by Lesley Crewe
“Don’t start.” He leans over and gives me an obligatory kiss on the cheek. “We have to go or traffic will be hell. Why did you have to come at rush hour?”
“Isn’t it always rush hour?”
He hurries me along, with one hand on my back and the other holding my bag.
“You look good,” I say.
“You look terrible. Why don’t you get some new clothes and shoes while you’re here? You look like a washerwoman. I live in Manhattan, mother. You could at least make an effort.”
Let him talk, Fletcher said.
The air is cold and damp as we hurry outside, and the wind whips our hair every which way. “Your weather is worse than ours.”
“But at least I live in the city. If a storm descends, I’m not stuck in the back of beyond like you. You’re getting older, Mom. You’re living with a giant teddy bear who’s not even your husband. It’s ridiculous.”
He rushes me into a very shiny BMW. The dash looks like a cockpit, with lights of every colour flashing urgently. Then it starts to talk and my son answers. He and the car are having a conversation. I wish Fletcher was here.
We emerge out of the parking lot and drive towards the streets of New York. I never did belong here. This was my husband’s world. Old money and rules. Lots of rules.
“Mother! Are you listening to me?”
“Sorry. I thought you were still talking to the car.”
Jonathan gives me a sideways glance. “Please don’t make fun of me and the way I live.”
“I didn’t mean to.” Sneaking peeks at his profile, I can see his hair is thinning and he has a small paunch, though he hides it well under his thousand-dollar suit. “May I smoke?”
“Of course not! You have cancer! And this is a brand new car!”
“I don’t have cancer. I got my tits cut off months ago.”
We’re at a red light, so Jonathan has a chance to throw his hands in the air while he lectures me. “Do you hear the way you talk? Who says tits in front of their son?”
Fletcher’s voice rattles in my brain. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Now how can I help you?”
My surrender surprises him. It takes him a minute to gather himself. “How long can you stay?”
“A week.”
“A week? What good is that?”
I turn in my heated seat and face him. “Believe it or not, big shot, I have a life in my hillbilly haven.”
“Doing what? Are you still in that disgusting trailer?”
“Pull the car over.”
Now he panics. “What? You can’t get out here.”
“Watch me.” I gather up my purse and unlock the door. When I open it, he hollers and pulls over. I get out and light a smoke. He sulks in the car and I sulk out of it. Then I crush the butt under my shoe and get back in the car, grateful to be in the heated seat once more and out of the biting wind.
“Can we start over? I’ll help you as much as I can.”
He nods and starts the car. Off we go into the city.
Jonathan doesn’t live in the brownstone my husband Aaron owned. He sold it, which is too bad, since it had character and gorgeous architectural detail. Riding up to the thirtieth floor in this sleek tower he lives in is about as nauseating as blasting to the moon. The elevator doesn’t make any noise. Shouldn’t it make some noise? I want to ask him, but he’s rubbing his temples at the moment. I guess he’s still getting migraines. We get off in a hallway that is completely empty and painted a dull mushroom colour. How depressing.
“This way.” He turns left and we walk and walk. The dogs would love this. It’s the last door, which is a good thing—there’s nowhere to go but out the window.
He unlocks his sleek front door and we go inside. “Melissa!”
It’s silent. I look around. This place has all the charm of a waiting room.
“I told her to at least have the decency to be here when you arrived.”
As he takes my coat, a fluffy ball of brown and cream fur comes out of nowhere and wiggles at my feet. “Hello there.”
“Don’t touch it. It’ll give you mange.”
“Don’t be so foolish.” I pick up the puppy and wrap it under my sweater. “It’s trembling.”
“She does that. The damn thing cost me eight thousand dollars. Melissa begged me to get it and now she hardly looks at it.”
Fletcher wouldn’t want me to say “You’re an idiot!” so I say “What kind of dog is she?” instead.
“A Pomeranian. Some mini variety.”
“What’s her name?”
“Beulah. Not my idea.”
A sudden weariness comes over me. “May I go to my room for a minute? I need to lie down. It’s been a long day.”
He takes my suitcase and leads me to what looks like a luxury hotel room. “Would you like a drink of some kind? Club soda? Cola?”
“Whiskey.”
“Mother, you know I only drink wine. Why would I have whiskey in the house?”
“There’s always hope.”
He makes a face and leaves me to look around. I sink into a bed that is so high off the floor I’ll have vertigo. Once I kick off my shoes, I pull up a blanket to keep around Beulah. Poor little thing stops trembling, closes her eyes, and sleeps. I’m not far behind.
When I wake to raised voices echoing down the hallway, I don’t know where I am. It takes me a few minutes to get my bearings. Beulah licks my ear.
Before I do anything, I need to pee, and then remember I was supposed to call Fletcher. I put Beulah in my sweater pocket, and once I’ve finished with the loo and washed my hands, I follow the shouts. My son and granddaughter are scowling at each other from opposite sides of the kitchen island.
“Hi, Melissa.”
She turns around and smiles. “Hi Gee.” That’s been her name for me since she was two. She comes over and gives me a big hug. I kiss the top of her head.
“How long will you be here?”
I glance over at Jonathan. “I’m not sure. Could be a while. Let me look at you.”
Melissa is a beautiful girl, with long blonde hair like her mother and a nice figure, but she has black circles under her eyes, and dull, acne-prone skin that she hides under makeup. If I saw her on the street wearing that short skirt, those leggings and high boots, I’d say she was twenty-five. That’s not good.
“And look at you!” she giggles. “Remember that book, The Paper Bag Princess? That’s you, Gee.”
“I never did understand the fascination with clothes.”
Melissa looks at me more closely. “There you are!” She picks up Beulah right out of my pocket. “I thought Dad had pushed her down the garbage chute.”
“Don’t be such a drama queen,” he says.
She kisses the dog with big smacks, Beulah wiggling with happiness. Then she drops her on the floor and picks up her cell phone instead. “Dad’s trying to make me feel guilty about going out on your first night here, but I have a party I can’t miss. You don’t mind, do you Gee?”
Beulah comes over to me, so I pick her up and put her back in my pocket. “I do mind.”
My granddaughter looks at me.
“But—”
“I’ve come a long way to see you and I’m hungry. Why don’t you scramble up some eggs, put on some toast, and we’ll get caught up on our news.”
“I don’t know how to scramble eggs.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“Are you kidding me?”
Jonathan clears his throat. “You heard your grandmother. Call your friends and say you can’t make it.”
She’s obviously horrified and gives us a death glare before she grabs Beulah from me once more and stalks off. We hear her bedroom door bang shut.
“Welcome to my world,” Jonathan says.
“You hungry?”
I make the eggs and butter the toast. Instead of talking, Jonathan monkeys around with some sort of machine.
“What’s that?”
“It’s an espresso machine. It makes coffee.”
“Got any tea?”
“Green or herbal?”
“I’ll have the coffee.”
At least he’s taken off his jacket and tie. He looks much younger now, even with his furrowed brow. Jonathan takes our plates and moves to go into the dining room.
“I’d like to eat in here,” I say.
“In the kitchen?”
“Yeah. That’s what the stools are for.”
He reluctantly returns and puts down the plates on the island. He pours our coffee and we sit, me on the end and he in the middle.
The eggs are good. Must be free-range hens. “How long have you had this place?”
“We moved shortly after your visit the last time.”
“Pass me the salt, please. And do you like being this far off the ground?”
He hands me the shaker. “I very rarely get to look out a window. The dramatic views are lost on me.”
“So why buy it?”
“It’s a good investment.”
“Jonathan, is that really a good way to decide where you’re going to live? How much money you can get out of it?”
“Beats any other reason.”
His face looks weary. I’d like to take his hand in mine, but I better not. “So how’s your job? Is your grandfather still bossing you around?”
My son stabs the eggs with his fork. “Does he ever do anything else?”
“How many millions is he worth now?”
Jonathan laughs. “Millions? It’s billions.”
“No shit!”
“Mother! Why do you insist on cursing?”
“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee. Is that better? Why this hang-up about swearing, anyway?”
“Dad told me not to.”
I put the last of my toast in my mouth. “He told you that when you were five. He didn’t mean for the rest of your life.”
“I don’t remember you cursing before you disappeared and left me alone with Grandfather.”
I didn’t realize Melissa was standing by the kitchen door until she said, “You left Dad when he was a kid? Who does that?”
“I’m not discussing this right now. It’s been a long day.”
“Dad might be a total jerk sometimes, but he always takes me with him.”
I’ve had enough of these two. “I’ll say good night. Sweet dreams.”
“Don’t get all huffy, Mom. You’re supposed to help me, remember?”
After putting my dishes in the sink, I grab Melissa’s cell phone right out of her hand and take it to my room. After I light a cigarette, I pick up a fancy doodad to put the ashes in.
Fletch picks up on the first ring. “How’s it going?”
“I’m going to fucking kill both of them.”
“Don’t use rough language around him. You know he hates it.”
“Is he frigging royalty? I don’t think so. Did you eat the shepherd’s pie I left you?”
“The boys and I had it along with the chocolate cake Dora made.”
Dora is Harvey Trimm’s wife, our neighbour with the two labs. She’s been in love with Fletcher since third grade. “Didn’t take her long.”
“Dora’s a kind soul.”
“She’s a bitch.”
“Get some sleep.”
“Yeah. Don’t work too hard.”
There’s an ensuite attached to this bedroom, so I have a bubble bath and smoke a few more ciggies. It’s only when I get out of the tub and look at my mangled chest that I feel guilty about smoking. I’m in pretty good shape for my age. Must be all the walking. I get a pang every now and again about my breasts, but I don’t miss them that much. Men liked them. It’s just as well they’re gone.
Before I go to bed, I sneak out of my room and knock on Melissa’s door. “May I come in?”
I hear a muffled, “Whatever.”
She’s on the bed with her laptop, looking down-in-the-mouth. Beulah spies me and wiggles over to the end of the bed.
“I came to give you back your phone.” I toss it to her.
“I’m getting the new iPhone tomorrow anyway.” She looks up from her laptop. “Do you even like my dad?”
I sit on the edge of the bed and put Beulah in my lap. She scratches at my fluffy robe to make a nest, circles a few times, and curls up in a ball.
“I love your father, but our relationship is difficult.”
“Well, if you went away without him, no wonder. And you won’t move here. I guess his unhappiness is your fault.”
“Does he really want me to live here? I had no idea.”
“He sometimes says that our family is too small. Everyone is ‘gone with the wind,’ he says. Do men get menopausal? He’s acting weird lately.”
“Being a grown-up can be complicated. Let me ask you this. Do you even like your father?”
There’s a small smile. “Sometimes.”
“He’s doing his best. Cut him some slack.”
As I look around her room, it reminds me of a boutique, with racks of up-to-date fashions and a jewellery counter. There’s even a huge flat-screen television mounted on the wall. Where are the books I’ve sent her over the years?
She reaches over and touches my thick, straight, shoulder-length hair. “I wish I had silver hair. Dad won’t let me.”
“What does a sixteen-year-old need with grey hair?”
“Platinum silver is super hip now. Do you think I’ll get it when I’m your age?”
I shrug.
“Will I get breast cancer?”
Now I see my three-year-old Melissa, afraid of thunder and lightning. “No. Your mother doesn’t have it, so you’ll be fine.”
“That’s a total lie.” She stares at me. “It’s pretty messed up that you still smoke.”
“That’s me. One messed-up broad. Do you smoke?”
“God, no. It stinks.”
“What about weed?”
She laughs. “I can’t believe you’re so nosy.”
“So that’s a yes.”
She cocks her head to one side. “Are you here to do some sort of intervention? You know nothing about my life and I don’t appreciate you thinking you can fix me. I thought you were visiting, like a normal person. If you want to be a shrink, go work on Dad. He’s fucked up.”
She waits for my reaction.
I give her back her dog and walk to the door. “You shouldn’t swear. Good night.”
CHAPTER TWO
I’m an early riser, a five-in-the-morning person. Sleep has never been easy for me. It’s often the enemy, in fact, and so over the years I’ve developed a system whereby I take cat naps during the day. That way I only have to sleep about four hours a night. More often than not, in the hours before dawn, I reach over to my bedside table and grab my iPad so I can log in to my missing persons websites. They’re from all over the world. It’s comforting to know that there are other people out there like me.
Searching. Always searching.
I’m truly sorry our dinner ended on a sour note last night. I want to make amends by whipping up buttermilk pancakes, if I can find the ingredients in the endless wall of handle-less grey cupboards that wrap around three walls of Jon’s kitchen.
First things first. Standing on the heated floor of the bathroom, which is kind of great, I’m trying to figure out how to turn on the shower. There are chrome openings on every surface. After messing around for a couple of minutes, I give up and have a shallow bath.
With my old jeans and pullover on, I feel better. It takes me a while to make my bed. You can put your back out trying to lift a mattress that’s two feet
deep. When I open the bedroom door, there’s Beulah curled up on the floor. She’s shivering.
That’s enough.
I pick her up and put her inside my sweatshirt to warm up, but it’s hard to hold a dog like that when you don’t have a bra you can stuff it into. Once she’s toasty, I put on my old sweater and put her back in the pocket. It seems to be her favourite place.
There’s something I have to do before I make pancakes. I take my bathrobe and tiptoe down the main hall. The kitchen light is on, so I figure Jonathan must be up. When I walk in, a middle-aged Asian woman is sweeping the floor with a broom.
“Oh!”
She looks up and nods. “Hello, miss.”
“You work here?”
“Yes.”
She takes the dust pan and empties it in the sleek garbage can.
“Jonathan makes you come in this early?”
“I live here. Yesterday was night off.”
“I’m Jonathan’s mother, Grace.” She hesitates before shaking my hand, as if unsure she should.
“Yes, I know. Mr. Willingdon said you were coming. Can I get you something to eat?”
“No, heavens. I was going to make buttermilk pancakes for everyone. Would you like some…I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Linn. But no, Miss Grace. I will cook for you. You are guest.”
She seems adamant, so I give in. “That would be nice. But before you start, do you have a sewing kit and scissors?”
Off she goes and comes back with the requested items. “I can put on button.”
“No, thanks.”
When I get down on the kitchen floor and spread out my bathrobe, she looks a bit horrified. “I’m making Beulah a nice warm outfit.”
I cut a piece off the bottom of my bathrobe and proceed to make a sweater. I’m good with a needle and thread and making patterns. By the time I hear the other two stir, Beulah is in her soft jumper with collar and cuffs. She dances around me when I put it on her. Linn and I smile at her antics. Then Beulah wants up, into my pocket. What am I going to do when I leave?
Linn steers me into the dining room, where the table has already been set. There are three different newspapers to read from. She pours me a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. “Would you like to eat now, miss?”
