They had several more chocolates each before Claire put her hand to her stomach. “Oh, I think I’ve had enough.”
“Me too.” Ned looked down at the box. They had eaten half of the top layer.
“Can you help me up?”
Ned set the box aside, stood, and then put both hands out for his grandmother to hold. Once he had her hands in his, he pulled her up. She was lighter than he expected. He helped turn her around in the hallway and situated her walker. He walked behind her as she made her way to her bedroom. Once she was seated on the bed, she told him she would be able to do the rest by herself. “You’ve been a big help,” she said. “I’m glad you were awake to come to my rescue.”
“You don’t need anyone to rescue you,” he said.
Claire opened her arms to him, and he walked into them for a hug. “Get to sleep now,” she said. “Tomorrow is another busy day.” Ned turned and left the room. She heard him descend the stairs and then focused her attention on getting back into her bed. She lay back and then lifted her legs, as flexible as two steel rods, onto the bed. She had lost so much of her strength. Her physical therapist told her she was “doing well,” but she knew it was a sham. He said that to all the old people, she guessed, who had one day amounted to something, but were now reduced to a series of diminished percentages. The only thing Clare Gaines Thompson was a hundred percent capable of doing was not dying yet. And those days, no matter what Helen said, were coming to an end.
A couple months ago, this realization permeated Claire’s outer layer, the layer she worked so hard to maintain. Her oncologist started using the word weeks instead of months, and Claire had broken down. Helen had dropped her at home and was running a few errands before their lunch together, so Claire thought her tears would go unnoticed. But Helen had returned early, excited about their forthcoming grilled cheeses and tomato soup, and found her mother in a heap on the kitchen floor. “Doing well,” Claire was smart enough to know, meant just the opposite. And it was that very day that Claire told Helen to call her siblings and get them to the cottage for the Fourth of July.
Downstairs, Ned slipped into his sleeping bag. It was oddly chilly for a summer night, and he shivered, and then drew the flannel bag up to his neck.
“Where have you been?” Todd rolled over and looked at him.
“With Gainzer. At the top of the stairs.”
“Is she okay?”
“I think so. I helped her back to her bedroom. She ate a bunch of chocolates.”
“That’s good,” said Todd.
“Remember when she used to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches like nobody’s business?”
“Yeah. She made them on that squishy white bread and raced us. She’d have three or four down the hatch, as she used to say, before we finished our first one. I was six,” said Todd, “and you were four.”
“And she’d tell us crummy jokes and get us laughing so hard we couldn’t eat. What’s a shark’s favorite game?”
“Swallow the leader,” Todd said. “What kind of cheese isn’t yours?”
“Nacho cheese,” said Ned, grinning. “Hey, I told her all about our tennis match with the Fischers.”
“What’d she say?”
“She said it sounded like we played like champions and that she was really proud.” Todd said nothing. “Todd?” said Ned.
“I think Gainzer is really sick.”
“Yeah. Mom told us her cancer came back. But she’s doing the chemo again, right? And that worked last time, Mom said.”
“I heard Mom telling Dad that Gainzer was not doing chemo anymore.”
Ned shifted in his sleeping bag, so he was on his side, facing Todd. “So, that means she’s better, right?”
“Does she look better to you?” Ned could see the whites of Todd’s eyes, looking at him.
“No,” said Ned, flipping onto his back. “But she was wide-awake tonight. Full of energy.”
“That’s good.” Todd rolled over, away from his brother. “Let’s go to sleep now.”
But Todd stayed awake, thinking about his grandmother. She had taught him to play Go Fish and checkers and Monopoly. She had been the first to see him ride a two-wheeler. And she had told scary, fabulous, ridiculous stories at their dinner table—still did.
“Todd?”
“Yeah?”
“She’ll be okay.”
“Good night, Ned,” said Todd, closing his eyes.
The picture of his grandmother at their dining room table faded from his mind. Soon, nothing was left but a tiny circle of light surrounded by darkness. His grandmother’s face filled that circle, and Todd focused on it, willing it to grow, to push back the blackness. But it shrank, and seconds later she was gone.
Helen lay next to Charles on Thomas’s bed for a full five minutes after waking up, looking at the full moon through the window over her head, before getting out of bed. She looked back at Charles, who was sleeping soundly. She slipped her bathrobe over her T-shirt and headed for the open door. Charlotte and Pammy liked their bedroom doors closed at night, but Helen usually had hers open, allowing the breeze to circulate around the room and into the hallway. She walked slowly and quietly down the hall to her mother’s room and gently opened the door. She went inside and shut the door behind her. “Mother?” she said to the small, lumpy figure on the bed. Claire, cast in the pale yellow glow from the streetlight on the corner, lay still and silent. “Mother?” Helen said again, moving closer to the bed so she could touch her.
“I’m awake,” Claire said suddenly. “Come sit with me.” Helen sat down on the bed that her grandmother had slept in as a child. It groaned under her weight. “What are you doing up?” Claire rolled over to face her daughter.
“I heard you and Ned talking on the landing.”
“I’m sorry we woke you.”
“Don’t be,” said Helen, now looking at her mother’s face. “You took the time to sit and talk to him, which means more to him than you may realize.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Claire. “We devoured half of Daniel’s chocolates.”
“Good for you.”
“Your Ned is becoming quite a tennis player, I think,” said Claire.
“They both are.”
“You’ve taught them well.”
“Too well,” said Helen, smiling. “They want to beat Charles and me next. I think they just might.”
“You’ve taught them many good things, Helen. They’re wonderful children.”
“Most of the time.”
“All of the time,” said Claire. “And you’ve taken good care of me.”
“It’s my pleasure to be with you, Mom.”
“Some of the time.”
“All of the time,” said Helen, putting her hand on her mother’s shoulder.
They were silent again, until Claire swallowed. “I’ve left this house to you,” she said.
“I know,” said Helen. “But after this weekend, we’re changing your will, right?”
“Part of the will, yes,” said Claire. “The money will be evened out. But the house belongs to you. You’re the one who cares about this old place.”
“Mother,” said Helen, squeezing her mother’s hand, “we don’t need to talk about this.”
“Yes, we do.” Claire was insistent.
“I thought we had an agreement. That if Thomas and Charlotte and Pammy came this weekend that you would leave the house to all of us.”
“And we did have an agreement. But I’ve changed my mind.”
“After they all showed up?”
“So I should recognize and reward their greed?” Helen sighed. “And besides, that’s not why they showed up anyway, Helen. They came because they know I’m dying. And no matter what I’ve done to hurt them over the years, I’ve managed to teach them the importance of saying good-bye. They didn’t have that—none of us did—with your father. And I don’t think they wanted to miss their chance with me. Plus, you told them, Helen. You told them my time was
short.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why they’re here. They’re here to see me and to see one another. They’re here to be with you. They’re not here for the house, Helen.”
“They’ll be hurt, Mom.”
Claire shook her head from side to side. “I don’t think so. They know what you’ve done for me—the past year especially—so they should understand. They have been absent from my life, Helen, and you have been present.”
“It’s easy when you live in the same town.”
Claire held up her hand. “Don’t start in with that. Caring for me has been anything but easy. And you have done so with nary a complaint. You deserve this house, Helen, and that’s the way it’s going to be. Your siblings will come to understand my decision, if they don’t right away. In the end, you and your family use this house, and they don’t. I’m sure if they want to, you’ll let them. Nothing will really change. You’ll just have to pay the taxes.” Helen smiled at her mother. “Don’t fret about this, Helen. I think I’ve made the right decision. I think your father would have agreed with me. And besides, it’s all taken care of.”
“You take care of things well,” said Helen. “You’ve always taken good care of me.”
“You were always easy to take care of,” said Claire, as close to tears as Helen had seen her in weeks. “You were always a source of great strength to me. You still are. And this house should be with you. You are the center of this family. You’re the reason Thomas, Pammy, and Charlotte are even here.”
“They’re here for you, Mother,” said Helen softly.
“At your request, Helen. Hold them together. Use this cottage as a gathering place and bring them to you and keep them with you. Family is everything. And I know you know that, but I just wanted to have a chance to tell you again before I go.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Helen swallowed hard.
“We’re all going,” said Claire, “some of us a little faster than others. I’m not afraid. I’m ready, actually. I miss your father so.”
“I miss him, too.”
“Well, then I’ll tell him you say hello.”
Helen smiled. “You do that, Mother.”
“Good night, Helen,” said Claire. “Sleep tight now.”
“You too,” said Helen, standing. “I love you.”
“Yes, as I do you.”
Helen walked out of her mother’s room and back into hers. She got into bed and lay close to Charles. Putting her head against his chest, Helen heard his heart beating. Listening to him breathe, she eventually fell asleep.
CHAPTER 32
1973
Claire Gaines pulled off her tan linen shorts and red T-shirt and kicked off her Birkenstock sandals and then slipped on her white tennis skirt and white Lacoste shirt. She checked her watch. It was ten minutes shy of five o’clock. Grabbing her sneakers and white socks, she ran down the stairs and out the kitchen door and onto the lawn. There she found Thomas, Charlotte, and Pammy, the very three people she was to play tennis with, in now fewer than ten minutes, sitting on the picnic table in their wet bathing suits. “Who are you playing with, Mom?” Thomas asked when she sat down with them.
“You,” said Claire, pointing her index finger at Thomas, “and you and you.” She pointed her finger at Charlotte and then at Pammy. Thomas’s response was to stare at his mother, while Charlotte and Pammy exchanged confused glances. “I told you this morning.” Claire sat on the picnic table bench and pulled on her socks. “We have the court from five to six thirty, and it’s almost five now.”
Pammy and Thomas made unpleasant-looking faces, but hopped off the table and went into the house to change. Charlotte didn’t budge. “I’m not playing,” she said.
“Oh yes, you are.” Claire slid her socked feet into her Tretorn sneakers.
“I hate tennis.”
“I’ll see you on the court in five minutes or you’ll be grounded for the rest of the week.” Claire stood.
“You’re so unfair,” Charlotte protested, standing.
“Life isn’t fair, Charlotte. The sooner you learn that the better.”
Charlotte hesitated for a moment, studying the chipped pink polish on her fingernails. She looked back at her mother. “Where’s Helen?”
“She’s at Susan’s house.” Claire tied her laces into double knots.
“Why can she be at a friend’s house and I have to play tennis?” Charlotte was stalling now. Claire didn’t have, never had, patience with those who stopped progress. Everyone in Claire’s world was expected to suck up whatever was bothering them and move forward.
“Get changed, Charlotte. I’ll see you on the court in five minutes.”
Charlotte walked into the house and up the stairs to her room, her new room. She had talked her parents into letting her paint and decorate the bedroom she had inhabited since early childhood, with its inherited furnishings, sun-streaked curtains, and dusty wool rug. She was tired of living like an eighty-year-old woman, she told Claire and John. She needed to make the space her own. She showed them the shade of lavender she had chosen at the paint store to coat the dark pine-paneled walls and the fabric she would sew into curtains to hang at the windows. After hearing her pitch, Claire and John told her it was okay with them as long as she finished once she started. If chores were an indication of Charlotte’s ability to follow-through, they suspected she would paint half the room and then quit, called away by her latest boyfriend for a boat ride or to a party. To Charlotte’s credit, she had finished the painting in two days, and had done an admirable job. Claire was pleased to see some domesticity in her oldest daughter. While Claire was much more concerned with her children’s sense of independence and competence, she was smart enough to know that most women, at some point in their lives, would have to cook for themselves, cook for a family. Claire considered proficiency in the kitchen a plus rather than a minus, a strength instead of a weakness. Other women complained about being chained to their stoves, but Claire viewed cooking as a competition, another skill she could master and control.
The finishing touch on Charlotte’s room was a hand-painted sign that read KNOCK BEFORE YOU ENTER. Thomas blew right past the sign and into her room, mostly to tell her that it looked pretty good. But before he could compliment her, she screamed at him to get out. And then she forbade him to ever again set foot over the threshold without permission. Oh heartbreak, Thomas had said from the hallway where he had retreated. Now I’ll have to go to the store to get condoms. Charlotte called him immature and insensitive. Thomas had said he was plenty sensitive. For example, he had said, I already know you’re almost out of tampons and will have to dash to the store soon, as you must be expecting your period any moment. With that comment, Charlotte slammed the door.
Her wet bathing suit on the floor, Charlotte sat naked on her vanity stool. She peered into the mirror, looking for the courage to tell her mother to stuff it. “Fuck off, Mother,” Charlotte said. “I’ve never liked tennis, and I never will. You can take your dreams of my winning the club championships and flush them down the toilet.” Charlotte checked her watch. She had two minutes to get to the tennis court. She pulled on underwear, shorts, and a pink tank top, knowing that her mother would be furious at her for 1) not wearing a bra, and 2) disregarding the white-clothing-only rule imposed by the association that maintained the two clay courts available to beach residents for an annual fee. She grabbed her sneakers and ran out of the house.
“Here she comes,” Thomas announced when he saw his sister rounding the corner onto Seaside Avenue, the street that connected the tennis courts and modest clubhouse to the beach and the Sound. He was surprised by the fact that she was jogging.
As soon as Charlotte was in Claire’s line of vision, she slowed her pace to a walk. She sat down on the grass next to the tennis court and tied her sneakers, and then pulled her hair back in a ponytail and secured it with a plastic barrette. “I’m playing under protest,” she said, standing.
“Y
ou live life under protest,” said Thomas, sending a forehand flying over the net toward his mother.
“Thank you for coming, Charlotte,” said Claire.
“As if I had any choice.”
“You want forehand or backhand?” asked Thomas.
“Forehand.”
Thomas hit another ball over the next, this time to Pammy, who missed it. “Bad choice. You’ve got backhand.”
“What a gentleman,” said Charlotte, walking past Thomas to her relegated position on the court.
“Everybody ready?” asked Claire.
“Are you kidding me, Mother? I just got here,” said Charlotte. “How could I possibly be ready?”
“You missed warm-up,” said Claire.
“For God’s sake,” said Charlotte. “Somebody hit me one ball.”
Pammy hit a ball crosscourt to Charlotte. She swung tenaciously, sending it flying into the air and back over the net, where it landed way out of bounds.
“Looks like you’re extra warmed up,” said Thomas, smiling.
“Looks like you’re still an asshole,” Charlotte whispered to him.
“What was that?” Claire shouted from the other side of the net.
“Strategy,” said Charlotte.
“M or W,” Claire called, spinning her Wilson tennis racket in the air.
“S!” Charlotte shouted impetuously.
Claire stopped the spinning racket in her hand and looked at Thomas. “Just ignore her, Mom,” Thomas said.
“M or W?”
“M,” Thomas said.
“It’s W,” said Claire. “We’ll serve.”
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