Within Arm's Reach

by Ann Napolitano

  “Listen to me for one moment. I want to apologize to you—”

  Kelly interrupts. Her sentences rush after one another. “You’re not making any sense, Mother. This is not the time to talk about apologies .” She says the word the way she would say snakes, as if it is something unpleasant and distasteful. “We have to pay attention to the subject at hand.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “You just had a car accident, remember?”

  She seems to be waiting for me to respond, so I say, “Yes, I remember.”

  “And just because you’re physically fine doesn’t mean you weren’t traumatized somehow. You aren’t safe on the road anymore.”

  “I want to talk about the way I was with you when you were young.” Kelly does not return my gaze. Her eyes are focused somewhere slightly above my head. She scans the wall filled with family photos, documentation of her childhood. She seems to be searching for something familiar, something to rest her gaze on. Something that makes sense to her.

  “Louis said you parked your car in the middle of the street. Why would you do that? You could have hurt another driver, or a pedestrian. I’ve spoken to Meggy and Theresa about this, and they agree that you should stop driving immediately.”

  I am weary again. I don’t want to argue. “Soon.”

  “Soon? What do you mean, soon?”

  “I will stop driving soon. I have one more thing I need to take care of first. Now, if you don’t mind, Kelly, you’ve exhausted me and I’d like to take a nap.”

  The conversation drags on for another tiresome minute or two while Kelly tries to confiscate the keys to my Lincoln. She apparently isn’t prepared to go so far as to snatch the keys out of my purse, so she leaves, but not before giving me her customary kiss on the cheek. I can see that the familiarity of the gesture calms her. It lets her put this disturbing visit back into some kind of order in her head.

  I decide not to continue trying this approach with my children. Maybe speaking to them one by one isn’t the best way. I should think about Easter, and what I might say to them as a group. Individually, they will each think I am off my rocker. It will not occur to them that I am just being honest. Or maybe Kelly did recognize that and that was what scared her. I’m not sure any child really wants to know their parent, or vice versa. Maybe that knowledge and that truth are too much. I’m not sure. These are new thoughts for me, and I need to find a way through them. I am not accustomed to having new thoughts, and at seventy-nine am not at all thrilled to have to learn.

  THE NEXT morning, I drive to early-morning Mass, and then from St. Francis’s to the girls’ house on Holly Court. I let myself in the back door with my key. I fill the kettle and place it on the stove. I sit in the sturdiest chair at the kitchen table and keep both feet on the floor. I am wearing my good tweed skirt with a pink blouse. I don’t mind waiting for Gracie to wake up.

  Lila comes downstairs first. She is wearing her work outfit of thin blue pants and a matching top. She smiles to see me. “Feeling better, Gram? How did you get here?”

  “I drove. And, as you can see, I’m fine.”

  “I told Mom you were. But she said you’d decided not to drive anymore.”

  “That’s not quite true. I want to thank you, Lila, for looking in on me in the hospital.”

  Lila blushes at the very top of her cheeks. “Don’t be silly, Gram. I just sat with you for a few minutes. It’s not like I did anything.”

  “Well, I appreciated what you did do. Is your sister here?”

  Lila opens and leans into the refrigerator. Her voice travels over her shoulder with the frosty air. “You came over to see Gracie?”

  “I want to talk to her, yes.”

  Lila emerges with an apple and a container of yogurt. “I should tell you that I found an apartment over by St. Francis’s. I can’t move in for a few weeks, but I signed the lease and it’s all set.”

  I nod my disappointment. “Well, if that makes you happy, Lila, then I’m glad for you.”

  “It makes me happy,” Lila says, looking anything but happy. “I have to go to the hospital now, so I’ll see you later, Gram. Have a nice chat with Gracie.” In a blur of movement Lila kisses me on the cheek, then is out the back door and I am left alone.

  I am struck by the similarity between my conversation with Kelly and this short one with Lila. Both mother and daughter like all conversations to go their way, with their topics, their themes, and their desired results. They are displeased when someone else takes control. I’m not quite sure what Lila was hoping for from me this morning, but it is clear that I didn’t provide it.

  Still, I’m glad to have a few moments alone with my tea. I need the time to brace myself, because I have found that when I see Gracie now, I cannot help but remember back to when I carried my children, and to remember that time is not pleasant. My pregnancies got harder, and seemingly longer and more enveloping, as I went along. My first pregnancy was perfect. I was filled with energy, overjoyed that I was starting my family and that I had made Patrick so proud. At night I would have vivid dreams about the family I would raise, and about how I would be a more dependable, solid, presentable mother than my own mother was. I was tired when I was carrying Kelly, but still strong.

  Pat was a big baby, however, and weighed heavily inside me. I went into labor early with him, during the same week we buried our firstborn. The delivery was long and exhausting. I was unable to focus and it seemed he would never come out. After Pat, the pregnancies were more work. They came one after another in an endless row. Like my labor with my first son, I wondered if they would ever end. The children took over my body. They filled up my small frame, and squeezed me out. I grew quieter, harder.

  Although who I was became less noticeable as my children developed their own voices, it was always the case that when I did speak, they heard me loud and clear. I ran a tight ship. And underneath the imposed order, and the personalities my children were developing, and the relentless kicks of new life in my womb, I listened to the silence my first daughter left behind, and, later, to the silence of the twins. One boy and one girl who never drew a breath, never opened their eyes.

  I was anxious during my pregnancy with the twins. I was busy taking care of Patrick and the children the entire time, and I slept so soundly at night that I never dreamed. I would wake up every morning with a gasp, flushed with panic. That sense of anxiety stuck with me after the birth. I was a wreck while I was carrying Ryan. Even though I had scorned my own mother for always hiding in a closet during thunderstorms, to my shame more than once during that pregnancy I found myself in the coat closet shaking and praying for this baby to be all right.

  I never spoke of any of the children I had lost. It was dangerous to mention our little girl in front of my husband, but I wouldn’t have even if that weren’t the case. When Kelly or Pat or even Ryan asked about their brother or sisters, I pretended not to hear them. I sent them to their room. I told them to recheck their homework, straighten out their drawers, set the table, take out the garbage, dress the baby. I laid my quiet down all around them. Their father told them stories of Ireland and leprechauns and lads and lasses and green clovers and the blue sea, and I told them to speak only when spoken to. When they were disobedient, I punished them. When they were very bad, I threatened to send them to their father. I demanded their respect. I was, for the most part, a solid, dependable, and presentable mother. I did what I had to do, and I did it well.

  But the lightness was gone. After the twins I did not lose anyone for decades, not until my parents, and then, later, Patrick. But I found motherhood to be a place where I was constantly poised for disaster, braced for loss. Every flaw and weakness in my children I tried to point out and destroy. I urged them to be strong, and tough, and cautious, and especially to be durable.

  And I suppose that I was successful, as they have all reached adulthood. My grandchildren have reached adulthood, too, and with them I was able to refind my lightness. I have loved
my oldest granddaughter purely, with no motive, until now. Now everything has changed. My heart groans when Gracie walks into the kitchen reading a letter.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  I spoke softly, but still Gracie jumps. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and stacks of letters make the pockets of her bathrobe bulge. “Gram, hi. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. Then I let a cloud of silence sit down around us. I want Gracie to know that what is coming is important. Only when I see fear round the corners of her expression do I continue.

  “Do you remember how your grandfather would talk to you and your cousins about what it means to be Irish?”

  Gracie nods. “Whenever he drank too much.”

  I glance down at my hands in my lap. Beneath the age spots and the blue veins, they are the same hands I raised my children with. They are the same hands I parked on my hips while I told my children which parts of themselves they needed to cultivate so they would be able to survive in a hard world. Now it’s time for me to do that work again.

  “As you know, Gracie, I was never much for that kind of talk. But I think that perhaps since Patrick’s been gone, you and your sister have forgotten what he was trying to teach you. He wanted to educate you children about who you are, even when he told those silly tales. I’ve been thinking about a story my mother used to tell about a neighbor in Ireland who she called an Irish dreamer. And when I say a dreamer, I mean a real dreamer, not a drunk. He would walk out his front door every morning and put his finger up in the air to see which way the wind blew. He would turn his finger in every which direction, eyes squinted, pipe clenched tight between his teeth. When he finally thought he’d figured the wind out, he’d be ready to start off to work. There were a few ways he could get to his job—on the back road, down the main avenue, or cutting through the next yard. He would turn his entire body first in one direction, then another. When he thought he had made his choice, he would raise his right knee and lean forward, but he never quite took a step. He would stand there all day long, the children mocking him, the housewives shaking their heads. Of course, he soon had no job to get to, but each morning he went through the same routine. My mother said he died out there one morning, his knee raised up in the air, hoping to make a decision. I’m sure the last part wasn’t true. That was the kind of ending my mother liked to give stories. No doubt he had a heart attack or died in his sleep, but the point is the same.”

  Gracie has her hands on the pockets of her bathrobe. “Gram, why—?”

  I give a sharp nod, to shush her. “The point, Gracie, is that some of the Irish are like that, locked in indecision, swinging from one possibility to another. And for people like that, sometimes the most dangerous thing is when they accidentally make a big decision. When they do take that step, it’s because someone pushed them, or because they tripped.”

  I see now, from the look on her face, that Gracie is getting it. “You think I’m like that? I’m like the man who can’t get himself to work?”

  “You need to make something of your life before life makes something of you.”

  Gracie just stares at me. When I look back, I realize for the first time that Gracie’s pale blue eyes are the exact shade of my mother’s eyes, and my firstborn daughter’s. The realization jars me—how could I not have noticed that before?—but only for a moment. I push the feeling away.

  I cross my legs, right over left. Even with only one foot on the floor, there is no dizziness. That is good, as I have only started to say what I came to say. “Gracie, are you planning to marry Joel?”

  Gracie takes a letter out of her pocket and grips it with both hands. “Why would you think— Joel and I broke up.”

  “You’re planning to raise this child by yourself?”

  She blinks hard, like a child pushing back tears. I have to remind myself that Gracie’s twenty-nine years old. She looks half that. “How did you—”

  “I bore nine children myself. I know what a pregnant woman looks like.” I am happy with the timber of my voice: confident, steady, clear. I sound like the woman Patrick married because she was nearly always right. I recognize myself, and that feels wonderful. “You must need money. How much should I give you right now? We can work out a schedule of payments for the future.”

  “Gram, I’m going to figure that out for myself. I have a lot that I need to figure out. I don’t expect you to fix this for me.” And now Gracie is crying; fat tears run down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Gram. I know I must be a disappointment to you. You think I’m indecisive. . . . I never wanted . . .”

  “Don’t go losing your head, Gracie. No tears. What’s done is done. I’ll write you a check and you and the baby will be able to live comfortably. I’ll help you.”

  Gracie seems to notice the letter in her hands for the first time. She folds it carefully and puts it in her pocket. “I have a system for my letters,” she says. “The right pocket of my bathrobe is for trivial letters, the ones with small, easy questions. The left pocket is for the tougher situations, things like depression and bereavement.”

  “I don’t give a fig about the damn letters,” I say.

  I have always thought that Gracie’s job was ludicrous. People should keep their problems to themselves. The very idea of publishing your concerns, much less your family’s problems, in the local newspaper is reprehensible. I am embarrassed for those women who in times of need turn to a perfect stranger instead of turning to God. And I am not pleased that Gracie thinks she can help these strangers. It is like volunteering to captain a lifeboat that is stranded with no oars in the middle of the ocean. These women are clearly past help. It is a losing battle and my granddaughter will lose right along with them.

  Gracie says in a pleading tone, “You can lecture me if you want, Gram. I don’t mind. I know you must think this is very irresponsible of me, even immoral. I just want you to understand.”

  “What exactly do you want me to understand?”

  My granddaughter’s cheeks are shining, but the tears have stopped. “Why don’t you think I can do this? How can you be so sure?”

  I reach into my purse and pull out the checkbook. “Obviously I wish you would have waited until you were married, but I do not believe in ending pregnancies. I am going to take care of you and this child. I am going to help you steer your life in an appropriate direction. I’m not going to sit back and watch you bounce from boyfriend to boyfriend anymore, Gracie. I’m not going to watch you wander through your life without a plan. This baby will be well cared for and loved, and you will be back on your feet, if it is the last thing I do. You will both be safe.”

  Gracie seems to struggle for a minute for words, then says in a blank voice, “Okay.”

  “Now, before I leave, I’m sure you have expenses like doctor’s visits and vitamins that you need to pay for in the near future. How much shall I write the first check for?”

  Gracie, tiny in her bathrobe, shakes her head. “I can’t . . . I have no . . .”

  “I can’t talk to you, Gracie, if you can’t even finish a proper sentence. I’ll leave you a starting amount of money, and then you let me know how much more is necessary.”

  When Gracie sees me to the back door and then watches me walk away, I think I hear her saying after me, under her breath, instead of good-bye, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

  BEHIND THE huge wheel of my Lincoln, I feel a little badly that I took such a hard line with Gracie. But I am not pleased with her, or for her. This pregnancy is wrong, and I can’t tell her it isn’t just to make her feel better. I wish her parents had made her spend more time in church as a child. One of the problems with her generation is that their collective sense of right and wrong is too flexible, and they just end up confusing themselves with too many options.

  However, I can’t deny that the news of this baby has made me happy. I had feared I would not live to see a great-grandchild, and having four generations of McLaughlins in the world at one
time is a lovely thought. Beyond that, my pleasure is more complicated. The strings are crisscrossed to the point that I can’t see the beginning or ending of the knot. Gracie’s infant is now inextricably linked to those moments in my car before the accident, reaching for and worrying about my own lost babies. I know, with a pang beneath my ribs, that I will do anything for the first of my great-grandchildren.

  I drive home slowly. I am cautious, with Kelly’s doubting voice in my ear. I press down on the brake a few blocks before each green light, anticipating it will turn red. I take the turns wide. I put my blinker on well in advance. When I pull into the assisted-living center’s parking lot, and into the spot that was assigned to me after its previous owner had a stroke, or a heart attack, or died, I turn off the engine and put the ignition key into my purse for the last time.

  I am now, sixty-two years after earning my license, a non-driver.

  This is not a depressing moment. I have, after all, always been the one to decide when the next phase of my life will begin. I make my own rules. I live by my own choices. No one tells me what to do. I will not bend on this point until it is absolutely necessary. And now, after twenty-four delusion-free hours, that time of personal surrender is the furthest thing from my mind.

  GRACIE

  Grayson leans across a desk that is messy with loose stacks of paper, half-empty soda cans, and plastic bags filled with quarters and says, “What gives?”

  I purposely wore my vintage pink-lensed glasses to this meeting so Grayson wouldn’t be able to study my eyes. He is big on studying eyes, listening to the tone you use, noting whether you fidget or not. He is a newspaperman, and he likes to gather information. For the three years I’ve known him, he has been gathering information on me, first as a girlfriend, then as an employee. Sometimes I am tempted to ask him what he plans to do with everything he has learned about Gracie Leary. But most of the time I don’t want to draw attention to the subject. I consider myself lucky to have successfully withheld one big secret from Grayson for the past two and a half years. To protect that one secret, I am willing to do anything. I almost don’t mind the fact that I have to tell him about this pregnancy today, soon, any minute.