“A little. I haven’t been able to think about it much.” She felt her heart race—she would put it off a little longer. “Your family? You have—what, three other children?”
“Three daughters. Linda and Jane Anne have government jobs, in Washington. Susie is halfway through Wellesley.”
Laura told about Bart and Philip, how Philip was in his second year of college. “Your children are a little older than ours,” she said.
“Tom and I married right out of college. We had Tommy right away.” Virginia looked up, acknowledging. They had come to it.
“He was the oldest?”
“Yes.”
“Trace and I talked about that—how it would be a different loss, the oldest one.”
“Yes, it was as though we’d lost ground, had to start over.”
“And with us, we got there too soon, to our time alone.” She had been turning her glass in her hand and she put it down suddenly and reached in her purse for a handkerchief. “I wasn’t through yet!” Her voice was harsh. She blew her nose. “Sorry,” she said.
“Why?”
“I don’t want to blither all over the restaurant.”
Virginia’s look was tender. “I suppose they’re going to have to get canoes to get the people out?”
Laura laughed. “Sure.” They had finished their lunch. “Can we go? We can talk in the car.”
On the way out, she remembered something. “Tell me about Fred?”
“My brother? Oh, sure. I forgot you’d dated him.”
“Just a couple of times. I had quite a crush on him, actually. But he was two years older and there was lots of competition.”
Virginia sighed. “Fred’s had quite a saga of his own. I think he’s doing all right. He comes through town from time to time. I’ll tell him you asked about him. He’ll be pleased.”
The idea of Fred Thayer’s caring a whit about her inquiry—or even remembering her bemused Laura, but they had reached the car by now and got in, and the thought of Fred stayed outside in the open parking lot, the breezy sunshine of a fall afternoon.
In the car, Virginia opened the windows and let the cool air blow over them. For a while, they rode in silence, except for sounds of the moving car, of leaves skittering along the roadside. Then Laura closed her window partway and turned to Virginia. “I’d like to ask you some things.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
She took a deep breath. For weeks, she had made lists in her mind. What was the hardest part? When did it get better? Did she have anything to recommend—what they should do, how to go about helping themselves heal? Other questions: Did she believe in life after death? Did she have any feeling of being in touch with her child? What had Tommy’s death meant to her relationship with Tom? There were things she wanted to tell Ginny, too—about the closeness of friends, the memorial service, how wonderful the boys had been, and Matt, and Paula, and how there had been—well, portents, somehow, of Annie’s early death. And about Annie herself—what a wonderful daughter, what a wonderful person—with none of the problems of lack of self-confidence that had plagued Laura’s adolescence. All these thoughts came tumbling over one another, jostling against one another like a crowd coming out of a movie, and she saw the image of her daughter, her brown eyes laughing, her hair around her neck, her long legs striding up that path on the Colorado mountainside; Annie on the couch, with Roger’s foot in her lap, her hand passing back and forth over his ankle; Annie’s tenderness after Will’s death—coming to put her arms around her, saying, “Mom, I miss Grampa, too.” The image shifted. The crowd coming from the movie—they were all sixteen years old and they all had Annie’s face, and beyond them the sidewalk and the streets were empty of people and cars went back and forth—black cars, old, never stopping, and the road was covered with rain.
“Ohh!” She uttered a long, shuddering cry and sat back against the seat cushion, putting her hands over her face and pressing the heels of her hands against her cheekbones. “Oh, Ginny! Sometimes I wish I were dead!”
She felt, then, Ginny’s hand on her arm, steadying, calm, as the car continued to move through the September afternoon. “It’s all right, babe. It’s all right, Laurapolora.”
The car stopped in front of the familiar house—the white clapboards (Will had resisted aluminum siding. “I want wood,” he said), the green shutters, the porch, the flagstone walk. “Do you want to come in and say hello to Mother?” Laura asked.
“Not now. I’ll come over some afternoon,” Virginia said. “I want you to meet Tom, too. If your mother goes to sleep early, you could come for a drink.”
They got Laura’s bag and set it on the grass, hugged each other. “Call me.” Virginia’s gaze probed Laura’s face. “For anything. We’ll talk.”
“I will. I want to. Thanks.” She picked up the bag and started for the house—up the walk, onto the porch, its lattice sides covered with honeysuckle vines. She didn’t hear Virginia drive away.
The inner door was open. She opened the screen door, went in, and put her bag on the Oriental rug in the hall. “Hello?”
Carlena hurried from the kitchen, gray hair in bunches around her face, one of Rachel’s aprons, too long for her, covering the front of her squat shape.
“Laura!” she said, a loud whisper. “I didn’t hear you come. Your mother’s asleep.” They kissed each other. Carlena held on to Laura’s hand. “How are you, dear? I’m so sorry. I pray for you. Every night, I say a rosary.”
“Thank you, Carlena. We’re doing okay.” She could feel tears start. “I’ll just go look at Mother, then take my things up and unpack.”
“Let me.” Carlena picked up the bag and started up the stairs. Laura shook her head. “You’ll spoil me,” she said.
She went on through the living room, around the corner into the dining room—now Rachel’s bedroom, as well. Her bed sat in the alcove under the window, beside it a table with a tray of medicines, a glass, a pile of books and magazines. Around the mahogany bedpost wound the cord of a heating pad and the extension line of the telephone Rachel always kept close at hand. It lay on the blanket, like a toy phone slipped from the hand of a sleeping child.
Rachel was asleep, the collar of her paisley robe turned up against her hair. Her face was toward the window, the rise of her cheekbone visible. Beyond the window the leaves of sassafras trees and lilac bushes moved in the gentle air; the pullied clothesline traveled into trees.
“Mother!” the word came involuntarily. Rachel didn’t stir. Her mouth was open. She was snoring. She would hate that, or would have before her health began to fail and all barriers of privacy and reserve slowly eroded away.
Then, with a loud intake of air, Rachel turned. She opened her eyes.
“Mother!” Laura leaned over, her hands on her mother’s shoulders.
“Darling!” Rachel blinked, her eyes focusing, her tongue coming forward to lick her lips. “When did you come? I didn’t hear you.”
“A few minutes ago. Virginia brought me.”
“Virginia?” Rachel looked uncomprehending.
“My friend—Virginia Thayer Shaughnessy.”
“Oh, yes.” Rachel looked around the room. “Where is she?”
“She dropped me off. She’ll come back another day and see you.”
“I’d like to see Virginia.” Her voice was still thick. “Did you have a good trip?”
“Yes, it was all right.”
“How was the weather?”
“It was fine.”
“It’s been nice here, too. Though I don’t get out much.” Rachel shifted her weight in the bed. She drew in her breath and grimaced.
“Something hurt?” Laura asked.
“Arthritis. It aches all the time.” Rachel’s sigh hung between them like a loose tether. “Carlena?” she called.
Carlena bustled to the door. “Yes, dear? I know—it’s time for your medicine.” She went back to the kitchen, returned with a glass of water, uncapped one of the bottles on the beds
ide table, and shook out a pill. “Here you are—easy now.” Rachel raised her head. Her hair, flattened from lying on the pillow, stood away from her head like a stringy gray halo. She swallowed and, looking at Laura, smiled wanly and fell back on the pillow. “Would you like some tea? Carlena can make some.”
“Yes, but I can do it.”
Carlena was already running water into the kettle. “You visit with your mother,” she called over the sound of the water. “She’s been counting the hours till you came.”
Laura sat back against a hard wooden chair. “How are you, Mother?” She said it calmly, but panic gathered in her chest. Why all this chatter? When would her mother speak of Annie?
Rachel sighed. “I’m not at all well. That fall I took—I still feel it. The angina acts up. But Carlena takes care of me. We get along. The doctor comes every week or two. I talk on the phone.” Her hand moved toward the phone, then moved away. “I can’t get out much, you know.” She looked out the window. “Of course I haven’t driven for a number of years. Father didn’t think I should.”
“Of course not. Not lately.”
“When the insurance comes due, I’ll probably sell the car.”
Laura swallowed, struggled for breath. She’d come expecting solace for her heart’s pain. Her mother spoke of insurance. A feeling as of a lost child beset her. Her ultimate haven failed, what then?
“Laura dear”—Rachel spoke slowly—“I am not unmindful of Annie.” Her face crumpled and she turned away.
“Mother!” Laura pressed her cheek against Rachel’s, the salt of Rachel’s tears on her lips, slipped her fingers between her mother’s, felt the ridges of rings—the gold wedding band, the diamond solitaire, her grandmother’s wedding ring. “Mother,” she said again. Then, seeing a handkerchief on the pillow, she wiped her mother’s tears and then her own and sat back.
They looked at each other, a sudden awkwardness between them. They had waited so long to be together and now…what was there to say?
It was Rachel who spoke first. “Did she go quickly?”
“Oh, yes.” Had they not even told her that? Or had Rachel forgotten? “She lost consciousness right away. She never came back.”
Her mother’s hand in hers relaxed. “So she didn’t suffer. I’m glad about that. I’ve wondered.”
Laura shook her head. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you before. I thought we had.” It was bad enough, even knowing. She had gone over it and over it, deciding each time to believe what the doctors had told them—in a fall like that, it is the first blow. But to have wondered all these weeks… “No, she didn’t suffer.”
Rachel nodded. “I’ve thought of something else.” She looked down at the ridge her legs formed under the rose-colored blanket. “She didn’t have to get old and sick.”
Carlena brought in the tray with tea, the rosebud cups, a plate of cookies.
“Oh, look,” Rachel said. “Carlena made us tea. Thank you, dear. That was nice of you to think of.”
Laura looked at Carlena, alarmed. “Will you have some with us?” She picked up a cup.
“Not this time, dear. You be with your mother. I got work to do.”
Laura poured the tea. “Can you sit up?”
Rachel propped herself on an elbow and, with Laura’s help, swung her legs—in flowered flannel pajamas—so she could sit on the edge of the bed. She reached for the teacup. “Let’s see—what day is this?”
*
In a few minutes, Rachel’s eyelids became heavy. She lay back and dozed. Laura gathered the tea things and took them to the kitchen. Carlena stood by the sink, holding a potato under a stream of water. “How’s Mother doing?”
“She’s good today.” Carlena scraped the potato with a knife. “Some days, she’s not good at all. She’s much better with you coming. You’re sure good for her, I can tell you that.”
“Oh, Carlena.” Her hand slipped on the tray she was holding. The question asked itself again: Should I have taken her with me? The images of Rachel’s hurt and anger last spring came flooding toward her. “Is it a lot for you, caring for her?”
Carlena laid down her knife. “You couldn’t have done it, you girls. It keeps me hopping. She wants a lot, your mother. She’s got a heart of gold. But she wants a lot of attention. Get me this. Get me that.” She shook her head. “You couldn’t have done it.”
Grateful, she put her hand on Carlena’s shoulder, as though acknowledging the transfer of weight that had already taken place. “Do people come by?” she asked.
“The neighbors drop in. But they forget. The minister comes. Your aunt Ella and uncle Jackson come—they’re awful good to her. But they don’t do things the way she likes.” She held the potato under the water again. “Tell you the truth, I can’t blame her. Ella comes in—she talks on and on. Your uncle Jackson—he sits in the corner and snoozes. She thinks they’ll never go home.” Carlena put the potato in the pan of water and picked up another one. “She misses your father. She can’t get used to that, and you, Laura—she’s so sad for you.”
Laura went upstairs to unpack. Instead, she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes.
Her childhood room—her bed, her bookcase and closet. Lillian’s bed next to hers. For all the years except that one when she was sick and they wouldn’t let Lillian stay because she might catch it. And left her there, alone. Her neck so sore, she couldn’t move to sit up, couldn’t even turn her head.
Her illness. She’d heard the story infinitely—stopped on the street corner when she and Lillian were out shopping with their mother. “Which was the one?” Her mother’s posture shifts. She moistens her lips; her shoulders settle back. “This one,” she says.
It will slow them up. She will get tired of waiting. She looks at the shoes in the store window—on one side satin shoes with silver buckles and high heels, on the other side the sturdy shoes with laces that they always have to get for school. Someday, when she grows up…
Her mother is telling the story. “When they took her to the hospital for emergency surgery, the strep infection was all through her system. It was before penicillin. We thought she’d never come home. Her heart couldn’t stand a general anesthesia; they had to use a local. We heard her scream.”
At this part, she cringes inwardly. She does not remember. She remembers other things that can’t have happened—memories of doctors sharpening knives like the knife her father uses to cut the Sunday roast.
How it had all stayed with her, colored her childhood, turned into what it couldn’t have been, like the memory of the knives and the operating room. How she capitalized on it, back then, telling her friends when they talked of ballet and elocution and she needed something to make her a star. “I almost died,” she said.
Their attention turned to her. She had won a place, competed with the girl with the perfect golden curls. And with Lillian—her ebullient older sister, a sparkling, precocious child. “Still waters run deep,” Rachel had said, characterizing her quieter second daughter. “A blessing, too—such a good child. When she was so sick, she did just what they told her. If she’d acted up, if she’d fought them in the operating room…” The message was clear: To fight is to die.
There was another message, too, from those months of recuperation, which Laura had believed with all the fervor of her childhood passion, her terror at the pain and separation from home: It was Rachel who had saved her, Rachel alone who could keep her from dying. From her bed by the hospital window, she’d watched for Rachel’s tall figure to emerge from the bordering grove of pine trees. “My mother is coming!” It was Rachel who brought her comfort, love, assurance of life in the loving hands with which she held her close, soothed the fevers from her body with cool washcloths, her hands a blessing. “Savior, like a shepherd lead us,” Rachel sang, her voice soft and clear, sweeter than any birdsong, “much we need thy tender care.” At last, she had drifted off toward sleep, Rachel’s hand a blissful assurance of life.
*
She sat u
p. Why did she think of it all now? Was it just that on this day, her first time home since Annie’s death, the ghosts of this room returned? Or was it more? She remembered last spring when Rachel announced she wanted to come and live with them and Laura, in desperation, had said, “Mother, I’m sorry. I can’t,” how Rachel—hurt, startled—had reminded her, “I took care of you when you were sick. You’d never have made it without me.” An unspoken contract, gone back on? A debt flouted, unpaid?
That she had recovered was Rachel’s validation, too. Rachel had cared for a sickly mother and could never make her well; she died at seventy, after years of being a semi-invalid. “My angel mother,” Rachel would say. “You’re named after her, you know.” Laura remembered her grandmother only as a saddening shadow that drew her mother away from her.
It was an intricate business—this legacy of mother to daughter. There had been other things, too, from that hallowed, frightening, grace-filled time. “We feel you were saved for a reason,” Rachel would say.
Though at times it seemed a burden (who could be worthy of such a miraculous reprieve?), she had cherished the promise. When she grew up, she would marry, raise children, as her mother had. It was always her wish.
She had done it, too—been a wife, and a mother. “Saved for a reason”? That was reason enough while the children were small.
There was another—something else she’d dreamed of being.
She went to the closet, drew from the high shelf a large white box, set it on the bed, and removed the lid. Inside were tubes of paint, pencils, some sketchbooks and loose pages, the blue metal paint box her parents had given her when she was eight. She took out the paint box, opened it to reveal the bright coins of color—red, green, yellow, blue, the brush, its black point stiff, lying in the channel beside them. The white enameled lid was grooved to hold puddles of paint and water. The paint box and sketchbooks had been a companion many Sunday afternoons as she sat at the dining room table, oblivious to the sounds of family in the next room or to the thickening dusk. “That’s lovely, dear,” Rachel would say, standing over her shoulder, watching her paint flowers on a fluted fan, or pastoral scenes with trees and a hill and a path winding along the hill. Maybe a house or a few animals, stick figures of children playing in the yard. Basking in her mother’s approval, she had said, “When I grow up, I’m going to be an artist.” Sometimes, heroine in her own drama, she would stand in front of her bedroom mirror and, blood tingling with the possibility of creating worlds, say it to her own reflection, “When I grow up, I’m going to be an artist,” then would turn her face this way and that, observing how shadows changed at different angles, how the bridge of the nose obscured the corner of the eye, how one side of the mouth foreshortened as she turned her head to the side.
Such Good People Page 17
