And Sarah had loved the books, the figurines, the lawn art, and especially Patrice.
“Your mom is great,” she’d said to Corrie. “She’s so much fun. I wish my family was more like yours.”
Corrie didn’t tell Sarah about the times she had to drag Patrice up the stairs to bed after she’d passed out on the couch. Or the times Patrice spent the grocery money on gin and rum and bourbon. Or the time she had to take a bus to the county lock-up to bail her mother out of jail after she’d been picked up for driving drunk.
For a long time, Corrie never told anyone about her family. She worked hard to rein in her mother’s drinking and to shield Maya and Caerl from Patrice’s thoughtlessness. In all the years she and Sarah had been friends, it was only after Corrie and Mark had married—after Patrice disrupted the wedding reception, falling drunk into a fountain, exposing her panties and laughing hysterically—that Corrie finally confided in her childhood friend. Mark knew, of course, and Bryn. And Daniel knew.
Two weeks after she first met Daniel in the college cafeteria, Corrie sat in the waiting room of the neighborhood food pantry, voucher in hand. It was a trip she’d made countless times through the years, but one she still hated. As a child, she had trailed along after her mother, studiously avoiding eye contact with the other people there. Once Corrie turned sixteen and got her driver’s license, Patrice had simply stopped going, relying on Corrie to keep the pantry filled.
“Coriander Matthews?”
She rose from the bench, looked up, and saw Daniel standing before her.
“Oh, hey,” he said when he recognized her. “Are you here to volunteer? You need to check in at the office upstairs.”
“Uh, no. That is, I . . .” Her voice trailed away. Her cheeks burned.
“Oh,” he said, his voice gentle. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”
“It’s okay,” she said, not looking at him. “My mom needs some things.”
“Sure,” he said. “That’s okay.” He waited, but she didn’t reply. “So, do you have your voucher?”
She wanted to turn and run. Instead, she handed him the slip of yellow paper, her family’s key to meals for the next two weeks.
Daniel read the slip and made a note in the file he carried. “Looks good,” he said.
She nodded and reached for a bag.
“It really is okay, you know.” His voice was soft.
She forced a small smile. “Can you please not mention this to anyone at school?”
“Sure,” he said. “No problem.”
He followed her as she walked the familiar aisles, choosing canned vegetables and beans, spaghetti and sauce, macaroni and cheese, tuna, and soups, the foods of her childhood.
“We have fresh bread today,” Daniel said, pointing her toward a table.
Corrie nodded and added a loaf to her basket.
“And . . . uh, do you need any . . . personal items?”
Oh, God, why are you here? She fervently wished one of the regular volunteers had pulled her name, even the nasty old lady with the limp, anyone but this boy she couldn’t look in the eye.
“My sister is twelve,” she whispered.
He pointed her toward the table with tampons, then waited for her by the back door.
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
“No problem.”
She stepped past him into the brilliant sunshine of a September day, felt him watch her as she walked, spine straight, to her mother’s ten-year-old Buick. She put her bags on the floor of the car and drove away, never looking back.
Two days later, he knocked on her door in the dorm. “Hey,” he said, smiling at her. “Do you want to get a Coke?”
Bryn’s eyebrows rose as she grinned at Corrie.
“Oh,” Corrie stammered. “I can’t, really. I’ve got so much homework.” She waved her hand at the stack of papers on her desk.
“I thought you were finished,” Bryn said.
Corrie shot her a dark look.
“Just a Coke,” Daniel said. “Half an hour.”
Corrie sighed. “Oh, all right.”
She followed him to the coffee shop, wishing she could simply sink into the earth.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry if I embarrassed you the other day. There’s no shame in needing help sometimes. Lots of people are having a hard time these days. You know that, right?” Daniel smiled at her.
They sat on the grass with their drinks.
Corrie sighed. “It’s just embarrassing,” she said. “My dad died when I was twelve and since then my mom . . . well, she doesn’t cope very well.”
“Does she work?”
She sighed again. “She paints,” she said. “And sometimes someone feels sorry for her and buys one of her paintings. But other than that, no, she doesn’t work. Mostly she drinks.”
She sat a moment in mortified silence. She had never told anyone about her mother’s drinking. Her high school counselor had known, and a few of the neighbors. But she had always tried so hard to pretend that her mother was just like anyone else’s, a normal mom.
“I shouldn’t have said that. Can you please forget I said that?”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Daniel said. He touched her arm softly. “Alcoholism is a disease, you know. It’s not a sin.”
“I guess.”
They sat in silence for a minute.
“So, what about your family?” Corrie asked, mostly to fill the silence.
“It’s just my mom and me,” Daniel said. “My dad bailed before I was born.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He shrugged. “My mom’s a lawyer, a public defender in Atlanta.”
“Wow, that’s pretty cool.”
He shrugged again. “Yeah, she’s great.”
“So how did a guy from Atlanta end up in Middlebrook, Indiana?”
“Scholarship.” He laughed. “How about you? Why did you stay so close to home?”
“My dad taught here before he died. So I’m tuition-free.”
“Cool,” he said. “What did he teach?”
“History. He loved history, especially East Asian history. He was fascinated by China. He always wanted to go there.”
“Maybe someday you’ll go for him.”
“I doubt it,” she said, smiling. “I’ve never been out of the States. I’ve never even been on a plane.”
“Seriously? You’ve never been on a plane?”
“Seriously,” she said. “It’s way too expensive.”
“Well, someday you will definitely fly.”
“Oh, and you’re sure about that?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I have a feeling you’re going to go lots of places.”
She laughed and took a sip of her soda.
“Well, right now, I’m going back to my room. I really do have a lot of homework.”
“Okay,” he said, standing and offering his hand to help her up.
They walked back to the dorm in silence. At the door he leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Do you want to go to a movie on Friday?”
“Sure.”
“Cool. I’ll come by at six and we can get dinner first.”
And just like that, they were dating. Bryn had teased her endlessly about how quickly she had “taken herself off the market.” But Corrie was happy to be with Daniel. He knew about her mother, about her past, and it didn’t seem to matter to him. He accepted her just as she was. She, in turn, admired his drive to help others, his idealism, and his seemingly endless energy.
“What are you doing out here?”
Corrie spun around, finally spilling tea on her robe, to see Mark in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other. He had forgotten his slippers. She smiled.
“I was just coming in,” she lied. “I thought I’d have a cup of chamomile.” She walked inside and closed the door behind her. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Mark slipped his arms around her waist and rubbed his lips against the aub
urn hair that hung, straight and shining, halfway down her back. “You should’ve gotten me up,” he whispered.
Corrie pulled away from him slightly. “I didn’t want to wake you. You know the kids will be up early tomorrow, and I didn’t want both of us to be tired and cranky.”
She dropped her robe onto a chair and slipped into bed. “I’m really tired now. The tea did it. I think I’ll be able to sleep.”
She turned her back to him and pulled the covers up to her chin. She felt him lie down next to her, hesitate, then sigh and roll over. After a few minutes, he was snoring softly.
Corrie rolled toward him, propped on her elbow, and watched her husband sleep, moonlight from the window casting shadows on his face. He looked so young when he slept. His cheeks were slightly burned from an afternoon in the sun. He really was so handsome. Why would she waste her time thinking about Daniel? She shook her head and leaned back into her pillow. Daniel and she had been over ten years ago. He had moved on, and so had she. So why was she lying here beside her perfect husband, wondering if her ex had gone to the reunion?
Mark sighed and rolled onto his side. She pulled the blanket over his shoulders and kissed his cheek softly. Probably she should have responded to his kiss before. She hated to disappoint him. But it was too early in the cycle for her to be ovulating. And somehow it seemed wasteful to have sex when there was no chance of getting pregnant, as if it might hurt their chances later in the month. Why couldn’t she just get pregnant like everyone else?
She’d watched Mark earlier with his sister, offering his hand to help her out of a chair, carrying Laurel to the bedroom so Sarah didn’t have to lift her. On the patio, Corrie saw him rest his hand on Sarah’s stomach and grin widely when he felt the baby kick. The man was made to be a father. Only Corrie couldn’t make him one.
She chewed her lip, thinking of all the attractive young women at Mark’s office—the pretty receptionist, the striking redhead in accounting, the busty blond who’d just made partner. Any one of them could probably give Mark a child, and probably would if she had the chance. She’d seen women watch her husband; she knew how attractive he was.
What if someday he got tired of the endless disappointment? What if he decided that she was damaged goods, that he could have a child with any number of other women? What if, finally, he left?
She thought of all the nights Mark came home late from work, all the trips he took to New York, Chicago, and Miami. Had he traveled this much when they first got married? Didn’t he used to come home for dinner every night? Was he pulling away from her, just like she always somehow knew he would?
Dear God, she prayed silently. Thank you for my husband and my family and my friends. Thank you for my life. Please help me to be a better wife, a better daughter, a better sister and friend. Please help me to accept your will for me. Amen.
The sun was rising when Corrie finally fell into an uneasy sleep.
4
Corrie watched the scenery flash by and held tightly to the door handle. Mark always drove too fast on these hilly, narrow roads, sometimes pulling into the oncoming traffic lane to swerve around someone going slow. Now and then she caught a glimpse of the lake through the trees. Soon they would be on the highway and she would relax.
“Mom really liked the bowl.” Mark’s voice broke her reverie.
She turned to him and smiled.
“I think your dad even liked it,” she answered.
“Of course he did. What’s not to like?” Mark leaned over and squeezed her shoulder. “You have great taste, Cor. Dad likes everything you’ve ever gotten them.”
Corrie watched her husband’s profile in silence. He was so handsome. Tall and broad-shouldered like his father, with the same easy, commanding air. His light brown hair turned golden in the summer, in sharp contrast to his dark brown eyes. The combination was arresting, and he never failed to turn women’s heads when he walked down the street. Corrie thought again about the redhead in accounting.
“What are you looking at?” he asked, catching her stare. “Am I wearing my breakfast?”
“Just admiring the view.” She laughed, looking away.
Sometimes it still surprised her that she was married to Mark, that she had the life she’d always wanted as a child—a dream life, her mother called it. A beautiful, big house on the right side of town, money to buy nice things, the respectability she’d so longed for, everything neat and tidy. She sighed, wondering why she couldn’t just relax and enjoy it all, why she was always waiting for it to be snatched away.
Mark caressed her shoulder. “Thanks for coming this weekend, babe. I know it meant a lot to Mom and Dad. And to me, too.”
Corrie smiled and said nothing for a while. She thought of the reunion she had missed, wondering for the hundredth time if Daniel had been there. Would the attraction still have been strong between them? Would he still want her? Would she still care?
She felt her cheeks grow hot and turned away from Mark to look out the window again. Why should I care if he was there? What does it matter? She shook her head angrily. I’m a happily married woman. I have a great husband, a great life . . .
She looked again at Mark. He really was beautiful to watch, so boyish and charming.
“How ’bout we go away next weekend?” she asked suddenly. “Just the two of us, someplace romantic?” She held her breath and waited.
Mark looked at her in surprise and studied her face carefully for a moment. Then he smiled. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes, sure,” she said. “It’ll be fun. Can you get away from work?”
“For a weekend with my wife? I think I can arrange that,” he said with a laugh. “Where do you want to go?”
“How about Chicago?” she suggested. “We could take the train up on Friday and stay downtown, maybe see a show.”
“Wherever you want,” Mark answered. He was pleased; she could tell. He reached over, gathered the hair at the back of her neck, and twisted it around his hand. “I’ll make the reservations.” He paused, looking at her closely again. “What brought this on?”
“Nothing,” she replied, laughing self-consciously. “Can’t a girl go away with her handsome husband for a romantic weekend?”
They drove in silence for a while, each wrapped in private thoughts.
They hadn’t been away together for over a year, hadn’t been silly or romantic or spontaneous. Making a baby had turned into a deadly serious business. When Corrie started hormone treatments, sex became a scheduled activity, ruled by the calendar and her temperature.
It wasn’t Mark’s fault, she knew. It was hers and hers alone. Every time they made love, she tensed up, wondering if this would finally be the time they conceived, knowing somehow that it wasn’t. And always afterward, she cried. No wonder he hardly even approached her anymore.
Corrie watched her husband driving, his hair glinting gold in the sun.
God, he’s so handsome, she thought. We would have made such beautiful babies.
She felt a catch in her throat as she said, “Why don’t we stop for coffee at the next exit?”
5
“All work and no play . . .”
Corrie looked up from her computer to see Bryn, blindingly bright in a neon-pink tank top and lime-green miniskirt. She was wearing long, silver earrings that sparkled beneath her severely short black hair, and clunky brown Birkenstocks that seemed singularly inappropriate. She pushed her trademark dark sunglasses up over her forehead and stared down at Corrie, her dark eyes bloodshot. “Did you forget lunch?”
“Oh, God, Bryn. I’m sorry.” Corrie began sliding photos into a folder and stacking pages. “We’re putting the fall issue to bed and I just forgot. Things have been like hell in here today.” She hung the folder in the photo file and stood, smoothing her gray linen skirt. “I’m ready.
“I’m going to lunch, Kenetha,” she called to her assistant on her way out. “I’ll be back in an hour. If Gordon calls, do not let him off the phone withou
t getting a firm deadline.”
“You’re such a good worker bee,” Bryn said with a laugh, dropping the sunglasses back over her eyes. “What would happen if you took an hour and five minutes? Maybe the magazine would fold.”
“Shut up.” Corrie elbowed her friend. “Just because you live in Neverland doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t work for a living.”
“I beg your pardon,” Bryn objected, raising the glasses slightly off her nose to stare at Corrie accusingly. “I do work. I just don’t work on a stultifying, bourgeois, nine-to-five schedule. You, my friend, are simply jealous.” Again the glasses dropped.
“You’re right.” Corrie laughed. “Today, I am.”
They left the white limestone building that housed Middlebrook University’s alumni magazine, walked across the wooded campus, and turned left onto Kendle Street, the hub of Middlebrook’s eateries. It was a bright September day, hot and humid. Occasionally, a man turned to watch the two young women walk past. They made an attractive pair, a study in contrasts.
Corrie wore a fitted suit with gray high heels, her auburn hair coiled around her head in a French braid. She looked every inch a young professional. Bryn, on the other hand, was a bona fide bohemian. She even looked like a gypsy, with her jet-black hair and huge dark eyes. Corrie often wondered if Bryn and she had been switched at birth, if perhaps Bryn was Patrice’s real daughter and she, Corrie, somehow belonged to Bryn’s fashionable, imminently respectable mother.
Bryn had done what she set out to do all those years ago, although not as profitably as she might have hoped. She was a freelance graphic designer, waiting tables when money got tight. She was not married but had an on-again, off-again relationship with an adjunct professor at the university. They had met, in fact, when Bryn was a student in his junior economics class, which had caused a minor scandal in the dorm. After graduation, Bryn had settled in Middlebrook to be near Paul, and for ten years they had been arguing and making up. Currently, they were sharing Paul’s apartment. But they had tried that before, and it never seemed to work out.
The Weight of Small Things Page 3
