Friendship Bread

by Darien Gee

  Well, maybe just a little. You can’t be too sure these days and she knows better than to be too complacent about anything. It’s completely dark outside and Madeline notes how everything seems so much more foreboding at night. “Come,” she instructs Hannah. On the way out, she decides to grab a rolling pin for good measure.

  Madeline hasn’t had a chance to turn on the exterior lights but she can see a figure looming on the porch. She senses Hannah’s apprehension next to her and realizes how ridiculous they’re being. If Steven could see her now, he would never let her hear the end of it. She can hear him chuckling in her ear, and it’s enough to make her straighten up and toss the rolling pin aside. She flips a switch and suddenly the hallway and porch are flooded with light.

  “Mystery solved.” She opens the door and ushers in a soaking wet Julia.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Julia stammers. She’s shivering despite wearing a coat, her curly hair pasted to the sides of her face. At Madeline’s nod, Hannah quickly tosses her blanket over Julia’s shoulders. “My husband was late and when I got here I didn’t know if I should come in so I was just walking around and thinking …”

  Walking around and thinking? In this weather? Without an umbrella? Madeline knows better, and she suspects Julia does, too. “Come,” she orders. She wants to get them back into the warmth of the kitchen and she’ll start a fire. She takes Julia’s hand, which is ice cold. “I’m glad you came in.”

  “I had to,” Julia says. Madeline can see that she’s been crying. “Because I can’t bear to go back home.”

  Julia is wrapped in a blanket as Madeline adds kindling to the cast-iron stove. Julia has peeled off her wet clothes and is wearing a soft flannel nightgown that is short and a little tight around the shoulders, the only thing Madeline could find that would fit Julia’s tall frame. Julia is shivering even though her body has warmed up, unable to stop her teeth from chattering, unable to stop the violent shaking that overtakes her every now and then.

  “I can’t go home,” she says again, and both Madeline and Hannah nod. They seem to understand, and yet she hasn’t explained anything. How can this be when for so long nobody could understand what Julia needed no matter what she said?

  Except for Mark, who saw her retreat and let her go, knowing that no one could go there with her. It’s been like this for so long that tonight, when he came home and looked into her eyes, Julia was struck with fear. She saw the gentle suggestion of life returning to them as they once knew it, and yet this is impossible. How can things ever be the same?

  What is it like to lose a child? Julia has never been able to put words to the grief. The shock. The devastation. What can you say when your life is suddenly destroyed?

  In the days and then months that followed Josh’s death, Julia was in a daze. It was like a nightmare she wanted to wake from, but couldn’t. When Gracie was born four months later, Julia had cried so hard the doctor had to sedate her. Nobody understood why. She heard groggy murmurs about grieving for Josh still, as if it were something she’d eventually stop doing. What nobody could understand was that she was grieving for her daughter. For Gracie. Gracie was now out in the world where anything could happen to her.

  Their friends offered awkward comfort in the beginning and then evaporated into thin air. Julia never felt like going out but when she did, people smiled uneasily and looked away. This was the town she grew up in, these were people who knew her, but suddenly no one wanted to be around them. They say that tragedy is supposed to bring people together, but that hasn’t been Julia’s experience. Instead, everything became more separate.

  Everyone fell away eventually, even her parents. Her mother and father had cried alongside her in those early weeks but then they seemed to quickly find their footing, seemed ready to come back to a world that was filled with nonsensical tasks like grocery shopping and mowing the lawn. They tried to coax Julia to eat a little more, to take a shower, to come outside and take a walk. She refused.

  On the first anniversary of Josh’s death, they were hurt when Julia refused to watch a slide show they had painstakingly put together. On his first birthday following his death, they had been appalled when Julia plucked everything from the tombstone that had been left for him—balloons, small gifts, a T-shirt from his favorite baseball team—stripping it bare except for the flowers she had brought. What nobody seemed to understand—nobody except for Mark, who had silently helped her and then took everything to the Salvation Army—was that none of these things were for Josh. They were for everybody else, so they could feel some sort of misplaced peace about his absence, as if he were still a guest at his own party. It seemed to escape everybody’s attention that Josh could do nothing with those things, because he wasn’t there.

  Managing Julia became overwhelming for her parents, she knows. Not that she asked to be managed, but they would do it just the same, talking about her in the third person as they planned the week, coordinating Gracie’s care with Mark. Her parents would look at each other, their eyes in silent conversation as they nodded toward Julia as if she weren’t there. She knew they wanted her to move on, and when it was clear that she couldn’t, they did.

  On the day they were scheduled to fly to Florida, her mother came to the house for one last goodbye. It was three years after Josh’s death. Rebecca Townsend was all dressed up, her hair done, her nails done, made up as if she were going to a party. Julia couldn’t even look at her.

  “Julia.” Her mother took her hands. “Julia, we all miss Josh, but you need to get past this. You need to give some love to your husband, to Gracie. You still have a long life in front of you. There is still much happiness waiting for you, Julia.” When Julia didn’t respond, Rebecca just sighed and kissed her older daughter goodbye.

  At the door, Rebecca hesitated. She surprised Julia by turning to gather her in her arms, holding her tight. “Call Livvy,” she had whispered in her ear, and Julia felt the dampness of her mother’s cheek, unsure of who was crying. “Talk to her, Julia.” And then her parents were gone.

  For days Julia considered this, thought of making a phone call to Livvy, a visit even. But in the end she couldn’t do it, couldn’t bear to hear any explanation or excuse. She saw her sister’s hesitation at the hospital, recounting for the police what had happened, her nervousness, the way her eyes darted back and forth, worried she would somehow be blamed.

  Well, she’s right. Julia does blame her. Livvy should have driven Josh straight home as they had planned. She shouldn’t have left him alone in the yard, asked him to do a task, and then not supervised. She shouldn’t have locked the car door. She shouldn’t have left him for a moment.

  What should Livvy have done? She should have gotten her lazy husband to properly tend to their yard like all other Avalon homeowners so that there wouldn’t be any yellow-jacket nests so close to the house. She should have returned Julia’s skirt on her own time or, better yet, never have borrowed it at all. She should have kept a cool head while Josh was lying there, remembering that a single shot of epinephrine would have saved Josh’s life. By the time Livvy remembered, it was too late.

  What Julia doesn’t understand is how Livvy could forget. Livvy has known this boy all his life. She was there when he was born. She was the godparent. Josh adored her. And at the beginning of every school year, every summer camp, it is the first thing that goes down on the paper.

  ALLERGIES. BEES. RISK OF ANAPHYLACTIC SHOCK. CARRIES EPIPEN ON PERSON AT ALL TIMES.

  Julia knows Livvy knows this. She’s filled out forms on Julia’s behalf. Of all the times for Livvy to freeze up, to not think clearly, why did it have to be then?

  At the hospital they all stood there in shock, and eventually Julia’s father had ushered them back to the waiting room where they had paperwork to fill out, organ donation to consider, everything that shouldn’t be happening in that moment, on that day. Julia sat on the unforgiving plastic chairs, flanked on either side by Mark and Livvy, her parents and Tom opposite them. They
were all crying and Julia couldn’t think straight, couldn’t hear a word that was said to her. All she could think about was seeing Josh head to school that morning, that last goodbye she had barely paid attention to. She had told him to tuck in his shirt and he had, rolling his eyes. That was it.

  That was it.

  She felt the wall go up almost immediately, everybody fading into the background—her husband, her sister, her parents. She couldn’t believe that Livvy had let this happen, and even when she started to accept that it may not have been Livvy’s fault exactly, she couldn’t believe that Livvy had been the last person Josh had seen before he died. It should have been Julia, not Livvy.

  Her parents visit once a year. They call and sometimes write, mostly birthday cards for Gracie with a ten-dollar bill carefully taped inside. They’ve begged Mark and Julia to come for a visit, promising to watch Gracie and show her the time of her life, but Julia doesn’t want to go anywhere. She wants to stay right where she is, near Josh. She’s not leaving him.

  At first, Mark would join her when she went to the cemetery, sometimes with Gracie, sometimes not. But the daily vigil wore him down and eventually she found herself making trips to Josh’s grave alone. She knows Mark comes on his own time, because sometimes there will be fresh flowers or a new baseball. Once there was a strawberry Charleston Chew resting on the top of the memorial marker, no note. Josh loved Charleston Chews but he always had so many cavities that Julia banned it from the house. The only person she can think of who would ignore the rules laid down by Julia would be Livvy. Julia had clutched the candy bar, wanting to throw it away, but she couldn’t. She put it back and left, drove home and crawled back into bed.

  She suffered from insomnia, from migraines, from too much of everything. Life—the world—it was all too much. The doctors gave Julia pills but she didn’t take them. She didn’t want relief—that’s what nobody could understand. The pain was real. Her son had died. Why should she get relief when he didn’t?

  She sees the concern in Madeline’s and Hannah’s eyes, their genuine desire to help her however they can, but there is a touch of alarm, too. Julia is like a woman insane—she can feel herself losing it, reality slipping away. They’ll lock her up. They’ll have no choice but to lock her up and throw away the key, punishing her for something she should have been punished for long ago.

  She should have been there. She should have been there.

  Julia closes her eyes, unable to stop shaking while her whole body feels like it is on fire. She feels it in her belly. The heat is visceral, and it’s consuming her.

  And then—blackness.

  Madeline is no stranger to grief. She remembers the pain from Steven’s death as if it were yesterday. Sudden death gives you no warning, no preparation, no time to say goodbye or I love you.

  Madeline cannot comprehend the depth of pain that must come from losing a child. It’s not the natural order of life. Your children are supposed to outlive you. They’re supposed to have a full life. They’re supposed to grow up, get married, have children of their own. No one prepares you for this kind of despair—there is no despair that can rival this.

  When she lost Steven, she also lost Ben. In a different way, of course, but it was difficult nonetheless. To think that for so many years she had been relieved when Ben wasn’t around to cause them more heartache, and yet when Steven died, Ben was the only person capable of understanding what this loss really meant. She wishes now they hadn’t grieved alone, Ben especially, because there is no question that loneliness is sometimes the worst of it.

  It took some time but Madeline was able to eventually move forward with her life, and when she did, she simply took the sadness with her. You can never recover from losing a person you love, but you can find a way to let it be a part of your life rather than letting it take over every part of you. Still, there is no set timetable, no magic bullet. Julia, like Madeline, will have to find her own way out.

  “What should we do?” Hannah’s voice is a whisper.

  Madeline thinks about whether or not they can get Julia upstairs but decides that the couch in the back parlor is closer. They get her arranged and then return to the kitchen so Madeline can finish the French onion soup.

  “Will she be okay?”

  Madeline gives a firm nod to allay Hannah’s concerns, but she’s not sure. She doesn’t want to wake Julia because she doubts Julia has really slept since Josh’s death. If the heart can’t heal, the mind doesn’t rest—Madeline knows this all too well. That’s not what worries her. Madeline learned a long time ago that death’s most painful companion is guilt, and Julia has that in spades. “She just needs some rest—we’ll leave her be.”

  The storm subsides to a steady downpour of rain. Hannah helps Madeline scrape down the sides of the pot. “Add some water now,” she tells Hannah, “then scrape the bottom and the sides again, stirring it all back into the soup. It’s called deglazing.”

  “Deglazing,” Hannah repeats obediently, holding the wooden spoon like an expert.

  “Do it one more time with the cooking sherry instead of water—that will really pull the flavor out.”

  Madeline slides the baking sheet with the baguette slices into the oven, then checks on Julia, who is sleeping peacefully. She tucks the blanket around Julia, feeling a bittersweet pang of sorrow and hope, and returns to the kitchen. She considers what to do as she sets out three bowls on the table, resting the spoons on folded cloth napkins. She goes to her junk drawer and pulls out the telephone book, squinting as she tries to read the small print. Her finger trails down the names until she finds the one she’s looking for. She gives Hannah a pat on the shoulder as she leans over to check the onions. “Almost there,” she tells Hannah with a smile.

  Then she reaches for the telephone to call Mark Evarts.

  Sergeant Robert Overby, 55

  Avalon Police Department

  Sergeant Robert Overby reviews the incident reports for the day.

  One disturbance of the peace. Teenager was playing on a new set of drums in his garage. An officer was sent out and witnessed heated argument between teenager, parent, and neighbor. Officer helped move the drums to the basement and suggested soundproofing options. Issue resolved.

  One suspicious vehicle on Elwood Drive. A naked man and woman found in the backseat. They claimed they were not engaged in any illicit activity, but merely talking. They were asked to move along. Issue resolved.

  Sergeant Overby chuckles. All in all, a pretty good day. He has four patrol officers on duty and in an hour he gets to go home and get some blessed sleep.

  He lets out a yawn just as an elderly woman in a trench coat is escorted into the department by Officer Joey Daniels. “I got a live one here, Sergeant,” he says importantly. Officer Daniels is new to Avalon and is still getting to know the residents, which is why he doesn’t recognize the woman as Avalon’s former Miss Sunshine.

  Cora “Miss Sunshine” Ferguson had a brief television career as the pretty homemaker in the ever-popular Sunshine Detergent commercials that ran in the 1970s. She had been spotted in the downtown Chicago Marshall Field’s on State Street one Thanksgiving weekend, shopping early for Christmas bargains. The talent scout handpicked her out of the crowd and had her audition on the spot, which Cora did with a flourish. The scout found her charming, oblivious to the scent of hot buttered rum on her breath, and took her to the headquarters of Sunshine Detergent down on Lake Street. She did a screen test and the rest, as they say, was television history.

  Sunshine Detergent eventually went bankrupt, and Cora returned to Avalon with a small savings account, which she drank through in less than a year. After that, despite attempts by friends and well-meaning neighbors to get her into a good alcoholic treatment program, Cora Ferguson became known, affectionately, as the town’s resident drunk.

  “I have a Miss Ferguson here …” Officer Daniels begins, reading from his notebook.

  Cora yanks her arm free of his grip. “That’s Miss Suns
hine to you.” She sways a bit as she glares at him.

  “Now, Miss Sunshine, what are you doing here?” Sergeant Overby gets up from his desk and comes over to her. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

  “Do you have any whiskey?”

  “No, ma’am, I do not,” he replies politely.

  She pulls the trench coat tight around her body. “Then coffee will do just fine. Thank you.” She gives Officer Daniels the stink-eye, then sits in the chair Sergeant Overby has pulled out for her.

  He fills a Styrofoam cup with coffee, picks up a couple packets of sugar and cream and places it all on the table in front of her. “Now why did Officer Daniels have to bring you in today?”

  “Theft.” Officer Daniels says the word loud and clear, then gives Miss Sunshine a stink-eye of his own. “Perpetrator was seen lurking around a private property on North Davis Street. She fits the same description as the call we received last week about someone in a trench coat stealing newspapers from people’s walkways.”

  “I was REDISTRIBUTING them,” Cora says loudly.

  This is not the first time Cora has been brought in, and Sergeant Overby knows it won’t be the last. “What did you take this time, Cora?”

  Cora is sulky. “Nothing.”

  Officer Daniels attempts to open Cora’s trench coat but she fends him off. Frustrated he steps back. “It’s in her coat, Sergeant. I saw her put something in it right before I apprehended her.”

  Sergeant Overby sighs. He hopes to God it’s nothing serious, because he really doesn’t want to have to arrest Cora. Most of the town knows her and understands she’s harmless, but the recent influx of new residents means that Cora’s colorful history in Avalon may be coming to an end. “Can you please remove your coat, Miss Sunshine?”

  She wraps the coat tighter around her body. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because today is laundry day and I only have my unmentionables on while I wait for my clothes to dry.” She gives him a smug look and then proceeds to add cream to her coffee.