood for a good movie. Maybe I’ll go down to the movie theater and see what’s playing.”
Her mother was silent for a moment and busied herself with brushing imaginary crumbs from her place mat. “They’ve closed. I think it’s been some eight or nine years. Couldn’t afford to repair the damage from that horrible winter storm so they just closed up shop.”
Caroline could almost smell the popcorn and feel the chill of the air-conditioning on bare shoulders in the old theater as she sat between Jude and Shelby Martin watching afternoon matinees. She felt chilled all of a sudden, as the ghosts of old memories stood up and left her, leaving her cold and alone.
She felt agitated and uncertain, and the silent counting in her head wasn’t working anymore. She hadn’t wanted to be here anyway, so why did it matter so much that nothing was the way she had remembered? Because it’s like I’m burying Jude again. She focused on the linen napkin in her lap.
“It’s just us, Mom. No need to get all fancy with cloth napkins.”
Margaret stood and retrieved the breadbasket from the counter before reseating herself. “I’m not being fancy. Paper napkins belong in preschools and truck stops. This is neither.” She smiled and slid the bowl across the table.
Caroline picked up the pitcher and poured tea into her glass. “It just seems like a lot of trouble and expense for the two of us.”
“Not at all. I bought a set of twelve napkins on sale at Steinmart for less than it would have cost for an entire package of paper napkins.” She handed the breadbasket to Caroline before taking a piece herself. “But I suppose being a career woman making your own money, you wouldn’t have to worry about things like that.”
Caroline dug into her salad, studiously avoiding looking at the dried-out chicken breast in the middle of her plate. God, why am I here? She tried counting to ten again but
failed to push back the call for battle that always seemed to raise its flag whenever she was in a conversation with her mother.
“I’m an accountant, Mom. I’m more aware than most people of how much things cost and how much money I spend. Linen versus paper napkins has absolutely nothing to do with money. It’s about convenience. I mean, who wants to wash their napkins, then iron and fold them after every meal? Only those people with way too much leisure time on their hands use linen napkins.”
Her mother blinked, then delicately began cutting into her steak. After putting a minuscule bite in her mouth, she chewed thoughtfully before finally replying. “Actually, Caroline, it has nothing to do with convenience and everything to do with civilization. Using paper napkins is no worse than eschewing silverware and reverting back to our caveman days and eating with our hands.”
Rain hit against the windows in a steady rhythm, Caroline’s heartbeat racing to catch up. This is it, she thought. She was either going to die of a heart attack right then and there or she was going to kill her mother.
She forced the polite smile back on her face. “You know, Mom—I really don’t want you to miss choir practice on my account. You go on ahead. I haven’t seen Rainy Martin in a long time, and I’d like to stop by and say hello before it gets dark.” She pushed back from the table, making the tea in the glasses shake. “And don’t worry about the dishes—I’ll do them when I get back.”
Margaret’s fork hovered uncertainly in the air. “But it’s raining.”
“As you always used to say, I’m not sweet enough to melt.”
Her mother gave her a crooked grin. “I’d forgotten that.” Her shoulders slouched against the back of her chair, and for the first time in Caroline’s memory, Margaret Collier looked old. “All right, then. But at least wear your raincoat so you don’t catch a chill. And put some lipstick on—it’ll brighten your complexion. You never know who you might run into.”
Something about her mother’s defeated stance made Caroline push back the call to battle. Besides, she didn’t even own a lipstick, so the point was moot, anyway. Margaret looked up at her daughter for a moment, the fine lines around her eyes and mouth visible under the harsh light from the overhead fixture. It made her look vulnerable, fragile almost. Caroline felt a stab of panic, a feeling of time lost, passing too quickly. She kissed her mother’s cheek and Margaret looked up, surprised. “Have fun at choir,” Caroline said, hiding her embarrassment by turning away and leaving the room.
She found her hooded rain jacket hanging neatly in her closet. The few clothes on the rod had been hung by type so that all the pants were together and so were her blouses and skirts. She was on the verge of smiling when she noticed there was no sign of the four pairs of old sweats she had brought for her three-month stay, and she found herself practicing deep breathing again.
Despite the darkening gloom and splattering rain, Caroline felt her spirits lift. In the years since she had last been to Hart’s Peak, when she had given up everything in her life that marked the “before” and delved into her life that had become the “after,” Rainy Martin had remained her only constant. Caroline suspected it was because Rainy was the only one she knew who hadn’t insisted that she cry.
She walked past her mother’s dark blue Cadillac in the garage and slid into the driver’s seat of the dusty old Buick. In the same way people reserved old shoes for rainy days, Margaret Collier had a respectable car that was used only on days when ruinous salt lay thick on mountain roads.
Moving out of the driveway, she headed out toward the rain-slicked road, listening to the thump-thump of the intermittent windshield wipers. Static-filled elevator music from her mother’s favorite station crackled as she wound her way down the familiar road, hardly wider than a single car, pausing at each curve to check for oncoming traffic and passing no one.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle, soaking everything in a fine mist and adding to her restlessness. Flipping off the radio, she lowered her window and took a deep breath. She loved the smell of rain, of wet leaves and damp earth, and the slap of feet against soggy pavement. It reminded her of Jude and how he would open his bedroom window during rainstorms and how she’d use her bath towel to help him dry the rain off the windowsill before their mother found out.
She made her way onto the main highway that led into Hart’s Valley, crossing the old railroad tracks that marked the outskirts of the town. Feeling the need to walk the remaining mile, she parallel-parked the car on the nearly deserted road. She trudged along Main Street, passing the Laundromat that now apparently doubled as a Thai food takeout, and pausing in front of the old post office that had been converted into a real estate office with hideous green awnings. There was something wrong here, something akin to changing the colors of the national flag or wearing sandals in winter. She felt the restlessness creep up on her again and she continued on, walking faster and faster, eager to feel the comfort that only Rainy could seem to give her.
Tucking her head into the hood of her jacket, she made her way through the steady drizzle to the crossroads of Main Street and Highland Avenue, staring through the mist at the battered sign above the door: RAINY DAYS. It was an old house that had been converted into a store while keeping the kitchen and the upstairs intact. She glanced at her watch. It was past six o’clock and the CLOSED sign sat in the window, but Caroline knew that Rainy Martin’s store was never closed to her.
As she waited at the crosswalk for the light to change, her gaze skidded over the bare-wood storefront and focused on the sign in the window: FOR SALE. She blinked, hoping it would go away and feeling the thrum of her heartbeat in her ears. The yellow-and-red sign stayed where it was, a final nail in the coffin of how things used to be and would never be again.
Maybe it was because she knew it was the lull in the tourist season—most of the summer people had fled back to suburbia, and it was too early for the fall-foliage folks—or maybe it was the confusion and anger that warped her senses. Either way, she assumed the road would be deserted and didn’t look first before stepping off the curb and into the street.
At the same moment, a brand-spanking-new black pickup truck whizzed by her, close enough that she could see the buttons on the bright plaid shirt of the male driver as he stared straight ahead, oblivious to the woman he was in the process of almost killing.
Caroline jumped back onto the curb just in time to catch the bulk of a puddle sent spraying by the truck’s tires. She could taste the mud and gravel on her upper lip as the sound of the truck faded around the next corner. Numbly, she stared down at her jacket, wondering if her face looked as bad. If some days you were the bug and other days the windshield, today she was definitely a windshield. She felt the absurd need to cry and tried to uplift her mood with the thought that the day was almost over and there wasn’t time for it to get any worse.
She spat out a piece of grit that had found its way past her lips and onto her tongue as she turned in the direction of the disappearing truck. Damn tourists. The new truck was a dead giveaway as to the owner’s tourist status. Nobody in Hart’s Valley drove new cars. Except for the damned tourists.
Feeling the water squelching inside her shoes with every step, Caroline slogged her way across the street and up the front porch steps of Rainy Days. She hadn’t even raised her hand to knock when the door was flung open, the bells above the door clanging in greeting.
Rainy Martin stood on the threshold, her hair hidden beneath a leopard-print bandanna, her face devoid of makeup, and her bare toes peeping out from baggy overalls. It had been thirteen years since Caroline had last seen her, but it felt like thirteen minutes. Rainy was as familiar as her own skin.
The older woman opened her arms wide. “Good Lord, child. Looks like you’ve been pulled backward through a mud hole. Come in, come in, and let’s get you cleaned up.”
Maybe it was the remembered scents of potpourri and pipe tobacco inside the cluttered store, or maybe it was the memory of how soft Rainy’s crocheted
sweater felt against her cheek, but Caroline realized she was crying and being enveloped in strong, warm arms that seemed thinner than she remembered. There was something almost frail in the feel of the bone through knitted wool, but there was strength, too, like the taut strands of a hammock’s rope. “Hush, girl. It’s going to be all right.”
And Caroline was ten years old again, and she knew that without a doubt Rainy would make everything all right for her. She always had.
She drew back her head and gave a loud sniffle. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying like this. It’s just that everything seems to have changed and then some. . . . Moron nearly ran me over and my mother said . . .”
Rainy raised her hand. “Say no more. If you’ve been speaking with your mother, I understand.” She placed both of her hands, covered in silver and turquoise rings, on Caroline’s shoulders, and pushed her toward the back of the shop. “Go wash up in the rest-room and I’ll put some of my tea on to boil. Then we can have a long talk about Margaret and hypothesize about why she wears so much makeup.”
Caroline smiled and hiccupped at the same time. It was the eighth wonder of the world—the lifelong friendship between Margaret Collier and Rainy Martin. She’d long ago given up trying to understand it, but she hadn’t completely given up on her theory that she had been switched at birth and given to the wrong mother.
Wiping her nose on the sleeve of the jacket, something she would never have dared to do in her mother’s presence, she found her way to the bathroom and flicked on the light. Like the rest of the shop, the room was small and cluttered but done with such a free and artistic hand, it was hard to remember you were in a bathroom. The walls were covered with the artwork of local artists, and a short set of wall shelves carried an entire army of small clay people with eyes made of bulging blue beads and wearing clothes of quilting scraps. A hand-sewn quilt had been tacked to the ceiling, but even it had a price tag dangling from a corner.
