by Mary Campisi
The front porch boasted free-flowing ferns and mounds of potted impatiens and begonias. The lawn was green and well-manicured with two holly bushes on either side of the steps, adjacent to several sculpted evergreens, small and compact. There was a crab-apple tree on the corner of the house and four azalea bushes scattered about. Neat, trimmed, welcoming. She’d give the doctor an A+ for curbside appeal.
But...she followed the stone path to a white gate that separated front and back...everyone was expected to have a nice front yard. Keep up appearances for appearances’ sake. Isn’t that what they said? Now, a tastefully done backyard, that would tell a whole different story. Jenny lifted the metal latch and entered Elliot Drake’s private world.
Color assaulted her; bold, beautiful displays of depth and warmth. The heady, seductive scent of rose, honeysuckle, and lavender enveloped her. Red, yellow, pink, gold, purple, blue, white, and all of the shades in between scattered in clumps and clusters around the lawn, some tall and heaven-stretched, others low and creeping. Shasta daisies opened yellow faces to the sun in brilliant contrast to their neighbors, black-eyed Susans, who presented soulful, dark visages amid orange-yellow petals.
Jenny made her way to the edge of the garden. It had been edged with smooth round rocks, piled on top of one another. She touched the tip of a hydrangea bush, its leaves lush and green, its flowers boasting the palest pink. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
Heaven. That’s where she was right now, and where she could stay for a long time. Elliot Drake had created this beautiful sanctuary. She pictured his tanned hands shoveling the dirt into mounds, sowing seeds, easing new flowers from their plastic pots. What kind of man would create such a place? A safe haven that welcomed and nurtured, sustained and healed? What kind of man...
“Who are you?” Jenny opened her eyes and whirled around to find a young girl staring at her. “Who are you?” the girl repeated, her voice rising with self-assurance and a tone that implied she had a right to be here, while Jenny did not.
Jenny offered a smile and stepped toward the girl, extending her hand. “Hi. I’m Jenny.”
The girl looked at her outstretched hand, her big brown eyes narrowing over it like “‘Inspector 12” on an assembly line, trying to find a problem. Or an ulterior motive. Jenny must have checked out okay because the girl inched her small hand out, brushed it against Jenny’s. Contact lasted two seconds. “What are you doing here?”
Jenny dropped her hand to her side and stared at the adult-child. This must be Sydney. Laura had said she was about seven or eight, but she seemed older. Her skin was pale, almost transparent, as though she spent much of her time indoors, away from the sun. She wore her golden hair in two long braids, tied with a blue ribbon at the end that matched the same blue in the striped shorts and tank top hanging on her thin frame.
But it was the child’s eyes that pulled Jenny in. They were Elliot Drake’s eyes.
“Are you Sydney?”
“How do you know my name?” The girl’s eyes filled with suspicion.
“Eleanor—I mean, Mrs. Flatt, told me Dr. Drake had a daughter named Sydney.” Jenny let out a little laugh. “And unless you’re a wood nymph who lives out here with the flowers, I’d guess you were Sydney.”
The girl pinched her lips and frowned. “I’m Sydney,” she said. “And this is my house.”
Jenny nodded. “It’s a very nice house.”
“And this is my garden,” she continued. “My dad made it just for me.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“And you’re trespassing.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said,” she repeated, “you’re trespassing.”
Jenny hadn’t even known kids knew what trespassing meant, let alone how to use it in a proper sentence. But this child had it pegged down just right, except Jenny wasn’t technically trespassing since Eleanor Flatt had invited her to explore the backyard.
“Actually, I’m not trespassing.” Did this child use the same bold manner with every adult, including her father? “Mrs. Flatt invited me to take a look at the backyard. She said it was beautiful, and she was right.”
“Aunt Eleanor told you to come back here?”
Jenny nodded. “She’s your aunt?”
Sydney relaxed a little, her shoulders slumping forward. “No, not really. But she’s like an aunt.”
“I see.” Did Sydney have a grandmother, or cousins? She already knew she had a mother. Somewhere.
The child moved to a wooden swing wrapped with purple clematis and sat, bringing her legs up to her chin. “So, what are you doing here? Did you come to see my dad?”
“Kind of. Actually, I brought my nieces here to talk to him.”
“How come?”
She was starting to act more like a curious child and less like the Grand Inquisitor with a ten-dollar-a-word vocabulary. Her features softened; the tightness around her mouth and eyes smoothing out, the tiny row of wrinkles on her forehead disappearing.
Jenny moved toward the swing. “Mind if I sit?” When Sydney nodded, Jenny slid onto the swing. “They lost their father in a car accident and they’re very sad right now.”
“Oh. Do they have a mom?” Sydney didn’t look at her when she asked this but continued to hug her knees under her chin, her voice small and thin.
“Yes, they do. But she was hurt in the accident and was very sick for a while. She’s still in the hospital.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
“The doctor said she will, but it was very scary for a while.”
“Did you cry?”
Such a simple question, layered with a thousand other questions, all heaped onto one another, seeping into every aspect of Jenny’s life. “Oh, yes, I cried,” she said. “A lot. My sister is one of the most important people in my life. She’s always been there for me.” She ran a hand through her hair and thought of Grace’s shaved head. “She’s my older sister, we’re three years apart. I don’t know what I would do without her.”
“I don’t have any sisters. It’s just me and my dad.” Sydney paused a minute and added, “And Ruby Red.”
“Ruby Red?” Jenny pictured pink grapefruit and sunshine.
An almost-smile touched Sydney’s lips as she turned her head to meet Jenny’s gaze. “My dog.”
“Can I see him?” She hadn’t missed the thread of excitement running through the girl’s words when she spoke of her dog.
Sydney eyed her up and down, as though she were making a monumental decision that would impact not only herself, but something much larger.
“I guess it would be okay,” she finally said, shrugging her shoulders.
“Great.”
“Wait a minute.” She hopped off the swing and ran toward the back door like a child on a mission.
Something big and dark and painful was going on inside the child’s head. Something that turned her voice sharp, her words cruel, and her face pinched. Didn’t her father see it? And if he did, couldn’t he do something to stop it? Who was Sydney Drake? Was she really the quick-tongued tyrant who’d tried to bully Jenny away with words and accusations? Or was there someone else behind those brash words, that defiant scowl, someone who was afraid, hurting, alone? Maybe a little of each?
Jenny heard the dog before she saw him. Her eyes were closed, face tilted to the sun, soaking in the warm afternoon rays, when a heaving, panting sound closed in on her. She opened her eyes as a big black ball of fur leapt onto her lap and licked her face.
“Down, boy. Down!” Jenny said, trying to push the dog away. He was huge. And strong. “Sydney! Help!”
“Down, Ruby!”
One order from her small mouth and the dog jumped off and settled all fours on the grass at her feet.
“This,” Jenny said, wiping dog slobber from her cheek, “must be Ruby Red.”
Sydney sat on the ground and threw her arms around the dog’s neck. “This is Ruby.”
“He’s a monster.”
“
He’s a Labrador retriever,” she corrected. “And he’s a she.”
“Oh.” Jenny hazarded a quick glance toward the dog’s underside. Ruby Red was sprawled partway on his/her side and yes, she was indeed a girl.
“She’s only two years old,” Sydney said, patting the dog’s head. “See this bump, right here on top of her head?” She pointed to a slight protrusion on the top of the dog’s head. “It’s called a smart bump and that means she’s really smart.”
“Do you have any smart bumps on your head?” Jenny asked, grinning.
That question made Sydney’s lips twitch. “People don’t have smart bumps. Only dogs.”
“I see,” Jenny said, determined to pull a smile from the child’s lips. She ran a hand along the dog’s back. “How did Ruby Red get her name?”
“She tried to steal my juice the first day we got her,” Sydney replied matter-of-factly.
Jenny laughed. “Let me guess. It was Ruby Red grapefruit juice.”
“Uh-huh.”
They sat in silence petting the big animal, Jenny covering the dog’s back and hindquarters, Sydney, her neck and head. “Do you have any kids?”
Jenny bit the inside of her cheek and wished she had a double wad of gum right now. “Nope.”
“Why?”
The child watched Jenny with those too-wise brown eyes, waiting for an answer.
Before Jenny could think of a response a child would understand, Sydney’s gaze narrowed. “Don’t you like kids?”
“I love kids, but there’s a lot more to it than just loving kids.”
Sydney seemed to consider that response, weighing it against whatever preconceived notions she had on the subject. “Do you have a husband?”
Jenny cleared her throat. Twice. “No.” She buried her fingers in Ruby’s hair. “I don’t have a husband.”
“Why not?”
What to say to that? Because the only time I ever let myself care about a man, I mean really care, he dumped me two weeks after I met his parents, told me I wasn’t “corporate” enough to fit into his plans? Or, Because every man I’ve ever met wants to reshape who I am so I won’t even recognize myself? Or maybe, Because all any man really wants is a mother? And last, but certainly not least, Because marriage equals commitment and I don’t get that whole equation?
She couldn’t tell her any of those reasons, so she settled with, “Because I just never wanted to.”
“Never wanted to what, Aunt Jenny?” Natalie called from behind. Jenny swung around to see Natalie, Danielle, and Elliot heading through the gate. Elliot’s gaze shot from Jenny to his daughter and back. He raised a dark brow but said nothing. “Never wanted to what, Aunt Jenny?” Natalie repeated.
“Nothing,” Jenny mumbled, rubbing the back of her neck. She was roasting all of a sudden, cooking like a steak under a broiler.
“Never wanted to get married,” Sydney said, sliding Jenny a look from the corner of her eye.
If the world had opened up that instant and sucked her under, Jenny would have considered it a blessing. Heat scorched her face and it had nothing to do with the weather conditions. “That’s not exactly what I meant,” Jenny said in an attempt to salvage a scrap of dignity.
“Daddy used to say some man needed to cut your tail,” Natalie said, leaning over and petting Ruby.
“That is not what he said.” Danielle shot her a look of disgust. And then, as though she were reciting a nursery rhyme, she corrected her sister. “He said, some man needed to clip her wings.”
11
“When the hell are you coming back here where you belong, Romano?”
“Hi, Joe. Nice to hear from you.” Jenny looked out the kitchen window; Danielle and Natalie were climbing the monkey bars. If only she could be a kid again, Joe Feltzer wouldn’t be on the other end of the line.
“We need you here, Romano. The Italy project is less than two weeks away.”
“Well, I was thinking I’d just leave from here.”
“Damn it, Jenny, I don’t like it. What about the rest of your equipment? Who’s gonna take care of that?”
“Gino said he’d tag it all for me.”
“Yeah, well, Gino’s got his ass in a sling, right now. Car accident three days ago, broke his leg.”
“Oh, no.”
“I’m dying here, kid. I can’t stop the magazine until you decide to come back. And what happens if you change your mind and bail on photographing the pope? Then I got nobody but second-rate.” His voice boomed through the line. “What the hell am I going to do then?”
“I’m going to Italy, Joe. I’ve still got two and a half weeks.”
“You’ve been there almost four already and I hear from you what, three times?”
“I’m sorry, Joe. Things have been pretty rough here.”
“How’s your sister?” His voice smoothed out, calmed down.
“She’s coming along. The doctor thinks she can come home in a few days.”
“That’s tough, kid.”
That was Joe’s way of expressing his condolences. “Yeah.”
“Okay, well, you call me, you hear? None of these three phone calls in four weeks. That’s bullshit. I want you to check in a couple times a week, let me know what’s going on. You got that?”
“Thanks, Joe.”
“Take care, kid. Give your sister my regards.”
That was the end of the phone call but it had been the beginning of a sleepless night. She needed this assignment; it would boost her career, mark a turning point for her. But Grace hadn’t even made it home yet…and the girls were just starting therapy…and Jenny still hadn’t mastered Laura’s chicken and broccoli casserole…and her mother was counting the days until she could be with Grace and the girls, a surefire disaster…and…
Jenny flopped onto her belly and gulped air. Joe wanted her back as soon as possible. If she couldn’t carry her load, he’d find somebody else. She had two and a half weeks to figure things out…
* * *
“I want to go home.”
Grace sat in the day room of the Sunset Rehabilitation Center, toying with her empty coffee mug. In her baggy navy sweats and white T-shirt, she could almost pass for a visitor instead of a resident. But not quite. Dark circles smudged the area under her eyes, and her face was pale and drawn. But then again, so is mine. She’d slept less than three hours last night as Joe Feltzer’s gruff voice rolled over and over in her brain. We need you here, Romano. The Italy project is less than two weeks away…I’m dying here, kid. I can’t stop the magazine until you decide to come back. And what happens, if you change your mind, and you bail out on photographing the pope? His words were more potent than three cappuccinos at midnight. Second by second, they stole sleep, until dawn pushed through night and it was morning.
Joe’s words weren’t the only cause of her sleepless night. This was the day she would tell Grace that Grant was dead. No sense prolonging the inevitable a moment longer. Jenny took a deep breath, then another. She’d begun practicing her breathing two days ago, right after she got back from the girls’ visit with Elliot, right after Sydney asked her why she wasn’t married and Danielle told Elliot that her father said Jenny needed her wings clipped.
“Jenny,” Grace repeated. “I want to go home.”
You can’t go home. Yet. Not until I tell you about Grant. And then you may not want to go home. “I know.” The damn breathing wasn’t working. She needed a bubble gum fix. Jenny reached for her purse, unzipped a compartment, and rooted around.
“Stop that.”
“Huh?” Jenny glanced up. “What’s wrong?”
“Listen to me. I want to go home. Today.”
Jenny edged a finger along the leather lining, feeling for a small, soft square of strawberry. Nothing. Damn. She cleared her throat, swallowed. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Grace ignored Jenny’s words. “They can’t keep me here against my will,” she said. “I’ve passed every ridiculous test they’ve given me.�
�� She held up both hands, wiggled her fingers. “I can move my fingers.” She lifted her legs, one at a time, bent them at the knee. “See, my legs work, too.”
“It’s not that, Grace.”
“No? What is it then? My speech?” Before Jenny could answer, she plowed forward. “It’s perfect. So is my memory. My mother’s name is Virginia. My father’s name was Joe.” Jenny shook her head, but Grace went on. “I have a scar on top of my head from the time you tried to play gardener and sunk a hoe in my skull.” She threw her a dry half-smile. “I’m sure with my new hair style you’ll be able to see it.”
“Grace—”
“I have two children. Danielle and Natalie.”
“It’s about Grant,” Jenny blurted out.
“Grant?” His name slipped from her lips.
“I should have told you sooner.” Jenny grasped her sister’s hand. “But I didn’t know how.” Her voice cracked. “I just wanted you to get better.” She squeezed her fingers. “I didn’t want anything to interfere with that, Grace. I wouldn’t let anything interfere with that.”
She felt six years old again, coming to her big sister for help and protection. Grace had always taken care of her, made everything right.
“Where is he?” Grace said, her voice flat, emotionless. “Tell me.”
Jenny pushed back tears, determined to get the words out. “He’s dead.”
Grace stiffened. “Dead.” She stared straight ahead for so long Jenny worried her sister hadn’t comprehended what she’d said. “Dead,” she repeated.
“Oh, Grace, I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved him.”
Grace squeezed her eyes shut. “Grant,” she said on a ragged sigh.
“I’m so sorry,” Jenny said again. What did she know about the intricacies of a married relationship? Of any relationship involving a man and woman? She couldn’t possibly pretend to understand it, especially where a cheating husband was involved.
Grace sat in the faded orange chair, back ramrod straight, knuckles white, clutching the yellow and white teddy bear Danielle had given her. Tears slipped from behind her closed lids, steady streams of grief trailing down her pale cheeks and onto her sweatshirt.
