You’re making too much of this. Please, please resign yourself, Helen. It’s the way of the world, but it’s all over now. You must rejoice in the baby. And as for the other, you must forget at last. You will ruin your life if this goes on, and you now have a responsibility toward the future. Isn’t it just that that everyone wants? Count your blessings, Helen, for once. Some people would look at your life and, even knowing all, say she has everything! I will be with you when I can, possibly early April. Keep writing to me, dear, unburden yourself, I am here to help, but try. Love to the pretty little one. Your loving sister, Mamie.
It was almost five-thirty, dawn; Betsy could sense it rather than see it in the lit room with the shades down. The birds were beginning. Betsy reached up and turned out her light. She was inexpressibly weary, and the letters, for all their warm affection, had finally begun to weigh on her like a personal sorrow. What was it with Helen? Her strict, upright grandmother was gone forever, and in her place was a grief-mad depressive. She would try later to analyze it. She would spend the day in the library trying to make practical use of her information. All this so that an old woman could be brought to this room to gaze on her wasting child, so that Violet could press her mother’s hand and die content. Betsy pictured this scene and found it terrifying, like her juvenile visualizations of her parents in bed conceiving her, kissing and moaning or whatever it was. The horror of grown-ups’ secret, exclusive lives. She blanked the whole thing out of her mind and discovered Judd there in its place, naked, slamming a door. She would think of him later, too. Schemes to counter his impatience and disapproval were more than she was capable of. A fearful question blazed dramatically through her mind like neon in the dark: Do I want anguish to be my life’s work? She slept on it.
Her mother’s voice woke her. “I remembered about my birth certificate, Betsy. It came to me in a dream.”
Betsy dragged herself back from sleep and looked at her watch. Seven-thirty. Her weariness bewildered her. She thought, I must be ill.
“I never saw it,” Violet went on. “My mother couldn’t seem to find it—this was when your dad and I got married. She was always going to get a copy, but she never did. We finally used my baptismal certificate. It seemed to do just as well.”
Betsy rubbed her eyes. Violet was sitting up in bed, wearing a lacy jacket. There were noises downstairs in the kitchen.
“Terry came on at seven, but I made her be extra quiet. She put that afghan over you. You had quite a little sleep.”
Betsy looked down. Lavender shell stitch covered the letters and her bare legs.
“Your grandpa is up,” Violet said pointedly. “He tends to pop in.”
The noise of his electric razor sounded faintly from the bathroom down the hall.
Betsy started to speak, but she was overcome by nausea. She stood up, scattering letters and afghan, and made it just in time to her mother’s metal wastebasket, where she threw up on all the candy wrappers.
“Betsy! Honey!”
“Oh God, oh God, I feel awful!” She sat down on the edge of her mother’s bed and rocked her head in her hands. Another bout of retching sent her back to the wastebasket, but it brought up nothing. She sat back down and wiped her lips with a tissue.
“Betsy, we’re going to put you right to bed. You must have that flu. Your hand is cold as ice—and clammy.”
There were firm footsteps on the stairs, the rattle of dishes. Terry the nurse appeared at the door. She was pretty, perky, brunette, unfazed. She smiled at Betsy.
“Boy, do you sleep sound.”
She set the tray on the bedside table: buns, bacon, teapot. Betsy raised both hands to her mouth and gagged.
“Terry, Betsy’s got something. She’s just thrown up, and look at her. Pale as a ghost.”
Betsy smiled wanly. “I’ll be all right.”
“Weak as a kitten.”
Terry applied her cool palm to Betsy’s brow. Betsy closed her eyes. Put me to bed, bring me ice water and flexi-straws, pills in a paper cup.…
“What is it—just nausea?”
“And I’m so tired.”
“It’s my fault, Terry,” Violet said, and her eyes actually filled with tears. “Would you believe I called her up in the middle of the night and dragged her over here?”
Betsy squeezed her mother’s hand; it was an effort. “That’s not it, Mother. How could that make me ill? No, I’ve caught something, and I think I’d better go home before you come down with it.”
She could see that Terry agreed, but Violet protested. “Put her to bed in the guest room, Terry. She shouldn’t go home, she needs looking after.”
“I’ll be looked after well enough at home. Don’t worry, Mom. I feel better, anyway.” She didn’t, though. Standing up, she felt another wave of nausea and almost sat down again.
“I think it’s better that you don’t stay,” Terry said. She inspected Betsy with an eye that looked practiced. “I don’t think it’s anything much, but I have to consider Mrs. Ruscoe.”
“It’s not anything much.” Betsy picked up all the letters and stuffed them in her purse. Terry folded the afghan and when they both stood up she felt Betsy’s head again. This time Betsy caught the scent of her perfume and held her breath.
“You feel pretty washed out, don’t you? It could be something you ate, even. Put yourself to bed, and if you feel hungry, try tea and dry toast. If you keep that down, have something else, very simple. Avoid dairy products. And apple juice is better than citrus.”
Betsy looked at her gratefully. “You think it’s just one of those twenty-four-hour things?”
“Sure looks like it.”
“Betsy, will you call me later if you’re better? If you don’t, I’ll worry. And I want to know about the you-know-whats.” Violet nodded her head three times, for emphasis.
Of course. The letters. Violet must be mad with curiosity. “Interesting, though not especially illuminating. I guess I won’t be able to get started on the project today.” Violet smiled and waved a hand: no rush. “And I’m sorry about the—” Betsy indicated the wastebasket.
“I’ll take care of that,” said Terry, putting Violet’s tray in front of her. “You take care of you.”
“What’s wrong with her?” It was her grandfather, smelling of after-shave. Kissing him, Betsy felt sick again.
“She got some kind of bug,” Violet said through her sweet bun.
“Well, what’d you bring it over here for at this hour of the morning?” The gruffness was put on, masking worry about germs.
“She’s been here all night, Dad,” said Violet. “I asked her to come over and she did, in the wee hours.”
“What the hell did you make her do that for?”
“I’m a selfish old woman. I just wanted to talk.”
“Talk to Mrs. Foster.”
“I will.” Violet put down her teacup. “Betsy, I’m sorry,” she said, and the tears came to her eyes again. Terry handed her a handkerchief, and Betsy could sense her thinking: She doesn’t cry for her own illness, just for her daughter’s silly indisposition.
“You get home to bed,” Violet said. She held out her arms, and Betsy leaned over the tray to be hugged.
“Come on, I’ll drive you.”
“I’m OK, Grandpa.”
“I’m not letting you drive. You leave your car here and I’ll run you home in mine. Come on now.”
It was a relief. She did feel better, but weak, and she was afraid of being surprised by nausea. “Could I take a bag or a towel or something?”
Terry got both and handed them to her as she went out the door. “Take care. If you’re not better tomorrow, call and tell me. I just might be able to arrange a house call.” She dimpled.
“Thanks, Terry.”
“Take care, now.”
Her grandfather ushered her out the back door and into his Cadillac. Betsy put on the seat belt, but its pressure threatened her stomach. She had to unbuckle it, and she kept the towel ready. Frank l
ooked at her dubiously. “What is it—just nausea?” He started the car and backed it down the driveway.
“To tell you the truth, I think it’s mostly fatigue. I’m so tired I feel sick. It’s not just Mom getting me out of bed. I had a bad case of insomnia the other night and I’m still catching up.”
“And what’s giving you insomnia?”
Who, he meant.
“Nothing’s giving it to me. It was only one night. Everybody has a bad night once in a while.”
“I don’t.”
“And never did?” She thought of the letters in her bag.
“Once or twice. Nothing to shake a stick at.”
“I’m not shaking any stick. You are.”
“Well,” They were stopped at a red light, and he patted her knee twice and looked at her with concern. “You take care of yourself, Betsy.”
“I do.”
“Well, take care of yourself harder.”
“I do.” Betsy smiled. “As hard as I can. Green light, Grandpa.”
For a moment, as he turned his head, he looked to Betsy not like her mother, as Judd had said, but like pictures of Will, her dead father. Will hadn’t been the same type; Frank looked like a preacher, Will like a gambler. But there was a resemblance. When Violet became ill, Marion had said, “Thank God Will went first. He worshiped Violet.”
“What are you staring at?” her grandfather asked.
Betsy flushed. She had been trying to find a resemblance between her grandfather and Judd. “You, Grandpa. I like that shirt on you.” It was a red and blue Rugby shirt. She’d given it to him for his seventy-seventh birthday.
“I feel like a darned college boy.”
“You look like a college boy.”
Betsy arrived home, feeling better, to an empty apartment. Of course: he would be at his studio today. He had work to do, deadlines. She went right to the saltshaker, forgetting the slammed door and the staying power of Judd’s anger. Wouldn’t it be nice …
The kitchen table bore the remains of Judd’s breakfast, but no note. She immediately checked the bedroom closet. His clothes were still there. That was her worst fear, worse than airplanes and dentists: that she would come home one day to find drawers gaping, closets empty, his yellow toothbrush gone from the bathroom, his ten-speed from the hall, desolation and despair in residence instead of her lover. But all was well, all was well.
She was suddenly more hungry than tired, and she put bread in to toast while she made a cup of tea. The sunny kitchen always cheered her. She looked out the window. Down in the yard was her garden, still brown and bare. “Tomato plants” was written on her calendar for next weekend. Planting and harvesting—she loved it as her grandfather did. The start of the new season always excited them. “Aphid remedies and mulch are meat and drink to you two,” Violet had once said.
She carried Judd’s dishes to the sink, fondly surveying his crumbs. He’d skipped his usual egg and just had toast. This charmed her, for some reason. It looked like a good sign; he’d missed her, had no appetite. She would have finished off the dregs of his orange juice, but remembering Terry’s advice she poured it down the sink. She felt fine—a flash of anger at Judd for leaving his dirty dishes perked her up—but she decided to put off the library and the courthouse until tomorrow. Today she would take it easy. Do something domestic: bake bread, she thought, sitting down to toasted store bread.
After the first bite, she was in the bathroom, throwing up.
When Judd got home he found her sitting up in bed watching the evening news. She heard his key in the lock, and the sound of his sneakers being taken off and dropped, and paper ripping as he opened his mail. Betsy fluffed up her hair when she heard him coming down the hall.
“What’s with you?” He leaned against the doorway.
“I seem to have some kind of stomach virus.”
Thank God for it! It was their peace pipe. He took her hand. “How do you feel, babe?”
“Okay now. I haven’t tried to eat since morning. I was just throwing everything up.”
“You stayed over there all night?”
She nodded. “And woke up sick. My punishment.”
He grinned reluctantly, smoothed her brow, and kissed it. “OK, OK. I’m sorry I got mad. I’ve been thinking about it. I’ll stop being unreasonable about your mother.”
“She is hard to deal with sometimes, Judd, especially if you’re not related to her.”
“I just hate to see you jump when she commands. You have your life, too, you know.”
She squeezed his hand. It was the inconveniencing of his beloved, his darling Betsy, that had angered him, not the interruption of his own sleep. She was in raptures, but she kept her voice properly subdued. “Oh, I don’t mind, really. She’s always so sweet about everything. I couldn’t be, in her condition. And she’s lonely, Judd. If she just wouldn’t call in the night and wake you up.”
He shrugged and dropped her hand. “What the hell. Won’t hurt me.” He divided life into things Simple and things Complex, rejecting the Complex. He rejected Violet’s dying. “Want to try dinner?” He got up and stood at attention. “You command and I’ll jump, for a change.”
“Tea and dry toast and an airsick bag.”
She was starving, and the tea and toast stayed down. Judd sat beside her and wolfed a cheese sandwich and a glass of milk, his long bony feet propped on Betsy’s knees.
“I wonder if I could try a piece of cheese.”
He got it for her, but when she had eaten it and asked for more he said, “Hey, get it yourself, Camille. You seem to have recovered.” He was watching Walter Cronkite and eating a handful of Chip-a-roos.
She went out to the kitchen and ate a piece of cheese and a couple of cookies. Then she dialed her mother. Frank answered.
“I’m just calling to say I’m completely recovered.”
“Good. Your mother’s asleep.”
“Tell her I called—OK? How is she?”
“Seems OK. Why didn’t you tell me she’s been calling you in the middle of the night?”
“Only twice. I don’t mind.”
“Well, I told her not to do it tonight.”
“I honestly don’t mind.”
“You’ve been sick.”
“Not sick.”
“Still.” He paused. “Betsy—if you’re sick again tomorrow, you call and tell me.”
“I won’t be. It’s gone.”
“Still.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll be in the library all day tomorrow. You won’t be able to reach me. I have some research to do.”
“You’re on vacation!”
“I get restless, Grandpa.”
“Well, don’t overdo.”
She exploded. “For heaven’s sake, I’m not sick. Can’t I get an upset stomach without your turning it into an ulcer?”
“It’s not an ulcer I’m afraid of.”
After the news, she said to Judd, “Sometimes they drive me crazy.”
“Hearing you talk about them all the time drives me crazy.”
She changed the subject.
The next morning, she threw up, as quietly as possible, in the middle of brushing her teeth and then leaned against the sink, looking fearfully into the mirror. Her face was dead white, and when she started to put on blusher she had to vomit into the toilet again. Shaken, she debated what to do. Not mention it to Judd, for one thing. Enough was enough; he would scorn her weakness. It wasn’t much of a virus, obviously, but she shouldn’t have tempted it with cheese and cookies. Judd would be going out, and she would stay in bed for another hour or so until it passed, then venture out to the library. She tried again, and this time she got some blusher on and her hair combed. She retched once more, but didn’t vomit.
After Judd left, she remembered she had no car, and she called her grandfather. “I need my car. Maybe you could drive it over and then I’ll take you back on my way to the library.”
“How’s your flu?”
“I’m
okay. I felt great last night, but I guess I celebrated too soon. I ate like a horse, and it all came up again this morning.”
“I’ll send Terry over with your car.”
“Will she mind doing that?”
“She offered.” Her grandfather seemed brusque.
“Did I get you in the middle of shaving or something?”
“Nope. I’ll send Terry over now. Your mom’s having breakfast and I’ll go sit with her.”
Waiting for Terry, she could hardly stay awake. She stretched out on the sofa and had fallen into a doze when the doorbell rang.
Terry bounded briskly up the steps. She was very young under all the starch and glamour, Betsy realized, yawning—maybe twenty-three or four.
“How are you doing today?”
“I’ve still got it, but not as bad.”
Terry handed Betsy the car keys and settled down on the sofa. “I like those photographs.”
“Thanks.”
“And your bookcases. I like that natural wood.”
“Thanks. They’re new.”
“It goes away in the evening?”
“What? The flu? It seems to. Actually, I felt OK all day yesterday, but I was afraid to eat and I slept a lot.”
“And then this morning?”
“I paid for last night’s debauch. I had all the things you told me to avoid.”
Terry didn’t smile. “Your grandfather asked me to ask you—” She stopped and looked fixedly at the bookcases. “Maybe you should have a pregnancy test.”
Betsy went clammy again and then flushed. Her heart seemed to have stopped. Everything seemed very quiet.
“Have your breasts felt tender?”
She swallowed. “A little. But I’m expecting my period.”
“It’s late?”
This is an incredible conversation, Betsy thought. “I’m not sure. I’m not very regular.”
“Well, you’ve got the classic symptoms.”
Family Matters Page 7
