Steve unclenched his hand and put his fork gently on the table next to his plate.
“Good idea, Mom,” he said. “Any suggestions?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I do have a suggestion. Why don’t we—”
But Becca could hear no more of her grandmother’s words over the accusatory din in her head.
38
Nora retired to her room rather early that night. Carefully, she hung up her skirt and blouse and put away the heavy wool cardigan she had been wearing, one Julie had given her for a birthday. Once dressed in a warm flannel nightgown, she eased into bed and sat up against the pillows to read for a bit before sleep.
But her mind would not stick to the story on the page before her, interesting though it was. Instead, she found herself reviewing the far more compelling story of her own family’s life.
Nora knew, on an intellectual level, that she was not in a direct way responsible for the happiness of her child—not any longer, not since he was a boy—or of his children. Still, as matriarch of the Rowan family, it was hard not to feel like—it was hard not to feel like the prime cause, the well from which all else had sprung. Maybe if Thomas were still alive, she wouldn’t feel this burden quite so acutely. They could share the feeling of responsibility for the personal success of their family members.
Nora smiled to herself. No. If Thomas were still alive, it was more likely he would tell her to stop being so silly. He’d remind her that she had done her job and done it well. If a child or grandchild decided to live his or her life badly, then so be it.
Nora put the book she had intended to read on her bedside table. She still slept on the right side of the bed though her husband had been gone for over twenty years. Thomas. In some ways life had been a lot easier for Thomas than it had for Nora. Maybe, she wondered now, life was in some ways a lot easier for all men than it was for women. Maybe. Her own son seemed to be a person deeply touched by the emotional lives of those he loved. She could see it on his face, in his every movement, how intensely he was feeling his daughter Becca’s distress. And she knew that he, like Nora, felt an inordinate amount of responsibility for that distress.
Now, Julie was a different sort of person. Her daughter-in-law wasn’t as deeply touched by the emotional burdens of others. At least, it seemed that way to Nora. Unless Julie was a master of concealment, and Nora didn’t think that she was, she managed to sustain a balance of caring and—could one call it unconcern? Where Julie could detach from sorrow or fear, many people—including Nora’s son—could not.
Well, when she was gone, Julie would be the matriarch of the Rowan family. And Julie might be inheriting that role sooner than she anticipated because Nora felt something inside her slowing down. She felt something coming to an end. It was nothing physical, nothing tangible—not like a building ache or an increasingly violent pain that signaled a breakdown of the body. She just had a sense that she wouldn’t be around for another Christmas. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if this sense was “real.” Was her mind really in close tune with her aging body? Or was she simply experiencing the common sense of the old, telling her that time was, indeed, running out?
Nora hadn’t lied to Steve and Julie about the results of her recent physical examination. She just hadn’t told them every little detail. Her doctor, a man in his sixties and close to retirement himself, was, like Nora, a firm believer in the older person’s right to retain a degree of independence in all things for as long as was possible.
Inevitably, with the thought of a person retaining independence, her mind turned to Becca, her fiercely independent granddaughter. Nora had resisted forcing a private conversation with Becca as Julie and David had done, and as she knew Steve had been trying to do. She hoped that Becca would come to her grandmother when she was ready. But would she ever be ready?
She didn’t blame Becca for what had happened at the dinner table earlier. Olivia had brought up the dangerous topic of adoption, and the others had unwittingly goaded Becca to a point of explosion. And Nora was pretty sure that Becca felt bad about having succumbed to the temptation to fight back. She’d seen the look of remorse on her face, even if the others hadn’t.
She wanted to help her granddaughter. No, more than that. She wanted to solve the problem; she wanted to be the architect of a resolution that would satisfy everyone, especially Becca. But she just didn’t know how to go about doing that.
And as for Olivia . . . Nora sighed. In her opinion her oldest granddaughter was nearing a nervous breakdown. Professional help sooner rather than later just might stave off the worst of it, but there, too, Nora’s hands were tied. If James, Olivia’s own husband, couldn’t convince his wife to seek help, well, then . . .
Nora was worried a bit about Lily, too. She seemed extraordinarily naïve for a woman her age. Or maybe she wasn’t naïve as much as she was romantic. Either way, Nora didn’t like the idea of Lily being released into the wider world without a few more years of—guidance. Nora wasn’t self-important; she didn’t tend to overestimate her worth. No one could ever describe her as “full of herself.” But in this case she did believe that she was needed. She did believe that she was an important person for her youngest grandchild.
Well, her time would come when it would come, whether it would be next year or the year after that. There was little if anything she could do about that. The Rowan family would survive without her. It would be changed, but it would survive.
Nora stretched her legs under the covers. She never failed to enjoy that delicious feeling of relaxation. Stretching, Nora thought, had definitely added quality to the quantity of her life. Still, it didn’t much help ease the tensions roiling outside her own diminished body, those tensions ebbing and flowing in the other bedrooms of the Rowan house.
Nora turned off the small lamp by her bedside. She loved her family, each and every one of them. But at that moment all she wanted was for each and every one of them to go away, just for a little while. She was tired.
39
Sunday, December 24
James hadn’t slept much the night before, and when he had fallen asleep, it had been fitfully. But the outcome of this restless night was positive. He’d woken with the firm conviction that he had to take a stand, a conviction that he had to do something before the marriage—and its two unhappy members—fell entirely into dust.
It was now late morning. James had eaten breakfast and been for a walk in the bracing winter air. Olivia had opted for a quick cup of coffee and a return to their room, where she planned on working.
Now it was time. James knocked softly and, without waiting for an answer, came into the room. Olivia was sitting on the edge of the bed, sorting through a pile of old family photographs. She didn’t look up.
James took a deep, steadying breath. He had steeled himself for this moment. He knew that people mistook his mild manner for weakness, but they were wrong. Yes, he was a patient man, more patient than most, but he was not a weak one.
“Where’s my letter, Liv?” he said now, his manner calm and, he hoped, nonconfrontational.
Now Olivia looked up at him. She opened her mouth to answer, and closed it again. She suddenly realized she had no idea what she had done with the letter.
“It’s . . . it’s in the night table,” she lied, “by my side of the bed.”
James shook his head. “No, it isn’t. You left it on the dresser. Unopened. Unread. I took it back.”
“I’m sorry,” Olivia said quickly. She felt a tiny bit afraid, as if something were different about her husband in this moment. She sensed that she was not in control of whatever it was that was happening. “I meant to read it. I guess I just . . . I just forgot.”
“Yes.”
Olivia’s hands fluttered in the air as if to illustrate her words. “You know how things slip my mind these days.”
“Things like your husband.”
Olivia laughed, and to James, it sounded nervous. “What are you saying, James?”
> James took a step closer to his wife and spoke softly. The last thing he wanted was to be overheard.
“I’m saying that lately, I feel as if I don’t exist to you. I don’t know, Liv, it’s almost as if you’re trying to substitute your life—our life—with the lives of other people, people from the past, all these ancestors you’re obsessed about. What’s missing in the here and now, Liv? Are you still longing for a child of your own, a child of our own?”
Olivia didn’t reply, and honestly, James hadn’t expected her to. “All right, then,” he went on, “let’s work on that. Let’s revisit the idea of adoption. And if you really can’t go through with an adoption, fine, then we have to find a way for you to be happy—even content—in the present. Content with what you have, not miserable about what you don’t have. And one of the things you have, Liv, is me. But if you can’t see that, can’t appreciate it, if you can’t love me . . .”
“But I do love you, James!” she burst out.
“It’s been very hard to believe that, Liv. Ever since we decided against adoption once and for all last year, things have been—different—between us. You hardly ever look me in the eye anymore. I feel like we’ve become strangers. Maybe that’s partly my fault, and if it is, I’m sorry. I want to fix that.” James paused for courage. And then he said: “But I’m not sure I can do that while living under the same roof as you. I think that a separation might be a good idea.”
Again, Olivia opened her mouth and then closed it. She wasn’t at all sure what she had just heard. She wondered if she had experienced an auditory hallucination. Or was this what it felt like to be in shock? Finally, she said: “What?”
“I’m suggesting a separation, Liv,” James replied steadily.
Several emotions warred in Olivia’s breast—fear, sorrow, and anger. Anger, the most effective weapon of emotional self-defense, won the battle.
Olivia jumped to her feet, scattering the pile of photographs she had been sorting. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to tell me you want a separation while we’re at my family’s home!” she hissed. “How dare you!”
James sighed. “I’m sorry, Liv,” he said honestly. “I wanted to wait until we were back home. I had no intention of spoiling this holiday for us. But—Liv, it’s already spoiled. I just had to speak now.”
Olivia turned her back to him. “I could just kill you,” she muttered. And then, she whirled around to face this man who suddenly was a stranger. “What about tonight?” she demanded. “Where am I supposed to sleep?”
“Of course you’ll sleep in our bed. And if you want me to, so will I. If not, I’ll be fine on the floor.”
James walked over to the dresser and picked up his car keys. When he was at the door, Olivia asked: “Where are you going?” Her voice was high and verging on frantic.
James turned and looked at his wife. He wondered if she could see the pain he knew was written all over his face. Once she would have seen it. But now, he doubted she saw anything that really mattered.
“I really don’t know,” he said.
And then he was gone.
40
It seemed to be a universal truth. The kitchen was where people wanted to be. It was where they congregated during parties and where they journeyed in the middle of the night when they couldn’t sleep. The kitchen was the scene of the hearth, the symbolic center of the home and of the family. So it was that Lily and Nora found themselves once again at the kitchen table, drinking tea, and talking.
Nora needed the caffeine that the strong English Breakfast blend provided. She’d slept badly the night before, her rest interrupted by thoughts of the family’s current concerns. But she had gotten up at her usual early hour, loathe to waste the day. Now she was suffering for her decision.
“Grandma,” Lily said, “did you ever consider marrying again after Grandpa died?”
Nora wasn’t really in the mood to talk about anything more important than the evening’s menu. But she knew she owed her granddaughter the courtesy of a considered answer. After all, it was Nora who had introduced the subject of her marriage.
“Not immediately,” she answered. “But after about a year, maybe a little more, an old friend of mine from high school, a man named Tim Coombs, got in touch. I hadn’t heard from him—or about him—in years. He and his wife had moved away ages before. Anyway, he was back in the Boston area after his wife’s death a few months earlier—his children lived in Framingham, not far from where Olivia and James live now—and he suggested we get together.”
“And you did?” Lily prompted.
“Yes,” Nora said. “We met for lunch a few times and he was the same as ever, such a nice man, funny and smart. And after a few months he suggested we get married.”
Lily’s eyes widened. “Wasn’t that kind of fast?”
“Maybe,” Nora conceded. “But when you’re an adult you do know yourself pretty well—at least, you should—and you don’t tend to waste time. You hope you finally know what you really want and need to live a satisfying, productive life.”
“I guess,” Lily said doubtfully. “A proposal after only a few months still seems pretty fast to me. A whirlwind courtship. Isn’t that what it used to be called?”
“Yes,” Nora said, “though at our age it was more like a gentle-breeze courtship. In any case, Tim’s proposal made a lot of sense for us both. We had much in common and the companionship such a union would have afforded each of us was a strong appeal. I did give the matter some serious consideration. But in the end I just couldn’t accept his proposal.”
“Was he upset?” Lily asked.
Nora smiled. “He wasn’t exactly pleased with my decision, but it didn’t break his heart, either. He married another old friend of ours the following year. Actually, I heard that he died about a year ago. . . . It was cancer, I think.”
“So, why did you say no to him?” Lily said. “Were you afraid of being hurt? Frankly, Grandma, I don’t know how you could even have considered getting married again after going through all that emotional trauma with Grandpa.”
Nora took a sip of her cooling tea before speaking. “Oh, no,” she said then, “I wasn’t afraid. If there was one thing my marriage taught me, it was that I could take care of myself if I had to. No, it wasn’t fear.”
“Did you love him?” Lily asked. “Your old friend. Because if you loved him, then I don’t understand why you didn’t marry him.”
Nora smiled. “Oh, no,” she said. “Love didn’t have anything to do with our relationship. Respect, yes. And friendship. But not love. At least, not in the sense I’d known love with your grandfather. Or, for that matter, in the sense that Tim had known love with his first wife. They had met when they were very young, too. No, with Tim and me things were different.”
“Now I’m even more confused,” Lily admitted. “If he didn’t love you, then why did he propose? How can you ask someone to marry you when you’re not really in love with the person? Unless it’s one of those awful political marriages where you know it’s just a deal between ruling families or business empires. And that just sounds like prostitution to me.”
My, Nora thought. Her granddaughter did espouse a strict moral code! “I’ll try to explain,” she said. “For a lot of people, Lily, marriage—or any longtime union—becomes in and of itself a desirable state. It becomes a habit that’s hard to give up, so that sometimes, in a marriage that comes late in life, it’s not so much about the individual as it is about the union, the companionship, the need for another human being in the bed, the need for another person at the breakfast table.” Nora smiled. “For that matter, it’s about the need for someone with whom to share household chores.”
Poor Lily. She looked horrified. “That’s all?” she said. “Someone to share chores with? Like, you dust and I’ll vacuum? You take out the garbage and I’ll change the sheets on the bed? I’ll cook and you wash the dishes?”
Nora laughed. “That’s a lot, Lily. Don’t underestimate the appeal of
domestic habit. I know it must sound pretty boring to a young person but—”
“But I’ll think differently when I’m older?” Lily sounded doubtful. “Maybe. But from where I am right now I just can’t imagine marrying someone I’m not madly in love with.”
“And you shouldn’t. Not when you’re so young and have so much of your life ahead of you. I approve highly of marrying for love, Lily. I married a man I loved dearly.”
“And yet, he betrayed you. So love isn’t a guarantee of anything.” Lily reached across the table and gently squeezed Nora’s hand. “I’m sorry, Grandma, I’m trying to come to terms with it, but it’s really hard. I just feel so bad for you.”
Nora squeezed back, with more force. “No, no, Lily, don’t feel bad for me,” she said. “The last thing I need—or want—is pity. I don’t deserve it. Bad things, painful things happen to everyone. There’s nothing any of us can do about that.”
“Maybe. But I still want to punch Grandpa in the nose!”
Nora laughed. “Oh, and so did I! Only I was rather vain about my hands back then, before they were all gnarled and speckled, and the last thing I wanted was to break one.”
“Oh, Grandma, your hands are still beautiful!” Lily said, and in her eyes, they were. “So, you still haven’t told me why you said no to your old friend?”
Nora hesitated before speaking. “I don’t know if I can properly explain it without sounding like a crazy old lady. Or worse, a romantic fool.”
“Try.” Lily smiled. “And you could never be a crazy old lady, Grandma, or a romantic fool.”
“Well, thank you, dear. I’ll try to explain. I suppose I felt that after all Thomas and I had been through, after all we’d survived . . . our success seemed like a sort of monument or shrine to me . . . I didn’t want to—to betray us by marrying another man.” Nora raised her hand, as if to forestall an argument from her granddaughter. “Yes, yes,” she said, “I know, Thomas had betrayed us and there I was not wanting to betray what was only a memory. But the fact was that the marriage still felt alive. Do you understand?”
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