It All Comes Back to You

by Beth Duke

“Wait,” Violet had said. “What’s her name?”

  “Johnny’s wife? It’s Rose. That’s weird, huh, a flower like you? I have to go fix supper. I’ll call you soon.”

  She rolled over and stared at the ceiling, knowing she’d never get back to sleep without help. Violet reached for the pills Tolly gave her for pain. It didn’t really matter if it was her battered face or her battered heart, did it?

  Violet woke at ten o’clock, her mind blessedly blank. She heard her mother and Corinna talking downstairs, lots of shh-ing and shushing, voices lowered and then raised for her to hear what they deemed appropriate. “Oh, wait until you see her,” Alice exclaimed, “the wreck bruised her a bit, but she’s beautiful as ever.”

  She selected a dainty dress, knowing her mother would love the pink rosebuds embroidered on white cotton. Violet took extra care with her make-up and smiled at the result: it would be hard to see the marks on her face, and the long sleeves covered her arm damage. She swept her hair into a ponytail and hurried to hug Corinna and thank her for the cookies.

  Coffee and fresh-baked biscuits lured her nose to the kitchen, where her mother and Corinna were busy slicing apples for a pie. Corinna dropped her knife and walked to Violet with a huge smile, arms wide open to enclose Violet in warmth and security. She was six years old again whenever Corinna hugged her; she always would be.

  “Law, you too thin to see in the mirror, missy. Sit down and eat a few biscuits, and tell me all that’s goin’ on in your fancy life these days.” Corinna swept her eyes up and down Violet’s body. “Then you can tell me what foolishness caused you to think you need to drive a fast sports car.”

  “Well, you know me, Corinna, I’m gonna do what I want to do.” Violet sat at the table and hurried to steer the conversation as far from the Corvette story as possible. “How are Edward and the boys?”

  “Fine, fine. They all say hello.” Corinna wiped counters as her mother piled apple slices into a big pot, then placed a plate of biscuits and a cup of coffee in front of Violet. A few seconds later Alice and Corinna were seated across from her, firing questions about everything from her experiences as a Junior Leaguer to the cuisine at the country club. Everything except whether her wonderful husband ever beat his wife.

  She would’ve lied, anyway. Somewhere deep inside Violet a voice had grown louder and more insistent over the years: It’s your fault. No man hits a woman who doesn’t deserve it somehow.

  Violet was sprawled across her bed reading a novel late that afternoon when she heard a group of men laughing downstairs. She strained to listen, trying to determine if a Bible study or a poker game was on—either would be typical of Doug Glenn.

  “Violet,” her father yelled. “Someone here wants to see you!”

  She checked her makeup and hair, slipped on some heels and performed her best beauty queen walk down the steps to hug one of Daddy’s old friends...probably Mr. Aderholdt, who’d been a partner in Doug’s firm and one of her favorite “uncles.”

  The group had moved into the kitchen, Daddy leading three uniformed men preparing to examine the faulty wiring Alice complained hourly was dangerous and on the verge of burning the house down. The backs of their shirts read “Superior Electric” in bold blue letters. Two followed her father down into the basement but the tallest stopped and leaned back against the sink, arms crossed.

  Violet studied him from the hall. This man was good-looking, and he knew it. You could tell by the way he stood, a faint smile on his face. His longish dark hair reminded her of that Elvis Presley guy her friends obsessed over.

  He glanced toward her and grinned, revealing a dimple in his left cheek deep enough to dive into and swim. He held his arms wide and Violet walked straight into them, allowed herself to be enclosed, breathing deeply just behind his right ear. She felt something she’d never felt in her adult life.

  Home. She felt home.

  She pulled herself away, which was hard to do. It was as if he were gravity itself.

  “You work for,” she read the patch on his shirt, “Superior Electric?”

  “I own it. We’re about to open a second location in Gasdsen.”

  “I am so proud of you, Chet. That’s wonderful.”

  “Found something I like to do, and people pay me for it.” he said with a shrug. “I’ve been lucky, and I have a great mentor, old Mr. Harris. Bought the business from him when he retired two years ago.” Chet looked at the floor. “He’s like the father I never had.”

  “You have a father, Chet.”

  “I’m sorry. I know that sounds awful. My dad was never there for me, Violet. He was physically present sometimes, but so broken by my mother I don’t think he could stand to look at me. She died last year, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, Chet.”

  “Don’t be. My aunt raised me, and she’s the only mother I need. I’m just glad CeeCee got grown before Betty’s overworked liver finally blew up.”

  “How is CeeCee?”

  “She’s going to college. Can you believe it?” He grinned down at her, the proud brother.

  “No, actually.” Violet tried to imagine a CeeCee beyond the tiny, dirt-smeared urchin she’d known. “What about you, Chet? Is there anyone special in your life?”

  He looked out the kitchen window and nodded. “I’m married. My wife’s maiden name is Harris. I guess you can figure out the rest.” He nudged the floor with the toe of his shoe, embarrassed.

  Violet placed a hand on his arm. “I’m very happy for you.”

  “Well, I’m not real proud of the way it all happened,” Chet continued, “but I have a son who means the world to me. Loretta and I get along pretty well most of the time.” He produced a wallet and showed Violet a studio portrait of a grinning, drooling toddler boy clutching a ball. “That’s Eric. He’ll be two next month.” He flipped to the next photo. “This is Loretta.”

  Violet said, “Oh, she’s lovely,” though she had to work to sound sincere. Loretta was a mouse of a girl with a tiny, clenched mouth and sharp nose. Violet tried to imagine her with a smile and failed.

  Chet said, “And what about you? Are you still hurting from the accident?” He ran his thumb gently across her cheek, and Violet shivered. “You’re bruised pretty bad, Vi. I bet the car was nearly totaled.”

  She nodded. “Yes, there was a lot of damage.”

  “I’ve never seen a Corvette after a wreck. What did the body look like?”

  “Just, you know, crumpled metal. Like any other car.” Why was he focusing on the car?

  Chet smiled gently and stared at her. “You did have a wreck, right? That’s what your dad said.”

  Violet touched her face absently. “Yes, of course. I should’ve known better than to try to drive Tolly’s car.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Chet said. “A beautiful face like yours should never have a bruise. You’ll be fine in a few days, though, and you can forget this make-up.” He swiped at her cheek again, a tiny bit harder, then rubbed his finger and thumb together. “You don’t need it. You never have.” He turned his gaze to the window again and said softly, “I was there, you know. The day you married him.”

  Violet felt a tiny collision in her chest. “How? Why didn’t I see you?”

  “I made my aunt let me take the train home. I wasn’t going to miss it. Spent the entire time against the back wall of the church, then I sneaked away.” He took her hand. “Dr. Thompson is a lucky man.”

  “I can’t believe you were there. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was a kid, Violet. Nobody cared if I was there.” Chet met her eyes and smiled. “Anyway, there’s not much in your life I haven’t heard about. I keep up.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t form the words. Violet swallowed hard. The taste was back, coppery and biting.

  Alice Glenn cleared her throat at the kitchen entrance, arms crossed in front of her patchwork apron. “Hello, Chet,” she said. “Shouldn’t you go on down and help your men in the basement now? Viole
t and I need to start thinking about cooking supper.”

  twenty-three

  RONNI

  Deanna and I spent as many hours together as we could during her time in Alabama. Rick was working multiple shifts and I barely heard from him. I heard a lot from Deanna over late night glasses of wine, though.

  We were curled up on the couch, Halle purring between us. I’d made it into a makeshift bed and invited her to stay the night. Deanna stroked the cat absently and asked, “How did you come to be so close to my mother?”

  I took a deep breath. “I was drawn to Violet for so many reasons. She was beautiful and smart and so alive. When she walked into a room all eyes were on her. She asked me questions about my past, my likes and dislikes, my boyfriends, my hopes and dreams.” I paused to picture the Cool Kids’ Table. “Violet seemed to know I needed her friendship. I think she tried to help build me up. I don’t know.” I set my wine glass down, embarrassed. “I loved her very much, Deanna. She knew I wanted to be a writer. I’ve found out even more about your mother because I’ve spent most of the past year writing a book about her. Before I say another word, you should know she tried very hard to find you. She was told it was impossible to obtain your records, and you’d be better off if she’d give up trying, anyway. An investigator convinced Violet she could cause a lot of hurt by contacting you—that you might not know you were adopted.”

  “I didn’t,” Deanna replied. “It’s still hard for me to believe my parents never told me. If Aunt Anne hadn’t, I’d never have known.” She frowned. “I don’t understand why you’d be writing a book about her. Can I see it?”

  “I’m sorry, Deanna, I can’t show it to anyone yet. I promised. I can fill in a lot of blanks for you, though. Violet had a very full life, and she thought it would make an interesting novel.”

  Deanna looked puzzled. “But, she wasn’t any sort of celebrity, I know that much. So, why?”

  I laughed a little. “She was a celebrity at Fairfield, I promise you. Look, it’s probably never going to be published, but I’ve sent it off and I’m waiting to hear. If it’s not, I’ll show you everything I’ve typed. The truth is, you’ve had to process a lot very quickly.” I patted her hand. “Let’s take this one step at a time. You should hear, rather than read, about your mother.”

  Deanna shook her head yes and then, exasperated, no. “I can’t describe what all this feels like. I mean, at first I was angry. Just really angry. I loved my mom and dad, and would never have suspected they were keeping so huge a secret from me. Anne says Mom could never decide when the time was right to tell me. Can you imagine? I’m practically an old lady, and I woke up one day to find I’m not who I thought I was.” She twirled her wine glass. “And that my mother didn’t want me. I look at my granddaughter, that precious rosebud mouth and those eyes shining with trust and love—the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen—and ask myself how any mother could walk away from that. You have no idea how hard it is to accept and understand.”

  “Actually, I do.”

  She turned to stare. “You were given up for adoption?”

  “I was given up for Jack Daniels, amphetamines, and whatever other pharmaceuticals tapped my mother on the shoulder. Spent a lot of years in the foster care system.” Deanna, fresh from her lesser tale of woe, now considered me pitiful—I could see it in her eyes, and wished I’d kept my secrets to myself.

  “I’m sorry, Ronni,” she said. “Your mother is a sick woman. So is my daughter. That’s why I pretty much raised my grandchildren, Kevin and Charlotte. Their mother, Sarah, was in and out of rehab from the age of sixteen, but she’s been sober for three years now.” Deanna swept the room with her eyes. “My marriage ended in 2008, mostly because my husband couldn’t handle it. He coped by marrying his hairstylist. She’s thirty-two years younger than Jack, and they have a six-year-old.” She laughed softly. “The thing is, Sarah always fought to get her children back, even when she clearly couldn’t take care of them. And I believe the biggest reason she’s stayed sober is her baby, Lacey. She’s the most adorable six-month-old on the planet.”

  “Every situation is different, Deanna. Violet was only a teenager, at a time when unwed mothers were shunned. Her fiance—your father—had moved far away to marry another woman. She couldn’t even contact him.”

  “She carried around a lot of secrets, didn’t she?” Deanna sipped her wine and set it down carefully. “There’s so much I need to know.”

  “I’ll try to help. Your parents,” I saw Deanna’s frown and rephrased, “Your biological parents loved each other. They just couldn’t be together.”

  “Why? If they loved each other like you keep saying, I can’t understand.”

  Why, indeed. I took a long gulp of cheap moscato, closing my eyes. I had a sudden inspiration. “You know what? I am taking you to lunch day after tomorrow, and I’m hoping you’ll get to meet your cousin Mel.” I glanced at my phone and saw it was after midnight. I stood and took our empty glasses to the kitchen, yawning. “I’m going to do a little research on my laptop. But first, I have something I should’ve given you already.” I went into my bedroom and placed Violet’s small stack of photographs atop her senior yearbook. It hurt my heart to think of parting with them, but they belonged with Deanna.

  “Here,” I handed them to her, “I’ll tell you what I know about each one tomorrow.”

  “Oh my gosh,” she said. “This is the most precious gift. Thank you, Ronni. For everything.” She began sorting through the pictures. “She was gorgeous!”

  “Yes, she was. Gorgeous, glamorous and fascinating. Violet was unlike anyone I’ve ever known.” As I turned to go to my room, Deanna looked up and asked, “How are things with you and your mother now?”

  “There are no things. I haven’t seen her since I was a little girl. She’s been in prison, but supposedly she’s out and living in Heflin. I have no desire to have anything to do with her.”

  “Oh, I see,” Deanna said. “I’m so sorry. Goodnight, honey. Sleep well and I’ll see you in the morning.” She returned her attention to the photos.

  “Good night.”

  twenty-four

  VIOLET

  Chet found excuses to stop by the Glenn home almost every afternoon: replacement wiring, electrical outlets that mysteriously failed, estimates for Doug to look over—one day he pleaded truck trouble and asked to use the telephone. None of this was lost on a wary Alice Glenn, but she didn’t know what to do about it. No one could miss the way Violet’s eyes locked on Chet the moment he arrived, or the way they always ended up on the porch swing talking and laughing before he left, sitting too close for propriety.

  “What in the world are y’all talking about?” she’d asked Violet.

  “Everything, Mama. We like the same movies and books. Did you know Chet’s seen ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ three times? He liked the book better, the same as me. He wants to see ‘Cleopatra’ when it comes out. He thinks Vivien Leigh is prettier than Elizabeth Taylor, though.”

  “Everyone in the South thinks Vivien Leigh is prettier than anyone, Violet.” Alice rolled her eyes.

  Yeah, except Chet thinks I’m more beautiful than she ever was, Mama. Imagine that, Violet thought. “That’s the truth. And all the women, including you, still have crushes on Clark Gable.”

  “A woman could do worse.” Alice smiled. “You look good, Violet.”

  “Thank you, Mama. I feel good.” Violet pecked her mother on the cheek and went upstairs.

  Almost too good, Alice thought. Maybe she would telephone Tolly and invite him to supper on Sunday night. Surely he’d take his wife home to her rightful place and Chet Wilson would stop pestering her daughter.

  Violet didn’t care about anything but Chet’s next visit. She’d delayed her escape to Florida, reasoning she could travel from Birmingham as easily as Anniston. She would enjoy the small amount of time they had and return to what she regarded as the Mountain Brook Theater: she’d resume her role as Dr. Thompson’s happ
y wife. She felt she could do it with renewed enthusiasm because she knew she now had the strength to leave Tolly and find her daughter. This time away from him—especially with the attention Chet had lavished on her—built Violet back up.

  As soon as she lulled Tolly into believing she’d settled back into their life, she’d work out her exit. He would be on his best behavior for at least a month or two, affectionate and reliable, carefully scheduling patients and avoiding liquor. Slipping away while he was in surgery would be easy. She would hire an investigator in St. Pete; she would disappear into the crowd of tourists. Even if she only saw her daughter from a distance it would be enough. It had to be.

  Violet wished she could tell Chet what he’d done, how he’d brought her back to life after years of deadening herself to survive with Tolly.

  She remembered the night she’d realized she was starting to fall in love with Chet Wilson. He’d stopped by after supper to drop off paperwork for her dad, and she’d followed him onto the porch to say goodbye. Her mother’s gardenias and white roses glowed in the moonlight as they sat on the steps between them.

  Chet was unusually quiet, staring at the street. She studied his profile, memorizing every line and plane. She was searching for conversation, any conversation, to keep him there for another minute or two. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  He continued to look straight ahead. “You. Always you.” He shook his head slowly. “You’ve been the light in my life for as long as I can remember, Violet.” He picked up a stick and began dragging it along the step in front of him, then threw it into the yard. “Did you think it was lost on me? All you did for me back then? I hope not.” He wiped a single tear from his face and Violet reached for his hand before she could stop herself. “Don’t,” he pulled his hand away. “Don’t feel sorry for the kid you knew. He’s long gone.”

  “I wasn’t feeling sorry for you, Chet. I was only going to tell you how good it is to see the wonderful man you’ve become.” She hesitated. “And that you’ve made my time here at home something I’ll never forget. You’ve made me feel special again.”