The View from Prince Street

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  Rae didn’t smile, nor did she reach out to welcome me with a hug. Time and life had changed her.

  Two years younger, Rae was an impetuous kid sister who had always wanted to tag along. That last time Jennifer and I went out, Rae begged to come along, but Jennifer said no. We left a crying Rae, yelling that she would tell her mom where we’d gone. She never told, but I now wished to hell she had.

  “I didn’t realize you were still in Alexandria,” Rae said. “I thought you’d be gone by now. You don’t stay anywhere long.”

  Her honest directness sounded harsh. “No. I’ve not been good about establishing roots.”

  “Has your aunt Amelia taken a bad turn?”

  “She’s in and out of it,” I said. “Some days better than others. She did say Diane McDonald came to see her last week. I thought she must have been out of it, but that was you, wasn’t it?”

  “I check in on her from time to time. She often confuses me with Mother.”

  “That’s nice of you to visit.”

  “She and Mother were friends.”

  “Still, that’s nice of you.”

  Rae cleared her throat and, shifting the sunflowers in her arms, moved toward the urn. Carefully, she removed the old flowers, holding the stems over the ground until the water dripped free before gently laying them on the grass. With tender care, she unwrapped the new flowers and meticulously arranged each in the vase.

  My emotions burned hot in my chest, like a boiler in an old steam engine. When would I reach critical mass and blow up? I shifted from foot to foot, suddenly cold and restless. However, Rae was steady, taking an extra moment to adjust a blossom before she slowly rose. She looked as cool as a mountain lake in the morning.

  Annoyed by her composure, I said, “The old flowers don’t look that bad,” I said. “Seems a waste to get rid of them.”

  “I’m not fond of wilted flowers.”

  “They aren’t wilted.”

  “They will be soon.” She gathered up the old blossoms. She touched the browned tips of a petal.

  So perfect . . . like her mother. “I read about you in the paper.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. I keep forgetting that you’re Dr. McDonald now. Ph.D. is a big deal.”

  She tugged a plastic bag from her purse and prepared to dump in the old flowers.

  “Are you throwing them away?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “They have a day or two left.” I stepped toward her. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take them. They’re pretty.”

  Already, I knew I would carry them back to the Prince Street kitchen, arrange them in one of Amelia’s pots, and photograph them. Fresh-cut flowers were a symbol of life. And, like us, their life spans were so fleeting. A photograph would extend their life for decades, if not forever.

  Rae handed the flowers to me in a neat bundle. “They’re all yours.”

  The stems were slick and damp. “Thanks.”

  She brushed her palms against each other, knocking free what little dirt clung to her pale skin. “I never expected to see you here today.”

  “I owed Jennifer a visit.”

  “Have you been here since the first anniversary?”

  We both showed up at the grave that day, too surprised and hurting to really speak to each other. “No. I’ve been traveling.”

  A neatly plucked arched brow said more than words. “Ah, traveling. How nice.”

  Polite and controlled words didn’t hide the underlying accusation. She was calling me a coward. Which, of course, I was, each time I avoided Jennifer’s death or thought about escaping to the land of drunk and numb. But it was far easier to hold tight to long-festering guilt than to actually deal with the pain we shared.

  Suddenly annoyed, I wanted to shatter the ice and jab at her heart to see if it really had turned to stone. “Are all the McDonalds buried in this plot?”

  “All?” She understood immediately what I was deflecting. “I’m not sure all are here, but there are twenty-three McDonalds here.”

  “I saw a stone for Jeffrey McDonald. Your grandmother’s first husband?”

  Genuine curiosity darkened Rae’s blue eyes. “Yes. Why do you ask about him?”

  I turned back toward the stones. “He was married?”

  “That’s right. He died young. In World War II.”

  “Whatever happened to his wife?”

  “I have no idea. Why are we having this conversation?”

  “I saw Amelia yesterday and she was having a good day. Her mind was clear and sharp.”

  Rae moistened her lips. “Glad to hear it.”

  The lack of inflection telegraphed indifference, but I knew where to jab and make it hurt. “She told me a very interesting story about herself. Did you know she was adopted?”

  Her eyes widened a fraction. “I did not. But I’m not very familiar with your family.”

  “Don’t do this. She really doesn’t need this today.”

  Ignoring the warnings, I pressed. “She gave me a baby book that her birth mother and father created for her. Her birth mother and father were married and they raised her for the first year of her life.”

  Rae remained silent while watching me closely. Spurred on by the sense I’d struck a nerve, I kept pushing. “According to Amelia, her birth father died in World War II and then her birth mother struggled to care for her. After about a year of trying, she signed over full custody to the Smyths.”

  A shade of pink faded from her cheeks. “Amelia gets very confused. She always calls me by my mother’s name.”

  “She has moments of pure clarity. Yesterday was one of them.”

  “I can’t help you with this.”

  “No one in your family ever mentioned that Jeffrey had a child?”

  “No. Never. Why are you bringing it up?”

  “It bothers Amelia that her birth mother remarried, had another child, and never sent for her first daughter. I’ve never seen Amelia look so hurt.”

  Rae’s chin raised a small fraction. “I’m sure her birth mother had her reasons.”

  “Are there any reasons that justify a mother turning her own child away? I mean, I get giving up a child to protect it, but never to acknowledge it in the future? Seems cruel.”

  Rae fingered the pearls. Swallowed. “I can’t help you, Lisa. I came to pay my respects to Jennifer and now I must go. I have a client meeting me at my office in thirty minutes.”

  She turned to leave. Sadness and guilt collided, sending shards cutting into every corner of my body. “How can you turn off all those emotions?” I asked. “What do you do that makes you so impervious to pain and suffering?”

  Rae stopped walking.

  Tears welled in my eyes and spilled. “Pain slides off you, Rae.”

  She did not face me.

  I shook my head. “How do you do it? How do you not feel anything?”

  She turned, cocking her head slightly as if she considered a complicated problem. “What would that accomplish? It won’t bring Jennifer back. It won’t undo what Amelia’s birth mother or I did.”

  I didn’t need a translator. She referred to the baby she’d given up a little over a year after Jennifer’s death. Smart Rae with the bright future rebelled after Jennifer died. She drank, snuck out of her mother’s house, and found a boy more than happy to oblige her. Few knew about the baby. She’d kept her secret well. I found out right here in this very spot, because we had both returned to the grave on the first anniversary of the accident. She was sitting on the little stone bench, her very full belly pear-shaped, crying, confessing to her older sister about the baby she feared no one would want. When I approached, she fell into my arms and sobbed. She told me she’d snuck back into town to visit Jennifer. I asked her about her plans and she told me her mother chose adoptive parents to raise
her baby. She didn’t want to give up the child, but her mother refused to help. She left me that day, still sobbing. I never heard another word from her until this very moment.

  Tears welled in my throat as I remembered that teenage girl, who must still be inside this cold and aloof woman.

  “You’re such a bitch, Lisa. Why’d you dig into Rae about the baby?”

  I wiped a tear away from my cheek. “Rae, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have churned all this up.”

  A cool, wet breeze blew between us. “It was a fair line of questioning and I would do anything for Amelia, but I can’t tell you about her mother. Amelia never uttered a word to me about this.”

  “You sound so calm.”

  “I am calm.”

  Shaking my head, I raked my fingers through my hair. “I wish I could be more like you. I wish I could shut off the emotion and not feel.”

  Rae was silent for a long moment. “Be careful what you wish for, Lisa. Be very careful. Because you might discover being like me is a harder road to travel.”

  Rae turned and slowly walked away, her heels clicking on the concrete, leaving me to watch her move to a sleek, black BMW.

  “Lisa Smyth . . . super bitch.”

  “No argument from me.”

  November 19, 1751

  Dearest Mother,

  Faith and the babes sleep in the corner of our farmhouse, near the fire. The boys are small but they grow and their skin has the color of health. It was a bitter, cold night and when I awoke, I saw that little Cullen was awake. I rose up, my heart hammering. My bare toes curled when they touched the wooden floor and I quietly crossed to the child and lifted him. I carried him to the rocker and sat, baring my breast so that he could nurse. To my surprise and delight my milk flowed.

  When Faith started awake, her gaze immediately searched for her babes. Seeing the bare spot, she scanned the cottage wild-eyed until she saw the boy in my arms.

  “Give me my child.”

  Her harsh whisper woke Mr. McDonald and he quickly understood. He rose up, his nightshirt billowing around his bare legs. “Leave them,” he said to Faith.

  The witch wanted to argue, but the warning beneath my husband’s words silenced her. Outside, the wind howled while snow fell. The witch’s eyes burned, but she wisely lowered back to her blanket. However, she did not sleep until the babe was fed and returned to her arms.

  —P

  Chapter Five

  Lisa Smyth

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 17, 3:00 P.M.

  After seeing Rae at the gravesite today, my I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude raced out of the shadows and slid right up next to me. I was suddenly very tired of living my life moment to moment and reminding myself that sobriety was the only choice. Charlie looked up at me with a curious gaze. He sensed a change.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Right as rain.”

  I drove out of my way to a store north of the city. I normally didn’t stop here, but I’d heard about it at the meeting. Many in the group avoided it because it was known for its massive wine selection.

  When I parked, I fished the last chew stick out of my purse and gave it to Charlie. “I’ll be right back.” I left the car running with the AC on and dashed across the parking lot. Inside the store, I grabbed a cart and moved along the perimeter of the store, grabbing a bag of apples, milk, a carton of eggs, more chew sticks, bread, and tampons before I made my way to the wine section.

  I skimmed my fingertips over the bottles of reds and wanted so desperately not to care. I wanted to be like Rae and find a way to shut off the feelings, set aside the mantle of guilt, and savor the numbness.

  “Is there a wine I can help you buy?”

  Startled, I discovered a plump woman with very pleasant features standing close. She wore a burgundy store apron decorated with a collection of wine bottle pins.

  “No, thanks.” I rummaged and found a smile not used since I joined AA. It was an overconfident and relaxed smile that messaged that I didn’t have a care in the world. I chose a red blend from Texas, not really bothering to ask about the price or the vineyard. “I found exactly what I want.”

  She didn’t remark on the label as she handed me a white invitation. “We’re having a tasting in a half hour. If you’re still in the store, stop by. We have some lovely blends we’ll be highlighting.”

  I tucked the card in my pocket. “Thank you. I might double back.”

  Pushing the cart, I moved toward the cashier, grabbing a bag of chips and a bottle of soda. I wanted everyone to know I wasn’t here simply for the booze. I was grocery shopping and happened to be restocking supplies. Maybe I’d have a glass. Maybe two. Maybe I wouldn’t have any. I could handle this. My God, I’d had it under control for a long time.

  The old but familiar lies turned over and over in my head. I moved through the checkout and carefully loaded the groceries in my car. Charlie looked up from his half-eaten chew sticks.

  “What are you looking at?” I asked as I settled behind the wheel. “Don’t judge.”

  The dog continued to stare.

  “I bought you more treats.”

  His attention lingered a beat before it dropped back to the task of demolishing another chew stick.

  When I reached Old Town, I took a right on Washington Street and then a left on Prince Street. The cobblestones of Prince Street rattled the bottles in the bag, making them clink gently against each other. A parking space opened up and I quickly parallel-parked in front of Amelia’s town house. The bags in my hand, Charlie and I hurried inside.

  Inside the house, I slowly walked the center hallway to prove I was in no rush, past the collection of pictures I’d developed and framed in the last six weeks. I hadn’t taken any new pictures since I’d arrived in Alexandria, and those had been shot during a hike through Montana. God, had it really been three months since I pulled the camera out?

  In the kitchen, I dumped the groceries on the counter. Charlie ran to the back door, the stub of a chew stick hanging out of the corner of his mouth. I opened the door and let him outside to the narrow, fenced-in backyard.

  Grateful Charlie wasn’t watching me, I flipped on a light and moved directly toward the utensil drawer, where I found a wine bottle opener.

  The afternoon sun streamed into the large room, which was outfitted with marble countertops, stainless appliances, and an overhead pot rack that held several copper pots Amelia had collected. She had been a marvelous cook and could transform the most random ingredients into a stunning meal.

  The kitchen had been updated three years ago when Amelia had the interior renovated. No one had expressed concern that she was foolishly spending money at her advanced age, but she’d liked the idea of giving her home a new life. She’d transformed the house into a real showplace without destroying its historical charm. Her sights had been set on the basement remodel just as her hold on reality began slipping in earnest. She’d left this part of the house for her final project.

  Using my thumbnail, I dug into the gold foil seal of the bottle. I tossed it aside and jabbed the corkscrew into the cork and twisted the handle. I should have heard the confusion in her voice and come home earlier. I should have. . . .

  Refusing to think, I pushed the levers and worked the cork free until it released with a delicate pop.

  The scent of the red wine teased my senses as I reached in the cabinet for a coffee mug. I ignored the doubting whispers deep in my brain. I filled the mug nearly to the brim and stared into the ruby depths. I raised it to my nose and let it touch my lips.

  The pull was stronger than any rip tide.

  “Remember how we used to get hammered in high school?”

  I wasn’t sure if it were my voice or Jennifer’s, but whoever spoke, it was unwelcomed.

  “Go away.”

  “My God, Lisa, we were hellions back in the day.” Laughter bubbled. “
Remember how much beer we could slam back?”

  I touched one of the velvet-soft sunflower petals. “You complained about your mother’s coldness, and I could only talk about Jerry Trice and wondered why he didn’t like me. All I cared about then was boys.”

  “And remember the hangovers the next day? We’d order pizza and sit in bed all afternoon, too sick to move? If I had a nickel for all the times I ended up with a jackhammer pounding in my head.” Laughter rose and swirled around my head like storm winds off the Potomac River. “Man, those were the good old days. Sure as shit trumps too many years of not drinking.”

  As I raised the stoneware mug to my lips, I spotted my keys, discarded recklessly next to the sack of groceries. Front and center on the key ring were the sobriety chips.

  Sobriety was a bitch. I had muscled through depression, sadness, and deaths but still kept the demons at arm’s length.

  Remember that time you got drunk . . .

  Charlie scratched at the back door.

  I studied the wine’s liquid depths and suddenly my head cleared. The wine had transformed from a craving to a poison. I moved quickly to the sink and turned on the water without a second to lose. I poured out the wine from the mug and bottles. I flipped on the water faucet, hoping to obliterate any trace of it.

  “Shit.” I rinsed out the bottles and tossed them in the trash. The mug went into the dishwasher. I hurried to the back door and let Charlie inside. His tail wagging, he looked up with such trust I almost couldn’t bear it. I fished another chew stick from the grocery bag and gave it to him.

  Jennifer sat on the kitchen counter, crossing her long legs and laughing. “I figured the jackhammer comment would get you.”

  “Zip it.”

  “You shut up.”

  I moved out of the kitchen into the living room and switched on the television to a cable news show. Dropping my head back against the plush couch, I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose, and considered how close I came to believing the demons’ seductive lies.

  “So are you going to lie here all day and mope about poor old you?” She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, mimicking a ticking clock.