What Remains True

by Thomas, Janis

  She closes her hand over mine, then slowly licks her lips. My arousal is swift. I think of Rachel and what she would say about this.

  Greta squeezes my hand and pulls me toward the building. I go willingly.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  RACHEL

  My call goes to voice mail, and I leave a quick message, then plug my phone into the charger. I carry the last of the plates to the sink and lower them into the sudsy water, then retrieve my wineglass and set it on the counter next to me. Ruth walks in, grabs a dish towel, and moves in beside me, at the ready. I feel her eyes on me but don’t meet them. I run the sponge over a plate, scrubbing at the bits of melted cheese and red sauce that adhere to it.

  “Kids okay?” I ask.

  “Watching a cartoon in the big bed,” she says.

  Despite the fact that we have a fifty-inch screen in the living room, the kids prefer stretching out on Sam’s and my bed and watching a show on the twenty-seven-inch TV mounted above the dresser. If Sam isn’t home, like tonight, I’ll allow them two before bed. When he’s home, he’ll give them one show, even watch it with them, then shoo them from the room so he can put on one of his favorites on Netflix.

  “You okay, Rach?” Ruth asks. She takes the plate from me, dries it, and carefully places it in the dish rack. I know her hands are bothering her, but she doesn’t complain, doesn’t moan or whimper, which she usually does.

  “Yes, of course,” I tell her. “What about you? Hands okay? You know you can just leave the dishes in the rack and let them air dry.”

  “My hands are fine. You’ve been pretty quiet tonight.”

  “I was too busy eating your delicious lasagna to talk.” She chuckles. Ruth loves flattery, and I suppose that’s because she doesn’t get very much in her life. I set the plate I’m washing back in the sink, then reach over and give her a soapy squeeze. “Thanks for dinner. And for coming over tonight on such short notice.”

  “I’m glad I’m here,” she says, then glances at the remaining dirty dishes. “What do you say we leave these to soak and go sit and finish our wine?”

  I consider her suggestion. I hate leaving dishes undone. I’ll only have to do them later. But I might enjoy doing them more if I’m a little buzzed. Although the probability of breaking a few plates will increase proportionally to the amount of wine I drink. But, whatever. I nod to Ruth, and she smiles and sets the towel on the counter.

  I grab my wineglass and the bottle of red and trail Ruth into the living room. Her gait is halting, as though her knees aren’t fully cooperating, and my heart goes out to her. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t jog or swim in the ocean or get down on the floor with my kids. I know Ruth feels less than because of it. She shouldn’t, but she does. I want to say something, to ask if she’s okay, but sometimes she reacts to my sympathy as though I’m the one making her feel less than. So I say nothing and slow my pace.

  Shadow’s nails clack on the wood floor as he follows us from the kitchen. He pads to the window, pushes aside the sheer curtain with his nose, and takes several strident sniffs of the air. Finally, he moseys to his bed and curls up in a big charcoal ball.

  The wine is good, a cabernet recommended to me by the guy at Trader Joe’s. I top off Ruth’s glass, then my own, then settle next to her on the couch. I take a sip, then another. Every now and then, we hear giggles coming from the master bedroom, and the sound pleases me. Eden has been a sourpuss all afternoon. I’m not sure why. She isn’t talking. But her moods always carry over onto her little brother, even when he has nothing to do with them. I’m not looking forward to her rapidly approaching adolescence. What the hell am I going to do with her when she’s having her period? God. The idea frightens me.

  Still, her grumpiness didn’t get in the way of her appetite; she ate an enormous helping of Ruth’s lasagna and asked for seconds, then topped it off with a scoop of ice cream. Ah, to have a ten-year-old’s metabolism.

  “Sure you’re okay?” Ruth asks. If it weren’t for the mellowing effect of the wine, I’d be irritated with her. “You seem a little distracted.”

  “I was going to say the same thing about you,” I reply. And it’s true. Since Jonah’s lovely, heartbreaking comment about Ruth’s loneliness, she’s been quieter than usual. Ordinarily, she would correct my children’s table manners, or scold Shadow when he begs for food, or, again, complain about the pain in her hands. She has done none of those things this evening.

  “Just a long day, I guess.”

  “I don’t know how you can have therapy first thing in the morning, sis. I can’t even speak in full sentences before noon.”

  Ruth shifts beside me. She looks uncomfortable. “Yes, well, Dr. Moore is extremely busy. I take what he has available.”

  “It’s helping you, right, Ruth?”

  She stares at me for a moment, as if contemplating. Then she nods slowly. “It is. Maybe you should try it.”

  I force a laugh. “What do I need therapy for?”

  Her gaze is unwavering. “You tell me.” She reaches her hand out and places it on mine. “I’m your sister, Rach. I can tell when something’s up.”

  “Nothing’s up,” I say, a little too quickly, and she arches her brows. “Honestly, Ruth, it’s nothing. Sam’s been a little off lately, and I . . . I’m not sure what it is.”

  “Is he having an affair?”

  I roll my eyes, even though I’m not surprised by Ruth’s instantaneous response. Adultery is her go-to problem when a man is in the equation. I don’t blame her, after what she’s been through with Charlie. I don’t even allow myself to be annoyed by the question.

  “No. It’s not that.”

  “Are you sure?” she presses.

  I laugh, this time with genuine humor. “Well, I don’t suppose we can ever be one hundred percent sure, can we?” A sudden image of Sam’s assistant comes to mind. The lovely Greta, a temptress, certainly, and she adores my husband. But no. No. Sam would never cheat. He might think about it. Haven’t we all thought about cheating at one time or another? But he would never go through with it.

  “As much as I can be sure of anything, I’m sure it’s not that, Ruth.”

  She sighs, clearly not convinced, but she doesn’t argue the point.

  “I’m thinking midlife crisis,” I say. “I just hope he buys himself a damn Ferrari and gets over it.”

  Ruth grins at me. “Can you afford a Ferrari?”

  “If we sell the house.” We both chuckle. I watch her as she takes a sip of wine. “And you? What’s up?” She doesn’t respond. “You said it yourself—we’re sisters. Sisters can tell.”

  She lowers the wine into her lap and thinks for a long moment, then looks into her glass, as if the answer is there. “My neighbor.”

  “Your neighbor.” I have no idea where this is leading. “Your neighbor, what?”

  “He asked me out.” She shakes her head. “No, he asked me in. He has a wonderful bottle of wine he wants to share with me. He’s a very nice man. Widower.”

  Whoever he is, she likes him—that’s clear. I try to wrap my mind around the situation, but I admit, I’m completely blown away. Ruth’s never mentioned a neighbor to me before. Never mentioned any man other than Charlie. I have the urge to spring off the couch and jump up and down with glee. But I can tell by her expression that Ruth is conflicted. I keep my voice even.

  “That’s great, Ruth. When?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “And? What did you say?”

  Her voice is quiet. “I said yes.”

  I tamp down my excitement. “Wonderful.”

  “I’m going to cancel.”

  “Why?”

  “Sunday is Easter. I have to make the pie.”

  I tsk. “Oh, please, Ruth. You can make banana cream pie in your sleep. Make it early. Don’t make it at all. I’ll buy one at the market.” She looks at the floor. “What? What is it?”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

  I gape at her. “
Ruth, it’s been eighteen months. How much longer do think you’ll need to be ready? I’m sorry, but you’re not getting any younger. None of us are.” She winces, and I soften my tone. “You’re a beautiful woman who deserves a little happiness. Or a lot of happiness. But you have to stop closing yourself off from it.”

  “I don’t want to get hurt again.” The confession costs her. Her eyes start to well up.

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “It’s just a bottle of wine, sis. It’s not a marriage proposal. Have a little fun. Drink some wine. Talk. Get naked.”

  Her eyes go wide even as she starts to laugh. “Rachel!”

  I shrug, glad to hear her laugh. “Okay, don’t get naked. But it might be nice for you to get laid sometime before you die.”

  “You’re terrible.”

  “Yes, but I’m also right.” I pull my hand away and pick up my wineglass, take a sip. “Not all men are liars and cheaters, Ruth. Seriously. I mean, look at Sam.”

  She cocks her head to the side as if she still doubts Sam’s innocence. I let it slide.

  “Keep the date?”

  After a slight hesitation, she nods. “Okay. I will. On one condition. I need you to dye my hair.”

  I grin at her and nod. Just like when we were kids, only back then, we dyed our hair only to try crazy colors, not to hide the gray. “Tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll pick up the color at Target. I have to get the ingredients for the pie anyway. Then I’ll swing by?”

  “Perfect. Now, tell me all about him. Your neighbor.”

  “I don’t know that much,” she says.

  “Then tell me what you know.”

  I sit back and listen to her describe her neighbor, feeling a little giddy on her behalf. My sister has a date. I know I shouldn’t get too excited, but I can’t help it. Plus, it gives me something to focus on other than the fact that my cell phone has remained maddeningly silent. Sam hasn’t returned my call.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  RUTH

  When Rachel goes upstairs to tuck the kids into bed, I slip into the kitchen and finish doing the dishes. I know I will pay for my kindness with a thousand daggers of pain tomorrow morning, but I’m feeling a little tipsy. Not from the wine, but from the conversation about Judd. Talking with Rachel about my neighbor has elevated my spirits to heights they haven’t reached in a long time. Too long. And I hardly know the man! But when she and I were on the couch, and I was telling her about Judd’s salt-and-pepper hair and his lean physique and the way his eyes sparkle when he talks to me . . . well, I felt like I was sixteen again.

  Which I am not.

  As I dry the last of the plates, a cloud skirts across my mind. I didn’t tell Rachel about my weekly pilgrimage to the park to spy on my ex-husband’s wife and children. I decided earlier not to share that information with her just yet, but I feel guilty about keeping it from her. At one point, when she asked me what was wrong, I almost spilled the whole thing, but then we got to talking about Judd—I feel my cheeks grow hot at the mere thought of him. There was no organic way to introduce the subject of the park after that. And it was so enjoyable to just be sisters, sitting, talking about a boy. I didn’t want to spoil it.

  “Oh, Ruth. You shouldn’t have. Your hands.” Rachel crosses to me and takes the dish from me, the last dish, as though this final one will be the straw that broke the camel’s back, or the plate that broke her sister’s hands.

  “It’s okay, Rach. I took Advil earlier.”

  “But they’ll be sore tomorrow.”

  “Then I’ll take more.”

  “Thank you. That was really nice.” Since I told her about Judd, she’s been wearing a perpetual grin. Rachel is excited for me. Probably more so than is warranted. I am excited, too, but seeing that grin on her face makes me nervous.

  I dry my hands on the dish towel and glance at my watch. “I should get going. It’s getting late.”

  “The kids want you to say good night before you leave,” she says. “Do you mind?”

  My heart swells. “I’d be delighted.”

  I walk to the stairs and place my hand on the rail, then hoist myself up the first rise, my knees protesting. It gets easier with each step, or I tell myself that. Once at the top, I head down the hall to Eden’s room and knock softly on the open door.

  “Hi, Aunt Ruth.”

  I enter and walk over to the bed, then sit down upon it. My niece, who during the day is so full of bluster and bravado, looks very small and very young lying beneath her pink floral comforter. The soft amber glow of the night-light illuminates her face. I can’t help but see the beauty she will someday become. She looks so much like my sister, but her features are sharper, likely thanks to Sam, and those will render her even more striking than my sister.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Um . . .” She scrunches her nose up. “Well, Mom said she’d send you up so we could say good night and thanks for the lasagna.”

  I deflate. So this wasn’t the kids’ idea, but Rachel’s. Poor lonely Ruth. Let’s make her feel important and needed. I wish I could bring myself to resent my sister’s puppeteering, but I don’t have the energy.

  “It was really good,” Eden says. “The lasagna. It’s always really good, Aunt Ruth. So, thanks.”

  “You are very welcome,” I say, lifted a little by her praise. “My mom, your grandma, taught me to make it. Maybe someday, I can teach you.”

  “That would be totally beast,” she says.

  I make a show of narrowing my eyes at her. “Beast? Is that a good thing?”

  She smiles and nods. “Totally.”

  I lean over and kiss her forehead, then push myself off the bed and head for the door.

  “Aunt Ruth,” Eden calls to me. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. “Did you ever like a boy who didn’t like you back?”

  I take a quick breath, then clear my throat to mask my discomfort. I cross back to the bed and peer down at her.

  “As a matter of fact, I have.” I think of Charlie, and the men and boys who came before him. I think of my college years, when unrequited love was the norm.

  Eden sighs. “It’s kind of a bummer, huh?”

  “Totally,” I say. I sit back down and gently run my fingers through her strawberry-blonde locks. This is a moment I’ll treasure, a private, quiet interlude between my niece and me.

  “But, you know, Eden. Any boy that you like, who doesn’t like you, well, that boy isn’t the brightest watt in the bulb. Not very smart, if you ask me. Because you are amazing.”

  “You have to say that because you’re my aunt.”

  “I don’t have to say any such thing,” I tell her. “I say it because it’s true.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Ruth,” she says.

  “Feel better?” I ask.

  She gives me a half smile. “Not really.”

  I chuckle and tweak her nose. “That’s okay. You will. I promise.”

  I kiss her again, then get up and move to the hallway, then head for Jonah’s room.

  My nephew’s night-light is Thomas the Train and casts a blue hue over his skin, making it look deathly pale, almost translucent. The stuffed monkey is firmly in his grasp, its head tucked into the hollow of his neck. Jonah’s eyes are closed, and his breathing is so deep and steady that I think he’s asleep. But when I bend over to kiss his cheek, his eyes pop open.

  “Hi, Auntie Ruth. We were waiting for you. Marco wanted to say thanks for the lasagna. He told me it was the best lasagna he’s ever had, like, in the entire world.”

  “Well, I’m so glad to hear that.” I sit on his bed, as I did in Eden’s room, and stroke Jonah’s forehead. He looks so much like Sam, barely a trace of Rachel in him. I wonder, as I gaze at his dark curls and dark-brown eyes, what my son would have looked like, if Charlie and I had been blessed with one. Would he have taken all of his father’s attributes? Or would I be able to see some of myself in him?

  Useless questions. Worse than useless. Masochistic.


  “I can’t wait for Marco and me to stay over at your house,” he says, his voice thick with fatigue. I don’t correct him by pointing out that my home is an apartment, not a house. Children are forgiving and easy-going and accepting. Until they’re not. So I’ve heard.

  “I think Marco would like your tuna melts.” He yawns.

  “Well, everyone else does.”

  “Got any bugs at your house, Auntie Ruth? Marco likes bugs almost as much as me.”

  I smile down at him and pat his arm. “I think I might have a few cockroaches.”

  His eyes go round at that. “Cockroaches are super cool. They got an exoskeleton, and that means their bones are on the outside. And if the world blew up, cockroaches would live through it and you can, like, put ’em in the microwave for like five minutes, and they’ll be just fine and dandy.”

  I stifle a shudder. “Isn’t that interesting.”

  He yawns again. “Okay, night-night, Auntie Ruth.”

  “Good night, little man.” I kiss his cheek for the second time, then pull his covers over his chest and tuck them around him.

  I stand and gaze at him, marveling at his preciousness. I think of my few cherished minutes with Eden.

  I am not a mother, nor will I ever be. This is the closest to motherhood I will ever get.

  I soak it in, revel in it, and cloak myself with it, as though it is armor, as though it will protect me and bolster me for the moment so soon to come, when will I return, alone, to my empty apartment.

  FORTY-NINE

  SHADOW

  I like this time of night, because my ears get to rest. Not that they don’t hear things. They hear everything. They hear the buzz of the poles on the sidewalk outside the house, and the cars—not just the ones that pass on the dark strip outside, but farther away. And they hear the critters outside and the hum inside the walls of the house, and sometimes a big roaring sound from the sky. But at this time, there’s less for my ears to hear, and that means I can sleep good.

  I’m not sleeping now because I can’t. My master isn’t home. And usually he’s home this time of night, when the light leaves the sky and it’s black outside and the sounds get less in my ears. But he’s not here now, and I won’t go to sleep until all my humans are here.