by Beck, Jamie
Aware that my approval of her decision could cause her to reverse course, I choose my next words carefully. “I bet you’d enjoy photography, but you shouldn’t use electives as weapons to irritate your father.”
“Why do you care? He dumped you for another woman. You should be pissed.”
The truth of that remark doesn’t lessen the sting of her disdain. But my feelings are less important than making sure she doesn’t feel pressured to choose sides. “No matter what happens between your father and me, he’s your dad. He loves you and does his best by you.”
“His best sucks.” Her scowl can’t mask the sadness in her voice.
“So does mine sometimes. Yours too. If you want to be forgiven for your mistakes, then you need to forgive us, too.”
If ever a “do as I say, not as I do” parenting moment existed, this might be it, because I haven’t forgiven Richard for cheating. The humiliation is the least of it. His behavior denigrates everything I held dear and built my life upon.
Katy’s extraocular muscles get quite a workout. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mom, but when I’m older, I won’t be anything like you.”
My mouth falls open. “What’s the ‘right’ way to take that insult, Katy?”
Another eye roll. “Even now, you won’t yell. Why do you let people walk all over you?”
I hate when restraint is misread as weakness instead of strength. Really hate that. With an exaggerated howl, I stomp my feet a few times, then collect myself and smile. “Better?”
“You’re so weird.”
Maybe, but my weirdness wrests a brief grin on her end. Getting her to smile on a day like today makes it a little better.
“Screaming like a shrew and complaining don’t change the facts. Better to look inward and control one’s reactions than point the finger at others for causing them.” Sure, I’ve blamed Richard for a lot lately, but not in front of Katy. And deep down I’m vaguely aware of my role in our divorce. I’m just not ready to embrace it.
“Whatever . . .” She exhales and gnaws her thumbnail. “Can we go eat?”
“How about a hug first?” I close the distance between us to comfort her. “I know you’re not excited about this place, but please give it a chance. We can be happy here.”
Katy doesn’t reach for me, but she doesn’t push me away, either. With my arms secured around her, her resolve melts as she absorbs all the love I can offer in an attempt to restore the reserves Richard depleted from her today.
If I close my eyes and inhale, I can transport myself back to those earliest days with my precious girl, when my heart was gooier than a molten lava cake, overflowing with awe and hope and warmth—back before the terrible twos, the middle school melodramas, and the teen rebellion. Even now, that uncomplicated, unconditional mother’s love floods my veins.
I could hold her forever, but she breaks away.
“Can I see what’s in that box?” she asks.
Happy to discuss something else, I hand it to her.
She picks through the items, sifting the scarf through her fingers and then staring at the photo. “Are these Grammy’s things?”
“Maybe.” They could’ve belonged to her younger sister, Lonna, or even her own mother. I have no idea when the Polaroid was invented. Again I’m intrigued by the unfamiliar initials on the hankie and by the photograph. The man is wearing some kind of work uniform beneath his jacket, but I can’t make out the insignia. He looks a bit shy in the picture. “It’s odd that she hid these things in a crawl space if they mattered enough to keep.”
“It’s probably just some old high school boyfriend’s stuff that she forgot about.” Katy returns the scarf and photo to the box before she hands it back to me, already uninterested.
“Probably.” But Grandpa’s whispered reference to whatever Gram had gone through rolls through my thoughts again as I study that rusty nail and those haunting round eyes in the photograph. Gram has been such an important figure in my life—a role model for how to prioritize family. It’s odd to think she had some other life—a secret one—that she never shared with me. Instead of asking my dad, maybe I’ll ask her about it when we visit.
I hope she’s lucid enough to remember.
CHAPTER FOUR
ANNE
Following a frenzied forty-eight hours of unpacking and breaking down boxes, moving furniture, and hanging artwork, it’s a second-cup-of-coffee kind of morning. I’m rubbing my sore shoulder when Dan knocks on the front door at eight o’clock sharp. Obscenely punctual, like Richard. It might be an ideal quality in a contractor, but I could’ve used an extra ten minutes this morning to turn into something resembling a human being.
The plush red-and-silver silk Tibetan rug cushions my bare feet as I cross the living room. Its threads change color depending on my position and the angle that the light hits them. Like all good art, it mirrors life that way. Richard and I bought this carpet on our tenth anniversary. The fact that I didn’t toss it says a lot about its exquisite craftsmanship.
“Good morning.” After forcing a welcoming expression past my exhaustion, I gesture toward the buffet in the dining room that temporarily hosts my coffee maker, toaster, and dorm-size refrigerator. The rest of my kitchenware remains stored in the basement for now. “There’s a large pot of coffee if you’d like a cup.”
Dan comes inside and stops dead, eyes wide, as if he’s just stepped into the “after” part of an episode of Fixer Upper. “Wow.”
Dan Foley is not easy to read, so that “wow” could be praise or derision.
Of course, “wow” also might have nothing to do with my taste and everything to do with the fact that—with the exception of the unfinished kitchen and bathroom—it already looks like we’ve lived here for weeks. In truth, my ultra efficiency has been a lifelong blessing and curse. My dad used to throw a long list of chores at me on Saturdays to buy himself some free time, but I always powered through them quickly.
In this instance, it helped that I’d already laid everything out on paper well before the movers arrived on Saturday morning. And let’s not forget neither Katy nor I had anything better to do on Saturday night than unpack boxes and put away clothes.
For the first time in months, I’m finally building something new instead of tearing something down, so I labored straight through with few breaks. If only remodeling the rest of my future would be as easy.
Dan strolls through the living room toward the fireplace, drawn to the bold impastoed painting hanging above the mantel. “This is cool. Where’d you get it?”
“I painted it.” The award that cityscape won in college marked the first time I seriously believed in my ability to make a living as an artist. Like Kandinsky, I’d used color to manipulate a viewer’s soul. To this day its vibrancy stirs my optimism. I’d had my sights set on an MFA at Columbia and a loft in New York City, but then I got pregnant and married, and Richard started law school at Georgetown. “It’s an abstract cityscape of Richmond, Virginia, viewed from the Manchester Floodwall Walk.”
“No kidding.” He turns on his heel, head tipped, looking at me as if meeting for the first time. “I didn’t realize you were an artist.”
Once upon a time, maybe.
“Thanks.” Gram was my first fan, so it seems fitting for someone—even Dan—to be standing in this room, giving me a pep talk. My cheeks are probably as red as the carpet. Compliments always make me itchy. Professor Agate used to say mettle was as crucial as talent. He’d urged us to extol our work and fiercely defend it against critics. Heeding his advice had been my biggest challenge. “It’s been years since I’ve painted anything like that.”
More than a decade, in fact. At the outset of my marriage, I didn’t believe that I needed to stay at home like my mom and gram to be a good mother. Somehow I was sure I could juggle parenting Katy and becoming another Helen Frankenthaler without an MFA or the move to New York.
When I wasn’t nursing or working part-time at Baby Gap for grocery money, I pain
ted. Like many artists, I’d approached each canvas as a problem that couldn’t be left unsolved. Luckily, problem-solving on canvas was always easier than doing so in real life. In any case, I was young and in love and a new mom, so happiness oozed from my pores and fingertips and into my work. I even sold a handful of pieces, although none made much money or achieved high acclaim.
But when Katy was four, she got into the turpentine after I turned my back for five minutes. Richard freaked—as did I. Then Katy’s concerning behaviors appeared and escalated. Richard offered to pay for a sitter, but I didn’t want to be like my dad, foisting a sad or troubled kid on someone else. Katy was my beloved child. I would be the one to get her through this life. Of all the mediums at my disposal, she would be my greatest creation, after all. My one lasting legacy.
As such, I hit pause on my unremarkable career to focus on parenting Katy. It wasn’t a sacrifice. From the first time I’d held my daughter, I’d cherished her. But while the head banging stopped around the age of six, other things cropped up—extreme self-criticism, the hair twisting and pulling, and withdrawal. Before I knew it, reading parenting books and managing her life had gobbled up the years.
“Seems a shame to have given it up.” Dan stares at me intently.
This is our first conversation that lacks a strong riptide of tension. Inexplicably, that throws me off-balance. I can’t decide whether the final years of my marriage conditioned me to expect friction with all men or if I’m simply yearning for our established dynamic because I need something consistent in my life.
“I don’t have regrets.” Not serious ones, anyway. Rothko once said that an artist needs faith in his or her ability to produce miracles when needed, and given the recent upheaval in my life, my faith in miracles is at an all-time low. “Besides, I’m so rusty I can’t imagine creating anything worthwhile right now.”
“Huh.” With his hands on his hips, he casts another glance over his shoulder to examine my piece again. The scrutiny feels like he’s undressing me.
Restless from his nudging, I gulp down the rest of my coffee. “I’ll go wake Katy so we can get out of your hair for a few hours.”
Dan nods before turning toward the kitchen, but the melody of his whistling follows me up the stairs. Whistling is something cheerful, plucky people do, yet despite the slight thaw between us this morning, I wouldn’t exactly liken Dan to Happy the Dwarf.
I rap on Katy’s door before opening it. She hates her bedroom’s sloped roofline, but these days she’s primed to complain about everything. In time maybe she’ll decide it’s cozy.
Three of the room’s four walls are painted the faintest seashell pink, and we glammed up her pink bedding with white, gray, and gold accents. I left the wall around the side window white in case she gets inspired to paint a mural or cover it in some kind of collage—her favorite.
Richard had wanted our old house to be a showcase. I’m determined to make this house a home.
Katy spent yesterday afternoon unpacking her clothes and pinning pictures of her friends to her oversize bulletin board. Her soccer cleats are set out, ready for the first round of tryouts this afternoon. She made the varsity team last year, but her old school was smaller and probably had less competition. Katy’s used to winning, so my stomach is already tight with anticipation of how she’ll react if she ends up on the JV team.
My daughter is sleeping on her stomach, wrapped around a pillow. Before touching her shoulder, I raise the blinds. Sunlight makes the pink walls glimmer like the horizon of the bay at sunrise. “Katy-bear, the workers are here. Let’s pop out for breakfast and then visit Gram.”
She groans and rolls onto her back as if she suddenly weighs five hundred pounds. “Do I have to go? School starts next week. Can’t I sleep in?”
“Once the banging begins, you’ll hardly sleep anyway. But tomorrow you can try. Deal?”
“Fine.” She yawns with her entire body and groans before reaching for her phone to check her messages.
“I’ll fix you a coffee with cream and sugar for the ride.”
After a sleepy nod of approval, she whips her coverlet off and pushes up to a seated position before combing her hair away from her face with her fingers. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Her feet hit the floor, so I leave her alone and go tie my own curls into a ponytail and swipe on a bit of lipstick. By this point, two other men have arrived and are clambering around the kitchen and master bathroom with Dan.
While fixing Katy’s to-go cup, I study the painting that Dan admired. Like me at that age, it’s vibrant, brimming with life and hope. A subconscious kick in the pants, perhaps? The reminder of the woman buried somewhere beneath all these blues.
A drill shrieks from yonder, yanking me from my daze. If I had a job, I’d escape the dust and noise. But who would hire a housewife with a fine arts major and no marketable skills or work experience? Plus, Katy’s not yet settled. I’m a pro at school volunteering, which will help me evade all this noise and meet other moms in this community.
Katy appears wearing running shorts and a hoodie.
“Is that how you want to look when you see your great-grandmother?” Too late, I realize my brows have reached my hairline.
She narrows her gaze. “What’s the difference? Even if she hates my outfit, she won’t remember it for long.”
Some battles aren’t worth fighting, so I relent and save up for one that matters. Still, her attitude sucks. “That was rude. I hope this heartlessness is a phase.”
“Sorry.” It’s mumbled but, based on her flushed cheeks, sincere. Like her father, Katy doesn’t like to be wrong, so she struggles with apologies.
Dan emerges from the kitchen and heads toward the master bedroom.
“We’re leaving.” I snatch the white tin box, which could come in handy if Gram doesn’t remember us today, from the buffet. “You have my cell if you need me for anything.”
He lifts his gaze from the box in my hand. “Hope you get some answers.”
So do I.
The entrance to the Sandy Shores Care Center is protected by wrought iron gates and a guard. I roll down the window and show my ID before being waved through by a bored-looking young man who’s probably watching YouTube in that guardhouse.
“Well, at least it’s a fancy prison,” Katy remarks, having briefly raised her eyes from her phone to survey the facility. “I’d rather off myself than have people wipe my butt and shove pills down my throat.”
“Katy!” I scowl. “Needing a little help doesn’t mean that you can’t enjoy the sunrise, or a game of chess, or a pleasant conversation.”
“Chess?” She grimaces. “Like I said, pass the pills.”
Had I ever been that cynical? My mother probably wouldn’t tell me the truth if she were alive. She preferred rose-colored glasses to reality. Even at death’s door—having contracted Legionnaires’ weeks after a hike to natural hot springs in Colorado—she’d refused to accept the truth about her prognosis.
What she and Dad had first considered the flu got diagnosed too late for antibiotics to save her. I close my eyes against the memory of the bloody sputum, the high fever, the pained moans and diarrhea. Those were the most terrifying weeks of my life . . . At least they were until Katy started banging her head against walls.
But Gram’s present circumstances must be lonely. My dad made his regular excuses when I invited him to drive down to visit her with us this week. Gram’s sister, Lonna, died years ago from breast cancer, but her girls keep in touch with Gram by phone. I doubt any of them have actually visited since Gram’s eightieth birthday, though. Even I’d lapsed into substituting phone calls for real visits most of the year.
I sigh heavily enough to encompass my pity for everyone, including myself. Sliding a side-eye toward Katy, I say, “Please inform me when my real daughter reclaims her body.”
“Ha ha.” Another half-joking eye roll and then she’s back to swiping and typing.
Grandpa once said that when
kids are little, they step on your toes, but when they are older, they step on your heart. It wasn’t until Katy turned fourteen—when the stakes of her choices rocketed to the stratosphere at the exact time she honed her ability to pinpoint my flaws and tender spots—that I fully understood his meaning.
I would ask if she’s nervous about soccer tryouts, but she might read my question as pressure, like I’d be disappointed if she doesn’t make varsity. Worse, my forcing her to think about it could increase her anxiety, which could make tryouts harder.
Instead, I read the wooden directional signs as we wind past the independent-living apartments to the assisted-living unit. This is my first time here. I hadn’t been able to help with the move because my dad had scheduled it on the day of my first divorce mediation meeting with Richard.
The manicured campus—with lush, neatly trimmed flower beds, an octagonal gazebo, and gulls flying overhead—resembles a seaside resort more than a care facility. The backside of Gram’s building probably offers distant views of the bay, too. As a child, I’d sometimes caught her sitting at the dining table, gazing out the window at the treetops and daydreaming. Today she might enjoy watching the sailboats from a quiet bench outside.
Katy misses all the scenery while staring at her phone, scrolling through a seemingly endless list of images, pausing only occasionally while her thumbs type at breakneck speed.
“Ready to ask Gram about the box?” I ask too brightly.
She twirls an index finger. “Woo-hoo.”
“Come on, Katy-bear.”
“I’m sixteen, Mom. Katy-bear went into lifelong hibernation at least eight years ago.” She sticks her phone in her pocket.
“You’ll always be my baby.” I turn off the ignition, recalling that once-toothless grin and the sticky-fingered hugs of yesteryear as if they happened this morning. “What’s got you so rapt by your Insta feed?”
“Snapchat . . . ,” she intones, like I’m an alien who can’t keep up with a single trend. Which, I suppose, is sort of true. “My friends are comparing what classes and teachers they got.”
