The Book of Someday

by Dianne Dixon

  AnnaLee is startled. She has to wait a while before she’s calm enough to put the sketch aside and say: “Is this how you want to spend another whole day, Persephone? Lying by yourself in the dark?”

  Persephone’s reply is instantaneous and annoyed. “Where I want to be is with my friends, who you took away from me.”

  “About your friends, I think you and I need to—”

  AnnaLee has been stopped in mid-sentence by the sight of Bella. Toddling into the room. Holding a Raggedy Ann by one leg and dragging it along the floor behind her.

  Bella is now eighteen months old—curious and serious. Innately sweet. And, like AnnaLee, quietly pretty. Her eyes are a luminous brown and her hair is a cap of golden curls. Curls that, despite the dimness in the room, are shining as if they’re lit by candlelight.

  And AnnaLee is murmuring: “Bella, you make me believe in angels.”

  In that same moment, Persephone is sitting up and scowling at AnnaLee, muttering: “Because of you I’m trapped in this fucking house with nothing to do for the rest of the summer. I hate you.”

  AnnaLee has left the edge of the bed and is trying to gather Bella into her arms. Bella, with her attention on Persephone, is squirming to be free.

  Persephone is now on in tears. “Tru and Marco won’t ever speak to me again—they’re probably still laughing their heads off. Why did you have to make me look like such a loser in front of them?”

  “If they’re laughing at you…” AnnaLee tells her, “…if they think you’re a loser because somebody cares about you, then they’re not very nice friends and they’re certainly not very—”

  Bella is slipping away from AnnaLee like quicksilver—running toward Persephone, with the Raggedy Ann still in tow.

  “Who cares what you think?” Persephone is growling at AnnaLee. “They’re the only friends I have.”

  Bella is now trying to find a way to boost herself, and her doll, up onto the bed. Persephone is watching—angrily.

  AnnaLee, hurrying toward the bed, is calling: “Bella, no. Get down.”

  But by the time AnnaLee is able to reach for Bella, Persephone has already lifted Bella onto the bed. Into her lap. And while Persephone is scooping Bella’s doll from the floor—handing it to Bella—she’s shooting AnnaLee a look of white-hot defiance—her eyes spilling with tears. The falling tears are leaving damp tracks across the doll’s face.

  Bella is observing each tear as it’s dropping onto the Raggedy Ann’s cloth-covered smile. Then with a slow turn of her head she looks up at Persephone. After a moment or two, she slides out of Persephone’s lap and stands on the bed beside her. Putting her hands on Persephone’s face. Patting at the tears, gently. Trying to make them go away.

  As Bella is doing this, Persephone is murmuring: “Tru and Marco—and the people they hang around with—it was all I had. Without them, I don’t have anything to do.”

  Is Persephone saying this to Bella? Or to herself? Or to AnnaLee? All AnnaLee can be certain of is that it’s giving her the opportunity to act on her decision and say: “Well, you’ll definitely have plenty to do from now on.”

  Persephone is instantly suspicious. “Like what?”

  “Starting tomorrow, and until you leave to go back to school, you will be treated exactly like every other kid in this family.”

  Bella is now snuggled in beside Persephone, her thumb in her mouth, contentedly playing with her rag doll.

  Persephone stares at Bella, and then at AnnaLee. “Are you out of your mind?”

  The question has such honest confusion in it that AnnaLee can’t stop herself from laughing. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to force you to watch Sesame Street, and eat animal crackers, and go to bed at six-thirty.”

  “So what exactly are you gonna try to make me do?”

  “I want you to be with me. Be my girl, just like Bella is.”

  Persephone turns her eyes toward the ceiling, in mocking sarcasm. “Let me think…since I’ve been here, how many times have my mom and dad called? Oh. That’s right. Never.”

  She leans back against the wall, wearily crossing her arms. “Lady, my own parents don’t want me as their girl—why the hell would you?”

  AnnaLee sits on the bed, this time, as close to Persephone as Persephone will allow. “Just take my word for it, okay? I do want you to be with me. Very much. Even though we only have till the end of the summer.”

  It’s obvious that Persephone is ready to say something flip, but before she can get the words out, Bella has leaned toward her and wetly kissed her on the mouth.

  In the span of that innocent kiss, to AnnaLee’s surprise, she’s seeing the suspicion and the anger in Persephone begin to recede. Just the tiniest bit.

  ***

  The morning trip from AnnaLee’s driveway in Glen Cove to a parking space on Main Street, in the neighboring town of Oyster Bay, has taken only a few minutes.

  In that short time, AnnaLee has observed Persephone’s mood ricocheting between grudging teenage surliness and cautious, childlike anticipation.

  Now the three of them—AnnaLee, Persephone, and Bella—are on their way into Mrs. Wang’s store. Bella is in her stroller and AnnaLee is wheeling it toward the store’s entryway, which is recessed between a pair of wide, multipaned windows. The wood frames of the windows are painted gleaming white; the front door of the store is finished in glossy, dark-green enamel. This building, and all of Main Street, is an idyllic representation of American colonial charm. Scrubbed and pretty, and welcoming.

  Persephone, leaning past AnnaLee to hold the door open, is asking: “So exactly what is it that’s supposed to happen today?”

  “You and Bella and I are about to do what families do—run some errands—and later, because this is our first time officially being together, we’re going to celebrate. With a very nice lunch.”

  AnnaLee sees the hint of skepticism in Persephone. The expression in her eyes suggesting that Persephone is wondering if today really will be something special, or if it will turn out to be a situation she’s better acquainted with. Simply another empty promise.

  “Where’s lunch gonna be?” Persephone asks. “In some little kid pizza place with Cheerios and sippy-cups all over the floor?”

  “It’s going to be right over there.” AnnaLee is indicating a cozy brick-fronted restaurant across the street. Snowy tablecloths, glowing candles, and wreaths of sparkling pin lights can be seen through the large front window. On the surface of the window, painted in a fanciful gold script, is the name of this lovely place—Delice.

  “It’s my favorite restaurant,” AnnaLee explains. “It’s wonderful. In every way possible. I save it for special occasions.”

  Persephone is smiling. The smile is open. Uncomplicated.

  And AnnaLee is giddily happy.

  Then without any explanation Persephone’s smile has evaporated and she’s frowning, focusing on something farther down the block.

  AnnaLee turns and sees Tru, the girl from the pick-up truck. The arrogant girl that was in the driveway, the day before yesterday.

  Tru, who’s lounging against a lamppost, is muttering something to the two young men she’s with—her boyfriend Marco and a taller, tougher-looking character whose spiked hair is dyed in various shades of bright, Kool-Aid orange. The three of them are gesturing in Persephone’s direction and snickering.

  Persephone is cringing. Uncertain. Looking from AnnaLee to Tru, and back again.

  Without saying a word, Persephone has darted around Bella’s stroller—and is dashing for the lamppost. The needy, begging way that Persephone is running toward Tru is almost too painful for AnnaLee to watch.

  Persephone’s response to rejection is as automatic, AnnaLee is realizing, as a dog’s response to a whistle at dinnertime. Somewhere along the line, groveling for acceptance in the face of coldness and ridicule seems to have been programmed into her.

  AnnaLee is doing her best to hear the conversation between Persephone and Tru, but engine noise from
a delivery van idling at the curb is making it impossible. What AnnaLee can see is that Persephone’s appeals to Tru are being met with a series of dismissive eye-rolls.

  Tru is turning to walk away. Persephone is refusing to let her go. There’s a quick verbal exchange—the mood between them seems to shift.

  This takes place while the delivery van is pulling away, moving down the block. AnnaLee can hear Tru muttering, “Okay. If that’s what would happen, how would it get done?”—and Persephone answering, “Maybe an open door? And nobody around…?”

  Tru frowns and says: “Yeah, maybe.”

  The two girls are ambling along the sidewalk, approaching AnnaLee. Marco and the young man with the Kool-Aid orange hair are behind them. As the group comes closer, AnnaLee notices there’s a bruise on one of Tru’s cheeks, and that her eyes seem glassy and dilated. Just as they reach AnnaLee, Tru and her entourage abruptly cross the street, abandoning Persephone without saying good-bye. Leaving a waft of pungently stale body odor in their wake.

  “What were you talking about?” AnnaLee asks.

  “Nothing. Tru’s been trying to think up an idea for a horror movie. I was helping her.” Persephone is moving toward the entry to Mrs. Wang’s shop. “Why didn’t you go in? You didn’t have to wait for me.” Persephone is holding the door wide, making way for AnnaLee; and for Bella, in her stroller.

  As soon as the door is opened, Mrs. Wang is calling out from the middle of the store—energetically hurrying toward AnnaLee, announcing: “What a big surprise! Why you not tell me you coming? Long time since I see you! Welcome!”

  The store, like Mrs. Wang, is chic—and Asian. Fragrant with the scents of musk, mandarin oranges, and peaches. The art and the porcelains and the lamps and the rugs that are for sale are an eclectic mix of styles and periods; yet the mood of the store, its essence, is quintessentially Chinese. The walls are lacquered in cinnabar red and edged in black. Throughout the room, scattered like exuberant flowers, are trails of large, colorful, silk umbrellas. Near the door is a miniature waterfall, made of crystal-clear glass. And at the center of the room is a majestic Buddha carved from a stone that has the translucence of a pale green sea. At the base of the Buddha is a brass offering-bowl containing a single, creamy-petaled lotus blossom.

  When Mrs. Wang arrives at AnnaLee’s side, she murmurs: “Good. You here right on time.” Then she slips her arm through AnnaLee’s and loudly proclaims: “I just think of something! My customer over there, Mrs. Jahn. She new to the neighborhood. You should meet her.”

  Now Mrs. Wang is motioning to the stocky, heavily jeweled woman, who is on the other side of the store examining a large tapestry. “Mrs. Jahn! Come! Let me introduce you to my good customer and good friend AnnaLee!”

  The woman waves and says: “Be with you in a minute.”

  Mrs. Wang hurriedly whispers to AnnaLee: “Lot of money. She buy big estate I told you about. Now what she want is to know people. Also want to start nonprofit foundation to help children who are sick. She looking for somebody to run it. Your husband is doctor, and lawyer. That make him perfect for job of running good works organization for sick children. All you need to do is make sure she find out about him—make sure she meet him, and she like him.”

  Bella has begun to fuss, and Persephone is lifting her out of her stroller, saying: “Okay, short stuff, I’ll set you free but watch yourself. This looks like a ‘you break it, you buy it’ kind of place.”

  “This the girl you tell me about?” Mrs. Wang asks AnnaLee.

  Persephone’s expression promptly becomes closed and defensive.

  Mrs. Wang is giving Persephone a knowing smile. “You the one good at sketching? You the big creative talent?”

  Persephone, holding Bella close, is incredulous, asking AnnaLee: “It that what you really said about me?”

  “She say she think your subject matter crazy, but she also think maybe you turn out to be some kind of artistic genius.” Mrs. Wang steps back, studying Persephone. “I think same thing about my granddaughter. Except she genius with design—with decorating. She doing design for Mrs. Jahn’s party. You want to meet fellow genius?”

  “Yeah, I guess…” Persephone’s shrug is uncertain.

  AnnaLee takes Bella from Persephone—and Mrs. Wang calls to a slender, stylish girl who is arranging a display in one of the store’s windows. “Rebecca! I want you say hello to somebody who is great artist, like you.”

  As soon as Mrs. Wang has started Persephone toward the window with a brisk push, she turns to AnnaLee, and in a low whisper, asks: “I told you when party is, right?”

  AnnaLee nods. “Yes. It’s all I can think about. I’ve had it on my calendar for weeks but—”

  “Don’t worry. Don’t worry.” Mrs. Wang has noticed that the heavily jeweled woman, Mrs. Jahn, is walking toward them. Mrs. Wang quickly drops her voice even lower as she tells AnnaLee: “I take care of everything. After I introduce you, if she doesn’t think of it herself, I make sure she invite you.”

  Now that the woman has come closer, AnnaLee sees that she is probably in her late sixties and has had skillfully done plastic surgery. Her face is as seamless as the shell of a freshly laid egg; the only spark of life is in her eyes. They’re trusting and kind.

  “I’m Amelia Jahn. My husband and I recently bought the old Evans estate on Bricklane Road and we—” She stops and leans in toward Bella, marveling at her. “What a precious little girl.” Then she asks AnnaLee: “Have you and your family lived here long?”

  “I was born here, in the next town over, in Glen Cove. I went away to college, and after that to Manhattan—I was a dancer. Then for a while, when my husband got his first job after law school, we lived in New Jersey. I came back here just after my daughter was born and we moved into the house where I was raised.”

  “Oh, how wonderful for you! This is such a lovely area.”

  “You should see her house where she live with her husband,” Mrs. Wang says. “Home of very old family. Many antiques. Very beautiful.”

  AnnaLee is blushing, embarrassed by this shell game she’s playing.

  “You grew up here.” There is excitement in Mrs. Jahn’s voice. “You must know quite a few people.”

  “Oh, she know all the important families,” Mrs. Wang says.

  “I would love to get acquainted with some of my neighbors.” Mrs. Jahn is addressing this to AnnaLee with deference, and eagerness.

  “I’d be happy to introduce you,” AnnaLee tells her. “I can only imagine how difficult it must be to make friends in a place where you don’t know anyone at all.”

  Mrs. Jahn’s face lights with sudden inspiration, and she says: “I’m having an end-of-summer gala in two weeks. The guests are mostly business associates of my husband’s. All Manhattan people. No one from around here. It’s a costume party—a Gatsby theme.”

  “Great Gatsby. Famous book from long time ago about Roaring Twenties,” Mrs. Wang says. “Very good theme for party.”

  “I’d be honored if you’d come.” Mrs. Jahn extends her hand to AnnaLee. “You seem so nice, I want us to know each other.”

  AnnaLee has to reposition her hold on Bella before she can accept Mrs. Jahn’s offer of a handshake. And she finds that Mrs. Jahn’s grip is warm and steady, as if the two of them are already old friends.

  “Lucky you came in at same time as Mrs. Jahn have her appointment with me today,” Mrs. Wang tells AnnaLee. Then she beams at Mrs. Jahn and adds: “Lucky thing you meet each other. Lucky because…”

  AnnaLee’s attention has shifted from Mrs. Wang to the shop’s open front door. Through it AnnaLee is seeing Jack. And it makes her think of the timeworn phrase “speak of the devil.”

  Jack is strolling along, on the other side of the street. Contentedly reading from an open book he’s holding in his hand.

  AnnaLee instinctively knows that he has just gotten off the train. She knows that, even though it’s only a few minutes before one o’clock, he has already put an end to his work
day. Because he has found it intolerable.

  And the sensation in AnnaLee is as if she’s choking. Like she’s swallowing a mouthful of lead.

  She is counting the days until Mrs. Jahn’s party—praying for a miracle.

  Livvi

  Flintridge, California ~ 2012

  The sensation of swallowing lead. This is what Livvi is experiencing while trying to make sense of what she’s seeing. The blond in Andrew’s driveway, leaning against a sleek BMW, murmuring into a cell phone. And the dark-haired child resolutely standing on Andrew’s doorstep.

  The child who is claiming her name is Grace and that the young blond is Bree, her nanny. The fancifully dressed little girl in a ruffled yellow skirt and polka-dot sneakers, who has seemingly appeared out of nowhere, clutching a stuffed pink pig and announcing: “I want my daddy.”

  It has to be a mistake, Livvi is telling herself. She’s at the wrong house. Please let it be that she’s at the wrong house.

  But there’s something in the child’s eyes, in her body language, that says she knows this place; she belongs here.

  Against all hope, already knowing the answer, Livvi asks: “What’s your daddy’s name?”

  “Andrew.”

  Livvi is heartsick.

  The little girl cocks her head and looks at Livvi as if she’s mildly confused by her. Then she simply steps around Livvi and walks into the house.

  Trying desperately to understand all of this, Livvi is following Grace into the living room—listening to Grace say: “I told Bree to bring me. For a surprise. I have something special to show Daddy.”

  Grace is eagerly looking toward the kitchen area, then toward the open bedroom door. “If nobody was here, Bree said we’d go home and have ice cream.”

  Livvi is barely able to speak. “Home? Where do you live?”

  “Palos Verdes.” Grace is scrutinizing Livvi. Intently.

  “But Palos Verdes is forty-five miles from here.” Livvi is bewildered. Grace’s story doesn’t make sense. “Why would your nanny drive all that way without finding out, first, if your…your daddy was going to be home…”