I hope when I die, that won’t be my daughter-in-law’s first thought. Oh, Sarah’s dead, I better get those bath towels in the wash.
I glance at Mom Brodie’s face. “Do you . . . Would it be okay if I look? Just once more?” I wait, trying to let my gut instinct take over. My gut instinct tells me to go for it.
I reach out and tug at the sheet, lifting it, baring her bare foot, then her ankle, then her knee. I move the sheet slowly, as if this is some kind of unveiling of a priceless piece of art.
To me, I guess it sort of is. It’s a piece of art that’s about to be lost to the world forever.
When I pull the sheet high enough to reveal the tattoo, I don’t see the wrinkly, saggy skin of an old lady’s thigh. I just see the bluebirds and the ribbons. It makes me smile.
And then I feel like I’m going to cry.
I stare at the tattoo for a long minute, and then, using two hands, I gently, carefully lower the sheet, covering the tattoo, then her knee, then her ankle, and at last her wrinkly foot.
I feel better having seen the tattoo. I’ve got it in my mind now, and I know, as long as I live, I’ll never forget it.
I smile down at my great-grandmother. “If you’re there when I die,” I tell her, “at those gates, you know I’m going to ask you what the story with the tattoo is. And you’re going to have to tell me.”
A tear runs out of the corner of my eye and down my cheek, but I let it go.
I feel sad, but I have this weird sense of . . . not happiness exactly, but something that makes me want to smile while I’m crying. Maybe because I know how lucky I am to have known her. Most of my friends don’t have great-grandparents, and, if they do, they live thousands of miles away. “You know I loved you,” I whisper.
After I say that, I know I’m done. I’ve seen her. I’ve told her what I wanted to tell her, and now I feel like I can go.
As I turn away from her, the teacup in the saucer catches my eye. It’s been there two days; I’ve seen it several times, but I never looked at it. It’s the blue on the cup that catches my eye.
Bluebirds.
35
Abby
“We’ll let you know just as soon as we know,” I tell my grandmother’s friend Florence. Florence is—was—one of Mom Brodie’s young friends. She’ll be eighty-six on her next birthday, she just told me.
Through tears, Florence again says how sorry she is, and I hang up and slide the phone onto the kitchen table, almost taking out the rooster pepper shaker. I’ve been using the house phone to make calls so everyone on the island doesn’t have my cell number.
“Is there more coffee?”
Birdie is making a cake. I have no idea why because by this evening we’ll have enough cakes, cookies, casseroles, and trays of lunch meat to feed everyone on Brodie next week. Everyone on the island will bring us a dish. I’m seriously considering calling a homeless shelter on the mainland to see if they’d like a couple of dozen pans of lasagna. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I know making food is a way people express their sorrow and empathy, but we could never eat all the food that everyone is going to bring, and it will take weeks for my mother to sort out all the plates and bowls and get them returned.
“A cup left. I’ll make another pot shortly.” Birdie turns the hand mixer on.
I’m pouring the coffee into my commemorative mug from some Methodist conference when Celeste wanders in. She’s wearing her silky robe and is barefoot. Her hair’s still sticking up every which way. She looks awful. I push the mug of coffee into her hand. She needs it more than I do.
She plops down in Mom Brodie’s chair. “When’s the funeral?”
“Um. Not sure yet.” We have to talk above the sound of the mixer.
“Do we have a—” Celeste throws Birdie a look and glances back at me, raising her voice. “A guess when the funeral will be?”
“Friday or Saturday.” I slide into Daddy’s chair.
“So is it Friday or is it Saturday? You know, some people have to make plans.” She’s clearly annoyed by the inconvenience of Mom Brodie’s death.
I try not to get testy. “I don’t know yet.” Each word is clipped. I’m not in the mood for Celeste’s nonsense today.
She takes a sip of the black coffee, makes a face, and takes another sip. “What are we waiting for? It’s not as if no one knew this was coming.”
“Can you postpone . . . whatever you need to be back in New York for?” I ask. I assumed she’d been lying when she said she had to get back for an audition. But maybe she really does have an audition.
“It’s fine.” She exhales. “I just—you think it’s safe to get my hair done in town?” She looks up at me. “Or should I go to Salisbury? I was thinking I’d have it washed and styled this morning. You know, people will be coming over.”
“I think you’d be fine going into Bertie’s.” We are still talking over the sound of the mixer. “Or . . . I could help you.” I don’t know why I’m offering. I’m not particularly good with hair. I guess I feel bad for her about the will. I talked briefly with Joseph a few minutes ago. He was on his way out to take Ainslie back to her mother, afraid there would be too much confusion in the house today. He said he wanted to talk to Clancy and go see our CPA to find out how we would go about handling Mom Brodie’s money and splitting it three ways instead two. Which I guess means we’re seriously considering doing it.
Celeste looks at me over the coffee mug. “No offense, but you’re not exactly great with hair.”
I get up. “None taken.” I walk over to my mother, who’s staring into the red bowl of batter, watching the beaters spin, and say in her ear, “I think you’ve whipped that into shape.” My tone is kind.
She shuts off the mixer and sets it on the counter. “I’ll make more coffee.” She meets my gaze, and her eyes are red.
“Daddy still outside?” I ask.
She nods. “Said he was taking Duke for a walk. I don’t know why. The dog’s got the run of this whole place.”
I shrug. “Maybe he just needed a walk. Daddy.”
She grabs the old percolator off the stove and carries it to the sink.
I glance at the clock on the wall. “Gail should be here soon.” I rest my hand on my mother’s shoulder, and she doesn’t flinch.
“I might go on to church.” Birdie glances at me over her shoulder, as if waiting for my permission.
“I think that’s a good idea,” I say softly. “Celeste and I will hold down the fort while you’re gone.”
“People will be calling.” Birdie dumps the coffee grinds into a compost pail on the counter.
“I’ll take messages. Or let the answering machine pick up.”
“Gotta find clothes to take to the funeral parlor.”
“I can do that. You have something in mind?”
“Panties.” My mother’s now filling the percolator with water from the sink. “She’ll need clean panties.”
“She doesn’t need panties,” Celeste pipes up. “No one’s going to hike up her dress at the viewing.” She looks at me, but is talking to herself now. “Hell, I forgot about the viewing. What am I going to wear?”
“Panties,” Birdie repeats more softly.
I cut my eyes at my sister. “I’ll take care of it,” I tell my mother, whose back is to me.
“Birdie?” Sarah comes rushing into the kitchen. She’s still in her running clothes. “Where did that teacup come from?”
Birdie turns from the sink, fitting the metal basket back into the coffee pot. “What?”
“Mom Brodie’s teacup. The one next to her bed.”
“Don’t know.” Birdie’s brow furrows. “She’s always had it.”
Sarah looks at me. “She couldn’t have always had it. She wasn’t born with it.”
It seems like everyone is testy this morning. It’s funny; you’d think after a woman we all loved desperately just died, we’d be hugging and crying on one another’s shoulders, not be at one another’s throats. My gaze
goes to Sarah. “Why do you ask?”
“You don’t know where it came from, Birdie?” Sarah asks my mother. “Did she bring it with her? When she married Great-Grandpop?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Maybe.” Birdie sets the percolator on the counter and wipes her hands on the full apron she’s wearing. I notice it’s one of Mom Brodie’s favorites. The one with blue and white morning glories all over it. I don’t remember ever seeing my mother wear it before. I wonder if she’s trying out the new position. Mom Brodie’s. After all, she’s now the oldest Brodie woman on the island. She’s the Queen of Everything, as Celeste would say. My mother, after living here fifty-odd years, is finally the matriarch.
“She kept it on her dresser,” Birdie goes on. “But there’s a box it goes in.”
“There’s a box where?”
Birdie seems to think on that for a moment; I suspect it has to do with her snooping gene.
“In her closet. A tin box, yea big.” She squares off something about twelve by twelve with her hands. “The cardboard box for the teacup and saucer is in there.”
“Can I check it out?” Sarah asks eagerly. The question is for me.
I look to Birdie. Mom Brodie’s been dead less than three hours. I don’t know how appropriate it is for us to be picking through her belongings.
Birdie reaches for the can of coffee on the counter. “Makes no matter to me. She won’t be using it anymore.” Her words seem cold, but her tone doesn’t.
Sarah is still looking to me for the final okay. I nod. “It’s okay if you look, but be respectful.”
Sarah darts out of the room.
“What’s that all about?” Celeste asks. I guess she’s going to be irritated about everything we say or do today.
I shrug. “She’s fifteen.”
Gail texts me to tell me she’s running a little late, so after I get my cup of coffee, I leave my mother to her cake baking and go upstairs to my grandmother’s bedroom. I find Sarah sitting on her bed. I haven’t been in the room since I came home. I’ve been avoiding it, I think.
It’s as neat as a pin. Sparse and simple, but cozy, with a double bed, a dresser, two nightstands, and an overstuffed chair with a floor lamp behind it, for reading. There’s blue everywhere: blue and white curtains, a blue chenille bedspread, blue terry-cloth slippers sticking out from beneath the bed. The room is on the bay side. And smells of peppermint.
“Hey,” I say from the doorway.
Sarah doesn’t look up. She’s digging in an old tin box that advertises a baking powder I’ve never heard of. I vaguely remember seeing the box, sometime over the years. “Hey,” she says.
“What’s up?”
She glances up at me. “The teacup,” she whispers.
I have no idea what she’s talking about. I almost feel as if I’m hungover. Like everything is taking too long to process. The funny thing is, I didn’t even have too much to drink yesterday; two beers with the crabs, two glasses of wine last night when I was playing Monopoly.
“Next to Mom Brodie’s bed. On the nightstand. With the bluebirds,” she says meaningfully.
It takes me a moment to realize what she’s saying. “Wait. There are bluebirds on the teacup?”
She nods and whispers, “Like the ones on the tattoo. I was hoping there would be something in her things, pictures maybe from before she came. But I can’t find anything.” She indicates a pile of papers, a few photographs, and a cheap little Kewpie doll with red lips. “There’s nothing here.”
“You find the box Birdie said the teacup was in?”
She holds it up. The old cardboard box is just the size to hold a teacup and saucer. “It was inside this tin box. Just like Birdie said.”
“Anything in there?”
Sarah shrugs as she removes the lid. She pulls out shredded bits of newspaper that appear to have been wrapping, and then something else. A little card that’s been folded to fit into the bottom of the box.
“What is it?” I ask, walking over to the bed.
“I don’t know. It’s . . .” She smooths it out on her bare leg. “It’s a valentine card, I guess.” She holds it up. It features an old-style, cartoonish picture of a boy and a girl, a big heart in the background, and he’s helping her climb up the side of a big pear. On it is printed, WE MAKE A GREAT PAIR.
“Must be from your great-grandfather,” I say.
Sarah flips it over to read the back. “Nope,” she murmurs. “It’s not.”
“It’s not?” I take the card from her and look on the back. The handwriting is faded, but it appears to say To Sarry, with all my love. The signed name is hard to make out. “Billy?” I read.
“No,” Sarah says with great satisfaction. “Bilis.”
I look at her, handing over the valentine, which looks like it’s from the thirties. “Bilis?”
“Yup. She was Mom Brodie’s witness when she got married. Only I bet Bilis isn’t a girl.” Sarah gets to her feet, sets the valentine aside, and starts repacking the other items. “You think Birdie will let me have the teacup and saucer?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Is it okay if I ask?”
I look at the valentine on the chenille bedspread. “I’m not sure she needs to know about the valentine.”
“Mom.” She says it like I’m an idiot. “I’m not going to tell Birdie about the valentine.” Sarah scoops up the little cardboard box and carefully puts the valentine inside. “I think Bilis gave her the teacup, and that’s where she got the idea for the tattoo.”
I lift my brows. Mom Brodie had a beau before she married my grandfather when she was sixteen years old. And he gave her a gift that she chose to remember with a tattoo on her thigh? She chose a tattoo to remember him by? I’m floored. Practically shocked. “Who do you think he was?” I murmur.
“Don’t know. But I’m going to try to find out.”
“How?”
She puts the little box back in the larger tin box. “Mom, he signed the marriage certificate. I know his last name. How many Bilises can there be?”
“The Internet,” I say.
“I tell you all the time, Mom,” she says, walking past me, headed for the door. “You can Google anything.”
36
Birdie
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the time glowing red on the nightstand. The baby monitor is still plugged in, but the little light isn’t green anymore. I turned the thing off. I should give it back to Joseph. Don’t need it now that Mrs. Brodie’s gone.
It’s 2:16. I can’t sleep. I just sit here in the dark. Staring into the dark. Joe’s snoring, but that’s not what’s keeping me up. It’s my head. All the stuff that keeps going around and around in my brain. I can’t shut it off.
I sit there on the bed and listen to Joe snore. Listen to the quiet in the rest of the house. Sarah and Abby are asleep in their bedroom. I peeked through the door that was open just a crack. They were both sleeping on their backs. Abby had her arm around Sarah, kind of the way they used to sleep when Sarah was a little thing.
Joseph went home to sleep in his own house. Said he’d be back in the morning to run errands. I don’t know what he thinks needs doing. Mrs. Brodie’s dead and gone. Lying on a table in the cellar at the funeral parlor. That’s where Angus gets the body ready. I’ve never been down there, but I know that’s where they do it. I don’t know what Joseph thinks he can do for her. There’ll be a luncheon after the services Saturday, but that’s days away. He thinks he’s going to make up a potato salad?
Celeste went out tonight. Her grandmother died, and she went out. To God knows where. Had Joseph drop her off. At The Gull, I’m sure. At least I don’t have to worry about her driving home drunk. But The Gull’s closed by this time. She should be home. I don’t know where she is. With some man, I guess. I try not to think about it. I try not to worry that she’s going to go home with some crazy killer some night and end up in a ditch, thrown out like garbage. Or worse, planted in a grave in the
wetlands where no one will ever find her. Be bad enough for her to get murdered, but it would be worse never knowing what happened to her.
I think about getting dressed and going downstairs and making myself useful. There’s always things to be done around this house: toilets to clean, tomatoes to can, floors to be mopped. But then if someone catches me, there’ll be talk. I’ll have to explain myself. I don’t want talk. And I don’t want to scrub any darn toilets.
So I’ll just sit here.
I reach for my water glass and take a sip. Mrs. Brodie had a little glass water carafe with a bee on it that she took up to bed with her every night. There’s a matching glass. I always liked that little bee on the carafe. A water carafe is something fancy, but secretly, I wish I had one, too, even though I’m not fancy. It’s next to her bed right now.
I guess I can have it.
But I don’t want it. I don’t want any of her things. I thought I would, but I don’t. Maybe it’s my sin of envy boomeranging back onto me. I know it wasn’t right to be jealous of her all these years. My whole life. Whatever I’ve got, she gave me. And I should have been thankful. But I wasn’t. Instead of liking the good things about Mrs. Brodie, I hung on to the bad things. I carried them around in my apron pocket every day, all day.
And now I’m sorry.
But it’s too late for sorries because she’s gone. And I have to live with my mistakes. I can ask the good Lord to forgive me, but I still have to live with them.
I take a sip of water, and I set the glass with the roosters on it back on the nightstand. A gift from Abby, or maybe Joseph. I don’t even like chickens that much. I just . . . Mrs. Brodie collected her Hummels and her books, and I wanted to collect something, too. So, somehow, I ended up collecting chickens. It just crept up on me. I bought something with a chicken on it, and then someone bought me something else with a chicken on it. And then I got another chicken for my birthday or Mother’s Day or something. And now they’re everywhere in the house: on my curtains, on the powder room towels; they’re even on my kitchen glasses.
Guess I’m stuck with them now.
What Makes a Family Page 27
