I’m feeling giddy and hopeful, all caused by Josiah and the music, and it spills over into the trouble facing Gloria. I can’t believe anything bad is going to happen to her. The paintings are off site. She’s seventy-four. They’ll give her bail, and one way or another, we’ll raise it.
If it comes to that.
In the meantime, I have one more day to finish this piece by the deadline. To warm up, I run through a series of practice pieces, work a little on Beethoven’s Violin Sonata no. 9, which I’ve been learning over the past couple of months for the exercise. My muscles are a bit fatigued from all the work last night, and I smile. It’s been a while since I felt so optimistic about my work. In some part, it’s due to Josiah opening something in me, and his lyrics are so incredibly beautiful that I can’t wait to see what else we’ll come up with.
We didn’t kiss last night, although the possibility hung between us for two hours. Neither of us made that move, and that also felt right. There’s time, if it comes to that.
But mainly, this morning I feel good because of me. Because of something new growing in me, like a fern unfurling, like an orchid sprouting stalks of buds that will bloom slowly, one at a time, over a long stretch. I feel it in a looseness in my body, in a sense of space in my mind. I’m so glad to be home, but even that isn’t it.
It’s just me. It’s like my skin finally fits again after the awful episode with David that undermined my confidence.
It isn’t until I am about to go back into the kitchen and make some breakfast that I see the envelope tucked between the pots of new begonias. It’s a simple white envelope with my name on it, and the instant I see it, I know she’s gone. “Oh, Gloria,” I say aloud, pressing the envelope against my chest.
Setting my violin aside, I sink down on one of the iron chairs she keeps out here, heart pounding, and open it.
Dearest, dearest Willow.
I know you won’t be happy, but I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands. I don’t know what the authorities can/will do to me, but I abhor the idea of jail and rather than take a chance, I’m heading out of Dodge. When I feel it is safe enough, I’ll find a way to let you know I’m all right, but in the meantime, don’t worry. I’m an experienced traveler and I know the tricks.
Talk to Miriam at some point soon; she will have information for you. She can also help with some of that other unfinished business. I’ve left instructions for the greenhouse and the schedule of the garden (spring is almost upon us, and there is a lot to do!). If you need help, hire it. I’ve left a couple of names in the greenhouse notes.
One more thing. I’ve left my phone in my bedroom, for obvious reasons. I would love it if you could continue to post to my Instagram for me, at least for a little while, to keep up the appearance of my presence in New York. I’ve left all the pertinent details with the phone. I think you might have fun with it.
You are coming into yourself so beautifully, Willow. Trust that. Trust yourself. I can’t wait to see what comes out of this period in your life. From where I stand, it looks fertile and magical and full of possibility. Enjoy it.
Take care of your sister, and the apartment. One day, we’ll all be together again. I love you more than I can possibly say.
Aunt G
My hands shake, and I wonder where she is right now. How lonely she must be! It breaks my heart.
I carry my violin inside and lay it down on the dining room table on my way through to Gloria’s room. Sure enough, the bed has not been slept in, and the phone is right there on the nightstand. A neatly printed list of instructions sits below it, and I type in the passcode, then the Instagram log-in. She hasn’t posted since last night, but her photo stream is full of possibilities.
I sink down on her bed, scrolling through them, clicking to go full screen when I get to a series of the TWA crew, what’s left of them. I remember when there were seven or eight who would show up at Gloria’s dinner parties, all very glamorous and charming, making the other guests laugh. These few are the only ones left. The photos are wonderful, almost staged in the midcentury room, with all of them posing for the camera as if for a magazine spread, ankles crossed, backs straight. I post one of them, trying my best to imitate Gloria’s voice, and add a bunch of hashtags. Wherever she is, she’ll see it and know that I got the letter and her phone.
And now I realize that I’ve never told Sam about what’s going on, and now Gloria has left without even consulting her. Damn. She’s not going to take this well.
Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, I think, looking around her room. A dirgeful sound echoes through my mind: Empty, empty, empty. Will I ever see her again?
I realize that I haven’t eaten since last night. Sam will need to eat, too, and Asher, if he’s still here. Humming under my breath, a tic that I’ve had since childhood to calm myself when I’m sad or anxious, I close the door to G’s room and head for the kitchen to make some gluten-free blueberry pancakes. Sam has always loved pancakes, and I found a very good recipe for gluten-free. I can do nothing to help Gloria right this minute, but I can cook for my sister.
I imagine her happiness, and it lifts my spirits.
Chapter Forty-Six
Sam
Asher is gone by the time I get up. I would have left, too, if I had to smell me any longer. I desperately need a shower, so I gather up some fresh clothes—just yoga pants and a T-shirt and a pair of thick wool socks—and make my way down the hall. I feel like an old person, walking so slowly, my hand on the wall, and it makes me irritable.
So when Willow appears, taking my arm, she bears the brunt of it. “I’ve got it!” I say, yanking my arm away.
Which totally overbalances me, and I nearly fall. She crosses her arms and inclines her head. “How’s that working for you?”
I lean on the wall, sweaty and out of breath. “For fuck’s sake. This is ridiculous.”
Willow offers her hand. “Shower?”
Meekly, I take it. “Yes, please.”
“I want you to sit down, though, okay? I’ll wash your hair if you want.”
It’s humiliating to think of my little sister seeing me naked. I know I’m bony at the moment, and I really don’t want her to feel sorry for me. “I can wash my hair.”
“Okay.”
I think of what Asher said last night, that I need to be nicer to her. “Hey, the music sounded really good last night.”
“Yeah?” She’s surprised, I can tell. “Thank you. I’m kind of excited about this piece.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“Josiah. I met him at a gig in Brooklyn a few nights ago.” She lets go to allow me through the door first. “The night you got sick, actually. He was with me when I checked on you.”
A slither of nastiness passes through me—mere days in the city, and already she has a new guy hanging around—but I let it just keep going. “He’s a good musician too.”
“Yes. He grew up in Ren Faires, on the circuit. Isn’t that funny?” She pulls back the curtain and turns on the shower.
I cross my arms. “I can do this part, okay?”
She narrows her eyes. “Mmm. I don’t think so.”
I bow my head, embarrassed.
“I’ve seen your skinny ass before,” she says, reaching in to test the water. “Feel that. Too hot?”
I stick my hand in. “Perfect.” Still, I stand by the shower curtain in my disgusting T-shirt and sloppy sweats. I smell like a goat, but—
“How about this,” Willow says. “I’ll close my eyes, but you can hold on to me while you sit down. I mean, it would be kind of ridiculous for you to fall and crack your head open, and then I have to call an ambulance, and then everybody will see you naked. Not just, you know, your sister, who took baths with you in this very spot a hundred million times.”
I smile reluctantly. “Okay.”
She closes her eyes and stands by the front of the tub like a guard. I shuck the T-shirt and sweats. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my practically breastless torso and
the outline of my ribs, and I flush, thinking of my father saying once that a woman didn’t look like a woman if she was flat. I reach for Willow’s hand, and she’s steady as a tree, but it’s hard to step over the edge of the claw-foot, and I nearly slip. “Help more, please,” I whisper.
She’s right there, helping me step over the edge and then sit down. “My eyes are still closed, but sis, I am seriously jealous of your calves.”
Safely on the floor of the tub, I turn my face to the water, letting the spray wash away the sense of helplessness, the sweat of sickness, the alcohol wipes, and the tangled dreams. I think of being in my apartment, sick and knowing I needed help and so afraid and lost and lonely. A hole opens in my chest, and I squeeze my eyes tight.
I’m so tired of being alone.
Willow is tidying the vanity, humming loudly enough I can hear her. I can smell the bleach wipes she’s using, and I get a flash of her in an apron in an old farmhouse, making things nice.
She loves making a home, making people comfortable and keeping them fed. I don’t think my grandmother did. I think it was forced on her and she was miserable, just as Willow would be if she didn’t have the outlet of her music.
I look for the shampoo, but I don’t see it. “Is there shampoo out there?”
“Yes. Do you want lavender or dandruff?”
I laugh. “Lavender, please.”
“Do you want me to do it?”
For once, maybe I can let go of things. “Yes, please.”
“I’m still closing my eyes.”
I close mine instead. “You don’t have to.”
The sweet scent of lavender fills the air as she pours it onto my scalp. Her fingers are powerful from all the violin work, and I won’t lie: it’s heaven when she starts to massage my head, across the top, down the sides, behind my ears, to the nape of my neck, which has been so sore. I groan quietly, try to stretch a bit, and stop when I find the lingering stiffness. Her fingers navigate right to it, and I can’t help making another little noise as she works on the knots and cords.
“Keep your eyes closed,” she says and pours water over my head, once and then again.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“You’re welcome.”
After a breakfast of blueberry pancakes, I wrap myself in a thick sweater and sit outside in one of the alcoves Gloria has created. The air is mild, and sunshine pours into the space, promising fresh starts. In one of the planters, leaves are springing up—flowers Willow would know. She and Gloria share the love of growing things—handed down from the farmer side of the family, no doubt.
I wonder where Gloria is. She’s been out all morning. Maybe that’s normal for her. How would I know? I never visit. Just this minute, I can’t remember why. G would be glad to have me anytime. She and I were best of buddies first, long before she took an interest in Willow, visiting her friends in their modern apartments and country houses. Dani’s house had a swimming pool, and she let me swim while they drank cocktails on the patio. Willow was too small to come with us, to swim without supervision, not that my mother would have cared, but G was mindful of things like that.
Again it flutters across my mind: Who was taking care of Willow? Was there an au pair or a babysitter? When we were small, my mother was certainly making plenty of money to cover such a cost.
I’ll have to ask Willow.
A breeze moves over my face, and I’m thinking maybe I’ll be well enough to go home by tomorrow or the next day. Get back to normal life.
Willow appears. “You have visitors.”
I get to my feet. “Who?”
She raises an eyebrow. Just one. “Your dad,” she says, “and his wife.”
“What?” I halt, look toward the door.
“Yeah, I thought it was a little weird myself. Do you want me to tell him you’re not feeling well enough for visitors?”
For a single moment, I wonder what that would feel like. But I shake my head. “I exposed him to meningitis. I should find out if he got tested.”
“But why is Brittney with him?”
“Who knows?” Willow sticks with me as we enter through the dining room, and it makes me think of her warrior attitude toward Eric at the hospital. She’s got my back, always. How have I never appreciated that?
We make our way to the parlor, where the painting of my mother looms over everything.
“How are you, sweetheart?” my dad asks, getting up. I wave him away and take a seat below my mother. Willow stands beside me, no less a warrior for having no weapon but her cold gaze and perfect beauty.
A flash of my developing game floats through my mind, attached to a violin.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“We just wanted to come see how you’re doing,” my dad says. “Brittney was worried that you might have gone home alone, but they told us at the hospital that you’d come here with Willow and Gloria.”
“They told you that?” Willow asks.
“I am her father,” he says.
Brittney looks nothing like a real estate agent, all coiffed and pressed. She has long dark hair she wears shiny straight. Her face is pretty but not overly made up. It’s a natural kind of West Coast beauty, all health and intelligence. I’d probably like her if she weren’t my dad’s wife and the mother of the two kids he stuck with. “We wanted to let you know that your dad was tested,” she says, “and he shows no sign of the virus. We’ll keep an eye on the boys, just in case, but the doctor didn’t seem to think there was any realistic risk.”
“That’s good news.” I don’t see them often, only at birthdays and the like, but they’re sweet, lovely children. “How’s Nathan doing? School-wise?”
“Good,” she says, and I can tell by the way she folds and refolds her hands that this is not entirely true. “We’re going to take your advice and try to just treat him like an ordinary kid.”
“He can always come hang out with me,” I hear myself say. “I can give him some weird stuff to do, with computers and programming. Keep him busy for a little while, anyway.”
“Really?” Brittney glances at my dad, back to me. “That would be really nice of you.”
For the first time ever, I want to be alone with her, hear more about what’s happening with Nathan, who is a kid I really like. I like both of them. They’re blameless in everything.
Like Willow, a voice says quietly in my heart.
Brittney adds, “He’s struggling a little, if I’m honest. He doesn’t always read social cues that easily. And he’s”—her mouth gives a kindly smile—“a bit of an odd duck.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” I say dryly.
She smiles.
Remembering how miserable school was at times, how hard it was to fit in, my dad always this urgent presence, I say, “Let me know.”
Willow continues to stand there, and although it occurs to me late, I finally think to ask, “Do you guys want something to drink? Cup of tea, maybe?”
“Oh, no thank you.” My dad leans forward. “We were hoping maybe you’d show Brittney how amazing this place is.”
My body goes completely cold. Next to me, Willow says, “We aren’t selling this apartment.”
“Of course not!” Brittney smooths her palm down her jeans. “I’m sorry, that was terribly rude.” Her cheeks are so pink I feel bad for her. “It’s just that places like this are so rare now, and I’ve always wanted to see the garden. It’s fairly famous.”
“Is it?” I ask.
“G-L-O-R-I-A,” she sings. “Her dinners in the nineties are the stuff of legend.”
Willow frowns. “Really?”
“Oh my God! Do you guys really not know this?” She pulls out her phone, swipes up to get to the internet, and types something in. She’s smiling with such delight that I feel halfway forgiving, not that I’m going to forgive my fucking dad. “Look.”
She shows a page of search results, essays and photos and—I take the phone. “Wow. I remember this guy.” I show it to Willo
w.
“That’s Gerald,” she says. I’m surprised to see her wipe a tear off her cheek. “He had the best laugh.”
Brittney nods. “Gerald Vanderhoof. He was a great writer, a social commentator, and he loved Gloria. Unfortunately, he died of AIDS.”
I feel a little slip of time, a swell of pain or memory that slaps me from nowhere. Gerald, always inserting himself between me and the old man who talked with his mouth full; Gerald, who brought me headphones so I could drown out the horrific sounds of people eating so that I didn’t have to leave the table. Another person who had my back, always.
Maybe I’ve not been as alone as I always thought. “He was a nice man.” I hand the phone back to Brittney. “I had no idea. I’ll have to look up some of those essays.”
Willow’s phone buzzes in her pocket, and she tugs it out. Inclines her head. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
“I’m fine.”
She hurries outside.
For a moment, my dad and Brittney and I sit there. I know what will get rid of them, which is all I want to do now. “I’ll give you a tour if you want.”
“Great.” My dad claps his hands.
“Are you sure you’re strong enough?” Brittney asks.
“I’m okay. It’s not like a castle or anything.” I stand. “We call this the parlor, and it’s a better room than the living room because it has some light and, obviously, the french doors to the garden.” I’m not sure which way to go, but since Willow went outside, I turn right out of the parlor. The next door is the living room, and I notice that it seems like some of the paintings have been moved around or something. “This is the living room, and it’s never been used much.”
Brittney pauses at the doorway. “Do you mind?”
“Go ahead.”
She steps in, almost reverently, and looks around, at the paintings and walls, then up to the ceilings. “This seems to all be original.”
“Pretty sure it is.”
“Remarkable.” She looks at the floor, shakes her head. “Parquet.”
“Is that unusual?” my dad asks.
Write My Name Across the Sky Page 26
