Objects of My Affection

by Jill Smolinski

  “Didn’t mean to upset you. I’m fine.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Pay phone. It sure wasn’t easy finding one. And then it wouldn’t let me call collect to your cell phone. I had to use one of those 800 collect calling numbers.” He sounds peeved, as if the process of dialing a few extra numbers was more effort than I’m worth. Still, I’m not about to waste this call with Ash now that I have him on the line and am paying good money for it.

  “I mean what city are you in? Do you have a place to stay?” Aiming for perky and fearing I’m on the brink of what he’d consider badgering, I press my lips together to prevent any more questions from tumbling out. That’s when I notice Marva, sorting through things in the dinette the next room over, but I’m too focused on Ash to care.

  “I’m staying with a buddy of mine I met at the Willows,” Ash says. “Cool guy. And don’t worry, he’s real straight. Totally clean. He’s helping me get a job.”

  “Where?”

  “He works for this company. They might have an opening.”

  Gee, Ash, could you possibly be any more vague? I attempt a different tack to pin down his location. “What company? Is it near where you are … in Tampa, right?”

  “I don’t know. Anyway, I know this call is expensive. I wanted to let you know I’m okay. I was talking to a girl I know from high school and she said she heard you were kind of freaking out like I might be dead or something, but I’m not. Obviously.”

  So Mary Beth came through after all and got Samantha to put in a plea to Ash. The motherhood underground is alive and well. It would be too time-consuming to take back every snarky comment I’ve ever made about Mary Beth, but I vow in this moment never to utter another.

  Ash clears his throat. “Somebody’s waiting to use this phone, so I’m gonna—”

  I cut him off before he can get to the good-bye. “How come you left rehab? You were making progress, but they tell me you still have more work to do. I’m scared, honey, that you’re risking a relapse. You need to go back and finish the program. They still have a bed for you, but they’re not going to hold it forever.”

  “I’m not going back.”

  “Why? Did something happen?”

  “I just don’t need it.”

  “Yes, you do, Ash. This isn’t the sort of thing you do on your own. Besides, why not? It’s paid for, and—”

  “Look, I’m sorry. You spent a lot of money sending me there, but I wish you didn’t. It sucks. Maybe the first couple days I probably got something out of it, but then it was all bullshit. I don’t need that place. I can do this on my own.”

  “You might think you can, but—”

  “I gotta go.”

  “Is there a number where I can call you? Your friend’s cell phone? Or—”

  “I’ll try to call back again another time.”

  “Ash, please, I’m begging you, give it one more chance to—”

  “It’s all good, Mom. Don’t worry.”

  I’m telling him how I can’t help but worry when I realize he’s no longer on the phone and I’m rambling on to no one.

  Unsure of whether Ash hung up or the call was lost, I glumly tuck my phone into my pocket as Marva calls me into the dining room. “I’m nearly ready to go through these piles with you,” she says, not giving me a moment to digest the call. “Per your request, I’ve put like items with like. And, for the record, you can’t get anywhere by begging him. It’s undignified.”

  It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about Ash. “You listened in on my call?”

  “You of all people are going to lecture me on poking one’s nose where it doesn’t belong? Besides, it was impossible to ignore, what with you stomping back and forth, carving a hole in the floorboards.”

  There’s no denying the stomping. “I didn’t beg.”

  “Yes, you did. You said so—I’m merely quoting. And it’s not going to do anything but give you gray hairs. Why so many mothers these days can’t seem to detach their grown children from the tit long enough to let them stand on their own is beyond me. I am genuinely happy for you that you’ve found him. Now leave him be.”

  She can’t possibly be lecturing me on parenting—Marva of all people! She has absolutely no relationship with her son, and she’s going to tell me how to be a mother? “Let’s stick to the sorting, shall we?” I say.

  “The kindest thing you can do is set him free to be what he’s going to be.”

  That does it—I tried to be nice, but she won’t let it go. “Like you’ve done with Will?”

  “I didn’t have my personal situation in mind, but, yes. I did that for Will.”

  “More like did it to him. And still are. He doesn’t want his freedom. Your son wants his mommy.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” She picks up a teakettle and chucks it in a box with a sweater (what category those two items might make is beyond me). “Although I can’t say he and I are close, I must have done something right. It’s not the path I’d have chosen for him—far too conventional for my tastes—but Will is a fully functioning adult with a well-paying job, a wife, and a baby on the way.”

  I can’t resist the dig. “A baby that you didn’t even know about until a week ago.” The darkness that passes over Marva’s face instantly takes the fun out of winning this argument. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.” I realize I’m about to plead for the second time today. At least with Marva, I have an opportunity to get through to her—if for no other reason than she can’t hang up on me while I’m standing in front of her. “Maybe Will doesn’t have the words to tell you, but he wants you in his life. If he doesn’t ever get the chance, it’s going to break his heart. It doesn’t have to be too late for the two of you. If you only were willing—”

  My phone rings, and although I want to push my point further with Marva, having a chance to talk to Ash trumps that. “This might be my son calling me back.”

  “Well, hell,” Marva says, suddenly cheery. “What is life but a glorious chance to make mistakes and never learn from them? What are you waiting for? Answer it!”

  “Hello?” I run out to the porch and close the front door behind me. Better to brave the sideways sleeting rain that’s been going on all day than Marva’s ridicule.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  Wrong me. “Oh. Hi, Daniel.”

  He clearly picks up on my disappointment because he says, “I’m only calling to tell you that I promised I’d do a run-through for collectibles at the yard sale, so I still plan to be there.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I keep my promises.” The edge to his voice makes it clear he’s as eager to get this call over with as I am.

  “Okay. I’ll see you then.”

  He gives an irritated huff. “There’s one more thing. I did some poking around on the Internet. Did you know Marva once had a house burn down?”

  “Yes, she told me she lost almost everything.”

  “Did she mention that somebody died in the fire?”

  “No. That’s awful! Who was it?”

  “Rumor has it he was her longtime lover. Officially, he was a business partner. Name of Filleppe Santiago. Ring a bell?”

  I tug my sweater tighter around me against the cold. “Filleppe. From her notes in the book. What was it she wrote?”

  “She’d written his name quite a few times. And it was always like she was talking to him, and not necessarily in a positive way. Something about him leaving her to do the dirty work. That one I remember specifically.”

  “That’s right. How strange that she told me about losing her possessions, but not that a person had died.”

  “I’m guessing she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  A lover, dead in a fire. As I quickly wind up the call with Daniel with a set of good-byes so overly polite they were almost F-you’s, I peer in through the foggy window at Marva and try to imagine what she used to be like. It’s impossible to picture, she’s so crank
y now, but maybe once she was a softer, sweeter Marva.

  Maybe once she was a girl in love.

  chapter seventeen

  What are you doing here?” I eye Nelson suspiciously, unable to figure out why a nurse would be called in for a woman who intends to kill herself in days unless it’s to assist her with it in some way.

  “Oh, how I’ve missed you and these delightful chats we have.” He plunks a duffel bag on the mudroom floor and looks around. “Someone’s been a busy beaver! This place almost looks habitable. And speaking of beavers”—he tips his head toward Niko, who is in the yard with Torch finally emptying Marva’s things out of the bungalow—“how’s our office romance going?”

  “Seriously, Nelson. Why are you here?”

  “The lovely Miss Marva is having knee pain. I’m going to see if I can provide a bit of relief. So, as I recall from our arrangement, this is where you now offer up a juicy detail or two about your sex life in exchange for that information. And don’t be afraid to be graphic—I can take it.”

  “You’ll have to find your kicks elsewhere. Nothing’s happened.”

  “No fair holding out on me.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “Hmmph. Pity.”

  Couldn’t agree more. As I watch Niko muscle a box out of the door—muscle being the operative word—it’s hard to fathom I’ve let over a week fly by without following up on what was such a promising start between us on Marva’s bed. I blame the bout of temporary insanity that caused me to kiss Daniel. It messed up my judgment and made me miss out on what was right in front of me. Not only is Niko a sweetheart, but he’s willing to accept me as I am. Or, even better, as I purport myself to be. Why am I not giving myself the pleasure of being with someone who thinks I’m competent at my job? Who doesn’t question my abilities as a mother? And, I’ll admit, is also fun to look at?

  Niko must sense my gaze on him because his head lifts and he winks a hello. I wave back.

  “Ah, young lust,” Nelson says, fishing through his bag. “So where’s the patient?”

  “She’s been holed up in her office all morning working on something top secret. Won’t let me in when I knock.”

  Nelson frowns. “If her knee is giving her problems, she should be lying down.”

  “She might be busy painting,” I say, which is what I’ve had my fingers crossed for, ever since she yelled at me through the locked door to go away. “If she is, that’s more important than resting. So don’t give her any lectures.”

  “You say that now. Nobody appreciates knees until they’re gone. She’s at least going to lie down for a while if I have any say in the matter, and—as luck would have it—I do.”

  “How long will you be?”

  “It depends … why?” he asks.

  “No reason.”

  It’s Nelson’s turn to eye me suspiciously, and justifiably so. As soon as he disappears with Marva into her bedroom, I steal toward her office. I’m dying to see if my scheme is working, and this may be my brief opportunity for a peek. Even if she hasn’t started a painting, maybe she’s dabbled with mixing paints or played with a few strokes or …

  Or nothing. The canvas is untouched. A light layer of dust may even be forming.

  Siiiiiigh.

  Sullenly, I pick up a box and start filling it with items for the yard sale, no longer being sneaky since Marva’s obviously not hiding anything in here. It’s when I’m piling some old Life magazines into the box that I notice it: the copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Sitting right on the desk.

  Yes! When God closes a door, he opens a window, as a wise nun-turned-singing-governess once said. Maybe now I can find out more about Marva’s suicide plans. Possibly there’s something more about this Filleppe guy.

  I peek out into the hallway to verify that Marva is still in her bedroom before snatching up the book. Underneath it I see a letter written on monogrammed stationery: MMR. My blood turns to ice as soon as I read the opening line in Marva’s familiar handwriting:

  To Whomever May Find Me

  First off, it’s whoever—but that’s not the point.

  It’s Marva’s suicide note. Or at least a draft of it—crumpled papers are in the trash can next to the desk, so this isn’t her first attempt. This is what she’s been laboring at all day while she banned me from the room. She’s scratched out some of what she’s written, but as I pick the paper up and read, her intention is evident. She’s going through with it. This letter is for the poor slob who stumbles across her body. For the first time it occurs to me that it could be me who finds her—definitely outside my job description and the thought of which has my hand shaking as I read on.

  They say you can’t take it with you. And so, I leave it all behind as I venture into—as Emily Dickinson once wrote of death—“a wild night and a new road.” I’ve had everything I wanted in this lifetime and now would only face that which I don’t, and swore I never would. To my son, I’m sorry. To Will, know that this has nothing to do with you. Will, you are the one thing I will miss. Will, I won’t insult you with sentiment at this juncture, other than to say I admire your courage to become the man you were meant to be. As for you, F, hope you’ve been saving me a deck chair in Hell.

  The note is signed with the same signature Marva uses on her paintings, the blocky MMR, as if this is a work of art she’s created here and not a horror. Although I’d wanted to pore through the book, now that I realize what she’s been up to, I know she’ll be furious if she catches me in here. I hurriedly set the note back on her desk beneath the book, arranging everything exactly as I found it. Then I scurry from the room, feeling as dirty as if I’d stumbled across photos of Marva in flagrante delicto. And frustrated: She finally says sweet words to Will, and he won’t see them until she’s gone?

  In the kitchen I nearly crash into Niko, who is carting a box of paints and brushes he’d told me earlier that he’d found in the bungalow. “We’re done out there—come take a look,” he says.

  After I have him drop off the box in the office, he takes my hand to lead me through the yard to the bungalow. That simple gesture is the comfort I need right now. I wonder if he’d find it strange if I curled up and asked him to carry me.

  “Did you mean for us to remove so much? It’s pretty empty,” he says as we step inside.

  “It’s perfect.”

  “At least now there’s enough room to bring in the rest of your stuff.”

  I shake my head. “I’m going to be moving out once this job is done so there’s no point.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then home,” I say, though I have no idea what that even means.

  He sits on the edge of the couch. “So, when are we going to go get that drink? I haven’t forgotten. You busy tomorrow night?”

  “Boy, am I!” I say, and launch into a list of all the things I still need to do at Marva’s before it occurs to me that I am in essence rejecting an invitation—for an actual date. From a hot, eligible man. Niko is getting up and backing out the door, probably having barely scraped his ego up off the floor. It’s now or never. “So what I’m getting at,” I say quickly, “is that I’m pretty wiped out. How about we hang out here? I’ll download a movie. Or now that I have all this room, we can turn cartwheels if we want. Do jumping jacks. Practice the long jump.”

  He laughs. “I’m sure we’ll come up with something.”

  What are you going to wear? Not the polka-dotted dress—no offense, it makes you look hippy,” Heather says. She and I are grabbing a quick lunch at Red Hen Bread because she had a hankering for their cranberry chicken sandwich. Though I suspect it’s more she’s craving adult company. I’m coloring with Abigail as we chat. Marva must be rubbing off on me, because I’m purposely going outside the lines.

  “We’re watching a movie at my place. Sweats will be fine.”

  “They are not! This is a date!”

  “Kidding—I’ll probably wear jeans and that sequined T-shirt you gave me.”

 
Heather sneaks off a piece of Abigail’s PB&J. “You’re going to wear nice underwear, right? A date at home means s-e-x.”

  Abigail pops up her head. She’s learning her letters, but luckily for our conversation here, she hasn’t yet figured out how to string them together into words. It proved to be a veritable spelling bee telling Heather how Ash hung up on me again (a-s-s-h-o-l-e) when I refused to transfer money to his ATM account and instead said I needed an address to overnight a money order. Then we talked a bit more about how Daniel and I k-i-s-s-e-d but now aren’t speaking.

  “If things go as I anticipate they will,” I tell Heather, “nobody’s going to be in their u-n-d-e-r-w-e-a-r all that long.” I pull out a blue crayon and begin to color a princess’s face with it, just to see if I can get a rise out of Abigail, which it appears I will. Her brows shoot down in disapproval.

  “Good for you,” Heather says, “after all you’ve been through, you deserve this piece of happiness.”

  “Or a piece of something.”

  “I still can’t believe Daniel, though, being so rude like that. It goes to prove, there’s no going back.”

  “Forward motion only,” I say. “From now on, I don’t care where I’m headed, as long as it’s not anywhere I’ve been.”

  Abigail can’t take it any longer and yanks the crayon from my hand. “Princesses are not blue,” she scolds.

  Heather absently retrieves the crayon from Abigail. “I understand how you feel, Lucy. Although the time may come when you’ll need to pick a more specific destination.”

  You look nice,” Niko says, handing me a six-pack as he steps into the bungalow. “Hope beer is okay.”

  “It’s great. Thanks for bringing it.”

  For as much as we’ve been around each other these past weeks, suddenly I’m feeling shy. Niko is wearing his usual jeans and a T-shirt, but he smells soapy, indicating a shower. I may have snuck in showering myself—plus shaving, loofahing, hair blow-drying, reapplying makeup, changing my outfit five times, and winding up in what I started out with.