That Last Weekend

by Laura Disilverio

  She refilled her glass with water from the pitcher and turned to Vangie on her left. “Tell us about the wedding.”

  A chorus of “Oh, yes, when is it? Where are you having it?” rose up. “Just don’t make your bridesmaids wear yellow organza,” Dawn put in drily.

  Geneva thought she was being self-deprecating, making a joke at her own expense, but the reference to their last disastrous dinner was unfortunate. For a beat, there was silence, and then Vangie laughed and made a calming motion with her hands. “We’re too old for all the frou-frou stuff,” she said. “We’re going to keep it simple—no gown with ten-foot train, no darling little flower girls strewing rose petals, no ten-thousand-dollar bar bill. I think we’ll just decide to do it one day when it feels right. We’ll elope, maybe go to a justice of the peace, or Ray has a friend who’s licensed to marry people. Then we’ll go away for a week, have a honeymoon. A week’s about all Ray can spare from his job. We’ll keep it simple and easy and inexpensive, like Ellie did.” Vangie smiled at Ellie.

  “We kept it simple because I was pregnant, so we had to pull the whole thing together in a month,” Ellie said bluntly. “I would have loved all that frou-frou stuff, as you call it. I went through bride magazines from the time I was ten, cutting out pictures of the dresses I liked and trying to decide if my bridesmaids would wear salmon or sapphire or celadon. Whenever I made a new friend, I sealed our friendship by telling her she could be one of my bridesmaids. It’s just as well we had a small wedding,” she added, cracking a smile, “because I must have promised at least twenty-five girls over the years that they could be in my wedding.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Geneva was unexpectedly touched by an image of tomboy Ellie sitting cross-legged in her room, carefully scissoring around photos of models in strapless gowns with fluffy tulle skirts and pasting them onto construction paper. She’d bet Ellie still had the binder or envelope she’d used to store her photos. Despite her efficiency and practicality, she had a sentimental streak. “Do you still have the photos?” Geneva asked.

  A wistful smile played around Ellie’s lips, but she said, “I haven’t seen my ‘Ellie’s Wonderful Wedding’ folder in years. Probably lost in one of our moves. If I’d had a daughter, I’d have shared it with her.” She stopped and swallowed hard. Dawn reached across Laurel to squeeze Ellie’s hand where it lay on the table. She gave Dawn a small smile before withdrawing her hand.

  What was that about? The baby kicked again and Geneva’s abdomen contracted with a force that startled her. “Ooh,” she breathed, hunching forward.

  “Are you okay?” Laurel put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Braxton-Hicks,” Geneva said, straightening as the pain faded. “Nothing to worry about. Totally normal.”

  “Do you have a name picked out?” Vangie asked.

  “Geonwoo does,” Geneva said. “Lila Grace.”

  “I like it,” Vangie said. “It’s distinctive, but not weird.” She pushed her plate aside.

  She hadn’t eaten much, Geneva noticed, just cut up the steak and rearranged the pieces. No wonder she was so thin. “I want to name her after my grandmother, but she strictly forbade me from saddling any child with Hortense.”

  Dawn made a face. “Hortense is old-fashioned, certainly,” she said diplomatically.

  “What does it mean?” Laurel asked, pulling out her cell phone to answer her own question. “Gardener,” she said after a moment. “Did she garden? What was her favorite plant?”

  “Marigolds,” Geneva said, the memory bringing a smile. “We had marigolds every year, yellow and orange, in window boxes and in the little patch of dirt out front. The years we couldn’t afford to buy any, she’d take the three-quarters dead ones the big box stores tossed out and nurse them back to health. I used to hate their scent—kind of bitter—but now I can’t smell it without tearing up.”

  “What about Marigold as a middle name?” Dawn said. “After your grandma. Hortense means gardener, and she planted marigolds, so … ”

  “I like it,” Geneva said slowly. “Lila Marigold. That would honor my grandmother without having to christen the baby with a name Mama Gran hated all her life.” Her eyes misted. “I’m not going to cry.” She dabbed at her eyes with the cloth napkin. “Stupid hormones.”

  “Of course you’re not,” Vangie said. “It’s a happy thing. The circle of life and all that.” She circled an expansive arm.

  “Have you and Ray talked about having children?” Dawn asked. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, peering across Geneva at Vangie. One dark curl came dangerously close to dunking itself in Geneva’s water glass and she slid it away.

  Vangie’s blue eyes went flat. It was an eerie trick of the light, Geneva decided, the way the pupil appeared to expand into and consume the iris, just as the candle guttered and the change in the light made the cornea seem two-dimensional. “I can’t. Not since—well, you know.” Her voice matched her eyes.

  Shock or discomfort rippled around the room and Dawn stuttered an apology.

  Vangie pressed her palms together in front of her chest and smiled a forgiving smile. “I’m about ready to turn in. It’s been a long day, and I want to be up early tomorrow so we have as much time together as possible before you all have to leave. Laurel, maybe you could help me get ready for bed. I can do for myself if I have to, but there’s a couple of things that are easier with a helping hand. Ray knows what I need, but now—” She rolled her eyes in the age-old way of women deprecating their men’s absences.

  Geneva opened her mouth to offer to help just as Laurel said, “Of course.” Geneva stayed silent. She could wait. There’d be another opportunity to confront Vangie privately.

  Leaning forward, Vangie blew out the candle nearest her. Smoke wisped up, dark gray at first, then dispersing to ghostly nothingness.

  An hour later, near eleven, Laurel tapped on Evangeline’s door. She found herself oddly nervous at the prospect of helping her, unsure what would be required and too aware of the fact that she’d never been called on to nurse or care for anyone. Her parents were still vigorous, knock on wood, and her grandparents had all had the good grace to die in circumstances that had precluded her being involved in caring for them: on the other side of the country when she was young (her mother’s parents), of a sudden catastrophic heart attack (Grandpa Muir), and peacefully in her sleep at a nursing home (Gran). Don’t be silly, she told herself as Evangeline called “Come in.” You’re helping her unzip her top, not inserting a catheter.

  She pushed the door open and stepped into the room. Evangeline sat in front of a delicate vanity, head bowed, hands behind her neck, wrestling with the clasp of her necklace. A gilt-framed mirror reflected the top of her head. The bed was already turned down, and a foil-wrapped chocolate barely dented the middle of the pillow. Laurel thought of Braden enthusiastically distributing the candies and smiled. A water glass, half full, sat atop a cloth napkin as a makeshift coaster on the bedside table, beside a book laid face down. She couldn’t read the title. A space heater hummed in one corner, making the room several degrees warmer than the hall, and Laurel was suddenly grateful for her sleeveless dress.

  “I’m always cold,” Evangeline explained, her eyes tracking Laurel’s movements in the mirror. “Mrs. Abbott dug up that heater for me. She’s so considerate.”

  “Let me help.” Laurel stepped forward and bent close to Evangeline’s neck to examine the sticky clasp. It had a hook and a small safety chain, and it took her a moment to undo them both. Evangeline’s skin was warm and slightly damp under her fingers, and the scent of Opium seeped from her pores. Laurel stepped back in relief when the necklace came free.

  “Thanks.” Evangeline grasped the hem of her gold lamé shirt and pulled it over her head, messing her hair and freeing small breasts.

  Laurel had seen plenty of strangers’ breasts in locker rooms over the years, and she’d see
n Evangeline nude before when they roomed together, but something about the situation—the heat or their non- relationship for the past few years?—made her itch with discomfort. Her gaze slewed away from the sloping breasts with their unusually large areolas, and she asked in a would-be nonchalant voice, “Do you have pajamas somewhere?”

  “In the drawer of the bedside table.”

  Laurel retrieved the nightgown, a soft blue cotton printed with clouds, and noted that Evangeline’s book was a biography of Ernest Hemingway. “Is it good?” she asked, handing over the nightgown.

  “He was an interesting man,” Evangeline said, slipping her arms into the nightgown and wriggling it down to puddle at her waist. She shrugged off her pants and pulled the nightgown into place.

  “Toss me some socks from my bag, will you?” Evangeline said. She gestured to the suitcase laid open on a luggage rack.

  While Laurel hung the slacks in the wardrobe and rummaged through the weekender bag for socks, Evangeline said, “So, you’re going to be a judge, huh? Dispense justice, sentence criminals to life in prison, condemn evildoers to death?”

  Her tone was light, but the question grated on Laurel. “I’m going to be on the appeals court. I won’t be hearing capital cases at the trial level.”

  “The death penalty seems to be going the way of the dodo with more and more states foreswearing society’s ultimate revenge. Pity. Some crimes are so heinous they deserve death, don’t you think?”

  Laurel refused to be baited into a death penalty argument at this hour. She found a pair of rolled-up socks and tossed them to Evangeline, who fielded them neatly. “Need help?”

  “I’ve got it,” Evangeline said. She bent to pull up the socks, hair flopping over her face. Voice slightly muffled, she said, “I’ve thought a lot about justice the last ten years, as you might imagine. I’ve come to believe there’s no such thing, not really.”

  Her voice remained detached, but Laurel tensed. They hadn’t talked about it in ten years, not since those first awful weeks when Evangeline had alternately flung accusations at each of them and begged them to tell her the truth. When she left rehab and gave up hope that her memory of the fall would return, she never brought it up again. It was that uncertainty, Laurel suspected, that had disrupted their friendship, poisoned all their friendships, really. She hadn’t been able to see Evangeline afterwards without wondering if she suspected her, and she was sure Evangeline relived the smack of hands on her back, jolting her over the balcony’s low rail, every time they talked. Despite that, Laurel felt guilty about abandoning their friendship.

  Evangeline straightened and rolled her chair toward the vanity, where she picked up a brush and began drawing it rhythmically through her hair. “Seriously, though, does it make you uncomfortable—the idea of judging people? You’ve been judged before, after all, and it wasn’t pretty.” Her mirrored eyes locked onto Laurel’s.

  Laurel knew what Evangeline was referring to. The shame, humiliation, and dread of those awful couple of weeks during the spring semester of their junior year came back. The sidelong glances, the silences. Her hands trembled and she fisted them at her sides. The summons to the Dean’s office. Her surprise at finding Evangeline there as well. The accusations and tears. Her shock when Evangeline confessed to copying large chunks of her poli sci paper, saying that since they had different professors she’d been sure the similarities in their papers would never be noticed. Her father’s disappointment that Laurel wouldn’t be following in his steps and her grandfather’s steps by going to Yale Law School. God, that still stung. Her mother’s gentle consolation. Her brother’s hoots of laughter that the perfect sibling was on the verge of expulsion.

  “Why bring that up now, for God’s sake?” Laurel put her hands on her hips and stared down at Evangeline, a line between her brows.

  “I don’t know … you becoming a judge. It makes me think about miscarriages of justice, I guess. Let’s face it—that was a doozy.”

  “You confessed.”

  “I did.” Evangeline rolled the chair back and forth, a foot in each direction. “What if I were to retract my confession? I imagine the powers that be who appoint judges in Colorado might be interested in the tale.” She shrugged. “Or maybe not. They’d realize that either I lied back then, or I’m lying now—my credibility is suspect regardless, right? Still, it might be interesting.” Her tone was lightly speculative, as if it didn’t matter to her one way or the other, as if she were postulating trivial questions like whether or not Pluto would be reinstated as a planet or M&Ms would put out a purple candy.

  Laurel stilled. “Are you threatening me?” The words came out louder than she intended. She couldn’t believe the turn the conversation had taken.

  Evangeline gave a puckish smile. “Do I detect a hint of paranoia?” Her trill of laughter grated on Laurel.

  “This is total bullshit, and you know it. Say what you want. Tell whoever. I earned my judicial appointment,” Laurel bit out, keeping her voice low. “I worked hard for it. I gave up a lot. Getting married again, having a baby—”

  Evangeline rolled her chair over the bathroom threshold and reached up to turn on the lights. They shone on her head, creating a halo effect from staticky hair filaments energized by the brushing. “Probably just as well. You were always a bit too invested in your career to be a good mother, weren’t you?”

  The casual cruelty of it and the accuracy stung beyond bearing. Laurel tried to tell herself that Evangeline didn’t know, that she couldn’t know … but it was too much. Evangeline had jammed a cattle prod into an open wound and exposed Laurel’s hidden doubt about her own suitability as a mother. Twenty years of friendship be damned. A lifetime of measured responses, of keeping her cool in all situations, be damned. “I hope you don’t need help wiping your ass,” Laurel said through clenched teeth, “because I’m out of here.”

  Stalking to the door, she wrenched it open, letting in a breath of cool air. She stepped into the hallway with relief and a sense of having dragged herself out of quicksand. Her leg muscles trembled, like they had the time she climbed the Incline in Colorado Springs, and the weakness made her mad. She pulled the door closed with a whack, cutting off Evangeline’s laugh.

  Ten

  Ellie and Geneva lingered in the dining room after the others left, talking about having babies and taking care of them. When Mindy and Mrs. Abbott came in to clean up, they moved to the sunroom, Ellie limping because her heel hurt. It was a little weird, Ellie realized, that she was the only one of their quintet with children. The urge to text the boys came over her, but she’d left her phone in the room again and she’d already texted them once today; that was the limit she’d set for herself. One “what’s going on with you I love you” text per day. Geneva had lots of questions, and Ellie happily shared her advice about birth and the first year with an infant. They had only turned on one table lamp, and beyond their puddle of light, shadows cloaked the sunroom. The furniture was all new: rattan chairs, tables, and a loveseat with pastel plaid upholstery. The plants were as abundant as ever.

  “Is Geonwoo excited about the baby?” Ellie played with a corn plant’s long leaf, pulling it through her hand like she would a dog’s floppy ear.

  “Oh, heavens yes.” Geneva chuckled. “He’s so ready to be a dad. He’s read twice, three times, as many books about parenting as I have, convinced that there’s a formula for raising babies, just like there is in chemistry. He’s sure that if he can figure out the formula and apply it, everything will go smoothly.”

  “He’s in for a rude awakening.” Ellie kicked off her sparkly sandals and pulled her legs up so she was sitting cross-legged on the loveseat. “But it’s sweet that he’s so invested.” Scott had been invested, too, as much as his Air Force job allowed. He’d never shied away from changing diapers, and before they weaned the twins, he’d always gotten up at night with her and burped or changed one twin while she
nursed the other. A hollow spot opened up in her chest. Why, I miss him. The realization first took her aback, and then made her smile. Maybe absence really did make the heart grow fonder.

  “You must miss the boys,” Geneva said, sipping at the herbal tea Mindy had brought her before they left the dining room. Gingery steam rose from the mug.

  “Like I’d miss my arms,” Ellie confessed, trying to sound wry instead of desperately, pitifully sad. “Or at least my big toes. I don’t really know who I am without them around. Pathetic, huh?” She forced a smile.

  “Not at all.” Geneva clicked the mug down on the glass-topped table. “Totally normal. There’s a woman in my practice going through the same thing. Her youngest started at Arizona State last month and she’s convinced he went there because it’s so far away from her and his dad. She talks about how empty the house is, how quiet, and says she’s ready to move into a tiny bungalow, only then she won’t have room for her grandbabies when they come along.”

  “But if she works with you, she’s got a job—a real career, a source of identity other than her kids.” Ellie saw that she’d shredded the leaf and dropped it guiltily. “It’s not the same.”

  “Probably not.” Geneva’s voice was calm. “It’s more same than not, though.” She pushed herself out of her chair with a groan, one arm wrapped under her belly. “Bedtime for me and Lila Marigold.”

  “I’m kinda wired,” Ellie said. “I’m going to poke my head outside and call Scott. It’s only nine thirty in Colorado.”