by Mary Campisi
Jenny pushed back the boulder in her throat and said, “I want to be here for you.” I’ve just got to figure out how long I can stay here and still keep my job.
Grace sighed and rested her head against the back of the chair, her eyes drifting shut. “I’m so tired. Talk to me, Jenny. Talk to me about when we were kids and our biggest worry was finding an old coffee can to keep our bugs in. Grasshoppers, beetles, worms.” She sighed again. “Remember those days?”
“Of course, I do. We used to go in the woods and make ‘camps.’ Cut those big ferns, the really green ones with the curly ends, and make them into beds.”
“They were so soft,” Grace murmured.
“And we’d bring cups, white and blue plastic ones, and get water from that little creek,” Jenny said. She hadn’t thought about the camp for years, but now it all rushed back to her, in lush, green detail.
“I loved the blackberries.”
“So big and juicy. We’d pretend they were dinner.”
“And we’d lie on our fern beds and look at the sky through the trees.”
Jenny closed her eyes and fell back in time. “We were in our own world. Nobody could touch us.”
“And nothing could hurt us,” Grace said, her voice slipping away, “nothing in the world.”
* * *
“So what’s up with you and this Elliot Drake?” Grace asked the next day with the casual nonchalance that had been sucking secrets from Jenny for years.
“Nothing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Uh-huh, yourself. He’s the kid’s doctor.” Then, just for extra measure, she added, “He’s not even my type.”
“Oh?” Grace had a way of saying that one tiny word as though she already knew the answers and was trying to see if Jenny knew them as well.
“No, he’s not my type,” Jenny repeated, louder. She grabbed at the first thing that flew into her mind. “His hair’s too short.”
“Of course. How wise of you to determine the success of a relationship based on hair length.”
“You know,” Jenny said, “I can find my own men. If I want to, that is.”
“I know.” Grace threw Jenny a sly look and her eyes lit up. Tonight, she seemed almost like the old Grace, teasing, bantering, watching out for her sister.
Jenny grinned and added, “Not that I’ve been extremely successful with any of my choices.”
“You aren’t picking the right kind of men,” Grace said, easing onto the couch. Jenny sat beside her and picked up a nubby, beige pillow. Almost the same color as the one in Elliot Drake’s waiting room. She tossed it aside and rested her arm on the back of the couch.
“I don’t have a specific formula for selecting men,” Jenny said. “I like them to be fun, spontaneous, and extremely romantic.” She tapped her chin with two fingers. “Athletic is always good, too. Devoted doesn’t hurt. Trustworthy. Dependable.”
“Trustworthy? Dependable?” Grace scrunched up her nose. “Sounds like you’re choosing a dog.”
“Oh no, I’d have more specific criteria for a dog. After all, when the man leaves, the dog’s still there.” She laughed at her own joke, but it fell flat between them.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Grace asked, her voice soft and tentative. “You never choose a man you might actually want to stay.”
Jenny opened her mouth to deny the words, but nothing came out. Was that what she’d been doing all these years? Choosing relationships that were doomed to fail with men who were nothing more than short-term parking?
“Jenny?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Grace looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “There’s a loving that’s beyond sexual. It can’t be described or explained, not in the logical, scientific manner most people want. It consumes you whole, yet makes you strong, breathing life and hope into every cell in your body.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s the most wonderful and yet the most awful feeling in the world.”
Jenny squeezed Grace’s hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“That kind of love will tear you up inside,” Grace said, swiping at her cheeks. “Rip you apart and let the birds peck the last shreds of hope from your dead carcass. And then the hope dies, one shining ray at a time, leaving you empty and hollowed out.” Her voice cracked and her shoulders slumped forward.
“It’s okay, Gracie,” Jenny said, drawing her close. “It’s okay.”
Just when Grace seemed to be gaining strength, acting more like her old self, she’d been kicked in the gut and that dead bastard husband of hers was behind it.
* * *
“How do you think it went?” Grace asked, the minute the screen door banged behind Danielle and Natalie. Natalie had given her mother a thirty-second version of their meeting with Dr. Drake, starting with “the lady there makes the best lemonade,” and ending with “he’s got a really neat dog named Ruby Red.” Danielle’s response was more subdued, things like, “Fine. We talked. He was nice.”
“I don’t know,” Jenny said. “They seemed okay when they came out of the appointment.” She sighed. “At least, they ‘talked.’ I think next time will really tell, when Elliot gets them alone.”
Grace rested her hands on the end of the recliner and said, “I’d like to go to the next session and meet him.”
“Good idea.”
She nodded. “I have a lot of questions about the girls, and,” she paused, “how we should handle everything. Should we try to encourage them to talk? Respect their need for privacy?” Her voice dipped. “And what about Danielle and the silent treatment she’s been giving you, as though you’re responsible for everything because you were the one who had to tell them? I don’t know, I just don’t know. I never thought I’d be in this situation.”
Jenny leaned over and squeezed her sister’s hand. “I’m here to help you.”
“I know this is hard on you, too, dealing with me, the kids, Mom. But I appreciate it. I really do.” Grace forced a smile. “I might have to figure out a way to keep you here.”
Jenny laughed. “You’d kick me out in a week.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
Jenny lifted an eyebrow. “Remember me, Jenny Romano, your sister, the one who used to hide socks under our bed?”
“And underwear,” Grace added, smiling. “Please don’t tell me you still do that.”
“Hey, some habits die hard,” Jenny said, shrugging. “At least, now I don’t intentionally hide them, they just kind of end up there.”
Grace stared at her as though trying to decide if she were joking or telling the truth. “And what, little sister, do you do when you run out of socks and your underwear drawer is empty?”
“Buy more.”
She sighed. “I don’t know how you and I can be related. I seriously don’t.”
“It’s only a few dirty clothes under the bed.”
“Right,” Grace said. “I think I’ll ask Dr. Drake what it means when a grown woman hoards dirty clothes under her bed. Maybe it’s some kind of aggressive behavior or something.”
“You will not tell Elliot Drake any such thing about my underwear, dirty or otherwise,” Jenny said, pointing a finger.
A tiny smile escaped Grace’s lips. “Maybe Elliot Drake would like to hear about your underwear,” she said.
“Stop.”
“So, tell me, what’s he like?”
Uh-oh, Grace was up to something. Jenny picked at a hangnail and avoided her sister’s gaze. “He’s nice.”
“What’s he look like?”
So they were playing twenty questions. Grace’s favorite game. Only eighteen more to go. “He’s okay.”
“Okay? That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be sick or something?” Jenny shot her a disgusted look. “You’re like a damn dog with a bone. You should be relaxing, not interrogating me.”
“Talking like this makes me forget about everything.” Her voice trailed off. “It makes me laugh again.”
“And I’m the butt of the joke,” Jenny said. “As usual.”
“Not, as usual,” she said, looking surprised by the comment. “It’s just that you’re not,” she paused, searching for the right word.
“Normal?”
Grace shook her head. “No. You’re not...usual. That’s it. You’re different. Unique.”
“Weird?”
“Yes, but in a wacky, lovable sort of way.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Jenny pulled her legs underneath herself, sat cross-legged.
“Is he good-looking?”
“Did I mention Joe’s got a spot at the office for an investigative reporter? I think you’re a natural.”
“And I think you’re avoiding the question,” she said, raising an eyebrow to give Jenny that schoolteacher, I-know-you’re-hiding-something look.
“Okay. What was the question?”
Grace sighed. “Is he good-looking?”
Is he good-looking? Not, is he GQ? Is he a hunk? Is he drop-dead gorgeous? Only Grace would phrase the question like that. Jenny smoothed the fringe on the nubby pillow. “I guess you could say he was good-looking in a Clark Kent sort of way.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
The smile Grace threw her meant she’d figured it all out. “Clark Kent, huh? Alias Superman?”
“I only said he was good-looking in a Clark Kent sort of way, not that I thought he was Superman. Geez.”
“So, you won’t be squeezing into any phone booths with him?”
“Grace!”
“What?”
“Can we change the subject? Please?”
“Fine. Sure.”
Something was up; Grace had given up too easily. She must be regrouping, analyzing information, and once she’d had a chance to reassess the situation, Grace would be back, loaded with more questions.
“So, how’s your book?” Jenny asked, eyeing the book in Grace’s lap.
“Depressing. If you want to have a good cry, just read Theodore Dreiser,” she said, her voice fading out.
Jenny scrunched up her nose. “Theodore Dreiser? An American Tragedy? Why are you reading that?”
“It’s a classic,” she said, holding it up for Jenny to see.
“I’m not that ignorant,” Jenny said. “Just because I’m part of the commercial fiction cult doesn’t mean I don’t know about Theodore Dreiser. It just means I don’t read him. Why can’t you read something else? Something modern-day?” Grace looked at her as though she’d asked her to drink hemlock. “Okay, then not modern-day. But, why not try something a bit lighter, say Mark Twain, for example?”
“Mark Twain?”
He seemed like a good choice. Humorous. Wise. And, something Grace would approve of, no doubt—required reading in school, or at least it had been when Jenny was in school.
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, fine then, if Mark Twain doesn’t do it for you, then somebody else. But don’t read that depressing stuff right now.” She grabbed the book from Grace’s lap and tucked it under her leg. “You don’t have to be a psychologist to know that reading this kind of stuff when you’ve just been through what you have is going to sink you fast.”
Grace’s shoulders slumped forward and she closed her eyes. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Damn straight I am. I may not be right often, but this time I am.”
Grace’s phone rang, interrupting the rest of the speech. Jenny had been two seconds away from giving Grace a pep talk on the importance of positive thinking and relaxing, with breathing techniques and essential oils like lavender and chamomile.
“Hello?”
Pause.
“Oh, hi, Mom.” She looked over and smiled. Jenny rolled her eyes.
“What?”
“What?”
“Oh, no!”
13
“What?” Jenny whispered. “What’d she say?”
Grace waved her hand, held a finger to her lips. After five more “oh, no’s” and “what did the doctor say?” Jenny concluded that whatever was wrong with their mother was more aggravating than serious. But then again, it didn’t take too much to set off Virginia Romano.
“Okay,” Grace said. “I’ll tell her. All right, Mom. Take care. I love you, too. Bye.”
“What?” Jenny asked the second Grace hung up. “What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s developed some kind of infection and the doctor said he doesn’t want her traveling for at least three more weeks.”
Jenny blew out a long breath. “Is she back in the hospital? On antibiotics?” She might not be able to spend fifteen minutes in the same room with the woman before one of them found an excuse to leave, but Virginia Romano was still her mother. Jenny had even survived the daily phone calls while Grace was in the hospital. Most of the time, she’d given her mother a quick report, answered ten minutes’ worth of questions, listened to another five minutes of lectures, and then handed the phone off to one of the girls, saying they were dying to talk to her. It had taken a supreme act of strength and discipline, but she’d played the dutiful daughter.
“No, she’s not back in the hospital and yes, she’s on antibiotics. She’s got to take them for fourteen days.” She gave Jenny a look and added, “And not very happy about it.”
“I’m sure that’s a gross understatement,” Jenny said, imagining her mother in all of her glorious displeasure.
“Very gross,” Grace repeated. “She said she’s damn tired of that damn doctor telling her what to do and as soon as she finishes that damn medicine, she’s coming here, damn it.”
“Damn straight,” Jenny said, grinning.
“Damn straight,” Grace added, her lips curving into a full-blown smile.
* * *
“Now, inhale, hold, exhale, whoosh, let the air flow through your body, through your fingers…your toes…that’s it, open, open…expand your lungs, and breathe.”
Sydney let out a big whoosh, sucked in another breath of air, exhaled. “What’s this supposed to make you do?”
“Relax,” Jenny said. “It’s supposed to make you relax and not be so angry or upset.” This was the fourth time she’d been in Sydney’s “Secret Garden,” as the child liked to call it. They were sitting yoga-style on a blue and white comforter. “See those purple flowers over there, the ones that are in small clusters? That’s lavender and it’s a natural relaxer.”
“What’s that?” Sydney asked.
“Well, that means it’s made up of things that help a person be calm just by smelling it. They make all kinds of things out of lavender: pillows, perfumes, lotions, candles…”
“Candy?”
“I don’t know about candy.”
“They should make lavender candy,” Sydney said matter-of-factly.
“Oh? Why? Do you think it would taste good? “
Sydney shrugged. “I don’t know but kids could eat it and not get all hyper.”
“Ahhhh.” Jenny smiled. “Good idea.” She took another deep breath, held it.
“Is that the camera you use for your work?” Sydney asked, pointing to the camera on the edge of the comforter.
“Sure is.” Jenny scooped it up, zoomed in and snapped Sydney midway between suspicion and intrigue.
“The one you use to take pictures of famous people?” She stared at Jenny, then scrambled to her favorite perch on top of a big rock surrounded by pink and garnet clusters of carnations. She was Queen of the Flowers and this was her rock, she informed Jenny the first time she tried to sit there. Her dad had picked it out just for her, put it on the edge of the flower garden, and painted her name on the side in pink and yellow.
“Some are famous,” Jenny said, clicking off two more shots.
“Like who?” Sydney crossed her arms over her thin body.
“Well, I’m going to take photographs of the pope in about a week,” she said. “And I’ve done the prime minister of Canada, and the governor of Connecticut.�
� Jenny flipped the angle, stepped closer, and zeroed in on her face. She wasn’t a bad kid, just spoiled and lonely.
“What about bands?”
“Nope.”
“Movie stars?”
“No.”
She scrunched up her nose.
“What?” Jenny asked, setting the camera down.
“You didn’t do anybody good.”
Okay, so maybe politics wasn’t everybody’s bag, especially a kid’s. But the pope? The man millions of people flocked to every year, waited hours to see, just so he could hold up two fingers and bless them? He wasn’t anybody good?
“Didn’t you ever do anybody famous?”
Jenny clamped down on the two-wad ball of strawberry in her mouth. Breathe lavender. “How about an inventor? Or an author?”
“Bor-r-ring.” Sydney’s lips thinned into a straight line. “My father doesn’t like curly hair,” she said, twirling her own pale blonde, very straight hair around her finger.
Jenny ran a hand through her tangled mop and said, “Really?”
“Yep. He likes straight, blonde hair. And brown eyes, not,” she paused, “What color are your eyes?”
“Hazel.”
“That’s the color,” she said. “He doesn’t like hazel eyes.”
“Did he tell you that he didn’t like curly, black hair or hazel eyes?” Jenny asked.
Sydney cleared her throat and mumbled, “No.” Then in a rush she said, “But he didn’t have to.”
“Oh?”
She fixed her gaze on a bunch of pink carnations near her feet. “No. I knew what he meant.”
“When did you discover this, Sydney? Did he say something?”
She shook her blonde head. “Not really.” She hesitated, then said, “Just that he thought you were really nice.”
“And that bothered you?”
“He doesn’t even know you. How can he say you’re nice? You’re not that nice. I think you’re kinda mean…and ugly.”
The silence stretched over the grass, around the flower beds, creeping, creeping, until, finally it circled Sydney and she looked up.
