by Judy Blume
Margo was always yapping about respecting privacy. Well, this showed how much she respected Michelle’s privacy. But Michelle had made it very clear that the Brat was never to go near her room again.
29
B.B. HAD NOT BEEN TO MIAMI in almost seven years, but in the midst of a late February snowstorm she was on her way. The drive from Boulder to Denver had taken more than two hours and the plane had been an hour and a half late taking off from Stapleton.
She did not know why her mother had had to have a stroke in the middle of winter.
Clare had driven her to the airport. At least she was able to get an aisle seat on the plane. Dinner was served an hour after takeoff. Chicken Kiev. The flight attendant smiled sweetly as she served it. The man squeezed into the seat next to B.B., a jowly, heavyset man in a three-piece polyester suit, ate everything on his tray. He sopped up the Kiev juices with his roll, smacking his lips together as he did. Afterwards he picked his teeth with his fingers.
B.B. nibbled on a cracker.
The phone call from Uncle Morris had come at five in the morning. Her mother couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
“Not hungry today?” the flight attendant asked, eyeing B.B.’s untouched dinner tray.
“Not especially,” B.B. said. “But I would like some coffee.”
The flight attendant, who wore too much green eyeshadow, poured the coffee sloppily, spilling some on B.B.’s lap. “Oh, no . . . I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “Here, let me help you.” She tried to wipe up the coffee that was seeping into B.B.’s beige pants, burning her thighs. “If you’d stand up,” she said, “I think it would be easier.”
“Here . . .” the man next to B.B. said, passing his napkin.
“Club soda,” the woman in the window seat said. “It works every time.”
“If you’d just stand up . . .” the flight attendant said again, sounding annoyed, as if this had been B.B.’s fault instead of hers.
“I don’t want to stand up,” B.B. said.
“Well, I can’t help you unless you do.”
“Club soda,” the woman in the window seat repeated. “Believe me, I know.”
B.B. was trying very hard to hang on, to keep from crying out or screaming.
Her mother had gotten up to use the toilet at one a.m. and had passed out on the bathroom floor. Uncle Morris had been awakened by the thud. Thank God the bathroom floor was carpeted, he’d said on the phone.
The man next to B.B. leaned over and said, “You pay three, four hundred bucks and this is what you get. That’s why they’re all going out of business . . . know what I mean?”
B.B. nodded.
She had begged Andrew to stay at her house with Sara and not to take her to Margo’s.
Now two flight attendants approached her, the one who had spilled the coffee and another. “When you reach your final destination and have your trousers cleaned, please send the bill to the airline,” the older one told her.
“Yes . . . all right,” B.B. said.
She had phoned Andrew at six that morning. Margo had answered the phone sounding sleepy. “Honey . . . it’s for you,” she had heard her say. “It’s B.B.”
Tears came to B.B.’s eyes and spilled over, running down her cheeks.
“Please accept our apologies,” the senior flight attendant was saying.
“Yes, all right . . .” B.B. answered. “Just leave me alone, please.”
“Of course.” One looked at the other, then both flight attendants walked down the aisle, away from her.
“My mother is just sixty-one,” B.B. said quietly.
“Mine’s eighty-four,” the man next to her said, as if she’d been talking to him, “and senile . . . don’t know a thing . . . don’t recognize us . . . it’s no good . . . who wants to live that long? When my turn comes I hope it’s quick.”
She did not answer him. She closed her eyes and kept them closed until they landed in Miami.
At the airport B.B. rented a car, a Dodge Dart, green, smelling of newness. She had not been to Miami since the accident. Bobby had been ten. He’d be seventeen now, tall and handsome, with a deep voice. Almost a man. Her mother should have died instead of having a stroke. Death was clear. The ones who were left knew what to do. Arrange for the funeral. Go through the motions of mourning. The other feelings, the ones that lived deep inside, the gnawing empty feelings of loss, of unbearable sadness, you kept to yourself.
B.B. HAD BEEN PACKED AND READY TO GO by the time Sara was up that morning. They’d had a quick breakfast together and B.B. had told Sara what had happened.
“Is Grandma Goldy going to die?” Sara had asked.
“I don’t know. She’s very sick.”
“What’s it like to have a stroke?”
“I don’t know that either. I imagine it’s like being inside a tunnel but you can’t get out, no matter how hard you try.”
Sara began to cry.
“Don’t, Sweetie . . . it will be all right . . . come on now . . .”
Sara had come to her then, had let her hug her for the first time in a long time. “I don’t want her to die.”
“Neither do I, but it’s not up to us to decide. You better get ready for school now.”
Sara had looked out the window. “Do you think school will be open with all this snow?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you put on your radio and find out.”
“If it’s closed I’ll go over to Jennifer’s . . . okay?”
“Okay.”
“How long will you be gone, Mom?”
“I’m not sure . . . probably four or five days.”
“And Daddy’s coming here to stay with me?”
“Yes.”
“Will you send Grandma Goldy my love?”
“Yes.”
B.B. DROVE DIRECTLY TO THE HOSPITAL. Uncle Morris was slumped in a chair outside the intensive care unit. He looked exhausted. He was seventy-eight, an old man, seventeen years older than her mother. She had a vision of Lewis at seventy-eight—seventeen years older than her. This is how he would look. Uncle Morris should have been the one to have had the stroke, not her mother. Then his children, her cousins, could have come running, eager to get their hands on his money at last. All but her mother’s share, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars or half the estate, whichever amount was greater at the time of his death. Her cousins had hated the prenuptial agreement, had believed that their father’s entire estate belonged to them.
“Francie . . .” Uncle Morris stood up when he saw her and they embraced.
“How is she?” B.B. asked.
“No change . . . still nothing . . . we don’t know what’s going to be. I only wish it had been me instead. She’s still so young.”
“Can I see her?”
Uncle Morris checked his watch. “Every hour, for ten minutes. That’s the rule. But it’s been more than an hour so go ahead.”
B.B. entered the intensive care unit, whispered her mother’s name to the nurse in charge, and was escorted to her mother’s bedside.
“Hello, Mother . . . I’m here . . .”
Her mother did not respond. Her eyes were closed, as if she were asleep. B.B. stayed for a few minutes, then went back outside. She told Uncle Morris that he should go home, should get some rest, that she would stay and if there was any change she would call him.
“You’re sure, Francine . . . you’re not tired yourself, after your trip?”
“No, I’m fine. I want to stay here.”
“All right then. I’ll go have a nap, take a shower, maybe heat up some soup.”
“Yes.”
Uncle Morris kissed her cheek and walked slowly down the hallway. His bald head was tanned. B
.B. had always liked the way bald men tanned on their heads.
In an hour she went back inside to see her mother. Her mother seemed so small, and although her skin was suntanned, a grayish color had seeped through. Her bleached hair, stiff with spray, stuck out like porcupine quills. B.B. took her hairbrush from her purse and gently brushed it back, away from her mother’s face.
Her mother opened her eyes and looked at her.
“Mother . . . it’s me . . . Francine . . .”
Her mother made a small noise, like a cat mewing, then her eyes closed again. Had she recognized her? B.B. couldn’t be sure. She sat at her mother’s side holding her hand until a nurse asked her to leave. It was eleven o’clock.
She walked down the hall to a pay phone and dialed her home phone number. It would be just nine o’clock there. The phone rang twice and then her answering machine clicked on with Andrew’s voice saying, You have reached 555-4240. If this is an emergency please phone 555-6263. Otherwise, please leave a message and someone will get back to you. Thank you.
Damn him! She hung up and dialed the other number, Margo’s number. Michelle picked up on the third ring.
“Hello . . .”
“Is Sara there?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Her mother.”
“Just a minute . . .” B.B. heard Michelle calling, “Hey, Sara . . . it’s for you . . . it’s your mother.”
“Hello, Mom . . .” Sara said, coming on the line. “Where are you? How’s Grandma?”
“I’m at the hospital. She’s asleep. What are you doing at Margo’s?”
“Oh, it was really snowing and Daddy decided it would be better for all of us to be together since he’s the only one with a four-wheel drive, in case of an emergency . . . you know . . .”
“Where’s Lucy?”
“Lucy’s here, with me.”
“Don’t let her drink out of their toilets.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so. Where are you going to sleep?”
“I’m not sure. Upstairs on the sofabed, I think.”
“Watch out for those children, Sara. They’re drug addicts.”
“Not really, Mom.”
“Listen to me, Sara. I know. Don’t take anything they give you. Promise me that . . . promise me that you won’t take anything.”
“Okay . . . I promise.”
“Let me talk to your father now.”
“Hang on . . . I’ll get him.”
Andrew came on the line a minute later. “Hello, Francine . . . how’s your mother?”
“Why did you take Sara there? I asked you not to, didn’t I?”
“Because of the storm, but that’s not important . . . how’s your mother doing?”
“I’ll decide what’s important!”
“Look, don’t worry, everything is fine here. Lewis is trying to reach you. He asked me to have you call him as soon as you can.”
“I want to talk to Sara again.”
“Yeah, Mom?” Sara sounded annoyed this time.
“Sara, I want you to make your father take you home tomorrow. It’s not safe for you there. Do you understand?”
“Okay, Mom. I’ll try.”
“I love you, Sara.”
“And me you.”
“For how long?”
“You know . . .”
“For always and forever?” B.B. asked.
“Yes.”
“Then say it, Sara.”
“I can’t right now.”
“Why not?”
“You know.”
“Because they’re listening?”
“Something like that.”
“Are you embarrassed to have them know you love me?”
“No, Mom.”
“Then say it.”
“For always and forever,” Sara said, softly.
“For always and forever what?”
Sara didn’t respond.
“For always and forever what?” B.B. said again.
“I love you for always and forever,” Sara said quickly.
B.B. began to cry. “The flight attendant spilled hot coffee on my lap. My pants are all stained.”
“I guess you’ll have to wash them,” Sara said.
“Yes,” B.B. said, hanging up the phone. She had lost Sara too. She could feel it. Sara would be happier if she never came back.
B.B. AWOKE AT DAWN with a cramp in her foot and a kink in her neck. She had fallen asleep in the chair in the hallway outside the intensive care unit. It had been hours since she had seen her mother. But surely if there had been any change they’d have called her.
She went inside. Her mother was still asleep, or whatever it was that looked like sleep. B.B. sat beside her, looking down at her, feeling an intense anger building up. “Damn it, Mother! I was such a good girl. I always tried so hard to please you. I never did anything wrong, did I? Never got into trouble like other kids. Never let the boys touch me. I did everything right and now look! Look at what a mess I’m in. How come? I mean what’s the point in being a good girl if this is what you get for it? My son is dead. My daughter doesn’t care about me anymore. My husband’s living with another woman, right under my nose. My whole life is such a disappointment. Why didn’t you tell me what to expect? Why did you lie to me, saying I had everything? I expected to be happy and now I can’t remember what being happy feels like. I haven’t felt happy since Daddy died.”
She turned the gold bracelet she was wearing around and around on her wrist. “Did he really die in that girl’s bed, Mother, or was that just some story you invented because you were playing around with Uncle Morris? I remember that time I walked in on the two of you and your blouse was unbuttoned, but you just laughed and said that Uncle Morris was tickling you. I believed you, Mother . . . I believed you because Uncle Morris liked to tickle me too. Did you know that? Did you know that he felt me up on my wedding day? That he said he’d like to shtup me himself . . .
“You told me when things get unpleasant I should just put them out of my mind and then I wouldn’t feel unhappy or angry. Why did you tell me that?” She grabbed her mother by the shoulders, “Why are you just lying there like that? Why won’t you answer me? Why am I being punished this way?” She shook her mother and shouted, “Why did you have to go and have a stroke? Haven’t I had enough . . . haven’t I?”
“Now, now . . .” a nurse said, restraining her. She led B.B. out of the intensive care unit. “We must pull ourselves together, dear. At a time like this it’s important to . . .”
“Fuck off!” B.B. yelled, wriggling free.
“We’re going to have to be quiet,” the nurse said, “or we’re going to have to leave.”
“Don’t talk to me as if I’m a three-year-old.” B.B. turned and ran down the corridor to the emergency exit, then through the parking lot until she came to her rental car. She had to think, had to clear her head. She drove off, as the sky turned from black to gray. She drove for ten minutes, for twenty, for forty, until she came to the cemetery. She parked the car, leaving the door on the driver’s side open, and ran past row after row of grave sites. Turn right . . . turn left . . . across the hill, beyond the trees . . . until she came to a small grave, covered with ivy. In the early morning light she looked down at the simple gray headstone with block letters carved into it.
ROBERT ALLAN BRODER
1964–1974
BELOVED SON OF ANDREW AND FRANCINE
BELOVED BROTHER OF SARA
REST IN PEACE
She lay down on the ivy and wept.
SHE DID NOT KNOW how much time had passed when a caretaker, young and black, kneeled beside her, tapping her shoulder.
“You all right, lady?”
“Yes,” she said, standing up.
“You all wet.”
“Yes,” she said, surprised. She had not been aware of the rain until then.
“You gonna catch cold, you not careful.”
She walked away, her feet squishing in the soft ground. She walked back to the rental car. The seat was wet. She turned on the ignition, but she did not know how to turn on the windshield wipers. It didn’t matter. She drove away. She drove across the Causeway. Just a flick of the wheel, she thought, just a flick would send the car jumping off the bridge, into the black water below.
part three
30
MARGO HAD pale, putty-colored paint in her hair. When school had been cancelled that morning because of the heavy snowfall, she had decided to stay at home and finish up the trim in the new room. It was a beautiful room, light and spacious, with two skylights, a window wall facing south, rough wood walls, and brick floors. Even she was surprised that they had been able to turn the garage into this handsome space in just four weeks. They had done the work themselves, with some help from a carpenter who owed Margo a favor. Andrew had worked full time, Margo had worked weekends and evenings, and Stuart and two of his friends, after lengthy negotiations over hourly wages, had worked after school each day. Even Michelle had participated, helping to set the brick floor in sand, and then applying eight coats of glossy sealer to it.
It had become clear to Margo when Sara stayed overnight for the first time, in January, that they did not have enough space in the house for a visiting third child. She had been thinking of converting the garage for a long time anyway, at first as a studio for herself, then, after Andrew moved in, as a hideaway for the two of them. But after Michelle’s indignation over Sara having spent the night in her room, without her permission, Margo knew that what they needed most was a room that could serve as a kid’s bedroom now and someday double as a workspace for her and Andrew.
