Pretending to Dance

by Diane Chamberlain

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I was too angry to—”

  “She didn’t deserve that anger.”

  I look toward the stone fireplace. I still feel it, the anger. It’s bubbling up inside me at that moment. “You know Nora killed him, Russell,” I say. “Even if it was out of kindness, she did it. But you and Amalia and everyone made me feel crazy for even thinking it. How was I not supposed to be angry?”

  He opens his mouth to speak, but I rush on.

  “Please don’t give me that line about ‘natural causes,’” I say. “I know she stole drugs from where she worked. Maybe you all wanted to believe he died of natural causes, but you were in denial. You just didn’t want to believe she could do it. Or you didn’t care. Or you thought that he wanted to die and the end justified the means. I don’t know what you all thought. I only know that what happened was wrong.”

  Russell lowers his gaze to the hardwood floor and neither of us speaks. After a moment, though, he raises his eyes to look at me again. “Have you been in touch with Nora at all?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Not since I left the Ridge.”

  “Will you see her while you’re here? Morrison Ridge is so close.”

  “I flew all this way to see her,” I say. I set the water bottle on the table next to me and rub my damp palms together. “I wanted to try to get some … I don’t know. Some closure or something. I’m not sure closure’s possible, though. I don’t even know what to say to her at this point.”

  He lets out a long sigh. He lowers his hands from the arms of the chair to his knees and leans forward.

  “We all killed him, Molly,” he says.

  I assume he’s speaking metaphorically and it annoys me. “Because everyone ultimately came out in favor of selling the land?” I ask. “I don’t see—”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.” He stands up and walks toward the fireplace. He faces the window above the built-in cabinetry and I have the feeling he doesn’t want to look at me as he speaks. “I mean,” he says, “we all killed him.” He turns then to meet my gaze.

  A chill runs up my spine. “I don’t understand,” I say. “What are you talking about?”

  He slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans and faces me. “He wanted to die, but of course he had no way to make that happen by himself,” he says. “He asked us…” He shuts his eyes for a moment, and I have the feeling he’s lost in a memory. I wait and in a moment he opens his eyes again, looking directly at me. “Do you remember all those so-called family meetings that summer?” he asks.

  I nod. How could I forget? Those family meetings gave me the time and freedom to rebel.

  “I know you thought we were talking about Trevor’s development ideas for Morrison Ridge, but we were actually talking about Graham at those meetings.” Russell walks toward me and sits at the other end of the couch. “He asked us to help him die,” he says. “At first we tried to dissuade him, of course, but once he convinced us that he was very serious, that he would find a way with us or without us, we tried to figure out how to help him. He didn’t want any one person to be responsible. Not Nora. Not anyone.”

  I feel the blood leave my face. “How … I don’t understand,” I say again.

  “You’re right that Nora got the pills,” he says, “and she knew what he should take and how much to give him. The idea was that none of us would give him enough to kill him, but altogether it would be plenty.”

  “Oh my God,” I say, my hand to my mouth as I try to take this in. I frown at him. “You … helped?”

  He nods. “And Amalia,” he says. “Everyone but your grandmother, although she knew what was happening, and she understood, though it…” He runs a hand over his graying hair. “Well, I believe it sped up her own death,” he says. “You remember how she went downhill after he died.”

  I do. She died within months of my father. Two devastating losses for me, back to back. I remember Nanny’s weepiness when I was at her house the night my father died. I hadn’t understood it then and had been too wrapped up in my own plans for that night to pay attention to her sadness. Suddenly it makes sense.

  “Was it just the family?” I ask. “I saw Janet and Peter at one of those meetings.”

  “Janet and Peter and Peter’s wife, Helen, helped.” Russell leans forward, his hands resting on his thighs. His gaze is riveted on me. “And a few of his other close friends as well,” he says. “Trevor balked at first. He really struggled with it because, with your daddy out of the way, he could plow ahead with his plans for the land, and I guess that gave him some guilt. Ultimately, he came around, though. And your aunt Claudia wasn’t on board until the last minute. When we were all there in the bedroom with Graham and she could see how grateful he was, she decided to—”

  “Stop this!” I put my hands over my ears. “I can’t believe that everyone … you all just agreed to do it? To kill him?”

  Russell shakes his head. “We all agreed to help someone we loved escape from a life he could no longer bear.”

  I don’t want to cry, but those words hurt and I feel my eyes fill. I lower my hands to my thighs again, my fingers curled into fists. I’d been a part of his life. Why couldn’t he bear it for me? My chest aches with sorrow. I don’t think I’ll ever recover from hearing all of this. Suddenly, I remember the day I saw Dani in our kitchen waiting for one of the meetings to begin, and my eyes widen as I look at Russell.

  “Dani?” I ask.

  He hesitates, then nods. “They figured she was old enough to understand.”

  “I’m in touch with her,” I say. “She’s never said a word about it.”

  “Of course not,” he says. “None of us has ever said a word to anyone. And I shouldn’t be saying anything now, but—”

  “Why didn’t Nora just tell me that everyone was involved instead of taking all my anger herself?”

  “How could she tell you?” Russell asks. “She wouldn’t dare take the risk of telling anyone, least of all you. She took the anger from you instead of turning us all in. It cost her, though. She knew she was losing you because of it, and it was terrible for her, but she couldn’t see any way to fix it.” He tilts his head to the side as if trying to get a better look at me. “It took a toll on all of us, Molly,” he says. “That’s something your daddy never considered. Even though every one of us thought we were doing the right thing—the compassionate thing—there was still guilt. I didn’t expect to feel it, to be honest. More than anyone except maybe Nora, I saw how your father suffered. He hid it from you and most other people, but I saw it, day in and day out. I knew he’d thought through what he was asking. I knew he wanted to die more than anything. And yet, when it was done, I felt guilty. I was angry that he’d had no other way out. I was angry that we were all put in the position of—”

  “Of murdering him,” I finish his sentence.

  He hesitates. “Yes.” He sounds defeated.

  “There’s no statute of limitations on murder in North Carolina,” I say. I use my lawyer voice and feel on solid ground for the first time since walking into this house. “Weren’t you afraid someone would break down and tell? Aren’t you afraid about telling me now?”

  “Should I be?” He raises his eyebrows.

  I hesitate only a second before shaking my head. I’ll never tell what I’m hearing here today. I’m not sure I’ll even tell Aidan. It would mean another secret between us, but there is too much at stake. Too many people could be hurt.

  “Of course we were all afraid one of us would tell,” Russell says, “but that person would be incriminating themselves as well as the rest of us. We counted on silence.”

  “How did you ever get a doctor to say he died of natural causes on the death certificate?” I ask.

  Russell’s smile is a little sad. “He was a friend of Amalia’s,” he says. “He would have done anything for her.”

  I remember Nora and my aunts in our kitchen getting ready for the midsummer party. They’d been talking about a
doctor. A friend of Amalia’s. No doubt a quack, Aunt Claudia had said.

  I rest my head against the back of the couch and rub my temples with my fingertips. “I think I’m in shock,” I say.

  He leans toward me, his brown eyes glistening. “It was an act of love, Molly,” he says. “I hope you can see that. I only told you about it now because, while it’s too late for you to make things right with Amalia, it’s not too late with Nora.” He touches the back of my hand. “Go to her, Molly,” he says. “Go see your mother.”

  59

  Morrison Ridge

  After leaving Russell, I drive out of the city toward Swannanoa and Morrison Ridge, taking the mountain roads more slowly than necessary, overwhelmed by all I’ve learned. I will see Nora, but I’m in no rush. A lifetime of hurt and anger doesn’t go away in a few minutes. I’m angry over her role in Daddy’s death and over the lies I’d been told. I’m angry over being the only person on Morrison Ridge left out of what was happening, and I’m angry at losing my father with no chance to say good-bye. Everyone else had that chance.

  The trees close around my car as the road narrows and they steal my breath away. I’ve grown accustomed to California’s wide-open vistas. To suddenly be surrounded by tall trees, the leafy branches forming a suffocating tunnel around my car, is unnerving.

  I slow down on the winding road, watching for the small white sign with black lettering that marks the entrance to the Ridge. I drive around the last curve and see that a sign, supported by two pillars and nearly half the size of a billboard, stands in the old sign’s place. Made of routed wood, the sign has a rustic look to it but that is clearly just for show. The background is a dark brown, the lettering gold. MORRISON RIDGE, it reads, and in a smaller sign attached below, the word ESTATES.

  Dani had told me about the changes to the Ridge, so I don’t know why I’m so shocked, but I am. I stop my car in the road, staring. So ostentatious. The sign is so utterly intimidating, I’m afraid to make the turn, but I can see a car coming up behind me in my rearview mirror and know I have to move. I turn right and in a moment I’m on the road I’d once loved—the loop road that used to feel like home to me. It feels that way no longer. For one thing, it’s paved. And it’s certainly wider. I feel disoriented as I pass the left-hand turn that would take me to my childhood home. Not yet, I think. Not quite yet.

  I drive straight, toward the Hill from Hell. Paved, it doesn’t seem nearly as steep and the rental car takes it easily. When I reach the crest, I see that there is a walking path carved through the trees along the road. I see a few people on bicycles. A man walking a dog. A woman pushing a stroller. Morrison Ridge is booming. Roads that never existed before veer off to my left leading into new, densely wooded neighborhoods. The neighborhoods are new to me, at any rate. I guess that some of them have been here for nearly twenty years by now.

  I continue up the loop road, past huge houses spread out on large landscaped lots. They depress me. A man washing his car in his driveway waves to a bicyclist as she rides by. I remember what Nanny said when she complained about Trevor’s plans to develop the land: the neighborhoods would be filled with strangers who knew nothing about the Ridge and could care less. I feel like opening my car window and shouting at the guy in his driveway, You don’t really belong here!, but instead I keep driving along the loop road, knowing it’s me who no longer has any place on Morrison Ridge.

  I slow down as I pass one of my grandfather’s benches, the one where my father had sat with Amalia on that night so long ago. It’s been rebuilt, I think. Maybe entirely replaced, with its perfect woodwork and rich mahogany stain. I’d been with Stacy Bateman that night. I never spoke to Stacy again after Daddy’s death. I didn’t call her and she didn’t call me, and that was fine. In my memory, she is a big part of that whole nightmare summer. Even her name bothers me. Aidan works with a woman named Stacy, and every time he mentions her, my skin crawls. It’s the same with the name Chris. When I was pregnant, Aidan suggested that if we had a boy, we name him Christopher. There was no way.

  As I ride past the bench, I know I must be near the path to the springhouse and my heart begins to race. I have no desire to see that little building ever again. Besides, with all the changes on Morrison Ridge, I doubt it’s still there.

  I drive past the turnoff to the old slave quarters, wondering who lives there now but not really wanting to know. Soon, Nanny’s house comes into view. I stop my car in front of it, staring in shock. On the left side of the house, the woods have been entirely cleared and in their place is a parking lot, half filled with cars—most of them, it seems, minivans. In front of the brick house is another brown routed wooden sign. CLUBHOUSE, it reads in gold letters. From somewhere behind the house, I hear the squeals of children despite my closed windows. There must be a pool back there now, I think, or some sort of playground.

  Poor Nanny. I start driving again. Maybe it was a blessing that she died when she did. The changes to Morrison Ridge would have broken her heart.

  I decide that I’ve seen enough. I turn around in a driveway and head back down the loop road toward my old home. And toward Nora.

  * * *

  I almost miss the turn that will take me to the house I grew up in. I make a left onto the road and see that, while our road is also paved, it’s still narrow and tightly tucked into the trees. When the house pops up on my left, though, I barely recognize it. Sometime in the last twenty years, Nora has changed the color from that beautiful sky blue I’d loved to a buttery yellow. The house looks pretty, but it doesn’t look like home.

  I park in the driveway and slowly get out of my car. I can’t see if Nora’s car is in the garage and I don’t know whether to hope she’s home or not. Climbing the front porch steps, I see four brown wooden rocking chairs in the place of our glider and white rockers. I’m glad. I don’t want that familiarity or the memories that would come along with it.

  Nora pushes the front door open before I’ve even reached the top step. She rushes onto the porch and, without a word, pulls me into her arms and I know that Russell must have called her and she’s been waiting for me. I can tell by the intensity of her embrace that she’s been waiting for me for more than twenty years. I can’t believe I’m here, in her arms, when this time yesterday the thought of her still filled me with venom.

  “Oh, Molly,” she whispers into my hair. “You’ve come home.”

  My emotions are so mixed up. For two thirds of my life, I blamed her for my father’s death. Now I don’t know who to blame. Maybe no one. Maybe blame has no role here at all.

  I’m first to pull away. “Russell called you?”

  She nods. Takes my hand. “Come in, honey,” she says. Her voice is thick, as though it takes all her effort to get the words out.

  When I follow her into the living room, I see the familiar view of the mountains through the broad windows at the rear of the dining room. The peaks are crisp against the bright blue sky. So beautiful and so familiar. I walk toward the windows, glad to be away from Nora’s gaze for a moment, but as I get closer to the view, I see a landscape of rooftops in the valley below our house. They’re tucked among the trees and someone unfamiliar with our old view would barely notice them. To me, though, they’re an eyesore. I know that Nora has only three acres left of our original twenty-five. She’d been the last holdout, but I imagine that at some point, with me gone and the rest of the Ridge developing, there’d been little reason for her to hang on to the land any longer.

  I turn to look at her. “Everything’s changed,” I say.

  She smiles from where she stands in the middle of the living room, her hands on her hips. “You’ve been gone a very long time,” she says, tapping into my guilt. She’s studying me. I’m studying her as well and I’m surprised at what I see. She wears black yoga pants, tennis shoes, and a blue top beneath a gray hoodie. Her fair skin is smooth, barely lined, and she has lively blue eyes. She still wears her hair in the short, low ponytail, and it’s the same pale blond it ha
s always been. I remember her as old and a bit stodgy, but she looks younger and more vibrant to me now than she did when I was a teenager. If Grace Kelly had lived to be sixty-five, this is what she would have looked like.

  “You look beautiful, Molly,” she says, “but I bet you’re tired from the flight. Do you want some iced tea? Or maybe some coffee? I still have a pot going.”

  “Coffee, please,” I say. “I barely slept on the plane.”

  I follow her into the kitchen. The room has been remodeled and I would never have recognized it as the kitchen of my childhood. That frankly relieves me. I don’t want to think about all those meals at the big table, Daddy in his wheelchair, someone feeding him. The cabinetry is now white, the countertops quartz, the appliances stainless steel. Even the layout is different.

  “Are you still a pharmacist?” I ask as I watch her pour coffee into mugs.

  She shakes her head. “I retired last year,” she says, taking a small bottle of milk from the refrigerator and setting it on the table. “I thought I’d miss it, but I’ve gotten involved in so many things. Tennis. Yoga. Book clubs. Zumba.” She smiles at me. “There’s so much to do here now, Molly, you wouldn’t believe it.” She motions for me to sit.

  She’s so different from the way I remember. I can’t picture her on a tennis court or in a yoga studio. And Zumba? There’s an undeniable lightness about her.

  “I hate seeing how Morrison Ridge has changed,” I say as I sit down. The square table is much smaller than our old table, but I’ve chosen the chair nearest the living room, the place where I always sat when I lived here.

  “It must be a shock to see the changes all at once,” Nora says. “Watching it happen gradually, it wasn’t so bad.” She hands me the mug. “It’s not an evil place, Molly,” she says as she takes a seat kitty-corner from me. “It’s actually a beautiful neighborhood full of lovely people who only want the best for their families.”

  We talk about some of the changes and I ask her about Aunt Toni and Uncle Trevor, Aunt Claudia and Uncle Jim. I’m making polite conversation but after a few minutes she reaches over. Sets her hand on mine.