by Wiess, Laura
Family heirlooms.
My family.
We finally had something beautiful worth passing down.
The thought made me tear up all over again, and I quick grabbed my stocking and rummaged back through it like I was searching for something, but really, I just wanted to keep the feeling to myself because I knew I could never explain it.
The third time I cried there was no way I could hide it and I didn’t even try.
“This is a gift from Santa to all of us,” Aunt Loretta said near the end, picking up a thin, rectangular box wrapped in silver paper and pausing a moment, as if wondering who to hand it to. Her gaze fell on me and she smiled. “Let’s let Sayre open it.”
“Okay,” I said eagerly, pulling off the bow and sticking it on the front of my shirt with all the others. I pried up the tape on each end—I was a slow unwrapper, always wanting to make things last—and opened the paper. “Oh, how pretty!” It was a piece of needlepoint in a wooden frame, like a little poem, with all kinds of holly leaves and berries embroidered around it. “Did you make this, Aunt Loretta?”
“Santa brought it,” she said, lips twitching. “What does it say? Read it aloud.”
“Okay,” I said, and taking a deep breath, read:
“‘The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree:
the presence of a happy family
all wrapped up in each other.
—Burton Hillis
Our First Family Christmas
Loretta Galen, Beale Galen, Dianne Huff, Sayre Bellavia
And our beloved Baby-in-Waiting.’”
By the time I got to the end my voice was wobbling and my nose running and I couldn’t see the needlepoint anymore, so I thrust it at Beale, threw my arms around Aunt Loretta and, hugging her, whispered, “Thank you.”
“Merry Christmas, honey,” she whispered back and held and rocked me while my mother opened Beale’s surprise gift to her, which was a pretty amethyst promise ring that had been passed down in his family for ages. Beale slid it on her finger, and when she stared at it, dazed, he told her it was a Galen family tradition that this amethyst ring stood in the place of a real engagement ring until the diamond was picked out.
They were going to be married.
Winter Becomes Spring
IT SNOWED AND SNOWED.
The bus almost slid off the road three times.
Beale started driving my mother to and from work, and sometimes when the roads were really icy, she’d just call and tell them she couldn’t get in. She fretted on those nights, worried about her money because she still insisted on paying rent and no matter what Beale said to try and soothe her, she just brushed it aside and kept worrying.
Jillian and I weren’t in the same classes but we had lunch together every day. Sometimes we had spitball fights with Trey and his friends, sometimes we thought they were gross and didn’t even want to look at them. We didn’t hang out much after school because she lived all the way across Sullivan and her mother didn’t like to drive in the snow, and Beale was usually too busy working or driving my mother around to haul me all the way down the mountain to town for a few short hours.
Beale gave my mother chocolates on Valentine’s Day but they couldn’t go out to dinner because it was snowing really hard and the wind was whipping, and the roads got treacherous, so Aunt Loretta and I put candles on the dining room table and made them a romantic dinner of stuffed flounder and baked potatoes. She tied one of her aprons around me and I became the waitress serving them.
“Oh, you can’t be serious,” my mother said when Beale ushered her in and pulled out her chair. She looked at the lit candles, the good china, the low lights, and me at the other side of the room trying to get the soft music going from the little stereo. Smiling, she shook her head and let him help seat her. “Did you do this?” she asked when Beale sat down across the table.
“Not me,” he said, grinning and sitting back as I hustled over and filled his water glass. “Talk to your daughter.”
She cocked her head and glanced sideways at me from under her hair. “Was this your idea?”
I gave her a look, pulled a pad and pen from my pocket, and cleared my throat. “Hello. Happy Valentine’s Day. My name is Sayre and I’ll be your server this evening.”
“Hello, Sayre,” my mother said, lips twitching.
“I highly recommend our special tonight,” I said, looking at Beale, who was clearly enjoying himself. “We have a delicious stuffed flounder with a salad, baked potato, peas and . . . uh . . . oh, fresh rolls and butter.” I beamed at him, pleased I’d remembered.
“Dianne?” Beale asked.
“That sounds good,” my mother said.
“Make that two,” Beale said, and then with a mischievous look, picked up his fork and examined it. “Um, waitress? Can I get another fork? This one is spotty.”
“It is not!” I exclaimed, indignant. “I polished the silverware myself. It’s fine.”
“Okay,” he said meekly, giving my mother a laughing look. “Oh, and, waitress? Don’t tell the cook I said that. I don’t want her spitting in my food.”
My jaw dropped. “Beale! Aunt Loretta wouldn’t—”
He and my mother cracked up and then I got it, so giggling and calling out, “I’m telling!” I ran back to the kitchen to tell her exactly what Beale had said.
“Wretched boy,” she said, chuckling and wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I’ve got a good mind to stick a sock in his flounder.” She handed me the basket of rolls. “Ah well, tonight’s their first Valentine’s Day together so I guess I’ll let it pass. Now here, take those in and come back for the salads.”
It was a fun holiday, and so was Easter when it finally came. The snow had mostly melted and we went to church in the morning. My mother went, too, because her morning sickness had stopped and she was showing some now, and besides having a bad case of cabin fever from holing up in the farmhouse half the winter with nothing big to do, I’d finally told her what Jillian Jergenmeier’s mother had said all those months ago. . . .
“Who called me a skank?” my mother said, turning from the mirror where she was in the middle of examining a pimple and staring at me in outrage.
“Jillian Jergenmeier’s mother,” I said matter-of-factly, winding a Band-Aid around my pinkie where Stormy had scratched me.
“Jillian Jerg . . . who? Jesus Christ, Sayre, that doesn’t tell me anything! What’s her mother’s name?”
I thought a minute, and said brightly, “Mrs. Jergenmeier?”
“Oh, for— Wait a minute.” My mother grew thoughtful. “Let me think. She said we were in the same class at school? And her best friend was Monique? Wait . . . oh God, who the hell was that skinny girl with the thick ankles who always wore those stupid denim capris and ugly flat sandals? She was really short, like a pygmy, but she walked around like she was hot shit . . . Candy shoved her off the blenchers once, just for being annoying.” Her face lit up. “Karrie Troik! That’s it. Yeah, come to think of it, I remember hearing that she married some military guy with a funky last name but that was years ago. . . .” Her expression blackened into a scowl. “She called me a skank? Oh, that’ll be the day.”
I tried to tell her that Jillian’s mother had said she was only a skank when she was on drugs, not now, but she wasn’t listening. Instead, she got all dressed up, determined to walk into that church and really give Jillian’s mother something to talk about.
The best part of Easter, besides the ham, was standing in the pew between Aunt Loretta and Beale singing “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today,” seeing the sun glowing through the stained-glass windows and the amethyst promise ring on my mother’s hand sparkling.
After the service, while Aunt Loretta was introducing me and Beale to the new youth minister, Reverend Ganzler, who had a fuzzy red beard and would be teaching our Sunday school clas
ses in September, I saw Jillian’s mother lumber over to my mother, who was standing on the sidewalk a little ways apart from us. Mrs. Jergenmeier’s smile was fake, her face makeup heavy, and I could hear the tortured swish of her panty hose rubbing as she passed. Her hair was short, dyed blond and poufy, and the wind kept catching it, lifting up whole sheaves of tight, sprayed layers and then lowering them again, which I thought looked pretty funny but my mother just stood there with an eyebrow cocked, a slight smile, and a calm, vaguely disinterested air as Jillian’s mother gushed on and on.
It wasn’t until later, on the car ride home, that my mother glanced over at Beale and said, “I can’t believe you went out with her.”
“Who?” Beale said, glancing at her, puzzled, and then, “Oh. Yeah, that was a long time ago. Back when I was young and stupid.”
“How long were you guys together?” she asked, shifting in the seat to face him.
He shrugged and signaled to take the scenic route out of town. “I don’t know.”
“A week? A month? A year?”
“I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “A couple of months. Why?”
“Just wondering,” she said lightly. “She talked like she’d practically lived up at the farm while you two were together.”
“Well, yeah, she kind of did,” Beale said, tightening his fingers on the wheel and keeping his eyes on the road. “That was the summer she graduated high school and her parents were splitting up. Ma, you and Dad took the RV out to New Mexico, remember?” He caught my mother’s raised-eyebrow look and, sealing his doom, added, “She was upset about the split, and just out to have a killer summer and forget everything for a while, you know?” Silence. “She was different back then, I mean, funny and cute and up for pretty much anything, just some wild, skinny little grunge chick—”
Instantly, the air in the car was electrified.
“Really? That’s nice,” my mother cooed, although her expression said the exact opposite.
Beale must have heard something in her voice because he glanced over and visibly started.
“So where did she sleep while she lived up here?” my mother said in a pleasant tone, like she was asking the price of lettuce. “In your room with you?”
“Well . . . yeah, I guess, I mean not always. We did some camping out in the woods and . . . God, I don’t know, it was a long time ago,” he said, gazing desperately out the side window at a wide-open field. “Hey, you guys keep your eyes open for wild turkeys. They should be moving around today.”
“Sleeping out under the stars together,” my mother mused, refusing to be diverted. “How romantic. Did you share a sleeping bag? Was it fun? We haven’t done it yet, so I wouldn’t know.”
I glanced at Aunt Loretta, who was sitting next to me in the backseat.
She shook her head, and remained silent.
“We will,” he said hurriedly, glancing over at my mother. “Maybe later, after the baby comes. You’ll love it, I promise. There’s a great spot up on the ridge near a waterfall—”
“Is that where you two camped, way back when?” my mother said.
Beale opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“Oh, so it already has good memories,” my mother said with real ice in her voice. “You know, I think I’ll pass on that, Beale. I wouldn’t want a fat, ex-pregnant chick to screw up the great memories you made there with a cute, skinny little grunge chick, you know?”
“Why are you doing this?” Beale said. “I mean, c’mon, Di, you’re not fat—”
And at the same time, I couldn’t take it anymore and blurted out, “You’re not fat, Mom. You’re really pretty.”
“That’s not the point! How do you think I felt standing there listening to her lay out all this fake-sweet bullshit about what a great guy you are and how fabulous the farm is, like the hayloft and the meadow and isn’t that antique furniture in your bedroom just to die for?” my mother whipped back, ignoring me. “Why didn’t you tell me you went out with her, Beale? I mean, I stood there smiling like a fool, totally humiliated, and she knew it because she just kept going, with stuff like Do they still have that great tire swing by the pond? Oh, that was so much fun! That water is so cold, even skinny-dipping in the summer and oh my God, he threw me in once and I screamed so loud he thought I was hurt and it was so funny because he jumped in to save me and then of course it turned into something else . . . oh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I know you two are together now and I don’t want to cause any trouble . . . ”
“Christ,” he said weakly.
“So how did you guys end?” my mother said, her gaze riveted on the side of his face.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Who broke up with who?”
His answer, when it came, was defeated. “She, uh, broke up with me.”
“Great,” my mother said, sitting back in her seat and staring straight ahead. “Just . . . great.”
We drove in silence for a moment, and then he pulled over to the side of the deserted road and stopped the car.
“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I swear I never even thought about it,” he said, unbuckling his seat belt and turning to face my mother. “It ended a long time ago, and I’m glad because she was bitchy back then, too.” He reached over, pried one of my mother’s tightly locked hands from the other, and cradled it between his own. “I don’t want her, Di, I want you. I love you. I think you’re beautiful. The prettiest girl in Dug County. Karrie was a long time ago. Come on, Di, we both have pasts. Someday I’m going to run into one of your old boyfriends somewhere and yeah, I’m going to hate it, and if he gets mouthy I’ll probably end up decking him—”
“You don’t know how close I came,” my mother muttered, but the tension in her shoulders eased some.
“Well, no matter what, I love you and only you, okay?” Beale murmured, gazing straight into her eyes.
“Okay,” my mother said grudgingly.
I exhaled as they exchanged a quick kiss, and I think Aunt Loretta did, too, and from then on I never told Jillian anything about my mother and Beale unless it was something really good because I knew she would run right home and pass it on.
Well, except for when I told her that Beale had totally forgotten he’d gone out with her mother because she was such a fat, nosy old bitch now that he hardly even recognized her, which got us in an ignoring fight for three days and then we made up, although her mother called and told Aunt Loretta what I’d said, the big tattletale, and so I kind of got into trouble.
“But she is one,” I said when Aunt Loretta sat me down at the kitchen table. “Beale said so.”
“No, that’s not what he said, and even if it was, that discussion was our own private business and not for you to repeat, especially since you did it just to hurt her feelings,” she said after a moment, sighing and looking at me like I should have known better.
“So what,” I mumbled, scowling down at the sugar bowl. “She made my mother feel bad, so that was wrong, too. Fat thing.”
“Sayre!” Aunt Loretta snapped in a voice I rarely heard. “There are worse things in life to be than fat, and one of them is ignorant. Another is prejudiced. Another is deliberately cruel. Jillian’s mother was deliberately cruel and that’s what I fault her for. Her weight is her business, not mine to judge, and not yours, either. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
And in a flash I did. “Hate the behavior, not the individual, right?” I said, sitting up straight in the chair because my grandma used to say that all the time but I never really got what it meant before.
“Exactly. I’m glad you understand, Sayre, but you’re still not allowed to use your computer for anything but schoolwork for three days,” Aunt Loretta said briskly, rising. “Now what do you say we take a couple of walking sticks and stroll around the meadow, and see if any of the wildflowers are up yet?
I’m in the mood for a spring bouquet.”
And so we did and it was such a nice day that I forgot all about being punished and just had fun watching for snakes, baby rabbits, and wildflowers. It was still too early in the year for most of the flowers, including Queen Anne’s lace, but in another month it was easy to bring home big bouquets of yellow and orange butter-and-eggs, hawkweed, violets, wild purple phlox, and orange daylilies.
And later in May, when I turned eleven, I had a wonderful, exhausting shopping spree at the mall with Jillian followed by a birthday picnic down by the pond. We had hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill, and when dusk fell, Beale sat on the porch steps and played “Stormy” on his guitar. My mother sat rocking in the porch swing, one hand on her seventh-month belly, and the other taking my hand and holding it there, too, so I could feel the baby kick. Her face was soft in the rising moonlight, as soft as I’d ever seen it, and I didn’t know which was more shocking, her holding my hand to her belly or the feel of the baby kicking against it. I wanted to ask if that hurt, if she was excited, if she wanted a boy or a girl, but I didn’t want to seem greedy and ask for more again, and make her mad, so I just smiled back and kept quiet.
When Beale finished playing I went down the steps and sat next to him. “Guess what? I just felt the baby kicking.”
He smiled down at me and said, “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said, then tugged his head down and whispered in his ear, “Beale, do you think the baby will like me?”
He leaned back, gazing at me with a strange expression, and said in a gruff voice, “This baby is going to love you, Sayre.”
“Good,” I whispered, ducking my head with happiness.
And then Aunt Loretta brought out lemon sherbet and called me the birthday girl, and with all of the contentment in the world running warm and sweet throughout me, I had no idea this bliss would not last and that eleven would turn out to be the darkest, most agonizing year of my life.
