The Secret Women

by Sheila Williams

  A yelp from Dallas distracted her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Pauly slinking off toward the hall and mudroom, where the litter box was. Dee Dee knelt down and petted the golden Lab pup, whose expression was a mix of pain and incomprehension. She could imagine what he was thinking: I was just playing! Can’t he take a joke?

  “Dallas, baby, you cannot play with that cat. That’s not how he rolls.” The puppy’s nose didn’t appear to be damaged, so she scratched him beneath the chin, then quickly checked the hall floor for puddles as she whistled for the animal to follow her to the back door. “Out you go, monster.”

  The remnants of pizza and salad looked like leftovers from an archaeological dig on the granite island counter, and the kitchen TV was on even though no one was watching it. Dee Dee rolled her eyes, clicked off the TV, and poured herself a glass of water, then let the dog back in and turned toward the great room. This time Phoebe saw her and waved.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Is that homework?” Dee Dee asked as she returned to lean over and kiss the top of her daughter’s head.

  “Yes,” Phoebe answered. “Algebra. Almost done.”

  Times sure had changed. Phoebe hadn’t heard one word she’d said—the earbuds were still in her ears. But she could read lips. Incredible!

  The music was getting louder, as if trying to win a decibel competition with ESPN blaring from the great room, where her husband, Lorenzo, was ensconced. Dee Dee stopped at the foot of the stairs and sent a text message to Frances.

  “Turn music down.”

  She counted to ten. The volume decreased one hundred percent. So Frances did know where the new headphones were.

  Now it was Lorenzo’s turn. SportsCenter, his favorite program, was on, and even Dee Dee was impressed by the sharp definition and color of the 75-inch flat-screen mounted over the mantel. It was new and Lorenzo’s pride and joy. She was not as impressed with the audio since the three commentators insisted on talking at once. Of course it didn’t matter what they said since Lorenzo was asleep. Dee Dee smiled. He was buried in the cushions, so closely hugged by them that he was practically wearing the couch. She picked up the remote and turned off the set.

  Lorenzo sat up. “I was watching that.” He scratched his head and yawned.

  “It was watching you and got bored, so I turned it off.”

  Lorenzo shrugged and stretched. His shoeless size 15 feet landed on the floor with a thud. “How’s work?”

  “Fine. Work was good, class was good, and I met a couple of interesting women. We had dinner together. Anything new with the girls?”

  Lorenzo shook his head slowly and yawned again. “Nope.” He glanced around. “Humph. France found the headphones. Thank God.”

  “She did after I texted her. When I came in it was the battle of SportsCenter and Rihanna. Phoebe’s in the dining room doing her homework.”

  “Oh yeah, meant to tell you. She’s joining a math/science club at school; I got an email from Mr. Holiday. They’ll meet once a week, and there’s some kind of competition in the spring. Phoebe’s excited.”

  Now it was Dee Dee’s turn to scratch her head. “I don’t know where she gets this math ability from. It sure isn’t me.”

  Lorenzo chuckled. “It ain’t me either,” he said, standing up. “Do you want anything? I’m going to the kitchen.”

  “No. France okay?”

  “Yep.” He padded out of the room on his large sock-covered feet. “But I’m going to have a conversation with Mr. Devon Carmichael very soon. A come-to-Jesus meeting.”

  “What?” Dee Dee chuckled as she took a seat on the couch. “Lo, you need to leave that boy alone.”

  “I will,” he called back at her. “When he leaves my daughter alone.”

  Poor Devon, Dee Dee thought. He was a sweet kid and Frances’s newest infatuation. Dee Dee hoped his phone plan—and hers—could accommodate the constant calls and texts. She also hoped—for Frances’s sake—that Lorenzo didn’t frighten the boy off. It wasn’t unhealthy for her to have a little boy–girl attraction going on at fifteen. No dating yet—she and Lorenzo were united on that issue. But there wasn’t any harm in Frances having the heady experience of a boy liking her. Convincing Lorenzo of that was going to be a challenge, however.

  “Lo, she can date when she’s sixteen,” Dee Dee had said during one of their many conversations about the girls.

  Lorenzo roared at that notion—like the MGM lion. “Hell no! Twenty-two. After she graduates from college.”

  Dee Dee chuckled again. “Yeah? Good luck with that, okay?”

  “I’m serious!”

  “Get real. You won’t be there when she’s in college.”

  “Why not? She’s only going to UC. She can commute.”

  And that was when the conversation had turned into a gladiatorial match.

  “Oh, hell no!” It was Dee Dee’s turn to bellow. “There can only be one queen bee in a hive at a time. Those girls are going away to college.”

  “What if they don’t want to go away?”

  Dee Dee shook her head. “They’re going to have to go somewhere,” she said firmly. “I can barely keep from strangling them now. Can you imagine what this house will be like when Frances is eighteen and Phoebe is fifteen? Please—that’s too many hormones. She’s going away to college. And that’s that. And you will not be in control.”

  She sighed now, thinking about it. She wouldn’t be in control either. Lord, have mercy . . .

  “Oh yeah, I forgot,” her husband shouted from the kitchen. “Debora called.”

  Dee Dee froze, her ears pricking up. “What’d she want? Is she okay? What’s going on?”

  “Calm down. She’s fine,” he said, coming back into the room, a glass of water in his hand. “She just called to remind you of your aunt Lou’s birthday next week. Said she called your cell but the mailbox was full.”

  The ice in Dee Dee’s veins began to melt a bit. “D-did she sound all right?”

  Lorenzo picked up the remote and clicked the TV back on. This time the volume was set on low. “Uh-huh. She sounded fine.”

  Dee Dee exhaled slowly. “As if . . .”

  Her husband patted her knee as he sat down. “Yep. As if she’s taking her meds. Dee Dee, relax. Deb’s okay.”

  And she was and had been, actually, for over two decades. She’d been working as a senior accountant at the same company for years. So why did Dee Dee still freeze up whenever her sister’s name was mentioned? Was she afraid that Deb would have that . . . tone in her voice, the one that preceded a manic phase? She couldn’t help it—she panicked whenever her sister or her brother-in-law called, her shoulders tightening up, the fear choking her voice: “Amory? Everything okay?”

  Amory was like a huge teddy bear, gregarious and trusting. He never seemed to notice the anxiety in Dee Dee’s voice, or if he did, he generously pretended to ignore it. “Hey, Sis-in-law!” he would say. “Girl, how you doin’? Those girls still driving you crazy? We are A-OK out here. Listen, is Lo home? I’m returning his call.”

  “I’m fine, Amory. The girls are great, and I’m ready to pack them up and send them to boarding school! Wait a second, here’s Lorenzo.”

  Dee Dee would then hand over the phone to her husband, embarrassed by her overreaction, and grateful to Amory for cutting her some slack and not calling her out for being ridiculous.

  No such luck with Debora, who was always on to her from word one.

  “Hi, Sis!” Dee Dee had opened with during their most recent conversation.

  “‘Hi, Sis, my ass,” Debora had fired back, her voice tinged with humor and sarcasm. “Before you say anything else, here’s the status report: yes, I’m taking my meds, including a new one with a thingamabob name that I can’t pronounce without my tongue turning inside out, I’m going to support group biweekly, Mass weekly at Saint Stephen’s, kickboxing, tai chi, and a monthly massage given by Gerald, the patron saint of magic fingers. What’d you say, Amory?” Debora’s voice faded
as she spoke to her husband. Then there was a chorus of laughter. “That fool I married says I’m having an affair with my masseuse. Really, Amory?”

  Then it was Dee Dee’s turn to laugh, as much with relief as with humor.

  “Gerald’s gay, isn’t he?”

  “Uh-huh. So now that I’ve told you what you really want to know, what do you want?”

  Their conversations would eventually morph into normal banter between sisters, the sharing of family activities, coordination of holiday or birthday celebrations, and a reminder to email this link or that address. For almost twenty years, Dee Dee’s interactions with her sister had followed this pattern. Debora’s last episode was in the early 1990s, resulting in a family intervention and hospitalization. But since that time, she had been well—aware of her condition and doubly aware of the tools and practices she needed to maintain equilibrium. So why was Dee Dee still so anxious? Just the sound of her sister’s voice over the telephone—a voice so much like their mother’s that it was eerie—would send Dee Dee into a state of terror.

  Debora teased her about it once. “Do you take anything for it?” she asked.

  No, but I should, Dee Dee had said to herself.

  She tried to convince herself that her continued anxiety was because Deb’s voice reminded her so much of their mother. But Dee Dee’s vigilance had the potential to strain her relationship with her only sibling. She knew Debora was weary of having to account for herself at the beginning of every conversation.

  Dee Dee turned to Lorenzo on the couch and asked, using a neutral tone, “So does Deb want me to call her or what?”

  “Nope,” Lorenzo answered, his eyes on the TV screen, his thumb working the buttons. “She’ll send you an email. She and Amory are having a twenty-year anniversary celebration in a couple of months—spa stuff, a golf outing, and then a dinner dance.”

  “When is this?”

  “May . . . June? The ninth and tenth . . . or tenth and eleventh . . . or twelfth . . .” Lorenzo’s eyes and concentration were fixed on the T. Rex-sized TV screen.

  “Wow,” Dee Dee said and meant it. “Okay. Well, I’ll let you know when I see the email. Then we can plan the road trip to Chicago.”

  “Uh-huh,” her husband replied, his mind now in sports-chat oblivion.

  Dee Dee patted him on the shoulder, rose, and walked back toward the kitchen, grabbing her tote and purse. Frances’s music was audible again, and Phoebe’s thumbs were flying across her phone.

  “Phoebe! No texting! Homework,” she said, shaking her head from side to side because her daughter still had the earbuds in. Phoebe shrugged her shoulders, sighed, then pressed a button and set the phone down. Dee Dee smiled and headed upstairs.

  She yawned as she walked down the hall toward her elder daughter’s room. Work, yoga, dinner, margaritas . . . It used to be, back in the day, she could go twenty hours on four hours of sleep. But that was twenty years, Lorenzo, two babies, and thousands of ten-hour workdays ago. Now she needed seven hours of sleep, and sometimes even that wasn’t enough.

  Dee Dee knocked on Frances’s door, then opened it a crack and peeked in. Frances stood in the corner with her back to the door, the ceiling lights illuminating a large sheet of sketch paper mounted on an easel. Frances didn’t turn around—she was plugged into her phone—and she stood nearly motionless as she applied a detail to the painting with a near-miniature paintbrush, leaning in close to add a nuance of color or detail. It was an impressionistic painting, reminding Dee Dee of Monet and the colors of Giverny. Frances was so absorbed that she didn’t sense she was being observed. Dee Dee smiled and gently closed the door.

  Frances was artistic, excelling at the cello and with a paintbrush. And her temperament was volatile, optimistic, and brave. So much like my mother. Dee Dee pushed that thought away.

  She’d enjoyed the evening with Elise and Carmen. It had been a long time since she’d had an evening out with friends, old or new. The laughter and conversation had lightened her mood and had provided a much-needed retreat from the stress of her hectic day. But still . . . Dee Dee continued to feel as if something was following her. She didn’t look over her shoulder because she knew what it was: fear, a loyal but unwanted companion for most of her life.

  Dee Dee didn’t remember how old she was when she first realized that her mommy behaved differently from the other mommies. Was she five? Six? It was a gradual awareness, and, at first, she had no words for “it.” She was too young and still guided by instinct, having no idea what “it” was, only that it was as strong as she was and suffocating in its completeness. It was as if the blankets on her bed were being pulled up before she went to sleep, slowly covering her feet and calves, then her hips and her torso and, finally, her shoulders. By the time the blankets were tucked in, Dee Dee’s realization shape-shifted into what she later would identify as cold fear.

  “Your mommy crazy!” a boy in her second-grade class said to her one day.

  Dee Dee pushed him down on the playground and he scraped his knee. She spent that afternoon standing in the corner of Mrs. Cochran’s room. But deep down, even though she didn’t have words for it yet, she knew the boy had been telling the truth.

  On the way to the grocery store one summer afternoon, Laura O’Neill drove 70 miles per hour in a 40 mile-per-hour zone, zigzagging through traffic while screeching with laughter during a conversation she was having with herself. She told her daughters, crouched and terrified in the back seat, that she was chatting with her friend and was going to get some milk and hamburger meat. It was hours before Deanna and Debora stopped trembling.

  The terror Dee Dee experienced on that day, and on many others like it, was the shadow that followed her through most of her life. It was like she lived on a fault line at the rim of an active volcano during a thunderstorm. She never knew when the ground would shift and throw her off her feet, or when the mountain would explode and bury her in heat and misery, or when the sky would open up and send zigzags of lightning down on her head. It would be the most complete destruction there was. She’d seen something destroy her mother, an outgoing and creative woman. She’d seen it try to destroy her sister. Every day, even though she had no symptoms, Dee Dee woke in the morning terrified that it would try to destroy her too. And now, without any evidence or reason, she was worried about Frances.

  And then there was the matter of four roughed-up water-stained boxes sitting on the old Ping-Pong table in the back of the basement, the ones she’d never opened. The ones with her mother’s name on them.

  Chapter 5

  Carmen

  It was Carmen’s idea. Elise thought it was brilliant, and Dee Dee too was enthusiastic, but Carmen refused to accept the credit.

  “I just listened, that’s all,” she said, explaining how she pulled together the common threads of their stories about their mothers and tied them with a bow. “It’s what I do. Listen to stories, true and untrue, pull out useful information, and formulate a solution.”

  “Hmmm, like Olivia Pope,” Dee Dee said, referring to the character in a TV show. But it was more basic than that. It was so easy that Carmen couldn’t explain why she hadn’t thought of it sooner—the idea had been right in front of her nose. Instead, it had come to her like a lightning bolt—when she was in the shower washing her hair. Or, rather, rinsing the shampoo out of her eyes, blinking to ease the irritation from the suds, her mind wandering off to a new line of hair products she’d seen on QVC, then on to a meeting she had to attend in New York in the coming week. The weather had been iffy—pop-up thunderstorms and tornadoes, especially in the South. What if her plane was coming from Atlanta? Would her flight be cancelled? Carmen loved one of the new display windows at Saks: a minimalist scene with a trio of faceless mannequins wearing red designer clothing and standing next to a tower of boxes stacked haphazardly. It reminded her of the Tower of Pisa. Wasn’t there an email in her in-box from the tour group about her upcoming foodie tour of Tuscany? Or was it Umbria? And she wondered i
f . . .

  Boxes. They all had boxes to sort through. Boxes containing things—none of them knew for certain what things, but things that had belonged to their mothers. Elise was still facing the clear-out of her mother’s condominium: furniture, dishes and other household goods, books, things, things, things—the whole idea of the project had overwhelmed her into misery. And inactivity. (“When in doubt,” Elise quipped, “do nothing!”) Dee Dee teased that her mother—dead many years now—was a bountiful person when it came to her art and her life but a minimalist as far as possessions were concerned. Besides a few crates of her works stored in a small gallery owned by one of her mother’s friends, she had only four small boxes of her mother’s belongings sitting on the Ping-Pong table in the back of her basement. Carmen, on the other hand, had boxes on the workbench in her garage and several more in the basement at her childhood home—the same boxes her father, now enjoying the company of Elaine Oakes, was nudging her to remove.

  She, Elise, and Dee Dee each had a task they found sad, difficult, and overwhelming. But three pairs of hands were better than one pair. And three women could not only clear a condo, a basement, and the back of a garage but also celebrate said clearing out with good wine and great food accessorized by energizing music.

  The plan came together within days of their first dinner at Margaret Rita’s. This time they had gathered at Siam Flower for the pad Thai and fresh spring rolls that had been on Elise’s mind.