I opened the passenger side door and got in without saying a word. She popped in a cassette tape, turning up the volume, her signal that I should be quiet.
“We’ve both got cheatin’ hearts, yes we do,” she sang with the music, trying to croon like someone on Hee-Haw. She shook her hair and fluffed it up, thinking she looked sexy. I watched the houses we passed, each one harboring some family not as awful as my own. From the corner of my eye I noticed her sniffing about like a rabbit. The smell of my hair remedy hung thick around us. She cleared some phlegm from her throat and continued singing:
“Although we feel the shame, yes we do, we can’t stay away…”
How was she capable of imagining herself alone in the car? It was like I didn’t even exist. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, oblivious to my anger and repulsion. Oblivious to anything but her own excitement over being the belle of the junior high ball.
I wrung my hands, praying for a deer to run out in front of us. We would hit it and it would bust through the windshield. My mother would be impaled on its antlers. Miraculously, the deer would be okay and would wriggle free, a scrap of ugly material caught on its antlers, but otherwise unharmed. Years from now, after the deer had enjoyed a long, happy life, some hunter would shoot it and wonder why it had flowered polyester clinging to its antlers, and it would be written about in the local paper. Would I come forward? Would I tell? No, let it be a mystery. My poor mother would not be so lucky. She would end up in one of those homes like my great-grandma Lindstrom had been in. Diplomatically, I decided that she would not be suffering, due to all the medication they would give her. She would do word search puzzles and we would visit her on Sundays. As she drooled quietly, we would come to love her in a piteous way, and everyone would be better off.
Before I knew it, however, our station wagon was pulling into the school parking lot. All around me cars dropped off other kids and drove away. This was supposed to be the happiest night of my life so far. We walked inside and, to my further humiliation, my mother informed the old lady collecting money that I did not have to pay since she was chaperoning. I am quite sure she invented that rule on the spot.
“Cheapskate,” the old woman muttered. My mother didn’t care what some old lady thought of her. She breezed past her, drawn to the male teachers like a nail to one of those big magnets in a cow’s belly. I followed behind, looking for someone to talk to, but remembering I had no friends. The smell of egg salad that clung to my mother’s dress wafted after her and I stepped to the side to avoid it. Thank goodness I had doused myself in Avon Soft Musk perfume and washed my hair with Glitz! Didn’t she know how stinky she was? I looked around me, hoping to catch some boy’s eye, but they all avoided my desperate come-hither glances. How could I have thought things would be different tonight? It was the same old school, same old gym, same old me.
“Patricia, great of you to make it! We had the hardest time meeting the quota of chaperones for this. They had to borrow me from the grade school,” I heard Mr. Gorton gushing to my mother. He had been my teacher when I was in fourth grade. All the women loved him because he looked just like the Brawny paper towel man. He was standing beside Mr. Davis, the gym teacher, who was cute despite being nearly completely bald. Then something wonderful happened: They both wrinkled their noses and said in unison, “It smells like potato salad in here!” Then the youngest, prettiest teacher, Miss Fields, walked towards my mother but stopped a few feet short of her, waving her hand in the air, “Ewww! Does anyone else smell rotten eggs?”
My mother shot me a quick, withering glance as she struggled to appear calm and cheerful in front of the other adults. “Hmm. I don’t smell anything,” she murmured.
I wandered over to the popular girls, who turned away from me and formed an exclusionary circle of outward facing backs. Heather and Jenny were carrying on with some farm boys. Jenny looked at me, her expression bordering on welcoming, but I resisted the temptation to fall back into my old bad habits. I slinked out the side door of the gymnasium and sprinted down the dark corridor.
The school seemed bigger at night. Quiet. Peaceful. It was better out here, alone, than under pressure in the gym. I decided I would hang out in the library by myself all night. I was relieved to not have to compete against the popular girls. Soon they would be ruling the dance floor, laughing and spinning beneath the sparkly disco ball and crepe paper streamers. Even the teachers bowed down to them. The image in my head was bad enough. Having to watch it play out would have been even worse. But my mother was stuck.
I smirked, perusing the study carrels for lost notes or other treasures. What was this? Somebody’s wristwatch? Finders keepers. I slipped it into my pocket, squinting in the semi-darkness for more forgotten goodies. Yes, here I was, blissfully alone, while she was stuck chaperoning and stinking like my nasty hair, only without the half-gallon of Avon Soft Musk to drown it out. What was she doing right now, I wondered. Was she looking for me? Probably not, since that would require tearing herself away from the men. I pictured her trying to fit in, flirting desperately, now and then sniffing her dress and shrugging, a buggy eyed, goofy smile trembling on her face.
Being away from watchful, judging eyes, feeling the sweet rarity of freedom, I put my feet up on the chair across from me and relaxed. I picked up a brand new issue of Vogue that had not even made it out to the magazine wall yet, and began tearing open perfume samples, rubbing them up and down my arms. I settled back, content, my only source of light the flickering red hue of the exit signs. I was at peace. It took very little to make me happy back then.
Chapter 23
When Adrian and I got back to Madison from Hudson, I started packing to go home to Savannah. Suspiciously needing privacy from me, Adrian had called Alexa while I went in to use a bathroom at a gas station on our drive back and she had booked a flight leaving the next day. I wondered what he had said that had made her evacuate in such a hurry. Normally, we allowed our visits to overlap on one end or the other for a day or two so the three of us could catch up.
“Is Alexa upset to be getting kicked out of our house with so little notice?” I asked as we sat by the window in her foyer, waiting for the taxi to take us to the airport.
“No. She’s fine with it.”
“What did you tell her that made her rush off?”
He raised his eyebrows at me. “Rush off?”
“Don’t be sensitive.”
“I’m not. I didn’t tell her anything except that you had just visited your family and were acting a little weird. I said you needed to go home to your own house. We’ve been at each other’s houses for almost two weeks, it wasn’t like she was surprised that we wanted to come home.”
“Why did you call her when I was in the gas station?”
He sighed and shook his head. “Because… it was something to do while I waited for you to use the bathroom? Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
“Well it was beginning to feel like I was.”
“Did she have trouble switching her ticket?” I asked.
“I’m sure it wasn’t a problem,” he said, turning from me and removing a book from the side pocket of his carry-on bag. He found where he had left off and started to read. I hate it when he gets suddenly absorbed in something like his art, or a book, just to end a conversation.
We sat there in silence.
“The taxi is here,” I informed him.
He closed his book and picked up our bags.
“Is the kitty going to be okay?” I don’t know why I asked that. I wasn’t a big fan of Alexa’s cat normally, but in that moment I was concerned, watching him cowering pathetically beneath an end table.
“Alexa will be home in a few hours,” he said.
“What if her plane crashes?”
“Open the door before the taxi takes off without us.”
“What if her plane crashes?” I asked again, opening the door.
“I would be sad, and you would be the proud owner of a ca
t. Let’s go.”
We closed the door and got in the taxi while the driver loaded our bags into the trunk. Adrian took my hand and kissed my knuckles, “Alexa is going to be fine. So is the kitty. I know you’re thinking about your family, and that’s why you worry about these things. But you don’t have to worry. Everyone is going to be fine.” He kissed my hand again and put his arm around me, squeezing me tight. “Relax, Honey. I hate to see you sad.”
“I’m not thinking about my family. I am thinking about the cat,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, patting my arm.
I put my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes.
The first thing I did when we boarded the plane was order a Bloody Mary. Bloody Marys seem like an airplane drink to me. Adrian covered me up with the meager blanket the airline provided and tucked it around me like I was a child. I pushed it down away from my mouth as he turned off the small fan blowing above our heads.
“I’m not cold, Honey,” I told him.
“Your mother told me something when you were at the cemetery.”
Unease swept over me. I wriggled away from the blanket so I could breathe better.
“Oh, what’s that?” I asked him, raising my eyebrows just a bit, hoping I appeared only mildly curious.
“She said you used to have a problem with stealing.” He laughed and shook his head. “Is that true? I mean, she was wasted when she told me that.”
“Wasted?” I asked, changing the subject back to her problems instead of my own.
“Well, she’d had a lot to drink.”
“Really, that is kind of low of you,” I said. “I mean, mocking my poor mother.”
He stiffened. “Are you serious? Your poor mother? Since when can’t we just talk how we want to talk?”
“Could you keep it down?” I whispered. “I was joking. Obviously.”
He looked away and I looked out the window.
“Is it true?” he asked me after awhile.
“Of course it’s not true.”
“She said you buried things.”
“This is absurd. You were both drinking and it must have been a misunderstanding. I mean, really, Adrian. She sang that song about the cherries. Why would you take anything she said seriously?”
“It didn’t seem like the kind of story that could be made up.”
“Anything could be made up.”
“She said that you used to steal things and bury them for the twins.”
“Bury them. For the twins. Umm no.”
“Then why would she say that you did?”
“I have no idea. You know, I wasn’t three years old when they died. I was old enough to understand what was going on.”
“So you never buried presents for them?”
I looked at him, unable to believe he was badgering me about something so trivial and long-forgotten when he was likely to be having an affair.
“You’re giving me the creeps,” I said.
The flight attendant appeared. “Another Bloody Mary?” she asked. I nodded and turned away. Adrian reached into his carry-on for his book and we didn’t speak again until we landed.
Chapter 24
I was totally excited for Valencia and Van to come home for Thanksgiving. We all were. It would be their first visit home since they had gone away in August. My mother was practically hysterical over it. It was like some really famous brother-sister team was coming our way. Michael and Janet. Donny and Marie. She bought them new clothes and cassette tapes, stocked up on all their favorite chips and candy, packed care packages to surprise them with when they got ready to leave us again. She washed their bedding so their rooms would be fresh and got a haircut so they would think she was more attractive than they’d remembered. A few days before they were supposed to arrive, I overheard her on the phone with Sears, trying to schedule an appointment for a family portrait sitting.
“You can’t possibly be booked solid. I’ve already bought our entire family new outfits!”
It was true; I ran to my mother’s closet and checked behind her bagged up burgundy evening gown to the place where she hid new purchases before stealthfully working them into her wardrobe. Nestled there in a giant shopping bag from JC Penney’s were five new navy sweaters. Cardigans for the boys, crew necks for the girls, and an impossibly kooky sailor style sweater for me, the family dog. I went back out to the kitchen where she was pacing and twirling the phone cord on her finger. “Yes I will hold.”
“I don’t want to wear that little sweater with the funny collar,” I whispered.
She shook her head but otherwise ignored me.
“I said I don’t like that sweater. Can I wear a sweater like you and Valencia are going to wear? Let’s return it.”
“Stop looking around in my closet,” she hissed.
“Can we please return it? Pleasssssse?”
“Go bother your dad.”
“He’s still at work.”
“Yes, I’m still here,” she said into the phone, brushing me away with her hand like I was a fly. “Friday’s great! Friday it is. Three o’clock. Will there be a makeup artist on the set? Oh. That is disappointing. Should we get there early? Yes, I can hold again.”
Spread out on the kitchen table in front of her were drawings of stick figures, labeled with our names. “What are these?” I asked, holding one up.
“Those are ideas for how we’re going to pose for our pictures. Do you like any of them?”
“Really?” Nice of you to ask, Mom. I sat down, eager to participate. I selected the one with the boys in the back row and the girls in the front. “This one. Do we just pick one of these or can we do a whole bunch?”
“Oh, they will take all kinds of pictures,” she said, her eyes gleaming.
“I can’t wait,” I heard myself say, and surprisingly, it was true. As long as I didn’t have to wear that sweater.
But her attention had turned back to her conversation with Sears, “Yes, I am still here but let me tell you, I have never been put on hold so much in my life. I am prepared to shell out a lot of money on Friday and you could treat me like the paying customer I am. Now tell me, how many changes of clothes are we allowed?”
I wandered away and found myself in Valencia’s room. I decided I would do something special for her, to welcome her home. I ran back into my own room and climbed up on a chair so I could reach my Barbies off my closet shelf. They looked a little worse than usual, ever since those neighbor girls had played with them. Both of my Barbie wedding gowns had mysteriously gone missing at that same time, but I was getting old enough that such a loss was tolerable. I poured the Barbies out on Valencia’s floor, trying to decide if a better welcome would be to spell something with them or to create a clever scene with them.
Suddenly I had an epiphany: I would create a festive Thanksgiving setting. Somewhere I even had a tiny turkey on a little plastic platter, if I could just find it. I ran downstairs and rummaged through the old wooden toy box in the TV room and miraculously found the turkey. Back up in Valencia’s room I dressed all the Barbies and the one lone imitation Ken in fun fall outfits and arranged them around an upside down Kleenex box. I set the top of the box with tiny dishes and the turkey in the middle, and then I cleaned up the little outfits and shoes strewn about. It looked adorable. Finally I made a little sign that said Welcome Home Valencia. From Barbie. I set the sign on the carpet a few feet in front of the scene, just to make sure she saw it and didn’t step right in the middle of the Barbie Thanksgiving dinner.
Unsure of what to do next, I went back to my own room, flopped down on my bed, and started doing my homework. But I went back in and checked on the scene I had created every time I needed a break. Each time I looked at the happy little dolls in the warm glow of Valencia’s bedside lamp, I felt I had created something really good.
Chapter 25
The first thing I noticed when we got back to our house was that Alexa had borrowed one of my Coach purses. I was livid. You would think that as a chr
onic house-switcher I would be immune to that kind of emotion, but I’m not. No matter how much someone has, they still don’t want people messing with what is theirs. And after I had refrained from raiding her closet! I could handle the house switching, because Adrian likes it and I like Madison, and Alexa’s house is all sparse and clean while ours is cracks and crevices that are never quite perfect. But, to me, there is an unwritten, commonsense rule that you just don’t use someone else’s Coach bag and leave Powerbar wrappers inside.
“It’s good to be home,” said my husband, making a beeline for the stack of mail. I knew that it was a normal thing to do after having been away for almost two weeks, but it rubbed me the wrong way.
He caught me giving him a dirty look. He set down the magazines and catalogs, but remained holding the stack of letters. “What’s up?”
“Let’s have sex,” I blurted out.
“Sure, we can do that in a little while. Do you mind if I look at the mail first?”
“You can do that later. Come on.” I grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the bedroom, but he was still looking through the pile of mail, ignoring me. I let go.
“Adrian…”
“Give me five minutes,” he said. “We just got home. Why don’t you go play on the computer for a few minutes? Or go look at the flowers. Maybe something new is growing back there.”
I drew in a deep breath. I had to talk to him about that letter. I couldn’t take it anymore. “Adrian… sit down.”
He looked up from the letters, “What?”
“I have to talk to you about something.”
“Is it about what we were talking about on the plane?”
“What were we talking about on the plane?”
“About what your mom said?”
“No. It’s about you. And it’s about the mail. I want to look at it with you. Hand it to me.”
He set the stack of mail off to the side of the table by the door and then pounced on me. He kissed me hard, like we were in junior high school, or prison. He started yanking off my shirt and his pants at the same time. I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh.
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