by Leanna Ellis
The smell of scorched vanilla grabs my attention. I follow the odor toward the kitchen, check the stove, but then realize someone lit a candle and left it on the table. Careless. I lean over to blow it out.
A noise from down the hall makes the hair at the back of my neck rise. My heart thuds. Could it be Izzie and Gabe . . . doing something they shouldn’t? My fist clenches and I march down the hall toward her bedroom. I give a smart rap on the door and jerk it open. The lights are out, and I grope for the switch. When the light pierces my eyes, I blink. The room is empty. No Izzie or Gabe.
The noise grows louder, and I grab the portable phone. It sounds like furniture moving in a back bedroom. And groaning.
Then I hear a moan from the other side of the hall. From my bedroom.
Marla! Could she be hurt? Could she have fallen? Had a stroke?
I dial 9-1-1 and race toward her door. My heart pounds. Didn’t she have heart arrhythmia during surgery? Could she have had a heart attack? Without pause, I wrench open her door and stumble into the room.
Then I freeze like a big block of ice. I can’t move. My heart manages a couple of feeble, uneven beats. Time seems to slow to a crawl as the next few moments feel like years.
My ex-mother-in-law lies on the bed in a position no one should ever see! She looks over the shoulder of some man, her lopsided face turning three shades of white.
I feel dizzy. But I’m unable to step forward or backward. I shade my eyes. At that second I recognize Mr. Klum’s balding head, and Marla gives a half scream.
“Emergency, 9-1-1,” a staticky voice comes from the phone. “What is your emergency? Hello? 9-1-1. Is anyone there?”
If the police show up, this is going to be difficult to explain.
I turn my back on Marla and Harry, step out of the room, and pray the image in my mind will fade with time. With the click of the door, I focus on the 9-1-1 operator. “No, uh, yes, I’m here. I’m sorry. Hello?”
“State your emergency, please.”
“This isn’t an emergency.” I rub my forehead, lean against the wall in the hallway. “I thought someone was in the house. Maybe. But I was wrong. Well, there was someone in the house. I thought she was having a heart attack or something. It was my ex-mother-in-law. She’s been staying here . . .” I shake my head. Focus. I amble down the hall, back to the den, and collapse onto the sofa, as if I’ve become disconnected from my own body. “At least it wasn’t my daughter. I’m not making any sense. Am I?”
The door to my bedroom, now Marla’s boudoir, opens.
“Thanks for calling.” I click off the phone and sit up straight.
Harry Klum steps out of the room.
I cover my face with a pillow like it’s a floatation device and I’m on a plane and it’s going down. Over water. I’ll just sit here quietly, maybe Marla, Harry, my life will all float away.
After a moment of breathing in the dusty fabric, I hear a soft clearing of the throat. “Uh, Miss Kaye?”
I look over the edge of the pillow at Harry. He’s a bit red in the face, but I’m not sure it’s from embarrassment. Little tufts of his hair stand on end. His shirt buttons are mismatched. He rubs his jaw.
“Miss Kaye, I sure am sorry about all this. I just want to explain—”
“Oh, no. Please don’t.” I lean back into the sofa, clutching the pillow against my stomach, which seems to be experiencing a tidal wave. “Why don’t you get yourself some water. Or a soda. Or whatever.” He’s obviously made himself at home. “Make it two.”
He goes into the kitchen. When he returns a minute later, he hands me a can with the top already popped. Harry sits on the opposite end of the sofa. “I don’t know what to say.”
I’m not able to look him in the eye. “I don’t think there is anything to say.”
“It’s not what you think.” Harry pops the tab on his Coke and fizz bubbles up around the lip. We both watch it for a moment, then he slurps it up and I focus on my own drink. “I hurt my back last week working at the park. Miss Marla thought she could fix it.”
“Uh-huh.” I take a big gulp of my own drink but the bubbles resurface in me, and I belch in a very unladylike manner. “Sorry. Look, Harry—” I stop myself because I don’t know what to say, where to begin. Finally I ask, “Is Marla okay?”
“She’s a bit discombobulated . . . but she’s fine.”
“I know the feeling.” Should I ask Harry’s intentions? I suppose it’s none of my business but maybe I already know the answer anyway.
He toys with the tab on the top of the can. “What were you asking me the other day?” He scratches the top of his head. “Have I ever done something stupid for love?”
I abruptly stand. I don’t want to talk about love. About Harry and Marla. “Look, Harry, would it be all right if we—”
From down the hall I hear a thud. It doesn’t sound like Marla hit the floor, more like a book hitting the wall.
“Should I go check on her?”
I shrug. I don’t know the proper protocol for this situation.
When the doorbell rings, it gives me something to do rather than sit on the sofa and wait for Harry and Marla to emerge from her . . . my bedroom. Maybe I should have had the Valentine bed delivered here.
I jerk open the door, and a police officer greets me with an all-too-serious expression. I resist the urge to hold up my hands in self-defense. I’m not guilty, officer. Really, I’m not!
“Hello?” I manage instead.
“There was a 9-1-1 call registered from this address.” His voice is steady, calm, official.
My heart jolts like I’m guilty. “Oh? Oh!” I always expected this would happen when Isabel was little. But I thought she would have made the call as a prank. “Oh, Officer, it was a mistake. I thought someone was in the house when I came home . . . but it was my mother-in-law . . . ex-mother-in-law. Believe me, you don’t want to know the whole story.” I hope he doesn’t ask any more questions. “I told the lady on the phone . . . the operator—”
“These things always have to be checked out.”
“I see.” Does he?
A car door slams out front. I look beyond the police officer’s shoulder to Anderson Sterling rounding his black, shiny BMW. It’s nose-to-nose with Gabe’s truck, and on the back side, which is why I didn’t see it when I arrived home, is Harry’s station wagon, now snugly sandwiched between the BMW and police cruiser. It looks like we’re having quite a party.
As Anderson heads up the walk, his footsteps quicken. “Is Marla all right? What’s happened, Officer?”
“Do you live here?” the officer asks.
“I was coming to see Marla Redmond.”
“Is that you, ma’am?”
“No. I’m Kaye Redmond.” I prop a hand on my hip. “You’re a little late.” When Anderson’s eyes widen, I realize belatedly how dire that sounded. “She’s all right.”
“Excuse me.” Harry brushes past me carrying Marla’s large suitcase. He pauses when he sees Mr. Sterling. “Andy.”
“Harry?”
The officer crosses his arms. “What’s going on here?”
“More than you know,” I mutter. “Harry! Where are you going? What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Kaye. Marla insisted. She’s packing the rest of her things now.”
“Packing?” But how will I explain this to Cliff? I lean heavily against the door.
“You sure everything is okay, ma’am?” The officer stares at me as if expecting an honest answer.
I’m not sure I have one for him, but I meet his inquiring gaze. “Have you ever had one of those days?”
“If it’s not an emergency, then I’ll be going.”
“Not your kind of emergency.” I follow Harry out the door. But I’m guessing fireworks are about to erupt.
Just as the police cruiser squawks its siren before pulling out and leaving us behind, Izzie and Gabe round the corner with Cousin It loping alongside, tethered by her leash. When they see t
he cruiser, they pick up their pace. With Harry burdened by the suitcases and carrying them toward his station wagon, and Anderson walking into my house, I stand in the yard alone and greet my daughter and Gabe.
“Mom! What is going on?”
I smile and shake my head. “Hard to explain. It’s all a misunderstanding.”
“What’s Mr. Klum doing with Marla’s suitcases?”
“Apparently she’s decided to leave.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Let’s not talk about it right now. Okay?”
Then Marla walks out of the house. She’s wearing dark glasses and a scarf over her hair. With head down, she pulls the wrap tightly around her and doesn’t bother to pause and talk to Mr. Sterling who follows behind her like a lost puppy.
“Marla!” Anderson chases after her. “What are you doing? Have you lost your—?” He grabs her arm, turns her to face him. “What happened to your face? Did Harry do that?” He clenches his fist at the sight of the last remaining bruises. Didn’t she tell him about her surgery? “I’m gonna kill him!”
Marla stops Anderson with a firm hand on his arm. “You will do no such thing.”
“But he’s hurt you!”
“He has not hurt me. Good grief. Don’t be so dramatic.” She touches the side of her face where the final bruises are receding into her hairline.
“Then . . . what?”
She purses her lips. “Stop this, Anderson. We’re not seeing each other anymore.”
“You’re leaving with Harry? Harry Klum!”
Her lips purse. “Yes.”
“But why?”
“Because he sees me in a way no one else has.”
“And how’s that?”
“Like a real woman.”
“What does that mean?”
Should I hide behind the mailbox and allow them a private moment? It’s all too fascinating, appalling in some warped way, yet definitely eye-opening.
Anderson shakes his head as if Marla is making the worst mistake of her life and turns back toward his car. As he jerks it into gear and pulls away from the curb, a vase of red roses tips over in the passenger seat.
Marla passes me, not meeting my gaze, and I rush forward. “Marla! Let’s talk about this. You don’t have to leave.” I can’t believe what I hear myself saying! But this isn’t how I want our time together to end. “Not like this anyway.”
She holds up her hand but doesn’t look in my direction. Her scarf flaps in the breeze. She lifts her chin high, and her spine stiffens.
“Let’s talk about this.”
“Do not say a word.” She waits at the curb for Harry to drive the car forward ten feet. “I do not want to discuss this situation. Ever.”
Of course, she’s embarrassed. I am too. But not talking isn’t going to solve our problem. “Look, Marla, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. Honest. I thought you were hurt. I thought—”
She jerks open the car door, slides into her seat, and slams the door shut. She stares straight ahead, not looking in my direction.
“What happened, Mom?” Isabel stands beside me.
I want to tell her this isn’t the worst thing that could happen. There are a lot worse things out there that I don’t even want to mention or think about, things that my friend Terry is having to face. And I realize that Marla has been running her entire life. Running from fear or to get something that will make her happy. But none of that will work. “You can’t keep running.”
Still, she won’t look in my direction.
I tap the window. But there’s no response. I sigh, look to Harry for help. His hands rest on the steering wheel. He shifts the car into Park and opens his door. Slowly he gets out and looks at me across the hood. “Don’t worry, Miss Kaye. I’ll take good care of her.”
“But where are you taking her? Back to her apartment?”
“To my place in the village.”
As they drive off, I watch Harry’s dull red taillights, then his blinker flashes momentarily before he turns the corner.
“Mom, what happened?”
I shake my head. “I came home, heard a strange noise . . . thought it was Marla in pain.” I lower my voice. “She and Harry were”—I tilt my head to the side—“you know.”
Izzie stares at me for a full minute before I see the spark of understanding in her blue eyes. “Eew!”
“Yeah, well, there you go.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sometimes I feel as if I’m standing on the brink, teetering, tipping over. Gravity can have its way or I can lean into the force to make it a semblance of a dive. Would that make me feel better, make me feel as if I’m still in control?
Tonight I literally stand with my toes on the edge of the pool and imagine standing on the blocks at the swim-a-thon, leaning over, sticking my backside out for the world to see, and then . . . belly flopping into the water. Chin down. Keep chin tucked under. Since I won’t have to wait for a “whistle” or “gun,” then I can go like lightning. Before anyone has a chance to really notice my . . . shortcomings. The water will cover a multitude of sins. Or so I hope. Because my Lycra bathing suit will not.
With Marla gone and Izzie doing homework with Gabe, I back away from my pool and pretend to walk up to the blocks. With one swift move, I pull my cover-up over my head, toss it onto my towel, step on the “blocks,” which tonight is only the tile-rimmed edge of the pool and dive for the water. It’s chilled and I come up gasping. My thighs hit the top of the water hard, and my skin stings. At least I’m fully immersed in the water. From here, I can swim. Kick a lot. Splashing—lots of splashing—covers my poor form. Or so I hope.
In the meantime I need practice. Not only to build up my stamina but to whittle down my deficiencies. Of which there are many.
I swim laps with Cousin It sitting on the side of the pool, her tongue lolling, brown eyes watchful. I hope she makes a good lifeguard if I suddenly need her. But a scream or holler would bring Izzie and Gabe if I get a sudden cramp.
As I reach forward in stroke after stroke, my mind drifts, lapping over the most recent events. Tomorrow I’ll call Marla. That is, if she’ll take my call. Until then, there’s nothing I can do about the situation.
Besides Izzie’s eew!, she hasn’t said much about her grandmother’s behavior. Lack of decorum has become all too common in this family. It’s not the example I want set for Izzie on how to conduct a relationship. She’s bombarded from the news and movies to magazines and books, with the belief that normalcy is relative. Marla’s actions may be what society calls the norm, but aren’t Christians called to a higher standard? Shouldn’t we at least make an attempt to do things God’s way?
It solidifies my reasons for, and hardens my determination to get Cliff back. If Izzie sees how her mother handles herself in relationships, and that a marriage can work out, even after a betrayal, then maybe it will encourage and help her understand the power of prayer.
It should be no surprise when Cliff arrives at the house. But I’m not at all prepared. Instead of dressed and ready with a quick line about his mother’s leaving, I’m bobbing in the deep end, treading water, huffing and puffing from all my exercise when Cousin It’s warning barks resound off the rooftop.
“It! Stop!”
She stops barking and starts wagging her tail, rounding the end of the pool to greet Cliff.
He frowns and puts out a hand. “Get back. Stay put.”
She hesitates, wavering, as if unsure what to do.
I eye my towel. How ladylike can I manage to get out of the pool and retrieve my towel and cover-up? With it dark except for the pool light, I hope my flab won’t be too apparent to my ex and make him long for Barbie again. So, gathering my courage as my arms are beginning to feel like limp spaghetti, I make it to the side of the pool and climb the short ladder. The cool, night air hits my body, and I shiver. I dash past Cousin It and scoop up my towel. She grabs my cover-up and takes off with it. But at least she’s out of the way. Wrapped
like a hasty, last-minute present, I face Cliff. “Hi.” I pray Marla hasn’t made me into the villain in our latest confrontation. “How are you?”
“Good.” He looks good in a dark suit. His crisp white shirt hugs his neck. He walks forward and leans in for a brief kiss on my cheek. His face is cool from the blast of air conditioning in his car, but his lips are warm. A surprise. And I take it as a good sign. “We need to talk.”
I nod but don’t offer to go into the house. This is our best chance at privacy. “I thought so.”
He turns away from me, and I brace myself for a serious discussion about his mother. He tilts his head back and peers up at the night sky where gossamer clouds whisper past. “It’s nice back here.”
“Thanks.” Pride blossoms inside me. Accomplishing this much as a single mother was important to me. I’ve never owned anything on my own, and this step of independence from Cliff was scary and difficult. For him to acknowledge my little achievement warms me.
His silence, however, worries me. I give him a minute, but he doesn’t say anything else. “So what did she tell you?”
He turns back to face me, his right eyebrow arched. “Who?”
“Your mother?”
His left matches his right. “I haven’t talked to her.” Then his brows scrunch into a frown I recognize from experience. “Why? What’s wrong?”
I roll my lips inward, wishing now I hadn’t said anything. Patience has not always been one of my virtues. “That’s not why you came over?”
“No.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
I swallow hard. Is it about Jack then? I don’t want to get into that either. Marla seems like a safer topic. “So you don’t know that she moved out?”
His gaze shifts toward the house then back. “She’s not here?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore.”
“Where is she? What happened?”
“It was a misunderstanding. Really. And she overreacted a little.” An understatement to be sure.
