by Beth Duke
She offered me the same crooked yellow smile and a wave of pity washed over me. She was such a sad case, such a loss. And maybe it wasn’t my loss; it was her own. I was just fine. I glanced over at Deanna. Was this what she had planned? Not a reunion, but a reminder of the place I’d made for myself in the world despite my mother’s absence? I didn’t feel angry anymore.
Deanna said, “So, what do you do these days, Jocelyn?”
“Oh, not much. I get my check from the state on accounta my disability. I have a bad back. I worked answering phones at a used car lot for a while, but I couldn’t take sittin’ in a chair all day. ‘Specially without any medicine for it, you know.” She nodded as though we needed to sympathize. I didn’t have it in me. She looked long and hard at Deanna. “When you called me up, you didn’t say, but I’m figurin’ you’re the one who adopted Ronni.”
All I could think was: You didn’t even know. You obviously never tried to find out.
“No,” Deanna said. “I’d be incredibly proud to claim Ronni as mine, but I’m only a friend. I’m visiting from Florida.”
This seemed to capture Jocelyn’s attention. “Where in Florida? I love Panama City. I love any beach anywhere. I’d rather be bakin’ in the sun with the waves lappin’ on the shore than anything.”
“I live in Palmetto,” Deanna answered, “not on the beach. We’re about an hour south of Tampa on the west coast.”
Jocelyn laughed. “Close enough for me. I’ll just have to come visit you, won’t I?”
“They died,” I said suddenly, grinding her travel fantasy to a halt. “My adoptive parents, the Johnsons, whom I loved very much. Both of them passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry, Ronni,” she said. “I truly am.” There was almost as much sincerity in her voice as when she described her love of the beach.
“And before them, I lived with a family who kept me as cheaply as possible for a state check each month. They treated me like something stuck to the bottoms of their shoes. Then I was finally placed in a nice home, but my new mom died after eighteen months...” Deanna placed a hand very lightly on my arm, which I ignored. “Where were you? Did you not wonder if I was crying myself to sleep every night?”
Jocelyn contemplated her ashtray. “Look, I know you’re mad, Ronni...”
“Mad?” I fought the urge to slam my fist on the ratty recliner. “I was devastated. I was a little girl blindly longing for the worst mother in the world. I don’t know what I thought I’d accomplish by coming here, Jocelyn. I should have known you’d have no comfort for me.”
“I am your mother. You don’t call me Jocelyn. And I said I’m sorry. What do you want from me?!”
“Here’s one thing I want from you. I want to know who my father is.”
Jocelyn brushed at some invisible lint on her jeans. “I have no idea. I was a kid when I started using, Ronni. I’m not proud of it. My friends and I...well, we did what we had to do to get money.” She shook her head. “I didn’t take names.”
“You whored yourself out for drugs.” I felt Deanna stiffen next to me.
“I did what I had to do. I was addicted. My body needed heroin or pills or whatever I could get to keep going.” She leaned forward. “But when I got pregnant, I stopped, Ronni. My parents checked me into rehab and I stayed clean. I stayed clean for a long time, and you were born healthy and beautiful. You were the most perfect little baby...”
I swiped at my eye, determined not to cry in front of her. “So what happened?”
“My mama and daddy moved off to Mobile. They’d come to visit every month or two when you were tiny. I was doin’ good and they knew it. They sure loved you, Ronni.”
“And?”
“When they died, I fell apart. I ended up quittin’ my job―I was workin’ in a dry cleaners―and I started drinkin’. Just a little at first. I was goin’ to get another job, but it all got out of control and it was too much for me...”
“I know the rest of the story. I remember the men like Mose who came around. I remember living in a car. I remember waiting for you to come home.” I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “I guess you did the best you could, though it’s pitiful to think that.”
“You could be more understanding, Veronica Jean,” she said quietly. “I tried harder than you think. I loved you. I was always goin’ to make things better for you, and then the damn Nazis from the state came and took you and there was nothing I could do.”
“The damn Nazis saved my life. That’s the part of the story you’re too self-centered to realize.” I took a deep breath. “Do you know what “obliterated” means? It’s a word I discovered when I was about seven. I wrote it down in a little book, and I put a star next to it. It means destroyed completely―and it was how I felt. No one wanted me. And whoever that little girl was who left you at five...well, she’s long gone.”
She glared at me and lit another cigarette.
We sat in arctic silence for what felt like an hour. I think Deanna was holding her breath.
The nicotine seemed to calm Jocelyn and she tried to change the conversation by assuming the hostess role. “I’m sorry I don’t have much food to offer y’all. There’s some chips in the kitchen, though.” She waved and acted like she was about to get up. “My check runs out way before the month is over. You know how it is.” She stared at me meaningfully.
No, I really don’t.
“We’re not hungry, thank you,” I glanced at Deanna, who nodded in agreement. “In fact, we have to be going soon...”
Jocelyn seemed to recall some urgent words. “It’s good to see you, Ronni, and I’m glad we cleared the air between us,” she smiled, either oblivious to all I’d said or the finest undiscovered actress of her generation. “I was wonderin’ if you could maybe spot me a hundred for a week or two. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get my check.”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m sure you’ll get by. I couldn’t resist a pointed glance at the muted TV, now featuring a soap opera I recognized from Fairfield. I stood up and held out my hand to Deanna, who was clearly flustered. “We have to go now,” I announced.
“Jesus, Ronni, not so soon!” Jocelyn trilled. She paused for a beat. “Ronni, wait. I was kiddin’ about the money. Y’all just got here.”
“Jeez Louise,” I smirked. “Yes, and now we have to leave. I’m glad you’re doing all right, Jocelyn.”
“I am your mama, Ronni. Stop calling me that. And you are welcome to come see me anytime you like.”
“You are no more my mama than a stranger on the street. Bye, now. I won’t be seeing you again.” I pulled Deanna along the path to the car, my heart racing toward a conclusion of how poorly or how well I’d handled our visit. I had no idea. I only knew I had to get away from Jocelyn.
I turned to look at Deanna before starting the car. She smiled Violet’s smile at me and reached out with a hug. “You okay?”
I sat with my eyes closed for a few seconds. “Yes, I’m fine. And you’re right. I’m glad I came to meet with her, because now I can move on without looking back all the time,” I paused, “and I think I can start to forgive her. She’s too pitiful for anything else.”
“You did good, honey,” Deanna patted my arm and fastened her seat belt. “I’m proud of you for saying what you needed to say. I’m sorry you had to hear all she said in return.”
“It was pretty much what I’d expected,” I replied. “And though this was far from my favorite thirty minutes ever, thank you for arranging it. I needed to face her.”
Deanna nodded and put a hand on my cheek. “We passed a Dairy Queen on the way here. I could use some ice cream. Ice cream makes everything better.”
“Did I tell you that Violet scooped ice cream in Florida when she was pregnant with you? She said she ate up more in profits than she sold.”
“I guess that explains that,” Deanna said. “I could happily live on it. Why couldn’t she have consumed salads for nine months?”
Late that night I found my
email from Jennifer Meyer. She thanked me for my submission and offered to reevaluate my manuscript if I augmented it, but it was at least twenty thousand words too short and “not suitable for the current market.” She said I showed promise as a writer and should continue to develop my skills. I was welcome to contact her with any submissions in the future, including, she reiterated, a longer version of Violet’s story.
I tried to concentrate on something else. I was feeling one disappointment away from Audrey Ledbetter-level bitterness.
I thought about how Rick helped me with my struggle to write Violet’s book for nearly a year. How he’d gone to all the trouble to check on my mother’s condition before even thinking of allowing her into my life. The way his arms felt around me, his sandalwood cologne, the sound of his laugh, the spot at the base of his head where his hair was baby soft. I loved the little things he did to show me he cared; the flowers on my windshield and the Starbucks he’d occasionally bring during my shift.
I missed him so much and couldn’t be angry with him any longer. He was trying to do the right thing for his sons. I had to appreciate that, even as I hated Professor Lecherous Noxious-Gasbag the Third for creating the situation. Even as I cursed Victoria for running to Rick.
Surely she’d go back to Tuscaloosa. I looked at my phone for the millionth time, willing a text or missed call from Rick. There was nothing.
I walked over to the closet and took Mrs. Noodle out for the first time in years, the closest thing I had to a teddy bear to sleep with. Deanna was softly snoring in the next room. She’d be leaving soon, and I dreaded saying goodbye.
I was working on a patient’s chart the next day when Kait summoned me to the phone. “It’s someone named Victoria,” she hissed, her hand over the receiver.
I took a deep breath. “Hello?”
“Hello, this is Victoria Pratt. I’m Rick’s former wife.”
“Yes, I know who you are. Has something happened to Rick?” I walked as quickly as possible to the nearest supply closet, closing the door and sinking to the floor.
“No, no, I’m sorry if I frightened you. I called to talk with you for a moment about Rick’s and my relationship, Connie.”
“Ronni.”
“Oh, of course, Ronni. Anyway, my husband and I are working through some difficulties, but I am sure we’ll be reconciling soon and the boys and I will leave the lakehouse. I know Rick has brought you here. It’s a bit small for the three of us.”
I was bewildered. “Well, I hope you, umm, reconcile.”
“I want you to know there’s nothing going on between Rick and me. He’s Joshua and Jeremy’s father, but that’s it.”
“Did Rick ask you to call me?”
“Oh, of course not. He did tell me, though, that you won’t speak to him until my situation is worked out. I truly appreciate that. So, I’m simply trying to help you, um, Ronni.”
“Okay, thank you.” I couldn’t wait to hang up. My hands were shaking so hard I thought I might drop the phone.
“Ronni,” she hesitated, “you seem like a nice person. There are some things I feel you should know. You’re very young and Rick’s a man with a lot of history. He’s prone to making the same mistakes over and over.”
“I don’t think this is a conversation we should be having, Victoria.”
She sighed dramatically. “I’ve been where you have. I know all his moves. He put you on a pedestal, right? There’s no one in the world like you. He’s left sweet notes on your car. Rick O’Shea makes you feel like the center of his universe. He tells you how beautiful you are...”
“Excuse me?”
“Ronni, Rick has a pattern. He pursued me the same way, and he’ll continue to pursue you until the precise moment he starts pursuing someone else.”
“Victoria, I don’t know what you’re talking about, or why you’re telling me this, but...”
“You deserve to know some things, Ronni. Has he mentioned his first wife?”
“You’re his ex-wife.” I was shaking my head at a row of dis-infectant supplies on a shelf.
“His first wife. Her name is Becca. He left her for me. I’m not surprised he didn’t mention it. I’m eight years younger than Rick and I was pretty naïve when I met him. Do you understand what I’m saying, Ronni?”
I wasn’t about to admit it. “No, Victoria, I really have to go ...”
“Carrie Douglas,” she interrupted. “You should ask Rick about Carrie Douglas, too. When and if you decide to speak with him, make him tell you about his past.” She hung up and I stood with my mouth hanging open, staring at the phone.
twenty-eight
VIOLET
Violet was in the middle of drying the shower walls when she heard the truck. Tolly considered one droplet of water a breeding ground for mold and the first step on the road to the hellish vision of spotted bathroom tiles.
She walked to the bedroom window and pulled the gold brocade back to see the Superior Electric logo and Chet walking the stone pavers toward her house. Had he completely lost his mind? She grabbed her robe and turned to the mirror instinctively, smearing heavy makeup on even as she knew she wouldn’t answer the door.
He rang the bell three times before resorting to knocking. He was pounding harder each time and Violet wondered if he’d damage the antique wood door. At last he backed up, examining each window for signs of life. She stayed carefully hidden, heart pounding with excitement and fear. Violet swept her eyes down the street; the next house was far away and she knew the Garrisons would likely be out at this hour. Besides, it was perfectly normal to have an electrical service call at one’s home, wasn’t it?
Maybe not one from two counties away.
She watched him climb into the truck and drive off. Out of sheer habit, Violet did her hair and makeup in full. She was a Southern woman empowered by those rituals; the type who wouldn’t walk to the mailbox without making sure she looked her best. Even telephone conversations were easier for her after thirty minutes in front of her vanity. She chose a rose silk dress and paired it with a white cardigan to cover the bruises on her arms, thinking if you’d asked her why she was going to all this effort with no possibility of being seen, she’d have had no reasonable answer.
She made the bed and perched delicately on its edge, wondering if Chet would come back. Just seeing him from her window had plastered a silly grin on her face. She chided herself for acting like a teenager. Violet jumped when the gold princess phone next to her bed rang.
“Hello?”
“Why didn’t you answer the door? I drove all the way from Anniston to see you. Well, honestly, I had to pick up some parts in Bessemer. But still.”
“I was busy and hadn’t even dressed for the day, Chet. You can’t simply drop by here.”
“I know that. First I called the office and asked to speak with Dr. Thompson, so I could be sure he was there and occupied with patients. I’m not crazy.”
That was debatable. Violet had no idea what to say next.
“Well,” Violet said, “Thank you for coming by. I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you.”
“Oh, you’re going to see me. I’m at a pay phone a few miles from your house and I’m stopping by with a little present. Don’t even protest, Vi. Anyone who sees will think I’m on a service call or soliciting for business. I don’t have to come inside, just please open the door.”
She glanced at the mirror to see if her bruises showed. She decided she’d risk it to see him, if only for a minute. She was very curious about his “present.”
“All right.”
“Great,” he answered. “I’ll see you in a minute. Bye.”
She was waiting in the foyer, terrified someone might drive by and determined to dispatch Chet as quickly as possible. She opened the door before he knocked. He beamed at her—Violet couldn’t help but remember the way he looked at her when he was a boy—and handed her a gift wrapped in floral paper. It was obviously a book of some sort.
“Should I open it?�
�
His eyes never left her face. “You truly are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He glanced over her shoulder into the house. “Yes, open it. Do you think I could come in for maybe two minutes?”
Violet shrugged and opened the door wide enough for him to pass, carefully scanning the street for people who might be taking malicious notes.
She pulled the paper off and found a book covered in deep purple fabric. “Violet” was embroidered in fancy gold script at the lower right corner.
“Open it,” Chet said. “Turn to the very back.”
It was a blank journal. At the end he’d handwritten, “You are beautiful.”
“Oh, Chet, this is so lovely. I don’t know what to say. Thank you.” She hugged the book to her chest and fought tears. One or two escaped and traced her cheeks.
“Well, you said you like to write, remember? I figure this would be good to put your first novel in. And I wrote at the back like I did...”
“When you were ten and sneaked “You are pretty” into my notebook,” she finished. “This is so sweet, Chet.” Violet forgot that her tears would destroy her makeup until she saw him staring.
“What happened to you?” he demanded.
“Oh,” she put her hand to her face, “I ran into a door facing. I am such a klutz.” Violet started pushing him toward the door, loving the warmth of his solid chest on her hands even as she hurried to get rid of him. “Thank you, Chet, for the beautiful gift, but you have to go now.”
He grabbed her arm and pulled up a sleeve. His eyes met hers. Violet tried to think of an explanation and her mind went blank.
Chet shook his head and ran his thumb along her jawline without a word.
“Please, Chet, it’s not what you think. I’m fine.” Violet found herself following him to his truck, fighting to appear calm and cheerful. She had lots of practice.
“If it’s not what I think, what is it?” He opened the door with his back to her and waited for an answer.
“I told you. I ran into...”
“You didn’t run into anything, Violet. Please don’t lie to me.” His hands were clutching the steering wheel like it was all that held him together. “Does he even have a Corvette? Did you make that up, too?”
