The Next Best Thing

by Kristan Higgins

Page 17

  Author: Kristan Higgins

  “For Christ’s sake, they have medication for that,” Parker mumbles.

  Glad for the change of subject, I feel my shoulders relax a little. “My mother’s last words to my dad were, and I quote here, Parker…‘Get the hell out of the bathroom, Rob, I have my period and I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. ’” My friend snorts with horrified laughter, and I grin. “So give poor Cory a break. She’s just a screwball, as are we all. ”

  “You’re too nice, Lucy. ” Parker grins.

  “True. More people should be like me. You, for instance. ”

  Nicky, who seems to have more energy than a herd of ferrets, dangles from the jungle gym by one hand. Corinne, finished assuring Chris that the world is a wonderful, wonderful place, hangs up and says, “Parker, shouldn’t you direct his play a little more?”

  “I don’t even know what that means,” Parker answers. “He’s a kid, Corinne! He’s having fun. ”

  Corinne gives her a dubious look. “Well, he’s your son, I suppose. Lucy, I’m going to check Dad’s grave. Want to come?”

  It’s my sister’s habit to invite me on grave-weeding excursions. Someday, she’s convinced, my little phobia will crack and I’ll come along. She may be right, but today is not that day.

  “Oh, no, thanks, Cory. Not today,” I say. “How about if I take my little niece for a stroll while you do your thing over there?”

  She hesitates, nervous about letting me, a know-nothing agent of death, hold her child without supervision. “Please?” I beg. “Pretty please?”

  “Well, okay,” she says, unable to find a way out of it. “Just make sure you keep a blanket over her head so she doesn’t burn. She doesn’t like to get sweaty, though, so make sure she can feel the breeze. Also, support her neck. And make sure she can breathe okay. ”

  “No smothering, Lucy, understand?” Parker quips.

  “Got it. ” I take the little bundle of love from my sister, who gives a reluctant grin.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I know she’s safe with you. ”

  “Thank you,” I answer, breathing in the sweet and salty scent of infant.

  “Nicky looks stuck,” Parker says. “Back in a flash. ” She trots over to her child, who is now upside down at the top of the crow’s nest on the jungle gym.

  “Want me to water Jimmy’s grave?” my sister offers.

  “That would be nice. Thank you. ” I smile up at my sister. She’s a sweetheart, despite her neuroses. And I’m in no position to cast stones.

  Who will water Jimmy’s grave after his parents move? Ethan, I suppose. Or me. It could happen.

  Emma turns her head so her face is tucked against my neck in the sweetest snuggle imaginable. Her slight weight is reassuring against my shoulder, her cheek so soft. I adjust her blanket, making sure she’s protected from the bright sun. She sighs, and my heart swells with love.

  Ellington Park’s lovely wide paths are shaded by elm and maple trees. “Isn’t the shade nice?” I ask as we walk, dropping a kiss on her downy head. “And there’s a bird, a crow. They’re pretty. And very smart. ” Never too early to start teaching. That’s what I’ve read, anyway. Talk to your baby. Read to them. That’s what I’d do if I were a mommy.

  Though I’ve been resisting it, I give in to the temptation, and just for a moment, I pretend that Emma is mine. My daughter. That this miracle of cells grew in me, that it was my tummy that grew round and taut, causing Jimmy and me to just about burst with pride. That I’d grown ripe and glowing, a happy, laughing mother-to-be, never complaining, never swollen, never exhausted. And when the time came, I’d heroically tolerate the pains of childbirth without any drugs. I’d push and push, and when the doctor said, “It’s a girl!” I’d turn to my husband, who’d be smiling down at me, his laughing brown eyes bright with—

  Stop.

  Jimmy’s eyes were not brown.

  Nor was it Jimmy’s face I pictured.

  My legs are suddenly weak with terror, watery and useless. Suddenly my teeth are chattering. Dear God, it’s a panic attack, the likes of which I haven’t had since the first year after Jimmy’s death. I’m going to faint. I’m holding a baby and I’m going to faint. A bench waits nearby, and somehow I wobble toward it and sit heavily. Don’t faint, don’t faint, don’t faint, I chant silently to myself. I take a deep breath and hold it, then release it slowly, as I was taught in grief group after Jimmy died. My heart shudders and flops.

  “I won’t drop you, Emma,” I whisper, and talking to her helps. I’m her auntie. I can’t let anything bad happen. I love her too much. My racing heart slows, my teeth stop chattering.

  “Auntie’s okay,” I say, and my voice is stronger now. “Auntie loves you, angel. ” She makes a small sound, and my eyes fill with tears. I’m okay now. That image meant nothing. The face I pictured…okay, yes, yes, it was Ethan’s face…that didn’t mean anything. My breath jerks in and out, eventually calming.

  I won’t be having children with Ethan, God knows. Let’s be honest. It’s not Ethan’s link to Parker—or Jimmy—that stops me from being with him.

  It’s the knowledge that I could really fall in love with Ethan. That I could love him in a way that would rip me in half if anything happened to him. That losing Ethan as I lost Jimmy could ruin me, and that this time, I might not make it back.

  And whatever I could maybe feel for Ethan, however much he’s done for me—nothing is worth that kind of pain again.

  “Auntie’s fine,” I whisper again, stroking Emma’s head with one hand. “Auntie is just fine. ”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “READY TO GO IN?” I ask as I stand in the parking lot.

  Standing in the parking lot is a time-honored ritual whenever I go anywhere with the Black Widows. There’s an order, you see, a hierarchy of who gets out first and how. First, tradition dictates that the youngest among us drives. That’s me, and I’m grateful, as Iris and Rose’s method is to point the vehicle in the desired direction and step on the gas. Getting out of the way is the responsibility of other drivers, pedestrians, deer, trees and buildings.

  Upon arriving at our destination, tradition dictates that I hop out of the car and stand in attendance as Iris reapplies her Coral Glow, which was discontinued in 1978 but which she had the foresight to stockpile. She doesn’t need a mirror to put on lipstick, a skill they must’ve taught back when Eisenhower was president, since I’ve never seen a woman under the age of sixty pull this off.

  The next tradition, which we’re living right now, is for Rose to gasp in horror, realizing she’s lost her wallet, then rifle through her vast black purse, her lips moving in silent prayer. A moment later, St. Anthony, patron saint of lost things, miraculously restores the wallet, placing it right there next to the rubber-banded envelope containing Rose’s medical insurance card, list of medications, several dozen coupons and her burial instructions.

  After this bit of divine intervention, my mother must retie her scarf. She never goes anywhere without a scarf, winter or summer. Today’s choice is a beautiful little orange and pink number, and despite the fact that we only left the bakery ten minutes ago, tradition must be honored.

  “Does my neck look crepey to you?” Mom asks as I watch, my arms beginning to ache from holding the tray of apricot brioche I baked in class last night. My students, who range in age from seventeen to eighty-four, had raved about them.

  “Not at all,” I answer. “You’re gorgeous, Mom. ”

  “Oh, I am not,” she says fondly. Another tradition—reject compliments. Then her gaze drops down to my faded jeans with the fraying hem, my utterly unremarkable brown wool sweater. “Is that what you’re wearing?” she asks.

  “No. I’m wearing a ball gown, but it’s invisible. ” I twirl around, taking care not to spill the goodies. “Do you like it?”

  “It wouldn’t kill you to dress up a little,” she says, adjusting her own s
kirt, a pretty, silky little number. She’s right, of course—yesterday, I bought yet another cashmere sweater, my seventeenth (but really, this one could not be denied—it was a gorgeous peachy color with a wide neckline and the prettiest buttons). My closet appears in my mind, its doors opening in supplication. Come on, Lucy, the unworn clothes beg. We’re here for you.

  “Are we ready?” Iris asks, then, without waiting for an answer, strides ahead, leading the little parade of Hungarian widows inside.

  High Hopes Convalescent Center is a poorly named nursing home, since most of its residents are dying. One of them is my Great-Aunt Boggy (her name is actually Boglarka, which means “Buttercup” in Hungarian). Visiting is a regular gig for the Black Widows and me…we honor our elders, even those who don’t know we’re around. Such is the case with Great-Aunt Boggy, age one hundred and four, nonverbal since my sophomore year in high school, a person who rouses only to eat, then slips back to the foggy place where she’s been for so long.

  “What’s that?” Iris asks suspiciously, holding the door for me.

  “Apricot brioche,” I say, lifting the cloth napkin that covers my tray. Boggy will eat one or two, and the grateful staff will eat the rest.

  She squints, then pokes one in the side, where the flaky dough shatters obligingly. “How’d you get them so light?”

  “That’s my secret, dear Iris,” I say sweetly. “However, should you let me sell them at Bunny’s, I’d be happy to share. ”

  “Unsalted butter?” she guesses.

  “Well, of course, but that’s hardly the secret,” I answer.

  “Let me try one,” Rose says, breaking off a piece. Her palate is legendary. “You used vinegar in the dough, didn’t you, smart girl?”

  “I absolutely did not,” I lie. Darn that palate.

  “Come on, girls, we’ll be late,” Mom calls from the second set of doors. She’s armed with food, too…pureed chicken paprikas, which is basically chicken, butter, sour cream and paprika. Mom has also brought another Hungarian delicacy—galuska…salted, shredded cabbage fried in salted butter, mixed with salted, buttered noodles, topped with salted butter and then heavily salted. Horrifyingly delicious, nearly fatal in its fat content. It’s amazing that the women in my family live to be so old. You’d think our blood would’ve thickened to a lardlike sludge long ago.

  “Oh, Boggy, don’t you look pretty today!” Rose coos as we arrive in our shriveled relative’s room. Iris agrees in her thunderous voice that Boggy does indeed look well, and the two of them adjust Boggy, who, as usual, stares into the distance, unresisting. Mom zips down the hall to heat up the food. I set my tray of baked goods down and sit on the little sofa in Boggy’s room and listen to Iris and Rose argue over whether it’s good or bad for Boggy’s window to be opened.

  I remember the glamour of Boggy coming to visit when I was a kid. She married a car dealer and was fairly wealthy. Great-Uncle Tony was rumored to be connected, though just about everyone in Rhode Island could claim some cousin or neighbor who was a made man. Boggy and Tony didn’t have kids of their own and spoiled my mother and her older sisters when they were children, taking the girls on trips into Providence or down to the Connecticut shore for brunch, once even taking my mother to Paris for a week, which still causes flares of jealousy in Iris and Rose when mentioned. Long after she was widowed at age forty-eight (Tony was rumored to have been hit by a rival family, but the autopsy only showed that he had drowned), Boggy continued the tradition of never marrying, never dating. She didn’t lose her joie de vivre, however, and continued to dote on the Black Widows and her grand-nieces and-nephews. Once she took me to the Indian casino down Interstate 395, handed me five crisp Ben Franklins and told me to get busy. I was ten at the time.