The year She Fell

by Rasley, Alicia

  “Maybe she’s depressed,” Ellen said as we pulled into the driveway. “Thinking about death. Growing older, changing her will. Looking back at her life, and seeing mostly the losses.”

  She meant Daddy and Cathy, but I wondered if she also meant the three of us, all escaped out of state and out of Mother’s influence. Did she look back at her life and wonder what led us all to leave? “Well, let’s hope the doctors sort it all out.” I got out of the car and slammed the door. “Maybe all she needs is medication, and this weird stuff will stop.”

  As I climbed the porch steps, I glanced back at Theresa, walking a few paces behind. I wanted the nurse among us to agree with me. But of course she didn’t. She just shrugged.

  Once back in the house, I imagined even Theresa was thinking how very odd it was to be here without Mother. Had the three of us ever been alone together here? I imagined Mother, back in her hospital bed, fighting off that sleeping pill and fretting that we’d get up to something reprehensible. Well, she’d probably only expect that of me.

  I hated to disappoint her. And I guess I corrupted Ellen—easy enough feat, requiring only the decent bottle of Merlot and Chris Isaak on the CD player. Theresa, well, she held out for awhile, but eventually she too succumbed to temptation and started tossing back the wine. She was practiced enough at it that I suspected her cloister served wine with dinner as well as with communion.

  It was, I realized while the popcorn was popping, a party. With my sisters.

  So there I was, in Daddy’s old study, getting drunk with a nun and a minister. Okay, a former nun and a liberal Presbyterian minister, but still, I felt like the whore of Hollywood Babylon in this group. Theresa sat back, just watching us, but after awhile I stopped feeling intimidated by her gaze, and Ellen, well, Ellen started performing. There was no other word for it. She was putting on a persona, still Ellen enough to tell me she hadn’t gone nuts, but a tougher, wilder Ellen, with glittering eyes and nothing tentative in her laugh. Then she started talking about sex.

  We’d been discussing— or rather, I’d been describing—my new obsession with the biological imperative. Husband, baby, in that order, but soon. I can’t imagine what got me going on this, especially considering my brilliant plan for seducing Jackson and restoring my sexuality had turned to dust just a few hours earlier.

  Ellen took this as an opportunity for premarital counseling.

  “I’ll tell you the one thing I’ve learned from twenty years almost of marriage,” Ellen said.

  We waited. I expected some typical ministerial platitude about each partner having to give ninety percent. What she said was, “Don’t give him too many blow jobs.”

  I couldn’t look at Theresa. I figured that after that presidential impeachment, even she must know what a blow job was, and if she didn’t, I wasn’t going to enlighten her. Instead, I inquired as politely as I could, “Why not?”

  “He’ll start to expect it. Every week. And it won’t be anything special. It’ll be necessary, but not special. And that’s about as worthless as a thing can be, you know—necessary but unappreciated.” She took another swig of the Merlot, and added, “So do it only on special occasions. When he’s been really good. Make him beg for it too. Let him know it’s a real sacrifice and he’s sure lucky he behaved well enough to get it. And it’s foreplay, not the main course. Don’t let him get away with getting off without getting you off.”

  I gave Theresa credit. She was doing a great job of appearing unshocked. All she said was, “Do you tell the brides that in your pre-marital counseling sessions?”

  “I ought to. It’s more useful than telling them not to let the sun go down on their anger.”

  It was the drink, of course, but more than that. She was fueled by anger. And it had to be about Tom, had to be about whatever it was that had him exiled to the Super-8 out by the highway. I muttered something to that effect, adding that somehow I doubted it was just because he didn’t properly appreciate the gift of a blow job. This earned me a glance of incomprehension from Theresa, and a full-out glare from Ellen.

  I’d always thought they had a strong marriage, tempered by trauma and shared adventure.

  I’d been with Ellen, holding her hand, when Tom got off that plane from the Middle East—it was my single most sisterly moment, so it haunted my memory—and in that instant, I believed in love, not the selfish lust-love that the films think is so romantic, but real love. The belief didn’t last (living in LA does that to you), but I knew, after that, that it was possible to believe, and perhaps even possible to experience.

  Maybe I endowed their relationship with more symbolic weight than it could bear. But I didn’t want to know about this fight. I wanted to belittle it, without even knowing what it was about. But I couldn’t find an opening, and pretty soon we ended up dancing to old disco records, and I didn’t want to spoil the moment—

  Because Mother was so much better at spoiling moments.

  She strode in, a Valkyrie with Band-Aids, and reduced us all to miscreant children just like that. I admired that sort of stage presence, that personal power. But as I scurried around, picking popcorn out of the carpet, I glanced back at her and saw the confusion in her eyes. I didn’t want to feel that twist in my heart, that feeling that couldn’t be love but had something to do with tenderness. Something was wrong, something that made her pull out her IV needles and walk out of the hospital. And I knew that she would never tell me what it was, and I didn’t really want to know.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mother’s CAT scan the next day proved to be normal, and, emergency over, she reverted to her usual manner. I rather admired that, though I thought it would go over better with a Joan Plowright accent. But after less than a week in her presence, I’d run through my patience and just about exhausted my acting skill. Another few days, and I’d be snapping back at her, and all my careful armed-truce-building work of the last decade would be ruined.

  I decided to go back to Long Island. There was nothing keeping me here. I couldn’t face Jackson again, that I knew. He’d done a wonderful job rejecting me gently, but it was still a rejection, and I felt both hurt and humiliated. I was afraid if I saw him again, I’d try to tempt him away from his resolve, just to make myself feel better. And that wasn’t fair to him or his ex-wife and daughter. I’d never been the home wrecker type, and didn’t want to start with Jackson.

  Maybe if I went back to Southhampton, seized the bull by the horns, and—Okay. No bull. No horns. No seizing. I’d just ask Grady out. Or, if my nerve failed, I’d send him the non-verbal signals that he could ask me out. And surely convention and nature would take their course. I’d grit my teeth and let him touch me, and after that, it would have to be easier, wouldn’t it?

  I wouldn’t have to grit my teeth, if I were with Jackson.

  Enough of that. Sunday night, I started packing my clothes. Monday morning, I started packing Daddy’s things.

  I heard Mother’s measured treads outside my bedroom door, and quickly shoved the box of photographs into my carry-on bag and zipped it shut. As the footsteps retreated down the stairs, I taped up the box of Daddy’s sketch books. Hefting the package, I wondered grimly how much it would cost to ship it. I just couldn’t fit any more into my trunk, and too much luggage stowed in the passenger seat would excite Mother’s suspicion.

  I stashed the box under the bed, and with a bright smile, went down to breakfast with my mother.

  She sat with Ellen, in the sunlight streaming over the breakfast nook. She was impeccably attired in casualwear from the Talbot’s catalog, a soft pink scarf highlighting her still smooth complexion. “Dr. Urich is hosting the Garden Club today, giving us a tour of the botany department’s greenhouses,” she announced as she cut the crusts off her toast.

  “I think I’ll go along,” Ellen said, pushing her coffee cup aside and getting up from the table. “I need some landscaping ideas for my back terrace.”

  I was sitting across from Mother, and saw the protest
rise to her lips. But it came out gently. “Now, dear, you don’t have to.”

  “I want to. I feel the need of some communing with nature.”

  “It’s a greenhouse, Ellen,” Mother pointed out. “Not quite natural.”

  “I’ll drive,” Ellen said, in a tone that brooked no dissent. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to end up sounding like Mother some day.

  As she went off to collect her purse, I said carefully, “How long do you think this greenhouse tour will take, Mother? Should I make lunch for you and Ellen?”

  Mother had been looking abstractedly after Ellen, but turned her focus on me now. “Thank you, but no. I think we’ll be several hours. I might take Ellen to that new teashop on Third Street.” After a moment, she added politely, “Perhaps you and Theresa would like to join us.”

  Theresa had left the house early this morning— I’d heard her getting ready in our common bathroom at seven. “I think Theresa walked downtown,” I replied. “I’ll see if I can find her. Why don’t you call and tell us when to meet you?”

  For just a second, I saw something in Mother’s eyes, a flash of something sweet, longing, as if I’d somehow managed, for the first time in recorded memory, to say something that pleased her—but then it was gone. “Yes, I’ll try to call. But don’t wait if you have other plans.”

  My plans consisted of raiding the house for more of Daddy’s work and personal items, but I couldn’t tell her that. “Oh, I don’t mind waiting,” I said airily. “Just be sure and call, say, an hour before we should meet you, so I can collect Theresa.” That would give me plenty of time to hide my booty, maybe even get to the UPS outlet to ship some more of it back to Grady for safekeeping.

  I was on the lookout for Theresa all morning, glancing out the window whenever I heard a noise, certain that she would catch me out. She had a knack for figuring out whenever I was doing something that could incur Mother’s disapproval, and storing the knowledge away like a nut in a squirrel’s cheek.

  But at eleven she called, sounding, for Theresa, excited and breathless. “I’ve got something to do. I won’t be home tonight. Maybe not tomorrow night either.” And then she said, “Goodbye,” very quickly and hung up before I could ask any questions.

  I replaced the hallway receiver thoughtfully, and returned to my room to finish boxing. If it were anyone but Sister Theresa, I’d think she met some guy and was going off with him. But . . . but it couldn’t be that. Still . . . she didn’t have a car. I don’t even know if she had a driver’s license. And without transport, she couldn’t get very far.

  At least it left the coast clear for my foray into robbery. I didn’t let myself feel even a twinge of guilt as I picked up the last box and started down the stairs. I was taking nothing that Mother would miss, just Daddy’s sketches and art books and his pencils, mostly from the attic. An old Brooks Brother shirt daubed with paint. His easel, broken down into pieces and wrapped in canvas. So there was no reason at all for me to be struck with panic when, over the top of the box, I saw the front door open and Mother enter. Behind her, a cab drove away.

  She was supposed to call first, not just arrive home two hours early—but I had no time to voice my annoyance. She stopped in the doorway and looked up at me, her face illuminated by the sunlight outside, but immediately darkening with suspicion. “What are you doing?”

  The best defense is a good offense. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be at the garden club with Ellen. And your professor . . . friend.”

  “Yes. Well.” For just a moment, she seemed flustered. “I got a message. I must go to—to Charleston. To a meeting. Of the state historical society. I’m the recording secretary.”

  The box was getting heavy, and I shifted it to my other forearm. “But, Mother—”

  “I haven’t really time to discuss this with you, Laura. I’ve got to pack.”

  So she and Theresa would both be gone. Good, I thought uncharitably. Ellen and I would have fun, something hard to do with the two disapprovers around. I shrugged and descended the rest of the stairs. Maybe, in her distraction, she wouldn’t notice the box.

  No such luck. She grabbed my arm as I walked past her. Her hand was surprisingly strong. “What do you have there?”

  I eased my arm out of her grasp. “Just a few things I’m taking home with me.”

  “Let me see.”

  To hell with her. I wasn’t going to fold because of her disapproval, or even defy her for the sake of defiance. I set the box down on the marble-topped foyer table and stood back. “Help yourself.”

  She inserted a single manicured nail under the tape and pulled it up. The flaps opened, and she bent to look inside. I held my breath as she reached to touch the old paint-spattered shirt.

  “This is your father’s.”

  “Yes. I found it in the attic.”

  Her hand closed around the shirt as she glanced up at me. “Why are you taking it?”

  I hesitated. Then I plunged. “So that you won’t give it away. Getting them out of the house before you give it away. This is nothing—nothing valuable. Nothing he’ll miss.”

  Amazingly, Mother didn’t seem angry. Her face was puzzled. “He?”

  “Dr. Urich. The one you’re leaving the house to. And all its contents.”

  “I’m leaving it to the college. And of course I didn’t mean personal items like—like your father’s painting shirt. I meant the furniture. The appliances.”

  “Daddy’s pictures.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I was almost stopped by her expression—anguish? As if I didn’t understand. “Because you just gave him the arch picture. The one Dad did for Cathy. I saw it in that photo of him in the college catalog.”

  “The arch picture.” Mother was still gripping the old shirt. “I didn’t . . . just give it to him.”

  “So he’s had it for a long time, has he?”

  “Cathy was also an alum, you know. She would not object.”

  Her calm infuriated me. It was as if nothing I said affected her anymore. “Yes. I’m sure you considered it an appropriate gift at the time. But I hope you don’t mind if I save the rest of Daddy’s stuff for his daughters. Not for . . . for his replacement.”

  Her fingers tightened on the shirt, the knuckles whitening, and though her face barely changed, I knew I’d scored a direct hit. But I couldn’t follow up. Couldn’t take the next step. Couldn’t make the final charge. The house would collapse, or Mother would have a stroke. Or someone else would hear.

  She released the fabric and stepped back from the box. “That’s a good idea, dear,” she said finally. Her voice was abstract, almost gentle. “Best take it all away soon, before it’s too late. Now I must pack an overnight case. I’m sorry about missing our little luncheon, but this meeting is vital.”

  I stared as she ascended the stairs, one hand trailing lightly on the banister. “But Mother, you’re just out of the hospital.”

  “You see to all those boxes, Laura. I’ll be back later in the week.”

  Ten minutes later, we were both outside in the sunlight. I was still protesting, and she was ignoring me, as she opened the trunk and inserted her gray Prada overnight case—my gift to her last birthday. The laptop case she laid gently to the floor of the back seat, making sure it was secure. Then she slid into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut with a bang.

  Short of pulling her bodily through the car window, I couldn’t see any way to stop her. And—well, I didn’t want to stop her. She hadn’t even denied my accusation.

  But something made me walk to the end of the driveway to watch as the Oldsmobile rolled down the hill into town. She turned right instead of left and drove across the bridge.

  I ran back into the house, out onto the sun porch. From here I could see the dark expanse of the river, the span of the bridge, and Mother’s car heading east. The highway to Charleston was on the west side of town, on this side of the river, and heading in the other direction.

&
nbsp; I gave into panic and grabbed my keys. Maybe I could catch up to her and . . . what? Remind her that the state capital was west, not east? She’d lived here most of her life, made that drive a hundred times.

  Twenty minutes later I turned back and drove back along the old bypass road. Even as fast as I was willing to drive the Porsche, I couldn’t find her. She must have taken one of the country roads that twisted north into the mountains. I couldn’t imagine why. Washington DC lay a hundred miles over those hills, but no one who knew the rutted mountain roads would ever try to get there that way. Maybe she doubled back and descended into the Canaan Valley—

  It made no sense— not her route, not her lie, not her bland response to my accusation, not her acceptance of my theft of Daddy’s things.

  But it meant I couldn’t leave yet, not till she returned. I stood, hesitant, in the middle of the hall, and remembered what she had said. Best take it all away soon, before it’s too late. Almost without volition, I walked into Daddy’s study and sat down at his desk. It was surprising how much of my father remained here more than twenty years after his death. I started sorting through the drawers, setting aside a couple old sketchpads, a baggie full of colored pencils, and a manila envelope of photos of the local gorges and hollows. I found a file folder labeled Loudon College (my mother’s sweeping hand) and opened it eagerly, hoping for sketches of the college buildings. Instead I found a sheaf of clippings about the installation of President Urich, a copy of his curriculum vitae with several dates circled in red, and an opened envelope with my mother’s jottings on the back—more dates: April 1991, August 1991, July 1990, June 1979. Annoyed, I jammed the folder back into the drawer. I really didn’t need any more evidence of my mother’s continued infatuation with the smarmy college president.

  But then, I took the folder back out, and studied that curriculum vitae again. The circled dates were of Urich’s employment at Loudon College, when he was just a botany professor.