Holly and Becky met me at the airport. Becky reminds me a lot of Rose, or what I think she would have looked like at fifteen. Holly and Phil named her for the flower Rudbeckia, the brown-eyed Susan. Sure enough, she has brown eyes and beautiful blond hair. Her name is not officially Rudbeckia, though—they wouldn’t have done that to her. And Holly didn’t have as much investment in carrying on the family flower lineage as I did.
She’s tall and thin, still at that stage halfway between tomboy and princess. She’s the girl I always envied in school. The one with hair that falls in gentle waves over her shoulders. One minute she’s got it pulled back into a ponytail with a scrunchie. And the next it’s wrapped up in a tousle on top of her head. It’s like seeing an ever-changing hologram of her many sides.
Holly looks no different than ever. Seattle has always suited her well. She’s tan, even though she lives in a place notorious for clouds, and she walks the hills around her house four miles a day, so she’s always fit.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed her until I saw her and Becky waving when I got to the terminal.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” she said. “This may be the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done. We only talked a few days ago, and now you’re here in the flesh.”
That was when I started to cry. It caught me totally unaware, but I hugged her and didn’t want to let go.
“I’m so glad to see you,” I said. “I didn’t realize how much I missed you.”
I noticed that she and Becky were sparkling, just like the cavern of diamonds, just like the leaves on the trees. More and more, just like everything around me.
* * *
The drive to Holly’s house felt like an awakening. With all the greenery and flowers in full bloom, the world seemed to be living and breathing again. Such an extraordinary change from the dying at home.
Every breath was filled with life from the sea and the fertile ground, the scent of flowers and shrubs. I didn’t realize how parched I was.
Walking into Holly’s house always feels like coming home, even though it’s the exact opposite of Mama’s house. I suppose because it’s a reflection of Holly, because there’s so much of her and Phil and the kids in it.
Huge windows overlook Puget Sound, and everything is painted white. She has filled it with so much color and texture, though, that there’s nothing stark about it. The pine floors mellow more every time I see them, and the melon colors of the furniture and pillows and rugs and paintings give the place a perennial optimism. It’s the perfect antidote to Seattle’s gloomiest days, feeling as if you’re inside a carton of sherbet.
My favorites are the touches she brought back with her from Mama’s after the funeral. She wanted the glass chicken canisters—the ones with rooster heads on the lids. We packed those together, nesting them in Styrofoam peanuts and bubble wrap to make sure they arrived safely. They survived Holly and me growing up, and now her kids.
She’s also got four of Mama’s quilts, which are always on the beds. She wanted me to keep the Flower Garden quilt, the one that Mama started when she was a teenager and finished when she finally had time forty years later. But she has the Wedding Ring, the Flying Geese, and two Log Cabin quilts. And then there’s the cut-glass vase. She keeps it on the kitchen island filled with flowers. Today it held a bouquet of coneflowers that she bought in the Market.
Phil and the boys were out when we got to the house, and Becky had made plans with friends, so Holly and I had time to ourselves for a few hours.
“I thought we’d have sandwiches here for lunch and then go exploring,” Holly said. “There’s a new little boutique I want to take you to. And maybe we’ll go to the spa to get our nails done.”
“Sure,” I said, digging in a drawer for silverware while she got out the bread and tuna salad. “I’m up for anything.”
“You look great,” she said, glancing at me while she took plates down from the cupboard. “I mean, you always look good, but you have a glow about you now. And when did you get that mole removed?”
So here it was already. Decision time. Would I tell her or not? I helped her pour glasses of tea, trying to hide my awkwardness.
“I just thought it was time for it to go away,” I said. Not exactly a lie. Not exactly the truth.
“Well, life must be agreeing with you,” Holly said as we sat at the island to eat. “Or is it a man in your life?” Nothing like a sister to go straight for the heart.
“Oh, lord, no,” I said.
“Well,” Holly said, “Phil has a new associate. A great guy. Been divorced a couple of years. I thought we might invite him for dinner while you’re here.”
I had no uncertainty about my answer to this one. “No, really, please, I just want to spend time with you and Phil and the kids. I want to use the time I have with you, not a stranger.”
“Okay, sure,” Holly said, handing me a bowl of sliced avocado. “Ever hear from Joe?”
“As a matter of fact, I got a card from him the other day. You know Joe—he always sends me a card around the time Mama died. I’m going to see him when I get back.”
“Really?” she said, with a bit of extra energy. “I got an e-mail from him not long ago. He asked about you.”
I took a sip of tea. “You still keep in touch?”
“Sure,” Holly said. “You know we’ve always loved Joe. I never completely understood what happened between you two. Do you think you’ll ever want to talk about it?”
“Maybe I’ll surprise you sometime,” I said. “But not today. Let’s change the subject.”
* * *
The night Rose died, Joe and I drove home from the hospital in silence. I looked out the car window at the moon rising, present even though the sun hadn’t yet disappeared over the horizon.
It was the moment between day and night, the junction of light and darkness. I had always felt a safe equilibrium of those two emotions in me, but now my entire life tipped dangerously out of balance.
I kept expecting to hear Rose’s voice from the backseat. I expected to hear her hum or sing or talk about the butterflies she hoped to see at camp that summer.
Instead, I heard Joe’s voice. Quiet, as though he didn’t want to fracture the silence.
“Do we need to stop at the store for anything?” he said.
I stared at him as though he’d lost his mind. It was just his way, of course. He wanted to make sure we had something to eat in the morning. Rose would want us to take care of ourselves.
But to raise such an insignificant question in the face of our enormous loss struck me as heartless. His preparation had not kept our daughter alive. All of his efforts to keep us safe had not worked.
“Our daughter just died, Joe,” I wanted to say. “And you’re concerned about whether we’ll have eggs for breakfast?” I wanted to spit the words at him, to destroy him with my pain.
“No,” I said quietly, staring ahead at the highway.
That was the moment. That was the moment when I started to bend his strength against him, to reshape his words and meaning to hurt me since I could never, ever hurt myself enough.
* * *
I remember when Holly and I were in elementary school, and we desperately wanted to take dance lessons. Mama didn’t have the money, and we knew better than to press her on it, so we decided to teach ourselves.
We mimicked everything we saw in the movies and on TV, from the go-go dancers in white kidskin boots to the penguin waddle in Mary Poppins. We twirled and jumped and pranced to our own choreography, not to some tightly structured routine. We’d put on some of Mama and Daddy’s old albums of West Side Story and My Fair Lady and fling ourselves around the living room in what we thought were the most graceful moves this side of Julie Andrews.
We turned the flowered couch in the living room into our stage, but we only used it when Mama wasn’t around. We moved the coffee table out of the way and jumped off the front and back of the couch, floating for a moment before our feet hit th
e ground and we went running across the room, our chests puffed out, our heads held high, and our arms trailing behind us like Audrey Hepburn.
Mama was in her early thirties then, too young to be a widow but too old to be carefree. Stuck somewhere in between with two girls to feed. Sometimes late at night, when Holly and I were supposed to be asleep, I’d lie awake and hear her cleaning up the kitchen or punching the buttons on her adding machine. She’d do her paperwork for the antiques business at the kitchen table, listening to her favorite song on the stereo. It was “I’ll Never Find Another You,” the original version by the Seekers, with its perfect harmony and imploring vocals. She listened to it over and over.
Finally the music would stop, the light under the door would go out, and I’d hear her humming the song to herself as she went to bed alone.
* * *
I hope I didn’t offend Holly, but I really wasn’t “up for anything” after all. I talked her out of the boutique and spa and asked her if we could go to a botanical garden instead. I needed the green and the peace. And the time to talk without sorting through clothing racks or having cotton balls stuffed between our toes.
She kept looking at me out of the corner of her eye, as though she saw something different in me. I haven’t noticed big changes in the mirror, but apparently more has changed than I realize.
We wandered the garden shrouded in mist, but every once in a while the sun broke through and turned the serene into the spectacular. We had the gardens almost to ourselves, and every plant spoke to me. I could almost hear their voices. Their energy and vitality and joy. Incredible joy. The voice of something that has everything it needs. The sound of thriving.
We stopped at a bed of roses with blooms as big as dinner plates.
“What do you think Rose would be doing now?” Holly asked. She had a way of drawing me out about Rose so I wouldn’t keep it all stopped-up inside. She’d told me long ago that she would always continue to talk about her so she would be present for both of us.
The collective scent of the roses overwhelmed me, and I leaned over to smell a white hybrid tea rose labeled PRISTINE.
“I think she would be here with us,” I said. “Maybe she’d be married, have a baby or two. I like to think she’d be very, very happy.”
“Yeah, that’s all we really want for our kids, isn’t it?” Holly said. “That’s what it all comes down to.”
And that was when I decided not to say anything to her about the unhappiness that led to the pearls.
The pearls. As I breathed in the rich scent all around me, I wondered for the first time why they were green, the color of life.
DAY ELEVEN
Being at Holly’s is the biggest gift, and it’s the most excruciating thing I could do. Her life is intact. Phil loves her and is a good father to the kids. Mark will be off to college in a few days. Brent’s been mowing lawns all summer. And Becky is spending lots of time with her friends, buying back-to-school clothes. Holly has her volunteer work and keeps everything running.
It all seems so easy. It’s what I thought my life would be. How did mine take such different turns? I’m happy for her, I really am. But why does her life keep increasing, while mine keeps ebbing away?
As we fixed supper, Phil told me about the work he’s doing. “I may come to a symposium in Ames next spring,” he said. “Mind if I come stay with you for a couple of days while I’m there?”
Another not knowing. I guess we never know whether we’ll be here six months from now, or even six minutes from now, but having a strong likelihood of it is so different from my situation.
“Sure,” I said, thinking how much I’d enjoy that.
It seems that I’m more alive now than ever, attracting good things even though I’m not trying. It’s as though someone turned on a neon light over my head that says, “Talk to her. Come see her.” I even found a hundred-dollar bill on the plane yesterday. I gave it to Holly and told her to get something for the kids with it.
“And Mark is graduating next spring, so we’d love to have you come out here for that,” Holly said.
“Nothing would make me happier,” I told her. At least I could be honest about that.
“Phil has been e-mailing Joe,” Holly told me. We were chopping vegetables for stir-fry. “I hope that’s okay,” she said. “Joe’s a great resource, so Phil has gotten his opinion on a couple of projects.”
“Sure,” I said, “of course that’s okay.”
Holly offered me a glass of wine while we cooked.
“It was so sweet of him to send you that card,” Holly said. “So when are the two of you getting together?”
“On Tuesday,” I said, picturing the calendar with the red Xs and big red circle on the wall at home.
“Did he tell you about Carol?” Phil asked.
Holly gave him a look.
“No,” I said. “But from the return address, I noticed they must have moved.”
“Well, I don’t know if he’d want us to say something to you,” Holly said, looking again at Phil. “But Joe moved. Carol didn’t,” she said. “They’re getting a divorce.”
I put my knife down and hung on to the edge of the counter. “Really?” I said, taking a deep breath. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Holly said. “He mentioned it to Phil, so I got the news secondhand.”
“That’s a shame,” I said, almost meaning it. “They always seemed good together.”
“But nothing like the two of you,” Holly said.
I went back to my chopping.
“I’m sorry . . . that just slipped out.”
“No reason not to tell the truth,” I said, realizing the irony of that.
“So can I ask you . . . why did the two of you split up?” Holly said. “To be honest, I never really understood it. I figured you had good reasons, and I know it’s hard for couples who have lost a child. But when you two had so much history together, I thought that might see you through.”
“Sometimes history isn’t enough,” I said, scooping the vegetables into the pan on the stove. “Want me to set the table?”
* * *
We spent the morning at the locks in the ship canal. We go every time I visit, but I never get tired of watching the transition of boats from salt water to fresh. It’s all so big, so orchestrated. Like poetry.
The weather was breezy and warm. Sea spray pelted our hair and dampened our clothes. I could feel my lungs taking in the fresh air, filling with something besides the dust from the gravel roads back home.
I’m starting to see the number 20 everywhere. I had never thought about the fact that Holly’s street address is 2020. Perfect vision. We went to a Chinese restaurant for lunch, and the dish I wanted was number 20.
When we got back, Holly’s dog, Shannon, followed me everywhere through the house. She’s a spaniel-collie mix, so she’s bred to herd, but Holly said she’d never seen anything like it. “She’s drawn to you,” she said. “Like there’s something magnetic. Or she’s watching over you.”
I noticed this all day long. I’m staying in their guest room, and in the afternoon I stretched out to read while Holly made phone calls for a charity event she’s running. Shannon lay on the bed next to me, and one by one, the kids came into the room and sat down to talk.
I’ve never had Mama’s gift of gab. But maybe I was a priest in a former life, and people still feel called to confess, even when I can’t.
Becky came first.
“Am I bothering you, Aunt Meg?” she said, poking her head in the door. She saw I was reading, not sleeping.
“Not at all, sweetie,” I said, glad to have some time with her alone. “Come on in.” Becky was only six months old when Holly and Phil and the kids moved to Seattle. I’ve never had the time with her that I did with the boys, yet I feel closer to her. Maybe because the beginning of her life was so linked with the end of my daughter’s.
She sat down in the chair by the window with the view of the water and pulled h
er legs up under her. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, reminding me of Mama’s hair—and what Rose’s would have been like, too.
“So what’s new in your life, Rudbeckia?” I said, sitting up straighter. I laid my reading glasses on the bedside table and patted Shannon on the head to reassure her I wasn’t leaving.
Becky smiled and twisted a strand of hair in her fingers. I was the only one she allowed to call her by her would-be floral name.
“Well,” she said, “school starts in a couple of weeks, so that’s exciting. And kind of scary.”
“You’ll be a sophomore, right?” I said. “So what’s the exciting part, and what’s the scary part? Besides, oh . . . everything?”
She smiled again and looked up at the ceiling, trying to find a place to start. “I’ll be on the varsity soccer team, so that’s exciting. The scary part is . . . well, there are a lot of scary parts.”
“Any of them have to do with a boy?” I asked, surprising myself. Maybe my shortened timeline is making me more direct.
“Yeeeees,” she said, gathering her hair on top of her head and letting it fall down again. “His name’s Devon.”
“How long have you known him?” I asked.
“Just since spring. He transferred in last year from California.” She shifted in her seat and hung her legs over the side of the chair.
“And have you been dating?”
“Not really . . . not yet. Just group dates. Going to games and out for pizza and stuff.”
“Do your parents know about him?”
“No. I mean, they know who he is. He’s been here to the house with a bunch of other kids. But they don’t know there’s anything special between us.”
“And how do you know there’s something special?”
She blushed and looked out the window, then pulled her knees up to her chest. “I just really like him. He’s smart and easy to talk to. He talks about real stuff, you know? Not like he’s trying to impress me.”
“All good qualities,” I said. “And . . . he’s cute?”
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