I glance at Cassie, who has already turned back to her iPhone.
“Are you far away?” Lola asks.
She needs me. And right now, even though I know it’s selfish, I need Lola to need me. To make me feel like I have a purpose. Like there is some tangible thing that I can do for someone and that what I do means something.
◆ ◆ ◆
At Mom’s house, I find it difficult to get out of the car. For a moment, Cassie doesn’t notice that we have stopped, and it buys me some time. I can’t help but see Mom’s yard like one of Lola’s paintings. Late April, grass painted Day-Glo green. Pink and white lopsided tulips, long buried in wait, have pried their blooms through the ground, and daffodils reach their golden buckets toward the sky. There are no leaves on the trees yet, except for the pink cherry blossoms and slightly off-white dogwoods—their short-lived color too anxious to wait for the rest of nature to catch up.
In this fictional painting, Lola will have captured the very precise spacing of the flowers edging the walk to the front door. Mom has a knack for that sort of control over things that spring from the ground. I envy that level of mastery over the world around her. Truth be told, it’s all a cover-up. Pretty though, all the pink and white. I hope that Mom finds enjoyment in it. I hope it isn’t all whitewash over an old fence.
But that’s what we do. We make things into what we want them to be. We spin the world around us to match the thoughts in our head. If this was one of Lola’s paintings, the neighbor’s house in the background would be on fire and Chris would be standing in the yard aiming a water hose made of Christmas garland at the roof. There would be little girl sitting in the front yard, eating a pink tulip, and everyone who looked at the painting would think it was the story of their own life.
Inside, Mom and Lola are in the kitchen prepping Lola for the day. They don’t notice us come in.
“Ok,” Mom says and holds up an index card with a photo and a name on it. “Aunt Rose will be the one in the blue, polyester suit. It’s her funeral suit. She wears it every time. Do you remember that?”
“No,” Lola says. “But I do remember Aunt Rose. I’m not that messed up.”
Cassie looks at me sharply, anxiously. I put my hand on her shoulder, whisper that it’s ok. These games worry Cassie. I nod toward the other room, giving her leeway to leave. I feel guilty for enjoying the small moment of being needed, being her safety net.
“Now that’s a shame,” I say once Cassie is in the other room. “All those holes and Aunt Rose couldn’t have dropped into one?”
Lola and Mom both turn toward me.
“You hush,” Mom says, but there’s a hint of a smile on her face. “We have company in the living room, so be nice. Where’s Cassie?”
“She’s already come and gone, Mother,” Lola says. “She hates your card game.”
Lola had noticed us after all.
“Don’t you think you should warn Chris about Aunt Rose?” I say, opening a cabinet, searching for a coffee mug. “It’s only fair. Without Jack to pester, Chris is a prime target.”
“Oh,” Lola says and groans. “Rose will have a field day with Chris. Do you think she’s seen the commercials?”
Everyone has seen them.
“Nina,” Mom shouts at me so suddenly that I jump, banging the coffee mug hard against the counter. “Why did you tell her?”
“I didn’t tell her anything,” I say, pulling out the coffee carafe to discover only the dregs.
“Both of you hush,” Lola says, pressing her hands down against thin air in that keep it down motion that looks like a baby bird learning to fly. “He’ll hear you.”
“He doesn’t know that you know?” Mom asks.
I put the coffee carafe and the now-chipped mug into the sink.
“This is crazy,” I say and take the stack of cards out of Mom’s hand.
This is Mom’s family-gathering preparatory package. It’s index cards of family photos of infrequently seen people mixed in with those more frequently seen, but annoying, and then peppered with people encountering some drama that Mom feels Lola should know about. I told Mom she should market it as a family game of some sort. She said that was rude. I thought it was an interesting way for people to keep up with family gossip and the like.
“Do you want to do this?” I ask Lola, holding out the note cards. “Or do you just want to wing it?”
Lola “wings” a lot of things.
“Maybe I’ll just get plastered,” Lola says. “I’ll use being drunk as an excuse for any slipups.”
Mom glances at me, and I look away. The drinking was before the accident. We’re not sure how much Lola remembers prior to it. Mom’s “problem” seems to have fallen into one of Lola’s holes. Her memory is selective. It’s not like she forgets how to walk or use a fork—although during the early years of her recovery both of those things happened—she just misplaces information. It’s all in there; the recall function just doesn’t work like it should. So she has to use visual aids sometimes. Hence her house being polka-dotted with Post-it Notes.
What day the trash is picked up.
Her neighbor’s first name.
When the rent is due.
Which gallery is showing her art.
Lola is an amazing artist. That came after the accident too, although the talent for it was surely already there. It’s just that since her brain wasn’t working like it should, Mom and Dad didn’t press the issue of good grades. They were just happy she remembered everyone when she came down to the breakfast table. She was allowed the freedom to be creative. She was good at it, and her success made us all feel better.
Sometimes, I think her brain works just like it was meant to and perhaps the accident was a way for us to let her be who she was meant to be.
After the accident, it seemed as though Lola would never come home from the hospital, that she would live forever at the rehabilitation hospital. I had a room to myself—something I had wanted, but once I got it, it was like living with a ghost. When Lola got out of the hospital, Dad threw a party for her. Dad and I decorated at home while Mom signed the papers at the hospital and put Lola in the car to bring her to us. Our older brother, Ray, stayed in his room.
It was a coming-out party for Mom as well. While Lola had been recovering, Mom had too. She’d started attending AA meetings and stopped drinking. This party was supposed to be a celebration of our new, reinvented life.
Dad hummed and joked and tousled my hair. Every so often he would call out for Ray to come downstairs, but Ray didn’t. While Mom set up cake and brought out presents, Dad went up the stairs. I followed him and hid around the corner. Dad knocked on Ray’s door.
“You sister is home,” he said to the closed door, even though Ray had not answered. “She’s asking for you.”
Ray must have been standing just on the other side of the threshold because the door creaked open almost immediately.
“What about Mom?” Ray asked, avoiding eye contact the way a teenager will do even when they don’t need to.
“Your mother is back too,” Dad said and sighed. “This is a chance for us all to make a new start. Let’s try, please. Even if we don’t feel up to it.”
Ray slithered out of the small space he afforded between our world and his. He had a present in his hand. Although it was wrapped in Christmas paper, Dad nodded his approval and clapped his hand on Ray’s shoulder. Ray jerked away. Dad sighed again and let Ray walk down the steps alone.
“It’s a start,” Dad said to no one in particular. Then he looked back down the hall. “Let’s go, Nina.”
I snuck out of hiding, thinking I was in trouble for eavesdropping. Instead, Dad took my hand and walked downstairs with me. In the living room, Lola was propped up on the couch, looking like any little girl sitting on a couch, except for the metal braces attached like bear traps on her ankles.
Ray watched as she opened his gift. No one said anything.
It was an elaborate paint set. Real paint. Not kid paint. Real brushes and mixers and things that I didn’t recognize. It was expensive, and it explained all the lawn mowing he had done around town.
“It will give you something to do,” Ray said, speaking quickly the way a person does when they feel they’re talking out of turn.
“I’ll paint a picture for you,” Lola said.
She was ten. In the hospital, she had to be told who each of us were. But she seemed to recognize Ray. She looked at him like she had known him in a far-off dream. Later, she wouldn’t stop painting pictures of him. It was like she knew him from before. Like she was trying not to forget. Like, even then, she was trying to make him remember who he was and show him who he didn’t have to be.
◆ ◆ ◆
“I don’t think winging it is a good idea,” Mom says and holds out her hand for the cards.
“I’ll look at the cards,” Lola says and takes them from me. “Thank you, Mom.”
“I’m just trying to help,” Mom says, fidgeting.
“I know.” Lola puts her hand over Mom’s. “This isn’t the time for you to worry over me, though. We should be fussing over you.”
“It gives me something to do.” Mom pulls her hand out from under Lola’s only to put it on top like that old childhood game. “It’s always time for a mother to fuss over her daughter. You can’t take that job away. I won’t let you.”
Mom says it with a smile, like she’s making a joke, but I know she means it. I know she’s holding on tight. I am too.
Lola puts the cards on the countertop and walks out of the room. I watch Mom flitter around the kitchen, and I know she has slipped again and had couple of cocktails but followed them up with a pot of black coffee this morning—which is why I found nothing but the dregs. I guess if slips are going to happen, today would be the day. Still, it frightens me. Has enough time passed that she is really able to handle it—or are we on the doorstep of what used to be? I used to think that her drinking was a weakness, and I was ashamed for her. But now I’m more ashamed for myself. I was a child and I saw the world like a child sees it—full of rainbows and unicorns. I realize now that fairy tales are for those with weak stomachs.
I can’t bear the kitchen anymore so I wander through the house, looking for Cassie. I find her watching television in the living room with Chris.
“Aren’t you afraid your ad is going to come on?” she says and bites her lip—ribbing him.
He tosses a pillow at her and holds up the remote. “I’m at the ready,” he says.
It’s a playful moment that makes me both insanely jealous and sad.
“Have you seen your aunt?” I ask Cassie, wishing I had some funny something to say to wedge into the conversation—to belong.
Cassie nods her head toward the hallway, not looking at me directly.
“Be kind to your mother, kiddo,” I hear Chris say to her as I walk away. “It’s a rough day. It’s not easy to say good-bye to your dad.”
“I know,” Cassie says quietly.
I feel my gut wrench. I know she’s talking about Jack, and it makes me suddenly nauseated. I should go back and say something, but I can’t image what that something is, so I keep walking away.
I find Lola in the sunroom. She is always looking for light. She sees my distress all over my face and hugs me.
“Thanks,” I say. “I don’t think I’m up for this today.”
“No one ever is,” she says. “How about we make a signal like on TV. If people are bugging you about Jack and all things relevant to that, you pull on your ear and I’ll come to your rescue.”
“Can the signal be that I punch someone in the face and you come to my rescue?”
“Absolutely,” she says and then punches me lightly on the arm. “You should have told me about Chris.”
I try to suppress a smile but fail.
“You just seemed to like him so much.” I try to coax her hands off her hips. “It seemed cruel to burst your bubble.”
“There you two are,” Mom says as she comes into the room. “What’s wrong with Chris?”
Lola and I both start to sing. “Your house is trashed, you’ve got a rash, your car is broke . . .”
“I love those commercials,” Mom says, looking above our heads in a dreamy way. “The one where he’s trying to pedal that car with his feet like the Flintstones cracks me up every time.”
Mom laughs to herself and leaves the room.
Lola wrinkles her nose, her delicate features accentuated today by dark circles under her winter-sky, blue eyes. Her face looks like an approaching storm—snow and hail and hardship. She’s beautiful nonetheless.
“Come upstairs with me,” she says. “I have to show you something.”
Upstairs in our old room, she reaches under her bed and pulls out an old record album.
“Look,” she says and holds it up. “Here it is!”
I know she’s thinking what I’m thinking—that he had it under the bed, ready to sneak it out and scare us with his favorite game even all these years later.
I still don’t know who the band is, but I hold the record cover in front of me and make ridiculous growls and noises that are not at all scary. Lola laughs, which is what I was hoping for.
Mom yells up at us from the bottom of the stairs. “You girls get ready to go.”
I suddenly feel like I’m ten years old and it’s time to go to school and Lola bursts into the tears I want so badly to shed.
At the bottom of the stairs, Mom takes Lola from me. She puts her hands on Lola’s cheeks and kisses her nose.
“I know that doesn’t make it all better anymore,” Mom says.
Watching them, I feel the bitter absence of Dad’s embrace and my new inability to connect with a daughter I have known all her life.
After Lola’s accident, more than twenty years ago now, Dad was the only reminder of the way things had been. Even though it hadn’t always been good, at least it had been real. Mom had flipped a switch after the accident. First, she went crashing downhill, drinking more than ever, making us fear that the family was being picked off one at a time by some demon of tragedy.
Then Lola woke up, and Mom started over. She seized the opportunity to begin again. Lola didn’t seem to remember anything or anyone and life was a blank slate. To Mom, it was like moving to a new town and creating a whole new sense of self. To us, it was like being put in the witness protection program—unable to tell anyone anything about life as we used to know it.
Chris comes to take his place beside Lola, and Mom beams at him. I fear she’s going to ask for an autograph or, worse, for him to act out one of her favorite scenes. Do the one where you have on the Superman costume and pretend to fly around the city.
Lola moves away from Mom and wraps herself around Chris. He covers her over with his cape and flies them out to car.
Mom touches my shoulder and follows them outside.
“Cass,” I call into the living room. “It’s time to go, honey.”
I listen for the sound of her getting up out of the chair, but there is nothing.
“Cass?”
Silence.
I step into the living room, expecting to find her ears plugged with music and her eyes stuck to the iPhone screen. Instead, she’s standing by the window looking into the backyard. I walk over to her, knowing I will get this wrong no matter what I say. Wishing it could be the one time I had my superhero cape on as well.
“We need t
o go,” I say, wanting to touch her, but fearing that little pull away that she does.
“Is Dad coming?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe. Do you want him to?”
She shrugs.
“Are you going to be ok?” She looks at me so directly that my throat burns.
“Yes,” I say, my voice cracking across the huge, one syllable word. “Are you?”
She shrugs again, and my heart breaks. Tears glaze over her eyes, and her lip trembles. There are too many layers of fear and sadness in her face. I know she can’t bear for me to hug her just now, so I smooth my hands down her hair, holding the ends of it between my fingers like the finest fabric.
She lowers her head and walks toward the front door.
Out in the driveway, we all stand around the Buick, trying to come up with an excuse not to get in. Mom finds one.
“I forgot the photo boards,” she says, looking relieved. Whether it was relief at having not driven away without them or at having found a way to stall a moment more, I’m not sure.
“Let me help you,” Chris says and follows Mom back inside.
Cassie gets in the backseat and closes the door.
We had Dad cremated. So since there’s no body for people to gawk at, Mom made these collages of when our family was perfect for people to view. Photos of vacations, holidays, graduations. She’s left off my wedding that is now defunct and any picture of Lola wearing braces on her legs. The only pictures of Ray are those little school pictures where he could be some kid with a bright future and no police record.
“Do you feel like we’re in a movie?” Lola asks.
“Yeah,” I say and wrap my arms around myself. “Not a good one, but yeah.”
“What do you think happens next?” she asks.
A slight breeze lifts the bitter scent of daffodils to my nose. The air is both cool departing and warmth approaching, and the sunny yellow of the flowers are a jaunty juxtaposition to our stern black skirts and heels.
“We go the stereotypical funeral,” I say, and Lola clutches my hand. “Our childhood pastor will give the eulogy. Everyone will be in black, except for Sue, who still wants to show off her new breasts, so she’ll be in something low cut and loud. There will be some woman who no one really knows, but who seems terribly upset, and we’ll spend the rest of the afternoon trying to decide if she was Aunt Millie’s half-sister’s daughter or that lady from Dad’s work who came to your show that time and tried to make out with Jack.”
The Lemonade Year Page 4
