The Book of Someday

by Dianne Dixon

  And Micah feels as if she is already dead.

  After a long beat of emptiness, nothingness, Micah gets up from the floor, goes to the table where the shards of broken crystal are, retrieves the remote for the sound system, and hands it to her mother.

  Her mother fidgets with the remote. Sets it aside. Picks it up again and says: “Your father is at the house in Maine.”

  “Thank you,” Micah tells her. “That’s good to know.”

  “Well. If you’re interested…”

  “Right. Okay.”

  “Okay then.” Her mother gives Micah a bright, celebrity smile. Holds it for the length of a camera-flash. Then turns her interest to the remote, and to turning up the volume on the music.

  ***

  Micah—in the midst of her desolation—is understanding how ridiculous it was to make this trip to Newport. She should have known, even before getting on the plane, that to seek comfort from her mother would be as foolish as licking battery acid hoping for a taste of honey.

  While she’s descending the stairs of her mother’s house the rooms above are filling with the sounds of lush orchestration. With her mother’s seductively powerful voice singing, “There’s a somebody I’m longing to see…hope they’ll turn out to be…someone to watch over me.”

  Through the tears welling in her eyes, Micah is seeing the face of the only person who has ever, truly, watched over her. The one person who loved her in the way she’d always wanted to be loved. The woman in the silver dress and pearl-button shoes. The best and kindest human being Micah has ever known.

  AnnaLee

  Glen Cove, Long Island ~ 1986

  Innocence, AnnaLee is thinking. It’s something I never dreamed I’d associate with Persephone, but unbelievably here it is. Innocent is the only way to describe how she looks right now.

  Persephone is in the garden, sitting beside AnnaLee. In the old wooden swing. On a late August afternoon. Her head is bent low over a piece of copper wire that she’s shaping and reshaping as easily as if it were embroidery silk. The slant of the sun is washing the copper with a fiery glow, turning it into a trail of liquid light.

  Bella is hovering at Persephone’s knee, watching with fascination.

  While AnnaLee is asking: “What’s it going to be?”

  “I don’t know yet, but isn’t this wire cool?” Persephone says. “I found a bunch of it when I was with Rebecca Wang, helping get everything ready for the party at Mrs. Jahn’s estate. Rebecca came up with the idea that the dance floor should be inside a really pretty gazebo and the carpenter that’s working on it—or maybe it was the electrician—left pieces of this stuff all over the place. You should see the gorgeous decorations Rebecca has come up with. Mrs. Wang was right, her granddaughter really is a genius.”

  Persephone is glowing with enthusiasm. “The party’s going to be incredible. And Rebecca is like out-of-this-world nice. I’m not just one of the people helping her anymore—she made me her assistant. And guess what? She said I’m the most creative visual thinker she’s ever met. Can you believe that?”

  “Yes,” AnnaLee says. “I believed it the first time I saw one of your sketches.”

  “Really, that’s what you think? You really think I’m good at being creative?”

  “Yes. You’re tremendously talented.”

  Persephone returns to working with the copper wire. “I used to really like doing sketches and I still do, but—”

  Bella, fascinated by the sunlit wire, is doing her best to tug it out of Persephone’s hand.

  AnnaLee lifts Bella’s rag doll from the seat of the swing and Bella immediately loses interest in the copper wire, happily taking the Raggedy Ann instead.

  Persephone is now sitting cross-legged in the swing, facing AnnaLee, leaning toward her, confiding: “I’m really good at sketching, but after working with Rebecca on Mrs. Jahn’s gala, I’m starting to think there might be other things I could be even better at. AnnaLee, it’s like for the past few weeks I’ve been finding out I’m good at all kinds of different stuff. Like sewing. I mean, who knew? I never really sewed anything before Rebecca taught me how.”

  She seems both bashful and proud as she’s explaining to AnnaLee: “There’re going to be these mannequins around the pool dressed like characters from the Gatsby book. Rebecca let me design some of the costumes and she showed me how to sew them. I had to work like a maniac to get it right, but they turned out great.” Persephone’s voice drops into an amazed whisper. “Rebecca said the geometry of the designs was outstanding, so did Mrs. Jahn. They said the way I see shape and pattern is unique.”

  AnnaLee is seeing the darkness that has been in Persephone since her arrival in Glen Cove being eclipsed by the elation of self-discovery. In celebration, AnnaLee is drawing Persephone into a warm hug.

  When they move apart, AnnaLee brushes Persephone’s forehead with a kiss; Persephone seems startled. “You do that with Bella sometimes,” she says. Then with poignant uncertainty, she asks: “Why do you do it with me?”

  AnnaLee sighs and smiles. “Believe that I love you…won’t you please?”

  Persephone ducks her head—delighted and tongue-tied. She picks up the copper wire again, giving it her full concentration, braiding it into a series of intricate loops and knots.

  “I heard Mrs. Jahn wants you and Rebecca to come to the party as invited guests,” AnnaLee says. “Have you decided what to wear?”

  “Rebecca and I are making our costumes from fabric remnants, stuff from Mrs. Wang’s shop.” Persephone’s expression changes; she’s worried. “But, AnnaLee, what about you? The stuff the adults will be wearing is really expensive. A lot of the women are having their outfits custom-made by big-time designers who do Broadway shows.”

  It’s as if AnnaLee is being doused with ice water. She never guessed that Persephone, in the short time she’s been here, has already noticed the money problems.

  “I’m planning to dress up as a Ziegfeld girl,” Persephone is saying. “Have you ever seen how cool their costumes were? I found some fabric in the back room at Mrs. Wang’s that’s perfect. It’s sort of the same shade as those flowers over there.” Persephone is pointing toward a bank of coral-colored day-lilies at the edge of the lawn.

  “A Ziegfeld girl?” AnnaLee asks. “Are you sure? Some of the things they wore were pretty skimpy.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like I’m going to be in real clothes. It’ll be a costume, from like a million years ago, in the 1920s. And anyway since the sixties everybody and their granny walks around in miniskirts. So basically it doesn’t make any difference if I’m in something skimpy.”

  Bella, clutching her Raggedy Ann, is climbing into Persephone’s lap as Persephone adds: “It’s the eighties, AnnaLee—skimpy isn’t what it used to be.”

  There’s a chuckle of laughter from the terrace. AnnaLee looks up. She sees Jack walking down the steps, coming toward the swing, carrying two brown grocery bags. She reflexively checks her watch.

  “It’s five-thirty,” he says. In spite of its lightness, his tone has a hint of irritation. “I thought I’d put in a little overtime.”

  Then Jack smiles and holds up the grocery bags. “Lobsters, fresh corn, and two quarts of handmade peach ice cream. No kitchen duty for you tonight, Lee. I’m taking care of dinner.”

  “Wow, Uncle Jack. It’s really easy to tell that you and my dad are only half-brothers. You two are like totally opposite. For my dad, midnight is knocking off early. It’s cool how different you are from him.” Persephone, with Bella at her side, is taking the grocery bags from Jack and heading toward the house.

  “See?” Jack says, as he’s kissing AnnaLee. “I’m cool.”

  And AnnaLee smiles. Because, in many ways, he is very cool.

  Jack loosens his tie, stretches out on the grass in front of the swing, and begins to gently massage AnnaLee’s bare feet. Then he asks: “So what’s this about skimpy not being what it used to be?”

  “It’s nothing really. We wer
e just talking about outfits for Mrs. Jahn’s party.”

  AnnaLee is tense—the party is an issue she and Jack have been tap-dancing around for days. “You’ll need to figure out a costume,” she tells him. “So will I.”

  He grins and says: “We won’t need to come up with costumes if we don’t go.”

  “We have to go,” she snaps.

  “Why?”

  “Because—” AnnaLee is frustrated by how difficult Jack is making this. “We have to go because working on this party has transformed Persephone, made her happy. Changed her whole world. She’s looking forward to going. We can’t disappoint her.”

  “Then I think she should go. We’ll drive her there, come back and pick her up, and let her tell us all about it on the way home.”

  AnnaLee is desperate for Mrs. Jahn to meet Jack as soon as possible; she’s sounding more strident than she intends to as she says: “We were invited, Jack. We don’t have a choice. We need to be there.”

  He’s quietly observing her, mystified by her intensity.

  AnnaLee hasn’t told Jack that their attendance at the party is a setup and that she’s hoping it will be a first step toward finding him a job that he’ll work at for eight hours a day—a job where he might finally make a dependable living.

  She’s attempting to keep things light by suggesting: “Maybe all you’ll need is to slick your hair down and wear your old tuxedo. Nothing says ‘Gatsby at a Gala’ better than a side-part and a tux, right?”

  AnnaLee had hoped to sound breezy and carefree—she knows she wasn’t even close.

  Jack is sitting up now. On guard. And watchful. As if it’s occurring to him that they’re talking about something much bigger, more significant, than a party, and he’s trying to come to a decision about what he wants to say—about how much blame he wants to accept.

  A complicated series of emotions is playing across his face. “I’m no good at parties, Lee. I’m no good at a lot of things. Too many things. And I know I make you unhappy.”

  “You don’t make me unhappy, Jack. It’s—”

  “I know, I know. It’s the money thing.”

  If you understand the problem, why don’t you ever do anything to fix it? AnnaLee wonders.

  And Jack is saying: “Lee, I’m trying my best to give you what you want. That’s why I’ve been putting in more hours at work lately. For you. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy.”

  AnnaLee understands that Jack means every word he has just said—that he loves her beyond measure. But this is the same conversation we’ve had, the same breaking-point we’ve come to a million times before, she’s thinking. It’s where we always end up. With me pushed to the brink. And you acting like it’s the first time I’ve been there. You scramble around trying to reassure me, save me, by throwing yourself into a whirlwind of longer hours and fatter paychecks. Then once the crisis has passed, you slide back…little by little…into being slow and quiet and dreamy. You go back to being Jack. Then when the bills start piling up again, I go back to being afraid. And angry. Scared I won’t have the strength to keep going…

  “What’re you thinking?” Jack is asking.

  The only thing AnnaLee can do is to give him a weak smile. Because she loves him and can’t bear the thought of hurting him.

  “Don’t stop believing in me, Lee, please, please don’t.” Jack’s words are chaotic, rapid—like a frantic prayer.

  “Jack, I just need you to—”

  He is immediately interrupting her. “I’m sorry, Lee. I apologize. I’m no good at my profession. I’m lousy at being a lawyer, no good at truth-bending and backstabbing. We both know I’d be out on my ass if my brother wasn’t a client and his legal work didn’t bring the firm a steady income. I’m a failure at the law for the same reason I was a washout as a doctor. I can’t stand the bloodletting. I don’t have big enough balls.”

  “Jack. Please. We’re only talking about a party, a couple of hours.”

  “You’re wrong. We’re talking about me, Lee. About me letting you down one more time. Because not only am I lousy at my job—I’m lousy at socializing. I’m not good at bullshit and small talk.”

  Jack’s expression is painfully defenseless as he’s explaining: “The things I am good at, nobody cares about. Not in a man anyway. I’m good at thinking, Lee. And learning, and reading. I love peace, and books. I crave being at home with my family. I’m good at loving my wife and my daughter. The truth is I would never leave you, or Bella, or this place, if I didn’t have to.”

  He seems heartbroken. “Whether or not we want to admit it, Lee, the things that make me who I am are what make me a sorry excuse for a husband.”

  AnnaLee has left the swing to sit on the grass, beside Jack. Her arms have gone around him and her lips are pressed close to his ear. She’s whispering: “You’re not a sorry excuse for a husband. You’re a man who hasn’t found his place, that’s all. You graduated from medical school—and from law school—with honors. You’re brilliant. I believe in you. I just need you to believe too.”

  Jack’s sobs are wrenching. “I want to be the man you need, Lee. I don’t want to let you down.”

  “Then don’t. Keep looking. Keep searching. Find where you’re supposed to be. That’s all I need.”

  AnnaLee can feel Jack holding on to her with every ounce of love and strength he possesses. “I’ll take care of you, Lee,” he’s promising. “I’ll kill and die for you. I swear.”

  ***

  As AnnaLee is entering the darkened living room and switching on the lights, the hope that Jack might finally find a way to earn a decent living is tantalizing her to the point of torment. It’s eleven-thirty and she’s roaming the house. Wide awake, too unsettled to sleep.

  She’s thinking about Mrs. Jahn’s gala; worried that Jack, at the last minute, will retreat into his shell and refuse to attend.

  While she’s trying to come up with a way to keep Jack on track, AnnaLee is crossing the room, and going to the fireplace. Where the only thing on the mantle is the blue-and-white porcelain. The vase that, in its singleness, is the symbol of her difficulty with Jack. She needs to put it away—somewhere where she doesn’t have to look at it.

  As she’s taking the porcelain from the mantle, she is recalling the heart-wrenching day when she sold its mate. She’s remembering Mrs. Wang saying, “No honor in a man who look at a woman for his support.”

  Hearing that comment had made AnnaLee hideously embarrassed. For herself, and for Jack. And later that day when the full loss of the vase, her mother’s wedding present, finally hit—AnnaLee had briefly wished she’d never met Jack.

  And now, in remembering that, she’s letting herself wonder, What would a life without Jack have been like? Would it have been better? What if some other doctor had been on duty that night in Brooklyn? And Jack and I never even saw each other? How would my life have turned out? If I’d come home, here, to Glen Cove to recuperate instead of—

  She is suddenly thinking of Bella.

  Without Jack there would be no Bella.

  AnnaLee knows that her musings are pointless. She has nothing, really, to wonder about. Bella is AnnaLee’s life. Jack, with all his flaws, is AnnaLee’s love. Her story has been written; there is no alternate version.

  After putting the porcelain vase into a cabinet beside the fireplace, and just before turning off the light, AnnaLee pauses to straighten a painting near the wall switch.

  When she leaves the darkened living room, she’s worrying about the party, about it being a costume affair; worrying about finding a way to get Jack to willingly attend; worrying about money, and the fact that property taxes will soon be due.

  It isn’t until she’s halfway down the hall, fretfully wandering through the house again, that AnnaLee is recalling what she did just before she left the living room—her absentminded straightening of a painting. The portrait of a beautiful young woman in a silver dress and pearl-button shoes.

  The straightening of that portrait w
as a small, seemingly insignificant gesture. And yet, in thinking about it now, AnnaLee is finding an unexpected glimmer of inspiration.

  Livvi

  Rolling Hills Estates, California ~ 2012

  The amount of time that has passed since Andrew lifted Grace from Livvi’s bed and carried her out of Livvi’s house has been short and profoundly significant. Two months. In which Livvi has discovered how conflicted her feelings about Andrew are—and how essential and all-encompassing her love for Grace is.

  There have been moments in the past eight weeks when Livvi was convinced she never wanted to see Andrew again. There have been other moments when she desired him so much she was on fire. And there hasn’t been an instant when she wasn’t missing Grace. When she wasn’t loving her, and concerned about her—longing to be with her.

  Now, after several days of phone calls, and late-into-the-afternoon lunches, and sweet lovemaking, and promises that there will be no more lies—no more secrets—Livvi is in Andrew’s silver Mercedes. Entering the countrified splendor of a community tucked between the Pacific Coast Highway and the Pacific Ocean. A green and glorious place called Rolling Hills Estates.

  The road Livvi and Andrew are traveling—the entire length of it—is bordered by a whitewashed, split-rail fence. Inside the fence is a bridle path lined with a colonnade of pepper trees. The leaves on the trees are slender, light green: the branches are willowy, slowly lifting and falling on the ebb and flow of the breeze. Beneath the trees, soft earth is being turned under the cantering hooves of passing horses. Making the bridle path look like a ribbon of brown velvet.

  “It’s beautiful here,” Livvi murmurs.

  “Yeah. It was a great spot to grow up in.” Andrew’s right hand is resting, lightly, on Livvi’s thigh. He has been in physical contact with Livvi, caressing her, touching her, for the entirety of their drive, as if he’s trying to keep this fragile new beginning from slipping out of his grasp.