Growing up, I honestly thought my mother couldn’t stand my grandmother. As I got older, I realized it was more complicated than that, but seeing my mother asleep beside Mom Brodie’s bed—with my dad snoring upstairs—I’m reminded that nothing is ever as simple as we’d like to make it. Particularly when it comes to relationships. Family relationships.
I walk into the room and lay my hand gently on my mother’s shoulder. She’s warm, and she smells of Ivory soap. My mother always smells clean, even when she comes in sweaty from the garden. “Mom,” I whisper softly. There’s a catch in my throat, and I feel tears well in my eyes.
She startles, straightening her legs and arms as if I just flipped the switch on the electric chair. “Wha . . . what?” She looks up at me.
I lower my hand. “What are you doing down here?” I ask, wondering why on earth I just called her Mom.
I never call her Mom, or Mommy, or Mama. Since I could speak, I’ve been calling her Birdie. Mom Brodie said it was one of my first words, and everyone thought it was so funny because that’s what they all called her. No one corrected me. Not even my mother. So when Celeste was born, she imitated me and called her Birdie, too. I have no recollection of when Joseph started calling her Mom. I just remember being in high school and me saying Birdie and him saying Mom.
Birdie wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and slowly heaves herself to her feet. She peers down at my grandmother. “She all right?”
I almost laugh. Of course she’s not all right. She’s dying. But I don’t say it because I don’t want to start anything. It’s after midnight, and Birdie should get to bed because she’ll be up before dawn.
“She’s fine,” I whisper, glancing at my grandmother just to be sure she’s still breathing. That would be a hell of thing for the two of us to be standing here chatting and Mom Brodie had passed away and we didn’t know. “You go to bed. I’ll sit with her.”
“I think someone should stay with her,” my mother whispers, nearing the bed. “I feel like she . . . she’s barely hanging on.” She tugs on the sheet beneath Mom Brodie’s chin, and I don’t know why I do it, but I lower my hand to cover hers. I stare at our hands. Mine is bigger, smoother; my fingers are long and tapered and covered in freckles. Birdie isn’t freckled; we get them from the Brodies. Her hand is small and pudgy and covered with liver spots.
“I’ll stay with her,” I repeat.
Birdie nods ever so slightly. I feel like she’s holding her breath. I must be making her uncomfortable. I know my mother doesn’t like to be touched. I’m not sure why, but Mom Brodie said she came from the orphanage that way. I think Mom Brodie suspected she’d been abused, maybe even sexually. I actually tried to have a conversation once with my grandmother about it, and she told me to keep my thoughts to myself, that dredging up that sort of thing would only hurt people who have been hurt enough. I don’t necessarily agree with Mom Brodie’s sweep-it-under-the-rug theory, but the fact that she didn’t believe that to be true about everything made me respect her wishes. I never brought the subject up with my mother.
I squeeze Birdie’s hand and step back, out of her personal space, and I hear her heave a sigh. Relief? I’m forty-five years old, loved dearly by so many people, and yet it still hurts me that my mother doesn’t want my touch.
Birdie straightens her glasses, shuffling toward the door. “Door locked?”
I nibble on my lower lip, looking at the chair I think I’ve just agreed to spend the night in. “No. Celeste’s still out.”
Birdie makes a sound of disapproval. “You should have brought her home with you. She needs to be home with us. A time like this.”
“She didn’t want to come home with us.” There’s a definite tick of annoyance in my voice. I’m tired of being responsible for Celeste. “She said she’d be home later.”
My mother makes another sound of disapproval and disappears into the darkness of the hallway.
I take another look at Mom Brodie, then at the chair my mother was sleeping in, and I head down the hall. Daddy’s got a comfy recliner in the living room that he sits in at night to watch TV. If I’m going to keep the death watch, I’m dragging in the damned chair.
16
Celeste
“Let me out! Stop the damned truck! Stop it!” I holler frantically, beating Louie in the arm with my fist. I’m bordering on hysterical now, fighting tears. I’ve been in more jams with men than I can count. And you never cry. I once hooked up with a guy on an Internet dating site who, though he looked good on paper, turned out to be one of those crazy survivalists. I walked into his place, and he confiscated my cell phone and then took me on a tour of his armed bunker, locking me in with him. But I’ve never been scared before. Not like this.
I’m getting too old for this crap.
Louie, who’s got to be around my brother’s age, slams on the brakes, and the truck fishtails on the gravel road. He makes some kind of smartass comment under his breath about me being an old bitch. He and his brother Leo have been laughing, but seem to finally realize I’m serious. The laughter dies down. Before the truck has come to a complete stop, I’m shoving Leo. “Let me out! Let me out, or I swear to God I’ll call the police. Jesus, I’m a Brodie. I know every one of those boys on the force. You two will be in jail cells in Eastern Correctional by lunch!”
Leo throws open the door, and I shove him hard, and he stumbles out of the truck. He’s drunker than Louie, which is probably a good thing, because I’m not sure Louie would have let me out. With my shoes in my hand, I half fall, half jump from the truck. Louie takes his foot off the brake, and the truck lurches forward. I go down on one bare knee, hard, and wince.
Leo runs after the truck, and I hear his boots scrape the gravel as he manages to jump in. I hear them both laughing as the door slams shut and they peel away, throwing up stones. A couple hit me, and I cringe, still fighting tears. Never let them see you cry. Never let them see your pain. I want to throw my shoes at them, but they’re Jimmy Choos, and there’s no way I’d take the chance of breaking one of the heels off. I acquired them at a party I crashed in the Hamptons last summer. Women were kicking off their shoes, throwing off their clothes, and jumping into a pool. They were all too drunk or high to pay any attention to me. I’d wished I’d had a suitcase with me instead of just a tote; I walked away with quite a haul. I sold all the clothes at a fancy uptown Manhattan resale shop, but I kept the Jimmy Choos. Figured every girl deserves to splurge on herself once in a while.
“Assholes!” I fling at them, instead of the shoes.
I doubt they hear me. They’ve got their country music blaring again. Where the hell’s a cop when you need one? Of course the force on Brodie is only four men; one is older than my daddy and another one was dancing in The Gull with me a few hours ago, drunk off his ass, so it’s a good thing I didn’t need one of them.
“Assholes,” I whisper as I slowly get to my feet. It’s still dark out, but dawn is coming. It’s that strange time of early morning when you can feel the sun rising, even though you can’t see it yet.
“Assholes,” I repeat, my voice catching in my throat. Tears fill my eyes, and I rub them with the back of my hand. I’m just about sober now. Also probably a good thing, otherwise I might have ended up in a threesome I hadn’t agreed to. Or worse. I’m usually such a good judge of character. I wasn’t tonight. Louie was all fun and flirting with three beers and a couple of shots. But he got ugly once he downed a pint of tequila.
I reach into my bag slung over my shoulder, feel for my flask, and pull it out. I caught Louie going through my wallet when I went to the bathroom. Joke was on him. I have seven dollars in ones, an expired driver’s license, no credit cards, and a Macy’s gift card I found in Birdie’s junk drawer yesterday.
Feeling a little dizzy, I walk over to the side of the road and sink down in the grass on my knees. Alone in the dark, I fight a sob rising in my throat. I sniff loudly and yank at my kimono. I tore it, and not on the seam. I can’t believe
I ruined my butterfly kimono. What an unbelievably crappy weekend this is turning out to be. I wipe my bloody knee with the hem of the ruined kimono.
I don’t know why I came home. No one really wants me here. Mom Brodie is already dead. Her body just hasn’t realized it yet. What was I thinking? Family support? Who am I kidding? They’d all be happy to see me just disappear. The prodigal daughter. I bet my smarty-pants sister doesn’t think I even know a word like that. She was always the smart one. Joseph was always the good-looking one. And then he had the bonus of being the bastard mixed-race child.
Something pokes my eye, and I rub at it. Eyelash. I peel off one of my fake lashes. I use the kind where you just glue a clump here and there. They almost look real, but they take a lot more glue than the full set, and I think I’m allergic to the glue.
I shake the flask. It’s three-quarters full. I filled it with shots guys bought me, when no one was looking. I unscrew the cap.
I should have stayed in the Big Apple. I have auditions coming up. Well, the possibility of auditions. Birdie and Abby don’t want me here. And with rent due, I really shouldn’t have taken these days off.
But if my inheritance is decent enough, and I think it will be (Mom Brodie has to be rolling in dough), I can quit that lame job. Take a little break, get my work done, and then come back strong. Concentrate on my auditions. Maybe pick up an acting class. Just to stay current.
I take a gulp of the vodka, and I feel myself calming. A second, and I stop shaking.
I can’t believe I got myself into something like this. And on Brodie Island, no less. What’s this world coming to?
Everything was fine. Louie and Leo seemed liked gentlemen. Well, not gentlemen, but decent enough. And they were into me. I was having a great evening, even after Abby and Joseph did the Cinderella thing.
After we left The Gull, me and Louie and Leo, we went to one of their friends’ houses near the dock. Not exactly a house, more like a shitty shack, but there was music and everyone was dancing and laughing and having a good time. A couple of people were smoking crack, but whatever. It’s not my thing, but I’ve never been into throwing stones.
When we got back in the truck, it was Leo who asked me if I wanted to go back to their place and party some more. I was actually considering it, then Louie made a comment that made me think his idea of partying included nonconsensual sex. When he mentioned his roommate liked cougars, that was when I lost my shit. I don’t know if I was angrier about his thinking I was going to have sex with him and his friends or about the fact that he called me a cougar. What a jerk-ass.
I search for my cigarettes in my bag, then my lighter. I light up and inhale deeply. I really thought Bartholomew was going to invite me back to his place. I met him the night we came in. He said he was going to be around all week. Not heading out until next Sunday. He was a sweet old guy.
But about a half hour before last call, I was out on the dance floor when I saw him get off his barstool. He waved, and, before I had time to slip away from the nitwit brothers, he was gone. Thought I had him on the hook, and then he was gone.
The barest glow of sunlight begins to appear in the east, and I turn to face it. I stare out over the water, sipping my vodka, watching, waiting. And when the sunrise comes with the bridge in the foreground, it’s as breathtakingly beautiful as it ever is.
Brodie Island knows how to do sunrise better than anywhere else.
I just sit there for a few minutes, smoking my cigarette, staring at the beauty. When the bridge comes into full view, I shift my attention to it. I hate that bridge. I feel like they never should have built it. I mean, I get progress and all, and it was certainly a pain in the ass when I was kid to take the ferry or a boat to the mainland. But the difficulty getting to the mainland made Brodie Island special. It made us different from everyone else. It made me feel special, being born and raised here.
The bridge brought trash like Louie and his brother. And crack cocaine. And a sadness I don’t remember seeing on Brodie when I was a kid. I sigh and put out my cigarette and flick the butt into the road.
The bridge, a steel and concrete monstrosity, seems to be beckoning me this morning. I play with the idea of walking to it. Going up to the highest point and standing on the rail. I think about what the water looks like below, swirling . . . calling me. I think a lot about suicide. But never with a pill or an electric cord around my neck. Certainly not with the little .38 I sometimes carry for protection. When I fantasize about putting an end to all this bullshit, I always imagine standing on the top of that bridge. I know just the place. All I’d have to do is climb up on the rail. Take one step and splash. It would all be over. It would be so easy.
Slowly I get to my feet. Pick up my shoes. Sling my bag over my shoulder and then slip the strap over my head so it’s easier to carry. The sun’s barely up, and it’s going to be another hot day.
I look at the bridge and then at the road that leads home. It’s probably a mile walk. I only stand there for minute and then turn for home.
Why would I kill myself now? I’m on top of the world. I’m about to inherit a fortune.
17
Sarah
I stand beside the chair in Mom Brodie’s dying room, looking down at my mom. She’s sleeping. Her mouth is open, which makes her kind of funny looking, but at least she doesn’t snore like my dad. I guess she slept here all night. When I woke up this morning, I realized she’d never come to bed. For a second, I thought maybe she had stayed out all night with Aunt Celeste. Aunt Celeste does it all the time. Here, and even when she comes to our house. She used to borrow Mom’s car to go out. Only Mom doesn’t let her anymore since Aunt Celeste left the car in a no-parking zone overnight in Annapolis and it got towed. We didn’t hear from Aunt Celeste for three days. Mom thought she’d been carjacked, murdered, and buried in a shallow grave. She hadn’t been; she was just with some guy on his boat. So that was good. But Mom had to pay like three hundred and fifty bucks to get her car back.
Of course I knew very well Mom hadn’t stayed out all night. She’s never done anything like that. And if she was going to stay out all night, she wouldn’t do it without texting me. My mom and dad and my brother and I have this cool agreement. Our parents don’t do things they don’t want Reed and me to do—like not text if we’re going to be later than expected.
Well, that’s not totally true. They do do a few things we’re not allowed to do. My dad smokes weed even though we all pretend he doesn’t. We’re not allowed to consume illegal substances of any sort. I used to smell marijuana on his clothes, first thing in the morning and at night before he went to bed, but now I don’t because he switched to a smoke-free vaporizer. Cuts back on the carcinogens. And of course my parents have sex. A lot. And Reed and I are supposed to be saving ourselves for marriage, or at least until we fall in love with somebody we know we can’t live without. Dad added that addendum. He and Mom had sex before they were married, so I guess that’s why.
Anywho . . . Mom would text me if she was staying out all night with Aunt Celeste getting Grandpop’s pickup towed.
I hear Birdie banging around in the kitchen. Sounds like she’s emptying the dishwasher. I know I should go in and help her. But once I go into the kitchen, I’m going to get sucked into going to the henhouse with her or something crazy like that, and I want to talk to my mom for a sec alone before things get crazy. And I’m sure they will; they always do when Aunt Celeste is here. Once she brought this guy home to have sex with in her bedroom, and Birdie walked right in and told him to get out. I heard them because I was in the bathroom. Nobody said a word the next morning at breakfast about it; we talked about how good Mom Brodie’s pancakes were.
I glance at Mom Brodie. She looks just like she did when I went to bed last night. Like she’s dead. She hasn’t moved. Which she wouldn’t if she was dead. Which Mom insists she isn’t. I look down at Mom, who’s still sleeping away, oblivious to the racket in the kitchen, and walk over to have a closer look at
Mom Brodie. I watch her chest, and I think maybe I see her breathing, but I’m not totally sure. If I had a mirror, I could hold it over her mouth and see if it fogs up. I saw that in a movie.
“A Santa at NASA,” I say softly.
I don’t know why I say it. It just comes to me, and I feel like maybe Mom Brodie might appreciate it. Last time I was here, three weeks ago, she asked me first thing when we walked into the kitchen to tell her a new palindrome. And she said “make it a good one.”
I’d been tempted to tell her “A slut nixes sex in Tulsa” (one of my favorites), but I knew Mom wouldn’t appreciate it, so instead I gave Mom Brodie, “Degas, are we not drawn onward, no? In union drawn onward to new eras aged.” It was the best long one I know that’s not totally stupid. Mom Brodie clapped her hands together and said she was so glad I was smart and not just pretty. She said pretty’s good, but it won’t always be with you. She said smart was forever and then told me she’d had Birdie get me some Perrier at the market and that it was in the refrigerator on the back porch. She knows I like bubbly water, and I guess she doesn’t think it’s a waste of money like my grandmother does.
There wasn’t any bubbly water in the outside fridge this time. I checked.
I look over my shoulder at Mom. She hasn’t moved. I guess I should be checking to be sure she’s not dead, too. But that’s stupid. Her cholesterol numbers are good, and she eats fairly healthy although I know she buys Smarties and hides them in the bathroom and eats them in secret. I see the wrappers sometimes when I’m dumping the trash cans.
I stand there debating what to do. I want to have another look at Mom Brodie’s tattoo. I haven’t found anything like it yet, but I’ve definitely found some cool lady’s tattoos from back in the day. Do I wake Mom and ask her if it’s okay? I think about what Aunt Celeste said about thinking for myself. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to be taking a lot of life lessons from her, unless it’s how not to live your life . . . but she has a point. I don’t have to get Mom’s permission for everything.
What Makes a Family Page 13
