by Leanna Ellis
Knowing I’m facing a brick wall, I take a detour. “Who drove you home after school?”
“Some guy.”
Alarm bells go off in my head. “Does this guy have a name?”
“Yeah. But you don’t know him. He’s new.”
I pick up dirty laundry off the floor, gathering it in my arms like the courage I’m going to need to once again broach the subject of Marla coming here. But I’m not ready to change the subject again. “We have rules about this sort of thing.”
“You were busy, remember? At the hospital. With her.”
I look forward to the day when we can return to communicating in complete sentences. “I’m sorry about that. I was trying to be helpful.” I scoop up one of Izzie’s bras off the floor. “If you told me his name, then I’d sort of be getting to know him.”
“Gabe. All right?” The huffiness in her tone warns me the detour is getting rocky.
“Nice name. Is he cute?”
She shrugs one shoulder.
“Oh, come on. I know you notice if a guy is cute or not.”
“Do you?”
I smile and try not to think back to her coach, my new client, and Marla’s doctor. It’s definitely been a surprising day. “Yeah.”
“Okay. In a bad boy kind of way, he is.”
That gets my attention. “And is he a bad boy?”
She gives me a noncommittal shrug. “I’m telling you, Mom, Marla is a nutcase. And she’ll only cause trouble. You know how she is.”
“If you’d seen her—”
“Don’t you remember—”
“—at the hospital, then you’d feel sorry for her too.”
“—what it was like?”
“Yes, Izzie, I remember.” I smooth back a lock of her long blonde hair off her forehead and toy with the silky threads. “But it’s the right thing to do.”
Her blue eyes blaze. She glares at me from an upside-down angle then swings her legs around and sits upright. “You want him back!” It’s an accusation, not a question. “Admit it.”
Beneath the heat of her indignation, I can only nod. I blink back the tears threatening. “If it’s the Lord’s will.”
She utters a word that isn’t allowed in our house and definitely not in the Lord’s house.
My eyebrow arches. Gritting my teeth and clenching my hands, I make an abrupt turn on my bare heel.
“Why, Mom? Don’t grovel.”
At the door I pause and look back, somewhat composed, but my heart still jackhammers inside my chest. “Because I made a vow. Because marriages aren’t supposed to end as if they don’t matter.”
“I know. I know. Till death do you part. So call Annie. She’ll tell you.”
Annie. My best friend since fourth grade. She lives half a state away in San Antonio. I know exactly what she’d say about my plan, which is why I’m not calling. “Your father and Barbara”— I force out her real name instead of the nickname I’ve called her over the last year in my effort to be the grown-up here—“they broke up.”
She rolls her eyes. “And Dad will go crawling back, begging, giving away more of my college tuition. And ta-da, they’ll be back together. Doin’ the—”
“Isabel!” My hand tightens on the doorknob.
“I’m not stupid, Mom.”
I slump against the door jamb. Defeat settles over me like an iron chain around my neck. “You’re right. So here’s the deal. Your grandmother is coming here for a short visit and that’s final. And you will be polite and helpful and make her feel welcome. Understand?”
She glares right back at me. “If you do this, I’ll—”
“What?”
“Nothing,” she mumbles, backing down. Relief gives me a smidgen of strength. The conversation is over but far from being resolved. She flops back on the bed, plugs in the iPod earbuds to completely tune me out, and begins texting on her cell phone.
Chapter Five
What appears to be a white gardener’s truck sits in Jack Franklin’s circular drive, but no logo identifies the company. Over the last year I’ve learned advertising is vital to business. I park my Volvo behind the truck. Rake and shovel handles stick over the edge of the tailgate. Several refrigerator-sized cardboard boxes are piled into the bed. Around the side of the house, where the battery-powered pink Barbie Jeep still remains, Jack and his son amble toward me. The giant dog lopes alongside, its black hair waving with each springy step.
I roll my window down and wave from the safety of my car. “Hi!”
Jack coils a yellow nylon rope, looping it hand to elbow. “Hello there. How’d your emergency work out?”
His son grabs the oversized puppy by the collar and lowers the truck’s tailgate. The dog jumps into the bed in a seemingly effortless move.
“It’s going to work out just perfectly.” I smile, feeling the possibilities deep in my bones as I climb out of the car. “I’m sorry again that I had to leave so abruptly.”
“No problem. Those things happen.”
He gestures toward the teenage boy who swings himself into the truck’s bed with an ease and agility that accentuates his age. “This is Gabe.”
I realize this is Jack’s truck, not the gardener’s. “Hi, Gabe. We met briefly the other morning. You a Southlake Dragon?”
He rubs his temple with his thumb. “Yes, ma’am.”
“What year?”
“Senior.”
“My daughter’s a junior.”
Gabe nods but doesn’t say anything else. He steps onto the lowered tailgate and pushes the oversized boxes together in the middle.
“You guys doing yard work today?” Why isn’t Gabe in class? If I were Marla, I’d probably blurt out my question. But it’s not my business.
“An Eagle Scout project actually.” Jack loops one end of the rope through a hole in the side of the truck and hands the rest to Gabe.
“That’s terrific.” I eye the boxes curiously, hoping they might be filled with the pinball machines I saw the other day inside Jack’s house.
“We’re taking any and all volunteers.” Gabe wraps the rope around the clumped boxes. “So if you’re interested just show up at Kirkland’s Park the next two Saturdays.”
Jack forms a knot in one end of the rope, and I try to avoid watching the muscles along his arm bunch and twitch with the effort. Then he walks around the truck to the other side where Gabe hands him the other end of the rope.
“So what exactly is the project?” My gaze shifts from man to dog. The beast seems content in the truck, so I hook around the front of my own car to retrieve my books, measuring tape, and notes out of the passenger seat.
Jack pulls down hard on the rope, tightening it around the boxes to hold them firmly in the truck bed. “Tell her, Gabe. It’s your project.”
“We’re making a park accessible to kids with special needs.”
Surprised, my mouth opens briefly until I can pull my faculties together. I watch Gabe for a moment, deeply impressed. He’s obviously not an ordinary teen. “What a wonderful idea.”
The teen’s ears turn red. He adjusts the ropes even though they don’t seem to need it.
“Sounds like quite an undertaking.”
Finishing the last knot in the rope, Jack turns to me. “I’ve got to take this over to the park and get Gabe to school. Did you want to talk about the house?”
“I’d love to when you have a chance.”
“Go on in the house and look around. I won’t be long. The door’s unlocked.”
“Sure, I’ll work up some preliminary figures of what we could do and the cost. I could just leave it, and you could call me when you’ve had a chance to look it over.”
With a warm smile, Jack jumps over the truck’s side, his work boots hitting the gravel drive with a crunch. “Will do.”
“Are you sick?” Izzie’s voice startles me.
I turn, pushing away from the bathroom counter, toothbrush in hand. “You’re up late. Or is it early?”
Izz
ie leans against the doorjamb. She squints against the glaring light “It’s late.”
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No.”
“You weren’t talking on your cell phone, were you?”
“What are you doing, Mom?” She’s wearing boxers and a skimpy T-shirt. And she didn’t answer my question.
“Cleaning.” I squirt more Windex on the faucet and take the toothbrush (not mine) to the grime around the edges.
“It’s two in the morning!” She scratches her flat stomach, lifting the tail of her shirt enough for me to catch sight of her pierced belly button—something she did without my consent after her dad walked out. “I cleaned the bathroom yesterday, Mom. Is this about Marla?”
My hand pauses for only a beat before I rinse the brush and start in on the tile. This time, I’m the one ignoring an uncomfortable question.
“Her face is a wreck, Mom. She won’t be able to give it the white-glove treatment. At least not for a few days.”
I just scrub. Maybe this is a test—a motherly approval test. If I pass, maybe I can get my husband back. Maybe Marla will take my side. Cliff always does what his mother wants. I’m not saying it’s a logical assessment, but it makes my arm push harder against any perceived grime around the faucet. “It’s been a while since you’ve seen her.”
“So when does Medusa arrive?”
I huff out a breath and brush my bangs off my sweaty forehead. “Tomorrow. That’s why I’m—”
“She won’t like the house or you any better. Even if you Clorox everything including the fireplace.”
“I’m not trying to make her like me.” It’s a total lie, and we both know it.
“Uh-huh.” Izzie turns on her bare heels and goes back to bed or to her cell phone. I hear the springs creak in confirmation.
I slide down the cabinet to the cold, tile floor. I feel nothing. Nothing. Just a dull thump, thump-thump of my pulse. Memories of when Marla came to stay with us after Izzie was born haunt me still. My own mother couldn’t come for another couple of weeks as she had a full-time job and made it clear my mistake was not her problem, so Cliff’s mother was waiting at our apartment like a spider on its web when I came home from the hospital, carrying a six-pound bundle in my arms.
“That’s not the way to change a diaper,” Marla said right off the bat.
I was a clueless nineteen-year-old. And when I say clueless, I mean in more ways than one. “They showed me at the hospital—”
“Where’s the baby powder? She’ll get diaper rash.”
“No one uses baby powder anymore, Mrs. Redmond.” That’s what I called her then, when I was just a baby myself. As the years passed and my respect for her faded, I didn’t refer to her in any particular way. I avoided any reference to her name if I could, sticking with your mother when appropriate.
She rounded on me. “Why not? Baby powder was good enough for Cliff and his brothers.”
“Experts say it’s dangerous for their lungs.”
“Experts?” Marla scoffed. “Mothers are the experts. Besides, baby powder doesn’t go anywhere near their lungs.”
Blocking out the memory, I push back to my feet, gather my cleaning materials. It will be better this time. Time has thickened my skin and hopefully made me marginally wiser. Her words and insinuations have made her feelings plain. But now faced with the possibility of Barbie as a daughter-in-law, Marla’s sure to like me better.
Or so I hope.
“Not that suitcase.” Marla grits the words through clenched teeth, which has become her new way of speaking.
After her release from the hospital and into my custody (so to speak), we drove to her apartment. It was a solemn experience.
A pressure bandage around the rim of her face remains but might serve all of us better if it tightened her lips and prevented her from speaking. Bruises have sprouted over most of the rest in an impressive garden of colors. She moves as if in slow motion, like she finally realizes she’s fragile. Of course, if she wasn’t walking around in high heels, then she might be more steady.
I replace the small carry-on bag I found in her coat closet. Marla’s new apartment consists of two tandem bedrooms, a compact den, and lipstick-size kitchen. It’s small. Quaint, as she describes it. She recently moved into this retirement village because of the elaborate and varied activities offered with other active seniors. Where did she put all of her belongings, her antique furniture, expensive vases and dishes, oil paintings that she once had in her seven-thousand-square-foot house? It took over a year for her estate to sell, or so I heard. I recommended to Cliff she should call me to help her stage it. She did, of course, after several months. She argued every suggestion I made, but she ultimately must have incorporated a few—the house sold not long after I visited. Not that I’m taking any credit. Especially since she never paid me. Not that I wanted compensation.
“We’re family!” she crowed before I could produce a bill and I didn’t want to quibble over the facts.
Above the small fireplace mantel sits the gargantuan portrait of Marla she had commissioned in her thirties. She was a striking woman with aristocratic features and vibrant red hair that made her easy to spot in any crowd. And Marla always wants to stand out in a crowd. She wants to be memorable. If she wasn’t before, she sure is now.
There’s a scene in The Picture of Dorian Gray, which I read my freshman year in college, when Dorian sees himself immortalized on canvas and is so taken with how beautiful he is. Is that how Marla feels when she looks at her own portrait? Or does she only see perceived flaws? A heavy sorrow expands my heart for this woman who is obviously desperate for something of worth.
She walks up beside me, follows my gaze to her portrait, and snorts. “At least I looked good once.”
“You will again.” But is that another lie? Are my words hollow or filled with promise? Marla’s down-turned mouth indicates she’s not buying my Pollyanna routine.
“This way.” She moves back toward her bedroom. “My suitcase is in there.” She waves toward her closet and sits gingerly on the edge of her queen-size bed, which overpowers the room with its bold mahogany headboard and four posters.
Her clothes are lined up neatly in her walk-in closet, sectioned off by season and designer. A shrink would have a field day with her. I spot a Louis Vuitton bag on the top shelf and jump to tip it with my fingers then catch it in my arms. I set the oversized bag on her bed. “This good?”
“May not be big enough. If we need more space, I have a trunk in the attic.”
“Terrific.” I dare not ask how long she plans to visit, but I should probably get something in writing that she’ll only stay for a week. What flack Izzie will give me when she sees me haul in this suitcase! I unzip the suitcase and begin to pack the clothes she’s laid out, but something catches my eye. On the bedside table sits something I haven’t seen in years—Bradford’s pipe.
“It’s a rusticated bent Dublin,” he explained to me when I showed interest back in the early days of Cliff’s and my marriage.
I reach for it, run a finger along the roughened wooden bowl. The smell bothered me back then, making me sneeze or simply stuffing up my sinuses. He’d puff away in his leather armchair, and Marla would come into his home office, jerk up the windows, and wave her arms about like a magpie. But as I grew to know Bradford, or “Dad” as I happily called him when he gave me that privilege after Izzie was born, I didn’t mind his pipe smoking. In fact, it became endearing. It was the one vice Marla allowed him.
He showed me how he cleaned the pipe, scooped up the Scottish blend of tobacco, and tapped it down with his thumb before lighting it. “Would you like a puff?” I pulled back and he smiled. “Won’t hurt you.”
So I agreed and quickly regretted it as my throat burned, eyes watered, and lungs contracted.
His merry blue eyes twinkled as he laughed, then he fetched me a glass of cold water. “Don’t worry”—he patted my back—“it won’t last long. You’ll be aski
ng for a pipe in your stocking next year.”
Gulping the water, I met his amused gaze. So he knew I’d bought him an expensive pipe and slipped it into his Christmas stocking without anyone knowing. The glower on Marla’s face had been worth the price, but Bradford’s rumbling laugh gave me the greatest pleasure.
With all the complaining Marla did about his smoking, and then harping about how his bad habit had caused his heart problems, I’m surprised she’s kept it all these years after his death.
Bradford and I became partners in crime after my foray into pipe smoking. Because I loved him as the father I wanted and needed, I never questioned his elaborate pranks. He wouldn’t necessarily tell me where X marked the spot, but he’d give me the chore of planting traps along the way or hiding the ticking time bomb. I learned not to laugh out loud when a bucket of water spilled on one of his boys or when toilet seats were covered in Saran Wrap. Instead I perfected a shocked, open-mouth expression, stretching my cheeks downward so they wouldn’t break into a grin. Bradford carefully targeted everyone but Marla. She often laughed louder than anyone, enjoying everyone’s discomfort and humiliation. Instinctively, or maybe through experience, Bradford knew not to cross that line.
But one time a joke backfired. Bradford told everyone at Marla’s annual New Year’s Eve bash that he had made a chili cheese dip all by himself. Everyone of course sampled the concoction and dutifully raved about it. They came back for seconds and thirds, bragging what a wonderful chef Bradford had become. But then guests began to leave early, long before midnight, rushing out the door, as Bradford’s secret ingredient—bran—kicked in. Marla was not amused.
But Bradford’s most endearing quality, for me at least, was that he often stepped verbally between Marla and me when she aimed her criticism in my direction. “Oh, Marla, let the kids alone. They’re fine. They have their own lives now.”
When he passed away five years ago from a massive heart attack, the restraining belt snapped and Marla began her full-fledged assault on our marriage.
A carefully demure cough grabs my full attention. “I’d like to get settled at your house sooner rather than later.”
