by Nancy Moser
“Not anymore,” Mama said.
Daddy shook his head and spoke under his breath. “I can’t believe you sometimes.”
“You have something to tell me?” Grammy asked Daddy.
He rearranged the fork on his plate. “I lost my job—but I’ve gotten another one.”
“As a gofer for a house builder.”
“It pays the bills.”
“Hardly.”
Daddy stood again and pointed at Mama. “You want too much. Why don’t you accept that we are never going to go on fancy vacations, drive new cars, or live in a big house like this.”
Mama looked around the room. “You call this big?” She tapped her temple. “This is nothing compared to the house I have in my head.”
“I wouldn’t dare guess.”
“There is nothing wrong with having dreams,” Mama said. “Just because you don’t have any.”
“I have plenty of dreams. I’m just not obsessed with pipe dreams.”
“That, you’re not. You’re just intent on making us live a nightmare.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Grammy got out of her chair, took my hand, and led me into the kitchen, leaving my parents to duke it out alone.
“They’re loud,” I said as we moved to sit at the little table by the back porch. From a chair she picked up a red pillow with fringe on it that said Home Sweet Home and held it in her lap.
“I’m sorry you have to hear them.”
I glanced toward the swinging door leading to the dining room. “Oh, that’s nothing. You should hear ’em when they really get going.”
Grammy looked toward the door too and we both listened. There was a deep crease between her eyes. Then she patted her lap and drew me onto it, letting me hug the silky pillow to my chest. Her lap was warm. She smelled like flowers.
“I don’t want you to die, Grammy.”
I expected her to tell me she wasn’t planning on doing any such thing. Instead she talked softly into my hair. “Dying ain’t so bad. Not when a person knows where they’re going. We’re all born to die.”
Born to die? What did that mean?
I felt her shake her head, then hold me extra close. “I may not have money to give you, child, but know this: I love you more than anyone in the world, and I want you to know you’re special. You’re going to do something important someday. It may not change the entire world, but it’ll change the world of the people around you. You’ll be the good nearby.”
“The what?”
“The good nearby. People don’t realize good is closer than they think. Good people. Good things. And chances to do good.” She nodded once. “The good nearby. That’s you, Gigi. I know it.”
I moved back an inch to look at her. “How do you know it?”
“Because God said so. He said, ‘I knew you before I formed you in your mother’s womb. Before you were born I set you apart.’”
“Set apart how?”
She looked me right in the eye. My, she had a lot of wrinkles around her eyes. Mama should get her some fancy face cream for Christmas. “That’s for God to decide. But you listen to me, child. You grow up, find yourself a wonderful husband, and have beautiful babies. That’s a good place to start. You have some babies that have already been set apart in their own special way.”
I giggled. “Me? Have babies? Grammy, I’m only seven.”
“But someday you’ll be grown. I want you to be happy, Gigi. I want you to feel your life means something. I want you to have bigger dreams than those of your mama and daddy.”
It seemed to me Mama and Daddy had big enough dreams for us all.
She seemed to read my thoughts because she added, “I’m not talking about a fancy house or vacations or bigger cars. I’m not talking about wanting more; I’m talking about giving more. I’m talking about really big dreams . . . of making a difference in this world. Of being that good nearby because you can be. Anyone can be, if they keep their eyes open to chances. I want you to take care of the here and now the best you can so you can rest easy in the hereafter.” She let me go and gave me one of her special smiles. “I wish big dreams for you, Gi—”
She stopped talking when Mama yelled extra loud, “You don’t like the way I’m doing things, then I’ll leave. Is that what you want, Jay?”
Grammy pulled my head to her chest, covering my outer ear with a hand. She started rocking and began to sing. “‘Abide with me; fast falls the eventide; the darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide!’”
With one ear against her chest and the other covered by her hand, it was like hearing the singing from the inside out. I could listen to her forever. Her voice and the words were like a blanket making me warm and safe. And hugging the Home Sweet Home pillow tight to my chest and peeking out into the pretty red-and-white kitchen with the black-and-white-checkered floors made me feel safer still.
“‘When other helpers fail and comforts flee, help of the helpless, O abide with me.’”
She stopped singing but kept rocking and humming the tune. I was glad Mama’s and Daddy’s voices weren’t as loud anymore, yet I was content to let them scream as much as they wanted to as long as I could stay right there in Grammy’s lap. Maybe it’s good they screamed, for it got me where I was, hearing good things from Grammy, about the good nearby.
“You’ll be fine, Gigi. Everything I said will come about because you have Jesus to abide with you. You’ll be fine. I know it.” She pulled back to look at me and flicked the tip of my nose. “And ninety-six out of a hundred times, I’m right.”
Ninety-six! I wanted to believe Grammy. I really did.
* * *
After spending Thanksgiving at Grammy’s and coming all the way back home, I was tired, but I still had trouble getting to sleep—even after hugging the red satin pillow Grammy had given me to take home as my very own Home Sweet Home. I kept thinking about things: the dead lady in the snow, heaven, and Grammy saying she had big dreams for me, that I was going to do something important with my life and be the good nearby. It was like they fit together.
I didn’t feel scared about any of it. It was like it was part of a plan that made sense to somebody. Just not to me.
I heard someone in the hall outside my room. “Mama?”
She opened the door wide enough to see inside. “Why aren’t you asleep?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“It’s late. Ask me in the—”
“Please?”
Mama came in but stood by the door. I saw the glow of her cigarette in the dark. “Hurry up. I got things to do.”
I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to say. . . . “What’s being ‘born to die’?”
“What?”
I sat up in bed. “Grammy says everyone is born to die.”
Mama took a drag on her cigarette. “Crazy old woman.” She let out the smoke.
“But what about that lady we saw today?” I said. “Was she born to die?”
“Don’t talk stupid.”
I took a deep breath, needing to get it all out at once. “But Grammy said God knew me way before I was born, and I’m going to do something good, and dying’s not a bad thing if you know where you’re going, and everyone’s been born to—”
Mama let out one of her disgusted sighs. “Great. Between you staring at that dead woman at the accident and listening to the wild talk of a senile old woman . . . I suppose you’ll have nightmares and wake us up.”
I stroked the pillow. “No, I won’t. I promise. ’Cause when Grammy talked, she didn’t act afraid of the dying part. So I’m not afraid of it either.” I remembered something that might make Mama happy. “She said I was special and I was going to do something good and have babies.”
Mama snickered.
“She said dying ain’t a bad—”
Mama let her air out in a puff. “So you think dying’s a good thing?”
I was getting confused. “Well, not all the time, but Grammy has big dreams for
me and says I’m going to be the good nearby for some people.”
“The what?”
I swallowed hard. How had Grammy explained it? “Good things are nearby if we just look for ’em.”
Mama came in the room and looked behind the door, then returned to her spot. “I don’t see nothing good.”
I hated that she’d made fun of me—and Grammy’s words—but I had to finish. “Grammy says I can do something good in my life—and I want to. But then I keep thinking about heaven and that lady in the snow and—”
She came over to the bed and picked up the red pillow. I was afraid she was going to take it away, but she just looked at it, then tossed it down. “Then stop thinking. That’ll take care of it.”
I couldn’t. Not yet. “Grammy used my number. . . .”
Mama rolled her eyes. “Ninety-six this, ninety-six that. You think that number’s magic or something?”
“No, but—”
“No. That’s it. No. Now, get to sleep and quit talking crazy.” She closed the door on her way out. “The good nearby . . . you find any of it, you let me know.”
Her laughter followed her down the hall.
* * *
Dr. Kordo settled in behind his desk with Mama and Daddy in the chairs in front of him. He’d sent me to the play area in the corner that had blocks, puzzles, and books. I pretended to read a comic book, but I wasn’t really reading.
I was listening.
“So?” Mama said. “What’s wrong with her?”
Dr. Kordo cleared his throat and picked up a pen. “Gigi is a healthy, happy, normal—extremely bright—child.”
I was?
Mama leaned forward in her chair, whispering, “Cut the bull, Doctor. Tell us what’s wrong with her.”
He pointed the pen at them. “Gigi’s a healthy, happy, normal, extremely bright child who is focused on being the good nearby—”
“I hate that phrase. Drives me crazy,” Mama said.
“She just wants to do some good in the world,” the doctor said.
“As if she can . . .”
The doctor took a deep breath. “Gigi is focused on being the good nearby, on the number ninety-six, and with the thought that she’s been born to die.”
Mama lifted her hands then let them fall into her lap. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“We knew that,” Daddy said with a sigh. “I knew coming here was a mistake.”
“We wouldn’t be here at all except her stupid school is insisting on it,” Mama said. “She’s telling everybody stuff about ninety-six, and talking about wombs, dreams, God, and that nearby and death stuff, and it’s creeping out the other kids. You need to tell us why she’s weirded out on us. There’s got to be an -itis—some name for it.”
I didn’t like their words. Did they truly think I was weird and creepy?
“There isn’t an -itis,” Dr. Kordo said. “I’ve never come across anything like this before—and from what I can research, no one else has either.”
“But the death part’s unnatural,” Daddy said. “A kid shouldn’t think about death.”
“There, you’re wrong. Gigi is neither consumed with death, nor morbid about it. In fact, she’s got the most healthy attitude about death of anyone I know. We’re the ones who are strange. We live our lives fearful and panicked, trying to cheat death, when all along, it is the one fact we all must face, the one fact that we all should be able to embrace and accept. In that way, yes, we all have been born to die. Yet we do everything in our power to push it away, deny it exists.”
“She’s not normal,” Mama says. “And it scares me.”
Dr. Kordo leaned forward, making me strain to hear him. “I’ve spent a lot of time with your daughter, and I can say without hesitation that Gigi is not a child of death but a child of life. The fact that she’s come to terms with death could be considered a good thing.” He paused and took time to look at each one of them in turn. “She’ll be fine. If you let her.”
I’d be fine. I’d be fine.
“How do we let her be fine?” Daddy asked.
“You let Gigi be Gigi.”
Mama said, “Humph.”
Daddy spoke. “But what about her idiotic fascination with ninety-six? Every time that number comes up she acts like she’s won the lottery. What’s all that about?”
“I have no idea.”
“You’re no help whatsoever,” Mama said.
The doctor continued. “And more importantly, neither does she. When I ask her about it, she merely says, ‘It’s my number.’”
It was my number.
“That’s what she tells us too.”
“Then let it be.” Dr. Kordo stood. “Take your daughter home. Stop and get some ice cream and make a nice day of it. Read a book together tonight before you tuck her into bed. Then move on. Treat her like you would any child whom you love.”
Daddy stood. “Well, this was worthless.”
The doctor said, “You have a very special daughter.”
Mama stood too, hooked her purse on her shoulder, and waved me over. “Having her be good at math or drawing—something normal—that would make her special.”
I wished I was good at math or drawing. . . .
I straightened up the comics in a just-right stack, then joined them. We left. I acted all innocent like I hadn’t heard a thing. When we got in the elevator I asked, “So, what did the doctor say?”
“He said you’re a sick girl and need to stop talking about death and dying.” Mama pointed a finger in my face. “And we never want to hear another ninety-six thing again. Understand?”
That’s not what the doctor said at all. I wanted to cry.
“Understand?” Mama said again.
I nodded. But in truth, I didn’t understand. That . . . or much of anything else. Nothing had been explained. Nothing.
I was a freak.
2
My problems go from bad to worse.
Oh, save me from them all!
PSALM 25:17
Margery Lamborn hated to lie. And yet . . .
What choice did she have?
She looked at her husband as he lathered his face to shave. Mick was waiting for her answer to the question “What are you doing up so early?” As a cocktail waitress at the Chug & Chew she rarely got up before nine.
Except today.
She couldn’t risk meeting his eyes so she turned her back to the mirror and folded the bath towel that he’d wadded into the space between towel bar and wall. She adjusted the volume on the radio that sat on the clothes hamper. She didn’t need any competition from Kelly Clarkson even if the girl was singing about playing it safe by staying on the sidewalk. Margery could certainly relate to that one.
“I have a few errands,” she finally said.
“Don’t write any checks. Rent’s due.”
“I won’t.”
“Speaking of money . . . can I have twenty from your tip stash? I owe Barry on a football bet.”
She hated when Mick bet on sports, because he lost more than he won. If only he’d realize how hard she worked for that twenty dollars’ worth of tips . . . what she put up with. The comments, the hands, the stares as she wore her skimpy bar-girl uniform. And a week ago, the drunk guy who’d pushed her up against her car when she was leaving and nearly—
“Marg? The money?”
She couldn’t stall with the towel any longer. She faced him. “Sure. I’ll leave it on the dresser.”
“Good girl.” His hand found her behind and he pulled her close enough to kiss. She pushed away, wiping the shaving cream from her face. So much for her carefully applied lipstick. Mick laughed.
Very funny.
She left the tiny bathroom of their double-wide and headed out before he could ask any more questions. If she’d been smart she would have made the appointment for later in the morning, long after he’d left for his mechanic’s job. But when Dr. Quigley, the pharmacist at the drugstore, had said eigh
t, who was Margery to argue?
Margery didn’t do arguing. “Keep the peace” was her motto. Sometimes she felt as if the bulk of her life were spent in one continuous preventative act—looking ahead, checking the possible outcomes, guessing the consequences, constantly weighing and choosing the path of least resistance so the boat wouldn’t be rocked and peaceful waters would cover the earth.
Mick never thought that way. He just lived. He just was. He didn’t spend a moment thinking of what he would say, or how she would react to anything he might do. He just did it.
It was upsetting. How dare he coast through life clueless to the delicate balance between trouble and calm? Since he didn’t care what effect his actions had on her, why should she care?
But she did. And amid her anger, she often envied him. To be so certain of his space, his identity, his moments . . . Margery took one moment at a time and weighed each one, hoping—just hoping—she’d get it right and wouldn’t cause too much trouble or be called to suffer through something she’d messed up.
Her habit of walking the baseline made her current road risky. It wasn’t that she hadn’t looked ahead and imagined Mick’s reaction to her trying to get a new job—that was as inevitable as a drunk spilling his drink—and if she told anyone else of her worry, they’d think she was overreacting big-time.
Which she probably was, but so be it.
Fifteen minutes after leaving the house, Margery parked in front of the drugstore, shut off the car, and leaned against the steering wheel, trying to find the courage to open the door and get out. Maybe she should forget the whole thing. Go home. Keep things as they were.
She fumbled putting the keys back in the ignition.
“Margery?”
She put a hand to her chest and sucked in a breath. An older woman with pumpkin-red hair and thick glasses peered in the open passenger window.
“You scared me,” Margery said.
“It’s a lifelong trait,” the woman answered. “If you are Margery, I’m Gladys Quigley.” She stood up straight, then stooped low again. “Actually, even if you aren’t Margery, I’m still Gladys Quigley. Can’t escape that if I tried. So now that we know who I am . . .”
