These objects brought her pleasure; more than that, they filled a space inside her, the cavern created when Frank left, the children grew up, her own parents decamped for Florida and died within a year of each other, her sister-in-law, Anne, succumbed quickly and horribly to lung cancer, seven months after being diagnosed. For a time Paulette felt like the passenger who falls asleep on a train and wakes up disoriented, in a place she never intended to be. She understood, then, the fragility of a life built around other people, the connections of blood and marriage that seemed elemental but eventually proved fleeting—of archival interest only, like relics kept under glass.
The changes had happened over three or four years, a time Paulette now remembered with a certain remove, like chapters of a novel read in her youth. Her response had been instinctive: after the divorce, she drew closer to her children; when the children left, she reached out to the family of her birth. When her parents, and later Roy and Martine, moved to the far edges of the country, she was tempted to follow; but something in her—pride? sentiment?—had rebelled. The house in Concord was dear to her. The children had been babies here, had played soccer and badminton in the grassy backyard. Those years were her life, no matter how painfully they’d ended. Subtract those, and she had accomplished nothing, experienced nothing. Without them, she’d be no one at all.
For a time she’d imagined that the house had a future. Her children—married, with families of their own—would gather here for Sunday dinner, as she and Roy had done at their parents’ in Newton. But that, like her own marriage, hadn’t turned out as planned. Billy seemed determined to stay single forever. (Not to mention Gwen, poor Gwen.) And Scott had married hastily and disastrously. He had always been vague about the particulars; for all Paulette knew, he’d found Penny by the side of the road. She was a dim, pretty girl, unwilling or unable to carry on a polite conversation. Worse, she let her two children run wild. To her dismay, this was how Paulette thought of Sabrina and Ian: as that woman’s children. By the time Scott and Penny moved back from California, the children were five and seven, and the sudden acquisition of a grandmother seemed to puzzle them. Their manners were atrocious, which was to say completely transparent. It wasn’t that they disliked Paulette; they simply didn’t understand what a grandmother was for. Though she sent gifts each year on their birthdays, she had never received a thank-you note, a habit she had drummed into her own children but which Scott had apparently abandoned.
He’d been a stubborn boy, resistant to correction. She had always suspected that her influence on his character would be minimal, and that had turned out to be true. He’d been ten years old when she and Frank divorced, and had witnessed more adult suffering than Paulette could bear to think about. Rambunctious from birth, he’d needed stability more than the others did, and had gotten less of it. Paulette had been an excellent mother to Billy, a good one, in spite of the attendant difficulties, to Gwen. But with Scott she had been distracted, so consumed with rage and heartbreak that she’d failed him in the crucial years. How relieved she’d been to send him off to Pearse, a passage that should have saddened her. He was only fourteen then, a little boy, but she’d been ready—no, eager—to let him go. Her own father and brother had gone to Pearse, and Billy had thrived there; but she ought to have seen that Scott wasn’t ready to take his place in the world. She’d neglected Scott and hovered over Gwen, who now seemed to resent her for it. Paulette saw that she’d been wrong on both counts. That she’d done everything wrong.
Downstairs she put a log on the fire and opened a bottle of champagne. She seldom drank during the day, and never alone; but she allowed herself this annual exception. It was nervewracking, this waiting, not knowing who would arrive first. Each of her children demanded something different of her, and it would ease her mind tremendously—tremendously—to know which role she would be expected to play when the doorbell rang.
For Billy she had to be well, in all respects. To look well. To feel well. He would notice if she seemed tired, so she’d gone to bed early the night before. (That he noticed such things, she took as evidence of his sensitivity. He’d always been the least selfish of her children.) For Billy she’d had her hair done, and spent the money for a facial; she’d shopped for something special to wear and had spent extra time with the florist. But she was getting over a cold, a fact that would not escape him. If, heaven help her, she sneezed in his presence, he would send her to bed immediately, like an old crone a breath away from pneumonia and possible death.
The hairdo, the facial, would be wasted if Scott arrived first; he wouldn’t notice if she answered the door in overalls. When Sabrina and Ian were younger, Paulette’s Christmas outfit was often ruined; their sticky hands went everywhere—her blouse, the doors, the walls. Scott’s wife never commented on the heirloom ornaments, the floral arrangements. Paulette could hack and sneeze to her heart’s content; she’d have to pass out at Scott’s feet before he’d sense anything amiss. She would be pressed into immediate service as a babysitter—or, in recent years, a security guard. Her grandson was a one-man wrecking crew. Without constant supervision, he was likely to tear the house apart.
Gwen made no demands at all, yet her arrival caused the greatest anxiety, for one reason: she didn’t talk. Left to Gwen, the conversation would end at “Hello.” She seemed not to understand that social interaction required the participation of two people, that polite adults asked open-ended questions—Have you heard from Uncle Roy or Aunt Martine? Have you bought any more antiques?—and feigned interest in the answers, whether they were interesting or not. On certain Christmas Eves, faced with Gwen’s silence, she had chatted with herself for an hour or more until the others arrived. Relax, Mother, Billy advised, when she broke her own rule and confided her frustrations to him. (In principle she avoided discussing her children with each other, but lapses occurred.) You don’t have to talk every minute. What’s wrong with a little silence? Paulette considered this advice preposterous.
Gwen wasn’t just quiet; she was also touchy. Odds were good that Paulette, forced to ask a hundred questions, would eventually say the wrong thing. Not that she ever asked anything too personal. She’d never asked, for example, whether Gwen went on dates, the one thing she truly wanted to know. The only safe topic seemed to be Gwen’s job. For years she had worked in the anthropology wing of the Stott Museum in Pittsburgh, though what precisely she did there, Paulette had no idea. At one Christmas dinner, stumped for conversation, she’d asked what Gwen wore to work. Her daughter’s response had confounded her. She had simply laughed. The laugh lasted so long that Paulette grew nervous. It was, she felt, an unbalanced person’s laugh.
“It doesn’t matter,” Gwen said when she’d caught her breath. “You won’t believe this, Mother, but nobody cares what I wear.”
Paulette had excused herself from the table, insulted and hurt. Only later did it dawn on her: maybe nobody cared what Gwen wore because nobody ever looked at her, this small, odd girl who’d possibly never been asked on a date. She’d felt terrible then, and tried to apologize: I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. She’d hoped for a hug, but her daughter was not a hugger.
You didn’t make me feel bad, she said simply. I feel perfectly fine.
And that, Paulette supposed, was the long and short of it. Gwen didn’t hate her, didn’t nurse secret resentments against her or anyone else. She was simply wired differently. That was how Frank had phrased it, a few years ago, when she’d telephoned him in tears over something Gwen had said. Or, more likely, hadn’t said.
Fascinating, he said when she’d finished. It could be related to the nonverbal learning issues.
You mean it’s caused by the—by her Turner’s? The word felt strange in her mouth. She hadn’t spoken of Gwen’s condition in years.
It’s certainly consistent with the literature. The research is sketchy, but there’s some suggestion that Turner girls don’t pick up on nonverbal social cues, or respond to them appropriately.
He paused. It’s not you, Paulette. It’s just the way she is.
To her surprise it had comforted her, his precise way of explaining things. At one time she would have been angry. The phrase “Turner girls” would have incensed her. This isn’t a clinical trial, she would have told him. She’s not a research subject. She’s our daughter.
For a brief time, not long after the divorce, they had stopped speaking entirely; but in her heart Paulette continued to argue with him. Day after day, they had vicious quarrels in her head. Making tea, or driving to Brimfield, she’d catch herself talking to Frank, still haunted by all the things she should have said, the brilliant arguments that would stun him into silence. That would force him to admit, finally, how wrong he’d been.
But in recent years, something had shifted. The quarrels had simply stopped. Now, when she thought of Frank at all, she remembered the days of their courtship, the handsome boy he’d been, how attentive, how dear. Lately she wondered how he fared with Gwen. Did their daughter talk to him when she visited Cambridge? Did he enjoy these visits? Did they ever discuss Paulette?
She finished her champagne and took her empty flute to the kitchen. The Christmas tree, a huge Douglas fir, stood in the foyer, waiting for the children to arrive. I ought to plug in the lights, she thought wearily, but she hadn’t the heart. She was fifty-six years old; she had lived through more Christmases than seemed necessary. A Christmas every few years would suffice. Every four years, like leap year or the Olympics. Surely that would be enough.
As always, her tree was beautifully decorated. Grandmother Drew’s glass bells and wooden soldiers; Grandmother Broussard’s angel at the top. Piles of gifts ringed the tree. Most were for Scott’s family: good sheets and towels, books for the children, the sorts of things she imagined they needed. It was hard to know where to begin; it had seemed to her, the one time she’d visited them in Gatwick—a town named for an airport!—that they needed everything. The house, a cramped ranch with low ceilings and small windows, was oppressively cluttered—newspapers and catalogs, the children’s toys. Yet if you looked closely, it was apparent that Scott and Penny owned almost nothing. The walls were bare, the windows shaded with the metal blinds that had come with the place. They ate their meals from plastic dishes. There wasn’t a single book, not even a dictionary, in the house.
Shopping for Billy posed the opposite problem: he already had the things he liked, and what he didn’t have, he simply did not want. His apartment in New York was decorated in a style he called “minimalist”: bare floors and invisible lighting, modern furniture in soft leather, everything in shades of beige. Paulette found it all very handsome, if a bit stark. Once a year he invited her for a weekend visit. He had a sunny guest room with a wonderfully firm mattress. It delighted her, after the theater and an excellent dinner, to fall asleep on her son’s beige linen sheets. She wished he would invite her to New York more often. She was not the kind of mother who would invite herself.
For Christmas she’d bought him books, two cashmere sweaters, an exquisite leather belt. For Gwen, clothes were out of the question: misses sizes had never fit her, and the styles in the girls’ department were inappropriate for an adult. Paulette had settled on a necklace and clip earrings (Gwen would not have her ears pierced), a cashmere hat and scarf. Good perfume. A Chanel lipstick in pale pink, the shade discreet enough that Gwen might be willing to try it. She’d searched everywhere for a small leather pocketbook. Shoulder bags were out of the question. The straps were always too long.
She had tried for years to help Gwen feminize her appearance. Her height confused people; that couldn’t be helped. But why make matters worse by dressing like a boy? Makeup and a flattering hairstyle would signal to the world that Gwen was a grown woman; and then, perhaps, she would be treated accordingly. Each year at Christmas, Paulette prepared similar speeches in her head. But like her arguments with Frank, they were never articulated. One look at Gwen’s small, stubborn face, the grim set of her mouth, and Paulette lost the heart to criticize. Gwen was still her baby. She was doing the best she could.
She was standing in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Be Billy, she thought.
(Yes, she did have a preference. Mothers did.)
She hurried to the foyer and glanced out the window. An unfamiliar car was parked in the driveway: Gwen’s rental, then. She took a deep breath and opened the door. Gwen stood on the doorstep in a ghastly purple ski jacket, hands jammed into her pockets.
“Darling!” Paulette embraced her. “Merry Christmas.”
“You too. Mother, just so you know—”
Paulette released her abruptly, stunned to see Frank coming down the sidewalk.
“Paulette,” he boomed, the false heartiness she hated. “Look what the cat dragged in.” He wore dungarees and an MIT sweatshirt and carried Gwen’s suitcase.
They stood there a moment, staring at each other. The snow was still flying; at first glance Frank’s head seemed dusted with it, as though he’d hiked all the way from Cambridge. How curious, what aging did to redheads. Sprinkled with silver strands, his hair looked slightly pink.
“Hello, Frank,” she said lightly, as though she’d run into him at a party. “Goodness. What are you doing here?”
“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m just the taxi service.”
Next door the Marshes’ porch light came on. Well, naturally: Barbara Marsh was a shameless gossip, and Frank’s voice was loud enough to be heard in Lexington.
“Please come in,” she said—quietly, hoping he would take the cue.
Inside he stamped his shoes vigorously, though they looked perfectly clean. “Sorry to barge in on you, Paulette. Avis muffed up Gwen’s reservation, so I figured I’d give her a lift.”
Gwen looked anxiously from one parent to the other, as though expecting the worst.
Frank eyed Paulette from top to bottom. She’d forgotten the way he looked at her—looked at every woman, in fact, who crossed his path. “You look good,” he said.
Paulette flushed. “You too.” Then corrected herself: “You’re looking well.” In fact he looked exhausted, his skin drooping around the eyes, as though he’d been sleeping poorly. Or maybe he—like herself, like everybody—had simply aged.
“Where is everybody?” he barked. (Was he hard of hearing? Was that the problem?) “No Billy yet?”
“I expect him at any moment,” Paulette said.
There was an awkward silence. Frank looked around the room, at the Christmas tree in the parlor, the crackling fire, the champagne flutes waiting on the sideboard.
“Well, thanks for bringing Gwen,” she said.
“None needed.”
Do you have plans for dinner? she nearly asked, but Frank spoke first.
“I should get back on the road, I guess. I’m meeting someone downtown.”
Of course: he had a woman waiting. Didn’t he always? “All right, then,” she said briskly. She opened the front door. In the distance she heard a crackling noise, tires on gravel. The roads had just been cindered.
“That must be Billy now,” Paulette said.
Frank turned to look. A car was approaching, a silver Mercedes with New York plates. At the entrance to the driveway, it slowed and signaled. Then it accelerated suddenly and roared down the street.
“What the hell is he doing?” said Frank.
“It isn’t Billy,” said Gwen, who’d followed them outside. “It can’t be. Somebody had the wrong house.” At the corner, the red taillights turned and were gone.
THEY SAT at the kitchen table, the wind howling at the windowpanes. Paulette had drained her second glass of champagne. Gwen had barely touched her tea.
Paulette glanced at the clock. She hadn’t seen her daughter in a year; now, after a tense twenty minutes, she had resorted to babbling about the neighbors. Did Gwen remember Phillip Marsh, Warren Marsh’s younger brother? She didn’t? He may have been younger, Scott’s age. He was engaged to be married in the spring. Paulette had re
ad the announcement in the Globe. Listening to herself, watching the expression—or lack of expression—on her daughter’s face, she felt herself sink into despair. Heavens, this is dreadful.
She set down her glass. “I’m sorry to go on and on. There’s no reason you should care about any of this. Tell me about you, darling. Have you—” She was just tipsy enough to say it. “Is there anyone special in your life?”
The change in Gwen was astonishing. Her face flushed. She squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. “Mother, I—” she began haltingly.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get that,” Gwen said, springing from her chair.
Paulette rose, half disappointed, half relieved. Had Gwen been ready to confide in her? Or—and this was far more likely—to storm out of the room in a fit of pique, casting a tense mood over the entire holiday?
She followed Gwen to the front door. “For heaven’s sake, what is that noise?”
The sound tore through the foyer like a very loud lawn mower. Gwen opened the door. Scott stood on the sidewalk in a ratty old sweater, no hat or coat. The van idled loudly in the driveway.
“Good heavens,” said Paulette. “What on earth happened?”
“We’re dragging a something,” Scott said, with a sheepish smile.
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