The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society

by Darien Gee

  “I’m hungry, Mommy,” Max says, looking up at Ava. He wouldn’t eat when they first arrived, too enthralled by all the commotion. Ava had only picked at her food, unsure of what was happening, still reeling from the shock that her “dinner” with Bettie included thirty other women toting small luggage carts filled with paper.

  “There’s still plenty of food on the buffet,” Madeline says. “I think the ladies plan on grazing all night. Help yourself.”

  “We need to be going,” Ava says quickly. “But thank you.”

  “I’m hungry,” Max says again, and there’s a hint of a whine.

  “Here,” Connie says, handing Max a pastry, then looks at Ava guiltily. “Oh, sorry, I should have checked with you first. Is it okay that I gave that to him? It’s an apple dumpling.” They watch as Max shoves the whole thing into his mouth.

  “Moruh,” Max says, his mouth full.

  Ava sighs. “It’s okay,” she says.

  “There you are!” Bettie exclaims, hurrying up behind them. “Ava, I was thinking that it would be so much fun if you could talk about how to use bottle caps in our layouts, or maybe as a separate do-it-yourself project with leftover paper scraps. I know the ladies would welcome your ideas.”

  “Well, I haven’t had much time to think about it,” Ava says, wanting to get out of there before Isabel sees her. “And you know, Max is tired …” She nods apologetically at her son who’s reaching for another apple dumpling. He smiles at them, looking anything but tired.

  “Oh, he looks like he’s having fun!” Bettie says, producing another package of stickers. “Look what I have, Matt!”

  Max reaches for it and then says again, “I’m hungry.”

  “Perfect!” Bettie cries. “Connie can take him to get some food, can’t you?”

  “Actually …” Connie begins but Bettie gives Max a tickle and in the same motion manages to extract him from Ava’s arms and plop him into Connie’s while passing the apple dumpling platter to Madeline. Both Madeline and Connie have their arms full as Bettie drags Ava away.

  “Now, I’m going to do a quick 101 for you and a few other new members.”

  “I don’t scrapbook …” Ava begins.

  “Exactly!” Bettie nods her head as if Ava has proved her point. “Everyone says that, but the truth is that everybody scrapbooks in one way or another—you just don’t know it. It’s my job to give you the right tools to make it easier to preserve those special memories. Don’t you want to have something nice for Matt?”

  “Max …”

  “They grow up so fast, and we’re all so busy these days. Scrapbooking a little bit here and there ensures that we remember the moments that matter most. It’ll be something he’ll treasure when he’s older.” Bettie smiles. “Don’t you want that for him?”

  What a low blow. Ava hasn’t even put together Max’s baby book, doesn’t keep a journal of any kind. She’s been meaning to do something, but every time she begins to sift through the photos, it feels hard and overwhelming, incomplete. She doesn’t know where to begin and at the same time is afraid of leaving something out, knowing already that the biggest piece isn’t there.

  “Now, you don’t have to worry about anything right now. Just listen and play—that’s what I tell everyone. Listen and play, and see where it goes from there. You’ll be amazed at what happens when you have pretty patterned paper and card stock looking back at you! It’s like something opens up inside. Come on!” Bettie tugs on her arm.

  “Bettie, I can’t.” Ava untangles herself from Bettie’s grip and holds her ground. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go back in.”

  “Why not?”

  Ava hesitates. “Because there’s someone there who would be very upset if she saw me.”

  Bettie stops and stares at her. “Who? I know every lady in there and I can assure you that you’d be welcome.”

  Ava shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’d stake my life on it,” Bettie declares. “Now who is it?”

  Ava swallows. She can tell that Bettie won’t let up unless Ava tells her. “Isabel Kidd.”

  “But why would Isabel …” There’s a long, drawn-out pause as Bettie stares at Ava. In the instant when Bettie puts two and two together, Ava can almost see the lightbulb go off.

  She explains, “As you know, I used to work for her husband, Bill, in the dental office. We were together for a year before he died. Max is Bill’s son.” There’s a rush of heat to her cheeks when she says it out loud, but it’s freeing, too. A relief. It’s the first time she’s actually said what had happened, who Max is.

  “Oh lordy lord lord lord,” Bettie mutters. She chews her lip as she shakes her head. “Well, of course! I have to say, I am gobsmacked. Didn’t see this one coming, no, I didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry about the presentation,” Ava says. “Maybe I could leave some samples with you and—”

  “Just when you think you’ve seen it all,” Bettie continues with a shake of the head. “It’s funny how life works, don’t you think? I certainly don’t blame you for not wanting to stay. If I were in your shoes, I’d certainly be tempted to run away, too. There’s no other solution, now, is there?”

  Ava stiffens. “I’m not running away. I just don’t want to cause her any more unhappiness.”

  Bettie pats her arm soothingly, as if she were a small child. “Of course not. Now let’s get you out of here before Isabel sees you. She’s all worked up for some reason or another—you certainly wouldn’t want to get in her way tonight!” She begins to steer Ava toward the front door.

  “Wait, I have to get Max …” Ava begins when Isabel and her friend walk into the foyer.

  “Yvonne, we’re going,” Isabel is saying darkly as her friend protests. She stops talking when she sees Ava.

  Ava wants to run, but she can’t get her legs to cooperate. They’re like jelly, threatening to buckle.

  “Well!” Bettie says, clearing her throat. “This is certainly awkward.” She looks between the two women.

  Neither Ava nor Isabel respond.

  Ava feels Isabel’s eyes boring into her, searching, accusing. Resentment and anger are shimmering from her like heat off a sidewalk. Unlike Isabel’s outburst in front of her house, this is worse. Much worse. Isabel seems different somehow, more prepared, more powerful, and Ava can sense every emotion running through Isabel’s body. Forgiveness and understanding, however, are nowhere in the vicinity.

  “You,” Isabel says. She turns to her friend. “It’s her.” She spits the word out, like a threat.

  Ava glances at Bettie, who seems both concerned and a little enthralled. The hubbub of women and activity continues around them as if everything were normal, as if Ava weren’t concerned for her safety and well-being. At the moment she doesn’t know what Isabel might do, she just knows she should get out of there before she has a chance to find out.

  Isabel’s friend puts a hand on her arm and says in a quiet voice, “Come on, Isabel. Let’s go.”

  “NO.” Isabel is rooted on the spot, her hands on her hips. Ava can almost picture Isabel wearing a cape, an avenging superhero, wind blowing in her hair as she’s about to take down a villain.

  “Isabel,” Ava says. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t know you were going to be here. But I’m leaving now.”

  Bettie purses her lips but doesn’t try to persuade Ava to stay. Even Isabel seems satisfied with this, her glare a little less hostile, her stance softening a little, the tightness easing up.

  For a second Ava thinks it might all be okay, that she might get out of there, when she hears Max’s laughter and the sound of small footsteps running up behind her.

  “Mommy!” he exclaims, and launches into her arms. “I have a goody bag for us!” He holds up a brown paper bag tied with a ribbon. A yellow letter M is taped to the top. “It’s my Happy Meal! The M is for Max!”

  Connie and Madeline appear behind him, smiling.

  “He’s so cute,” Connie says. “He said h
e wanted to share it with you so we decided to fill a to-go bag. He found that ribbon and chipboard M on the scrap table.”

  “Swap table,” Bettie corrects, then reddens when she remembers what’s going on.

  Ava doesn’t look at Isabel, her cheeks hot. She says hastily to Connie and Madeline, “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” Connie says.

  “Max is a delight,” Madeline agrees. “He’s welcome here anytime.” She smiles pleasantly at Isabel and her friend. “Hello, I’m Madeline Davis.”

  Bettie clears her throat. “This is Isabel Kidd and Yvonne Tate.” She blinks frantically at Madeline, like she’s sending Morse code with her eyes.

  Yvonne shakes their hands but Isabel isn’t paying attention to any one of them. The bluster seems to have gone out of her and her face is drawn and pale.

  “Well, goodbye,” Ava says, and begins to make her way toward the front door.

  “This is Max?” Isabel asks. She steps in front of them, stopping them.

  Ava clutches Max to her, turns him away from Isabel. She’s no longer scared for herself, her own fear dissipating and replaced by a new one as she realizes what this could mean. Bettie and Yvonne are holding their breath while Connie and Madeline look uneasy, aware that something awkward is taking place.

  Max pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Hello,” he says.

  Ava is holding her breath, too. If she has to, she’ll fight. Push back, push her out of the way. Burn the bridge once and for all.

  But Isabel doesn’t even seem to notice Ava. Her eyes are on Max, and Ava can see them filling with tears.

  “My God,” Isabel breathes. Her hand comes up to her mouth, her eyes wide and wet. “He looks just like Bill’s baby pictures.”

  “Really?” Bettie squints and stares at Max. Connie and Madeline inadvertently look at him, too. “Even with those glasses?”

  “Bill had strabismus as a kid, but he had surgery and got it corrected.” Isabel’s voice is a whisper. Ava feels her heart give a leap at this news.

  Bill had it, too. Just like Max.

  “Stra-bis-what?” Bettie asks, but Isabel is shaking her head, unable to answer.

  “Strabismus,” Ava says quietly. “Misaligned or crossed eyes. Max’s isn’t too bad so he won’t need a procedure, but he has to do regular exercises to strengthen the muscles in his eyes.”

  “It’s probably hereditary,” Bettie says, and then stops when she realizes what she’s said. “I mean …”

  At hearing this, Isabel seems to jerk back to her old self. She straightens up and clears her throat, wipes her eyes. “I have to go.” She spins and leaves before anyone can say anything, almost bumping into someone walking into the tea salon.

  “Isabel!” Yvonne calls, but she’s already gone.

  “Let her go,” Bettie says, reaching out to touch Yvonne’s arm. “Give her some time.”

  Yvonne watches her friend disappear, worry etched on her face, but doesn’t go after her.

  Ava feels terrible. She isn’t quite sure what to make of this turn of events. It was her plan to leave, but Isabel beat her to it. She doesn’t know what to do now. Max wiggles in her arms, grinning happily, oblivious. She holds him tighter, still processing the information that Bill also had strabismus. She’ll have to tell Max’s doctor, not that it will make any difference, but it can go into the file as a note. Hereditary predisposition. One more thing that Bill and Max share, something Ava can’t wait to tell him once they get home.

  “Excuse me.” The woman who just walked in stares at the cluster of women, at Bettie, Madeline, Connie, Yvonne, and Ava. “My name is Frances Latham and I’m looking for the scrapbooking meeting. Am I late?”

  Bettie checks her watch and gives it a tap, grateful for the interruption. “You’re right on time.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Scrapbooking is part preservation, part visualization,” Bettie begins. She’s standing in front of a round table where Connie, Yvonne, Ava, and Frances have gathered. Max is helping Madeline straighten up in the kitchen. Connie told her she could do it but Madeline shooed her out, wanting some alone time with Max. Connie knows she misses her granddaughter and that this young boy is like a balm, helping to ease Madeline’s longing.

  Connie fidgets in her chair, wishes she could be in the kitchen as well. It had just sort of happened, her sitting here. They were all standing awkwardly in the foyer after Isabel had run out, a little stunned and unsure of what to do, and Bettie had been quick to herd them into the sitting room and plunk them into chairs.

  “People scrapbook for all sorts of reasons,” Bettie continues. “And there are all sorts of ways to do it.” In one hand she holds up a thick album with a plastic protective cover, in the other a smaller handmade album held together with two round binder rings and all sorts of decorative fabric, ribbon and paper sticking out of it. On the table other sample albums are spread out in front of them in all shapes and sizes.

  Frances Latham raises her hand. Connie sees her around town every now and then, knows that she’s a mom who’s always rushing around with her kids, the kind of person who participates in every Avalon fund-raiser or charitable event. She’s come into the tea salon a few times, usually as part of one of these special events, never on her own. Connie knows there are lots of women like Frances, women who find it hard to make time for themselves because they’re always doing things for others. She makes a note to have special ten-percent-off coupons that they can hand out to Society members the next time they come in for tea, maybe with a special surprise treat on their first visit, a small pot of jam tied with a ribbon or a cluster of fresh lavender.

  “My problem is I don’t know where to start,” Frances admits. “I have so many pictures, it’s overwhelming to think about organizing everything. And our pictures are scattered everywhere—some are still in the envelope from when I picked them up from the store! If I have to go back and start documenting everything after the first year my kids were born, they’ll be in college before I’m done.”

  There’s laughter. Ava is sitting next to Frances and tells her, “I haven’t even done my son’s baby album yet.”

  Frances sighs. “Tell me about it.”

  “I don’t have any kids,” Yvonne says. “But it seems a bit indulgent to scrapbook about myself.”

  Connie wasn’t planning on saying anything when the words slip out of her mouth. “I don’t have anything to scrapbook about,” she says. “I hardly have any pictures from my past.”

  The women look at her questioningly and Connie wishes she hadn’t said anything. But Bettie continues, unconcerned.

  “Ladies, scrapbooks are about memories. It goes beyond the photographs.” She holds up a funky album made of old menu covers. “This one is from Tilde Smart, the lady over there. A few years ago she put together an album filled with menus, napkins, and other memorabilia from restaurants she used to eat at with her college roommate, Sweeney. She has pictures in here, too, but a lot of it is writing, like a journal. Tilde wrote down every memory, every silly joke, any detail she could remember. Sweeney had been diagnosed with cancer, you see, and Tilde wanted to give her something she could take to the hospital when she had treatments. Something to make her smile, take her mind off of what was happening.

  “When Sweeney passed, the family sent this back to Tilde. And look.” Bettie opens to a random page and shows it to the women. Connie sees two different sets of handwriting. “Sweeney had written her own memories in there, too, next to Tilde’s, while she was going through chemotherapy. You can only imagine how Tilde felt when she first opened this and saw Sweeney’s handwriting, saw the funny doodles in the margins, a poem Sweeney wrote at the end. Tilde treasures this album. It’s part of who she is.”

  Bettie shows them several more albums. “You get to choose what goes inside,” she tells them. “It doesn’t have to be in chronological order, it doesn’t have to be anything other than what you want it to be. And if you don’t have pictures, fin
d other images or words or colors that evoke the memory. Connie, what’s one of your favorite memories?”

  Connie squirms, again in the hot seat. “I don’t have one,” she says.

  “Not one?” It’s clear Bettie doesn’t believe her. “A birthday? Christmas? Camp? Anything!”

  Images flicker through Connie’s mind, but not one of them is worth sharing. “Sorry, I’ve got nothing.”

  “Well, what about now? What’s something you enjoy doing now?”

  “The tea salon,” Connie says without hesitation. “And Serena. My goat.”

  “Ah-ha!” Bettie snaps her fingers. “There you go! An album filled with pictures of you and Madeline, of the tea salon, of some of your favorite menu items. You could even include tea bags, or recipes, or pressed flowers or leaves from the backyard. The salon’s business card. Pictures of customers. You could even take the loose tea and stitch in a clear plastic pocket right into your album! And Selena …”

  “Serena …”

  “… I’m sure you can find lots of goat information on the Internet. You could jot specifics about her breed, what she likes to eat, what she likes to play with, funny stories.”

  “I do that already in my journal.”

  “So you are already scrapbooking!” Bettie looks around at the women, triumphant. “A scrapbook is like a journal except you’re adding a stronger visual element. In addition to the words, you’re letting the colors of the page, the texture even, remind you of special moments with her. You could even photocopy a page from your journal and put it in the scrapbook, or expand your journal to include more visual pieces. You don’t have to scrapbook in a special album—your journal will do just fine.”

  Connie hadn’t thought of that. Her journal is filled with sketches, and occasionally she’ll tuck in a small piece of memorabilia, like a movie ticket stub or inspiring word torn out of a magazine. She looks at the fat makeshift album on the table and pictures her journal transformed, with small fabric loops stapled to the page to serve as tabs or dividers.

  “There are so many ways to do this, you are only limited by your imagination,” Bettie continues. “Choose an event, like a birthday party or a graduation, or even a girls’ night out. Scrap about that. Or think about something you want in your future, a new job or new house, and scrap about that. You could scrap a gift for someone special, like Tilde did.”