by Amanda Davis
The night before, she’d climbed out her bedroom window and into the wet summer evening where Taylor waited in his Jeep, the motor running, the lights off. Are you ready? he’d asked, and she’d felt like a hundred electric butterflies had been released; the air strummed with energy. She’d licked her lips, then smiled and nodded, shy suddenly, nervous. They drove through the quiet streets. Ahead of them, heat lightning split the sky and there was a rumble of distant thunder. When they reached Stony Ridge, Taylor turned off the engine and they watched the sprawl of the town below. I love you, he whispered, and Sarah reached out and touched his lips. I love you too, she whispered back, and they undressed under the open air.
Afterwards, as he’d held her, it began to rain and she laughed when he scrambled to put the top back on the Jeep. Then he climbed inside again, damp and naked, and nestled beside her, pulling her close. Sarah had felt the beat of her heart and of his and she’d thought: We did It, and she’d thought: I am a woman, and she’d felt her love well up and pour out of her. She’d snuggled even closer, warm where their bodies pressed together. They’d stayed like that most of the night.
Now, she pushed open the bathroom door and flipped the light switch. The fluorescence was blinding and for a moment she couldn’t see at all, then her eyes adjusted.
She leaned in and stared at herself in the mirror, at her freckled face and sleepy eyes, thinking: I am seventeen years old. She sucked in her cheeks: I am almost twenty, then twenty-five, then thirty. Her face aged as the words danced through her mind, the years swept up and fell away. She leaned her forehead against the cool mirror and thought of Taylor, lying far away and sleepless, thinking of her.
All night Dianne felt Irma’s family glaring at her; most of her dreams were hostile and gray. Then Dianne dreamed her mother laughing, her head thrown back in delight.
When she woke, she lay still for a few minutes, immobilized by a sadness so immense that she couldn’t breathe, the ache of her mother’s absence heavy and raw. She closed her eyes, and fought to conjure her mother’s face again—she had looked so joyous: her brown eyes all crinkled up, that wide smile. But she had disappeared silently into the ether and Dianne found herself staring instead at the pictures of her stepfamily.
Dianne rose and dressed, careful not to wake Sarah, then shut the door behind her and walked slowly down the hallway.
She could see Irma seated at the kitchen table with a magazine and a cup of coffee. Pearly hair framed her face like cotton candy and she wore a silver pantsuit with peach-colored flowers along the collar. When she walked in Irma did not look up. Dianne pulled out a chair and sat down.
Good morning, she said, smiling as wide as she could manage.
Hi Dianne. Hope you slept well.
Oh yes. Yes, just fine.
Irma acknowledged her with a nod but still didn’t look up.
Dianne groped about for something to say, but found herself lost in the mundanities of her father’s life—a framed photograph of a sailboat, scraps of yellow paper pinned by colorful magnets to the refrigerator, the heavy glass table.
I couldn’t remember if you drank coffee, Irma said, turning a page of her colorful magazine, so I only made enough for me. I suppose if you want some you can fix some. The filters are in the cabinet above the pot.
Thanks, Dianne said, and silently re-vowed her cheerfulness. Thank you. Yes.
She stood and crossed the kitchen, found the filters and then the coffee. She busied herself with the measurement of the water, the doling out of the grounds. It was a pleasant kitchen, really, sunnier than she’d remembered. Everything clean and in its place.
Dianne made half a pot, certain that Sarah would stumble instinctively towards it when she woke. She poured water, she flipped the switch and she waited. Irma didn’t say anything else.
Dianne leaned on the counter, watching the pot. This has been hard, she began, then corrected herself. I know this has been difficult for you.
Oh, Dianne, Irma said, setting her coffee down with a thunk. What do you know? You aren’t here, so what could you possibly know?
I know, Dianne said sharply, then leaned on the counter and forced herself to breathe.
The clock ticked. She replaced the box of filters in the cabinet.
I imagine it’s been extremely difficult, she said without looking at Irma.
Yes, Irma muttered. Yes it has.
Well, Dianne said, and then stopped as the futility of the whole situation rose up and pounded down on her. Well, she said again, softer.
When her coffee had brewed, Dianne poured a cup and walked out the screen door to the balcony and sat in a white plastic chair. This was it. This was where the final act had occurred three weeks ago: her father, the smooth-mannered Irving J. Feinstein, standing here naked, urinating off the balcony in full view of the neighbors.
And Irma had called and announced she’d had enough. He’s got to go, she’d hollered, impenetrable to Dianne’s wheedles and pleadings. The phone call seemed to last hours. He’ll go to a Home, Dianne had promised. Just don’t leave him, please. And Irma was finally persuaded, if only by the threat of social humiliation if she left.
Irving sitting in his chair for whole days at a time hadn’t been the only precursor. There was his belligerence, his scolding. There was his loss of control, and the fact that he could no longer be left alone for any period of time. He’s too helpless, Irma had said over miles and miles. I can’t take it. And even then, even though Irma was seventy-two and her father eighty-six, Dianne couldn’t help but think of Irma as a bimbo, a gold-digging tramp who’d married a man too old for her.
Dianne leaned her head back against the shingles of the house. It was a cool morning, foggy and damp. Off in the distance, rows of laundry hung from clotheslines and here or there she saw the movement of people behind their windows. When she was younger, she’d thought of the clotheslines as sweet-smelling markers of home—she had helped her mother empty basket after damp basket, clipping their sheets to the line with wooden clothespins. They’d had a bargain: Dianne helped hang the wet laundry in exchange for clothespins to decorate and transform into dolls—her mother had helped her make them; she’d had a whole village at one time.
Dianne took a sip of coffee and winced at its bitterness—she hadn’t wanted to ask where the sugar was kept. Now all the clotheslines seemed tacky and ridiculous to her. In this rainy place these people should know to dry their clothes inside. It had always been rainy. It would always be rainy. Where did they find such endless hope?
She didn’t have such hope. It was why she’d always insisted her father come to Virginia, to her. This place only reminded her of things gone forever: of a time when her life lay before her like an unopened package and she didn’t know what waited inside; and of her mother. The last time she was here must have been ten years ago—Sarah was young and Dianne’s father was at his vivacious best, sparring with Richard and grabbing Irma’s ass in plain view of everyone. They’d gone out to dinner somewhere vaguely fancy and he’d gotten a little drunk and made a scene. Dianne couldn’t even remember what exactly he’d said, just that she’d felt like she was a little girl again, waiting all evening for him to look at her or ask how she was while he’d mostly talked business with Richard.
Oh, her father: all stubbornness and self-sufficiency. Marvelous stories and that rich thundering laugh. When she was younger she’d sometimes wished he was different, but that was the only way she knew him. And the idea that he was no longer this man, no longer a man of such appetites but instead a shadow, a husk of his former self, bewildered her. But then she had a hard time with the all new things she’d figured out: that Irma was all her father lived for now, and Irma wanted to leave him.
To friends, Dianne shook her head and confessed her discovery—second marriages aren’t necessarily for love—trying to make her tone light, to lift her voice a little as if she didn’t care, but it always faltered, betraying her confusion, and sadness at this woman she’d trie
d to accept as family, despite the fact that her own mother had been dead for only three years when the wedding took place. Three years couldn’t possibly be long enough to miss one’s true love, so this second marriage must be some sort of sexual fulfillment—which is what Irma had come to represent: sex—even if Irving had been in his sixties when they met.
Dianne took another sip of bitter coffee, then the idea of the impending trip—of going to visit her father in the Home—loomed and Dianne closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples.
Sarah woke full of hope. Something in her sleepless night had left her tremendously hopeful and while she dressed, so much happiness spilled from her that it made her giddy. She put on her favorite green dress with stripy stockings to match and pinned her hair back with a small green barrette. It was a beautiful day and there was a boy in Virginia who loved her—today Sarah planned to get along with everyone. She found Nana Irma sitting in the bright kitchen.
Good morning, Nana, she said.
Irma, hunched over her magazine, glanced up from its pages briefly. Did you sleep well, dear?
I had serious dreams, Sarah said, pulling out a chair and sitting at the table. But they were kind of cool. What about you? How’d you sleep, Nana?
Irma’s eyes were hooded with blue shadow and she looked tired. I don’t sleep so much anymore, she said. It doesn’t bother me.
Oh. Sarah scratched her head and looked around the kitchen. I haven’t been here in forever, she said softly. I remember everything being bigger. She laughed, but Irma turned a page and didn’t look up.
Sarah tried to see what magazine Irma was reading. Where’s my mom? she asked.
Irma gestured towards the door with her head. Through the screen door Sarah could see the curve of a knee balancing a cup. She spotted the coffee on the counter and crossed the kitchen, opening cabinets, looking for cups. She felt her mother behind her before she saw her.
Morning, sweetie, Dianne said.
Sarah was filling a mug and turned around just as Dianne reached out to touch her hair. Mom, she said, ducking, Don’t. Then she went and sat back down. But by not letting her mother paw her head, was she being difficult, as she was so often accused? Her mother fussed with coffee by the machine. Was she annoyed? Sarah studied Dianne: she didn’t look irritated, just focused.
Sarah took a deep breath—a testing breath. Yes, the happiness she’d found on waking was still there—she still felt it.
Nana Irma turned a page.
Do you have another magazine? Sarah asked, but Irma shook her head.
Then her mother joined them at the table and Sarah felt the tension seize them—a humming energy linking the women—it made her uneasy.
Irma…Dianne began.
Sarah sighed and then looked at her mother, she sensed what was expected and it made her stomach icy.
Nana, she said sweetly, when do you want to go see Papa?
Irma raised her eyes slowly. She did not smile. She looked at Dianne and then returned her gaze to her magazine. I thought you’d want to go alone, she said. I figured you’d want some time alone with him, so I made plans to go see a movie with my friend Rose.
You don’t want to come, Nana?
I thought you’d want some time.
Oh Irma, Dianne blurted, why don’t you join us? We’ll come to the movie with you and then you can come with us. We’d love to have you.
Sarah winced at her mother’s syrupy tone. She felt anger bubbling all around her, but Dianne looked so victorious that Sarah smiled.
So what movie? she asked, and both women turned sharply.
Sarah smiled at them but the day had tarnished a little; she felt her brightness fading.
When Dianne and Sarah had readied themselves for the movies—pulled on jackets and assembled in the kitchen—Irma asked them to wait.
I have something to give you, she said.
They lingered in the kitchen while Irma disappeared into the recesses of the apartment. Dianne felt impending ill will but just squeezed her lips together as though to hold herself in, and concentrated on the pattern of the kitchen wallpaper: small blue ships, small blue waves.
What do you think it is, Mom? Sarah whispered, but Dianne shook her head and put her finger to her lips, then reached out and touched Sarah’s cheek and pulled her close.
I love you, she whispered.
I know, Mom. I know.
Irma reentered with a large brown box, which she placed on the kitchen table. Maybe you should look at these later, Dianne, she said. I want you to take them with you tomorrow, when you go. They don’t do your father any good anymore and they’re just taking up room here. Sarah should have them, not me.
Irma backed away from the box and crossed her arms. And who knows when I’ll see you again, she said.
Dianne hesitated for a moment, anger flushing through her. Then she stepped forward, lifted the lid and her mind seized.
Inside were the pictures. Pictures of Dianne’s mother and Irving, of Dianne as a little girl. Pictures of Dianne and Richard. Pictures of baby Sarah. Even pictures of Irving and Irma.
Dianne replaced the lid quickly. She had nothing to say. What was there to say? She left her hand on the closed lid of the box. She could hear dust settle. Her heart pounded. The air of the room was brittle and still.
Okay, she whispered, and pushed the box towards her daughter. Sarah took her hand and then put her arm around Dianne’s shoulders. They left the box on the table and headed for the front door, with Irma shuffling along behind.
Dianne drove them to the theater. She was so angry that her cheeks burned. But she was quiet—they were all quiet. What right? Dianne found herself thinking, jaw clenched. What right to erase the past? To push her father away when he needed her the most? And she was very aware of the woman next to her, her perfume filling the rental car like sickly sweet cigar smoke, her own indignation a palpable thing.
She swallowed all of it down and repeated instead her chant against the heaviness: Two more days, two more days. Two more days and back to Richard in Virginia and the life she’d made that allowed her to push so much of this out of her mind. Two more days.
The movie theater lobby was filled with older men and women.
Rose, Irma crowed, greeting a stoop-shouldered woman dressed in yellow. The two of them leaned their heads together and conferred. Dianne watched; her daughter was studying the coming attractions.
But then she turned towards them, too. Nana, Sarah called out, I want to meet your friend.
Irma sighed, looking at Rose and then at Dianne. Rose, she said slowly, meet Irving’s family.
They didn’t see seats together so Rose and Irma wobbled down towards the front; Sarah and Dianne sat in the back near the aisle. The theater was a sea of silvery hair. The audience adjusted with bustling and murmurs.
Sarah took a deep breath. Just sitting still took so much energy. She thought of Taylor, only of Taylor, and it was all she could do to keep from overflowing with stories of him, with things that he told her, with how much he meant. She had so much she wanted to confess, to cry out to the whole world, but she found the words hard to locate. She shifted in her seat and looked at her mother, whose lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze far away.
Mom, Sarah said carefully, quietly. I really miss Taylor.
Dianne stared intently forward, watching Irma and Rose. Sarah followed her gaze. The women chattered excitedly, she could see their hands illustrating points, then Irma tilted her head back and laughed.
After a long, slow moment, Dianne turned to Sarah and asked what it was that she’d just said.
Never mind.
Sarah sighed and studied her nails. When she looked up her mother had turned away again. I’ll be right back, Sarah said.
She scrambled over Dianne and up the aisle. Behind her the theater darkened.
In the bathroom Sarah climbed on the counter, pulled her knees to her chest and sat with her back to the mirror. Across from her, above
a row of sinks, was another mirror and in it she watched herself. She thought again of Taylor and of the dream and she closed her eyes. She imagined the weight of an infant in her arms, nestled against her breasts, and she thought of the child’s face. And then her mind drifted back to Taylor—the way he held her pressed against him, the way he smelled like clean laundry and oatmeal soap and smoke, the steady throb of his heartbeat, the way his hand rested lightly on the back of her neck. When she looked again to the mirror, her face was flushed, her eyes shiny, and she laughed at herself curled up on a counter in this faraway bathroom. But before she knew it, the whole of it swept up—how small she felt and how alone—and she began to cry softly, until the tightness in her chest eased a little.
She hopped down from the counter and splashed cold water on her face, then hopped back up. She stayed like that for what felt like a long time, alone in the quiet bathroom, then wandered back to the theater where the movie was roaring away.
After, they waited in the lobby again while Irma said goodbye to Rose.
Dianne stood with Sarah, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. So let’s go see Daddy, she said as soon as Irma rejoined them.
Irma looked startled and a little frightened.
Dianne took Sarah’s arm and they walked towards the doors. Come along, Irma, she called over her shoulder. You’re coming with us.
She heard slow footsteps as Irma followed behind.
The Laughton Hill Home was a square brick building lined in shrubbery. Doors opened outward to welcome the women with an automatic whoosh. A skinny man with a clipboard ushered them to a room lined with chairs and told them to wait.
Dianne sat on one side of Sarah and Irma sat on the other.
This place! Dianne thought. It was depressing: faded and worn. The linoleum floors were a grainy gray, the walls a pale yellow. The chairs sagged where people had weighed them down and the magazines scattered on small tables were dog-eared and long out of date. But who would notice? Off in the distance Dianne could see patients drifting by in pale pajamas or bathrobes. They seemed ancient and lost, their hair sticking up or matted down as they lumbered or careened, walked with great effort or were wheeled by. Surely her father didn’t belong here? Surely he wasn’t one of these ghosts?
