I set my coffee on the bed table and lean in, elbows planted on knees. “Do you disapprove of Mom being gay?”
“Disapprove? No. I’m not one to pass judgment. But I admit I don’t understand the younger generation. I’m old school in that regard. I was thrilled when Billy and Hannah started dating in college. Nothing would’ve made me happier than for the two of them to get married. Then out of the blue, she announces she’s pregnant with his child and that she’s gay. I found it all very confusing.”
“And so you took Billy’s side in the custody suit, hoping Mom would come to her senses?”
“I was caught in the middle, Stella. In the beginning, I admit I had my reservations about her sexuality. And yes, I hoped she would change her mind and marry Billy. Over time, I accepted her lifestyle. But it was too late. The damage had been done. Hannah had cut me out of her life.”
A fit of coughing overcomes Opal. The nurse rushes into the room and coaches her until she stops. But the coughing leaves Opal exhausted, her face as white as the pillow beneath her head.
When the nurse leaves the room, I say, “You need to rest now, Opal. I’ll be right here. Can I get anything for you?”
“You can read to me.” She waves a gnarled hand at the small hardbound book on her table.
Picking up the collection of Walt Whitman’s poems, I read out loud until Opal dozes off. I put the book down and study her peaceful face, memorizing her features in case I lose her. She sleeps for hours, which gives me a chance to sort through the chaos I brought upon my family by being born. I scrutinize the situation from their individual perspectives. Billy’s. Brian’s. Opal’s. I save Mom’s for last, and I try to put myself in a young Hannah’s shoes. I imagine her confusion over her sexuality. Being unmarried and pregnant. Her hurt when everyone she loved turned their backs on her. I’ve experienced firsthand her rare and unconditional love for Marnie, which helps me understand the difficult decisions she made. But I can’t get past one thing. When Opal reached out to her, when she surprised her with a visit to New York, Hannah treated her own mother like a stranger, a random homeless person on the street.
Opal sleeps on through lunchtime. I’m starving, but I don’t dare leave for fear Mom will return. Fortunately, I don’t have to pick Jazz up until three. Several of the younger bible camp counselors have organized an extended day program for a small group of kids. I want Opal to wake up, to tell me more about her life. Not about Hannah and Brian or even her second husband but about Opal’s childhood and her husband, my grandfather, and how she became interested in art. But she’s still sleeping when Brian arrives at two.
We step out into the hall to talk. Brian leans against the wall with his ankles crossed, reminding me of the first day we met outside my apartment in New York. “Did she say much about her visit from Hannah this morning?”
“Not really. We mostly talked about the past. She’s a class act, your mom.”
When Brian smiles, his blue eyes brighten with the love he feels for his mother. “She is that.”
“I feel so guilty. I caused you all such heartache. If not for me, your family would still be united.”
“Don’t say things like that, Stella. Despite having to wait thirty years, we’re thrilled to have you in our lives.” He shifts his weight, recrossing his ankles. “Hannah and I have never gotten along. I was always the overprotective older brother. And believe me, she needed protecting. She was so damn beautiful and such a wild card. If not for the custody suit, something would’ve eventually driven us apart.”
“Did you mean what you said yesterday? Is Mom the reason you never married?”
He chuckles. “Hannah pushes my buttons and makes me say things I don’t mean. The truth is, I never found the right woman. I devoted my time to my career and my mother, and the years just slipped away. You might find that strange.”
“I find that admirable, actually.” I lift my gaze to the ceiling. “What’s the saying? How a man treats his mother is a good indication of how he’ll treat his wife. I hope I find a man like you one day.”
“That’s a very nice thing to say, Stella. I’m looking forward to getting to know my niece better.”
I’ve never seen Brian wear his glasses before, but the black wayfarer-style frames make him seem more current, less old-mannish. “How long does Opal have to go through chemo?”
“She’s three weeks in. So, she’s only just getting started. Once she’s feeling better, she’ll continue as an outpatient. The initial treatment is intense. It’s not uncommon for patients to be hospitalized during this phase.”
“Can I see her again?”
“She’d like that. But keep in mind that shorter visits are best.” We start down the hallway toward the elevator. “I had a lengthy phone conversation with the hospital administrator on my way back from Roanoke. He promises to put his staff on alert. Until further notice, my sister is not allowed in Mom’s room. I hate to do that, but Opal’s health is my primary concern.”
“I understand.” The elevator doors part, and I step inside. “Mom brought this one on herself.”
Twenty-Seven
I’m acutely aware of Mom’s presence on the farm, even though we avoid each other as much as possible. When our cars pass on the driveway, we wave without stopping to speak. I see her walking early in the mornings and sitting by the lake in the evenings, and from my kitchen window, I have a clear view of her working at her easel under Opal’s tree.
Hannah makes a positive first impression on Cecily and Katherine.
“I’ve never met a woman so accomplished,” Katherine says, and Cecily adds, “She’s a whiz in the kitchen.”
She’s a good faker, I think to myself. I’ve tasted Mom’s food. Her cooking is mediocre at best. And what does a New Yorker know about gardening?
When Jack asks why she’s still in Hope Springs, I answer, “Because she’s up to something. My mom always has an agenda.”
Every morning after dropping Jazz at bible camp, I go straight to the hospital to visit Opal. On Tuesday, I take her a basket of fruit, and on Wednesday, Cecily sends her homemade blueberry streusel loaf. I beg for details about Opal’s past, and she tells me about growing up on a horse farm in Goochland, a rural area outside of Richmond.
Opal snickers. “I loved grooming and feeding the ponies, but I never cared much for riding.”
She tells me about her husband, Dewey Boor, and how they met when she was at Sweetbriar and him at Jefferson College. “Dewey was originally from Richmond, but he loved Hope Springs. We planned to retire here one day.” Her lips part in a woeful smile. “You might say I’m living his dream. As for my second husband, Robert, he was . . . as you young people say, my rebound person after Dewey died. He helped me through a difficult period, but when the honeymoon was over, I realized I’d made a mistake in marrying him. I don’t know why it took me so long to get up the nerve to divorce him.”
When I ask her about her art career, she says, “I don’t remember a time when art wasn’t a part of my life. Hannah is the same way. She started painting masterpieces before she entered kindergarten.”
She talks about her home, a cottage on a wooded lot at the edge of town not far from the farm. And when I ask her how she spends her weekends, she says, “I teach art classes at an old folks’ home on Saturdays, and Sundays are for church and chores.”
Opal’s health improves every day. I’m flattered when the nurses give me credit for her sudden rally. Her energy returns, and by Wednesday, she’s pushing a walker around the third floor. Her appetite increases, and on Thursday, she sends me out for a hamburger from Lucky’s Diner. That afternoon, her doctor pronounces her well enough to go home.
“Give her the day on Friday to get settled at home,” Brian says, his polite way of asking me not to visit. “I’ve arranged caregivers to be with her around the clock for the next couple of weeks.”
When Katherine invites Jazz to accompany her to the farmers market on Saturday morning, I use the free time
to go see my grandmother.
Window boxes bearing pink and white flowers adorn the windows of her yellow-framed Cape Cod-style cottage. Sharon, the caregiver, greets me at the front door and shows me into the living room. She’s a pleasant-looking woman about Mom’s age wearing a uniform top, printed with cartoon dogs, over her ample bust.
The home’s interior rooms are painted in hues that remind me of the Caribbean—aqua and tangerine and chartreuse—and accented by furnishings in pops of baby blue, lilac, and fire-engine red. I find the mix of colors slightly nauseating, but the eclectic combination suits the aging artist perfectly.
Opal, seated in a comfortable armchair with a blanket across her lap, barely glances in my direction before returning her gaze to the small mirror in her hand.
I give the bouquet of sunflowers I purchased from the Local Market to Sharon, who takes them to the kitchen for water. I drag a green lacquered bamboo chair close to Opal and sit down. “What’s up? Are you not feeling well today? You’re usually happy to see me.”
Placing the mirror facedown in her lap, she cups my cheek. “Of course I’m happy to see you, my darling. You’re the light of my life. I never realized I was so vain, but I’m having a difficult time with this.” She grabs a fistful of hair and tugs it loose from her scalp.
“Vain or not, it’s a woman’s prerogative to fret over her hair.” I say this with a smile, despite the pain I feel in my heart for this woman I’ve grown to love so much. If only I could give her my own hair. A thought occurs to me. But there is something else I can do.
“You know, Opal, it might be less painful for you to shave your head.”
“I thought about that.” She hangs her head, staring at the tuft of hair in her lap. “Maybe it would be easier to get rid of it, instead of watching it come out in clumps.”
I nudge her arm. “You’re the hippest grandmother I know. You will totally rock your bald head.”
“Humph! I’m not even sure what hip means. Will you do it, Stella? Will you shave my head?”
“No way. We need a professional.” If her stringy gray hair is any indication, Opal hasn’t been to a stylist in decades, and I haven’t lived in Hope Springs long enough to need a trim. “Maybe we can go to Brian’s barber,” I joke.
Sharon enters the room with the vase full of sunflowers. “My daughter’s a stylist. She’s done this very thing for several of my clients.”
Opal’s head jerks up. “Get her over here before I lose my nerve.”
“Do you think she’s available?” I ask.
“Probably. She has the day off.” Sharon calls her daughter who arrives within minutes.
“You caught me as I was leaving town for the weekend.” Jennifer pulls electric hair clippers out of her canvas tote. “I understand we have a hair emergency.”
My hand shoots up. “Me first.”
Jennifer’s face falls. “Oh, you poor dear. You’re so young.”
I drop my hand. “Sorry. I should’ve explained. I don’t have cancer. I want you to shave my head as a show of solidarity to my grandmother. I can’t let her have all the fun.”
Opal wags her finger at me. “Don’t you dare, Stella Boor! Only your mama would pull such a crazy stunt.”
“All the more reason to do it. Who knows? Maybe my hair will grow back straight. I’ve always wanted straight hair.” I sit down in my chair with my back to Jennifer.
“Are you sure?” Jennifer asks. “You have such lovely hair.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “But can you leave a little stubble?”
Setting her electric clippers on the coffee table, Jennifer removes scissors and a comb from her bag and sets to work. I immediately regret my decision as she begins tugging and snipping on my hair. I want to scream for Jennifer to stop cutting, but it’s too late. I’m merely grateful not to be sitting in front of a mirror.
Unable to watch, Opal turns her head away. “I’m not having any part of this.”
“Don’t be mad at me, Opal. Think of the fun we’ll have shopping for hats.” When I hear the sound of the trimmers, pressure builds in my chest and I have trouble breathing. Chill, Stella. It’s only hair. It will grow. Jack will think I’ve lost my mind.
When Jennifer finishes, she hands me a mirror. A lump develops in my throat at the sight of my reflection. I look like Natalie Portman when she shaved her head for her role in V for Vendetta. Not only will Jack think I’ve lost my mind, he’ll think I’m ugly. I fight back tears. I can’t let Opal see my dismay.
“I feel liberated,” I say, running my hand over the half-inch stubble. “Think of all the money I’ll save on hair products.” I hand Jennifer the mirror. “Opal’s turn.”
When Opal finally brings herself to look at me, she smiles, and a rush of relief washes over me. “You have a lovely-shaped skull, my darling.”
Opal closes her eyes while Jennifer is shaving her head, and she refuses to look in the mirror when she’s finished. She looks like a cancer patient, which makes me all the more glad I shaved mine.
I linger a long time after Jennifer leaves. I feel safe here with Opal. I’m terrified of venturing out into the world where everyone will stare at my bald head. We talk about everything except our hair, but I catch Opal sneaking glances at me. When Opal’s eyelids begin to droop, I stand to go. “Get some rest, Opal. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When I kiss the top of Opal’s bald head, she pulls me in and holds me tight. “What you did for me today took real guts. You’re a special person, Stella. I’m proud to call you my granddaughter, and I’m thrilled to have you in my life.”
I don’t even try to hold back the tears. Her words mean more to me than my hair ever did. I walk out of her house with my bald head held high.
Jazz is the first to see me when she barges through the door of the cottage. She stops short in the middle of the room, her golden eyes as round as her lips forming an O. “What happened to your hair?”
“Opal and I decided to get pixie cuts. What’d you think?”
“I love it!” Closing the distance between us, she pulls me down to her level and scrubs her small hands over my head. “It’s so soft.” Lifting my face, she pats my cheeks. “Can I get a pixie cut?”
I laugh out loud. “No, you may not.” I sniff her breath. She smells like berries and chocolate. “What did you eat at the farmers market?”
“Some raspberries and granola with chunks of chocolate.”
“Mm-hmm. I thought so.” I cross my eyes at Katherine who’s standing in the doorway.
Jazz makes a beeline toward the bedroom. “I’m gonna put on my bathing suit. Jack’s outside. We’re all going tubing on the river. Cecily and Katherine and their boyfriends are coming, too.”
I cross the room to Katherine. “Jack’s here?” I ask, looking past her.
She reads the uncertainty on my face. “You look adorable. He’s gonna love it. You’re a badass, Stella Boor. You know that, don’t you?”
I know no such thing. I feel like a dumbass at the moment.
When Jack appears in the doorway, Katherine sidesteps him on her way out.
I run my hand over my cropped hair. “Did I ever mention I have an impulse control problem. Opal was having a tough time saying goodbye to her hair, and . . . well . . . it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Solidarity and all that.”
Taking my face in his hands, he thumbs my cheek. “Now that all your crazy curly hair is gone, I can see how stunningly beautiful you are. You’re truly remarkable, Stella. I’ve never loved you more than I do at this moment,” he says, and crushes his lips against mine.
His kiss leaves me breathless. “Was that a declaration of love, Jack Snyder?”
“I’ve loved you from the first moment I set eyes on you.” He kisses me again. This time with a passion that sets my entire body on fire. “If we don’t have that date soon, I’m going to explode.”
I press my body to his. “I know what you mean.” I ache for him. I’ve never wanted a man
like this before.
A tiny voice interrupts from the bedroom. “Hurry up, Stella! Put on your bathing suit! We’re going tubing.”
Jack pushes away, rearranging his shorts to hide his excitement. “That’s it. I’m taking matters into my own hands. I will find a suitable babysitter. Mark your calendar. Next Friday night, we’re going on a date.”
Twenty-Eight
We watch from behind the trees as Bernard is taken away in handcuffs. One of the officers who brings him out of the cottage reports that Bernard’s gun is unloaded. For the first time, I feel sorry for the old man, and I beg Kennedy to look out for him.
“Trust me,” Kennedy says, “he’ll be well taken care of. As soon as possible, we’ll commit him to a state facility for the mentally ill.”
With the exception of Brian, the other members of the search party take off for home. It’s late on a Sunday night, and everyone has to be at work early in the morning.
Jazz clings to me, arms choking my neck and legs gripping my waist, as Brian, Jack, and I make our way back to the carriage house. Naomi is waiting for us at the door. She murmurs apologies as she smothers Jazz with kisses, but Jazz keeps her face buried in my chest.
“She’ll spend the night with me,” I say matter-of-factly, and Naomi doesn’t dare argue. I’m no longer the stranger from New York. And I’m not just the older sister either. I’ve earned my stripes. I’ve proven myself reliable. I nursed her through her illness and took care of her while her mother was in rehab. And Jazz trusts me. For good reason, she doesn’t feel the same way about her mother.
Dream Big, Stella! Page 20
