by Laura Wiess
“Oh my God,” I say, shocked and struggling not to laugh.
“I know,” she says, nodding. “I told him no funny stuff until the ring is on the finger, but he’s a musician, you know, and they’re terribly hot to trot.”
“Really?” I choke out. “Um, what does he play?”
“Mostly Johnny Mercer, but he does some Barry Manilow, too, for the youngsters,” she says, patting her hair back into place and completely missing my gurgle. “He plays piano at the Hilton lounge on Tuesday and Thursday nights. That’s how we met. I was at the regional dry cleaner’s convention and we stopped in afterward for a nightcap.” She gives me a preening look. “He invited me up to stand by the piano as he played ‘Satin Doll.’ Ah! Dreamy. I said to him, ‘Oh, what a line you have, mister,’ when it was over but it was too late. I was hooked.”
“Wow, I miss everything,” I say as she does a creaky little two-step. “I’m really happy for you.”
“Ah no, enough me, me, me. What a stupid-head I am.” She immediately stops dancing and solemnly peers up into my face. “How are you doing? How is your mother?”
“We’re okay, I guess. We’re getting there. It’s hard. We miss him.” I take a deep breath, ignoring the ache, and say casually, “I have a boyfriend now, too.”
“Eli, the tall, skinny boy with the dog?” she says, and at my dumbfounded look, adds, “What? I saw the way he watched and stayed by you at the wake and the funeral. I’m not blind yet, you know.” She smiles and pats my arm. “Love is a wonderful, healing thing. It helps you look toward tomorrow instead of always wishing for yesterday. He’s good to you?”
“So far,” I say faintly.
“He’s not a bum,” she says with a satisfied nod. “I didn’t think so but God knows I’ve been wrong before. So”—she cocks her head and studies my face—“this is not a social call. Are you coming back to work now?”
Something about the simplicity of her question, as if my not coming back was never even an option, as if she always knew that at some point I would lift my head, take a deep breath and stand up again, makes me want to cry.
“I would really like to,” I manage to say. “Eva, thank you so—”
“Good,” she says briskly, snapping me right out of my weepy gratitude. “Then you can start tomorrow at two o’clock until closing at seven. Or is that too much all at once? Do you want to try less hours at first?”
“No, that’s fine,” I say.
“Good, because look at this mess,” she says, and thrusts her scarred and crisscrossed thumbs up into my face. “Look at what pinning those stupid clothes has done to them. Rake, rake, rake, every day pins rake the thumbs. I have no fingerprints left!”
“Good time to become a criminal,” I say, examining my own, and yes, even though the scratches have long since healed they’ve still altered the whorls of my prints. “Look, mine too.”
“Partners in crime,” Eva says, and then, giving the customer bill card rack a spin, says, “Tomorrow if you finish the pinning early you can start pulling cards and making the quarterly reminder calls, okay? Too much money sitting here waiting to be collected.”
“Okay,” I say, and glance under the counters at the shelves, expecting to see tons of clothes waiting to be pinned, but instead there’s nothing. “Eva.” I look back at her, suddenly suspicious. “Is it really slow right now? Because if it is and you don’t really need me, I—”
“Rowan.” She gazes at me for a long moment, then lifts her chin and says with much dignity, “Your father was my dear friend and you are, too.” And then she gives me a mischievous grin. “Besides, I have a man and a social life now. Who wants to be stuck here?” She shoos me away. “Now go, and I’ll see you tomorrow at two sharp.”
“Okay,” I say, and head for the door. I stop, turn and say, “Thank you, Eva,” but she’s already gone.
And it’s only then in the quiet that I realize the song on the radio isn’t Terence’s R & B or even country, Eva’s normal choice, but a guy singing “One for My Baby (and One More for the Road),” smooth, bluesy, jazzy, and so I tiptoe over and peer into the back and there it is, sitting on the counter right by the press.
A brand-new CD player.
And sitting next to it, a Johnny Mercer CD case.
I listen a moment longer and, smiling, pad back out.
Chapter 71
Funny how everything continues to evolve while you just keep breathing.
I make it back in time for dinner and am surprised when my grandmother asks me to set the dining room table. I glance at my mother, who hesitates, looks at the cluttered kitchen table and, sighing, nods.
And while I’m doing it, setting four places and leaving my father’s chair empty, I realize that the newly painted dining room doesn’t mean anything to my grandparents. They don’t know about what happened, and for some reason that makes me feel better about having dinner in here, like for all the sad and terrible parts of my father’s death that were made public, the three of us still had moments that no one else knew about.
I like that.
The paprikás is delicious and I eat too much, which makes my grandmother happy enough to give in to my grandfather’s not-so-subtle hints about bringing Sage home with them.
“But not tonight,” she says, giving him a look as he reaches down and pets Sage, who is purring really loud and twining around his ankles, hoping my grandfather will “accidentally” drop another piece of chicken. “Tomorrow morning we’ll go to PetSmart and get him a litter box and whatever else he’s going to need.” She looks at my mother and with a small, reluctant smile says, “I suppose I should be glad you didn’t decide to rescue snakes, instead.”
“He’s a good boy,” my mother says, gazing down at the cat. “He’s been with us for what, a little over a month now? And it’s funny, Dad, that out of all the cats here you chose him, because he’s always wanted to be an only cat. He’s great with people but not that fond of being one of a crowd. Right, Sage?”
Sage walks right past my mother, jumps up on my grandmother’s lap and gazes solemnly into her face.
“No, kitty, we’re at the dinner table,” she protests, and makes a motion to push him down.
“Wait, blink two or three times while he’s looking at you, Mom, really slow,” my mother says softly. “It tells him that you’re not a threat and you mean no harm.”
My grandmother does, looking self-conscious, and Sage, gazing up into her face, immediately starts purring and kneading her lap. “Ouch. Oh my.”
“Sometimes they just need a little reassurance that the world is not a cruel and hateful place,” my mother says, sitting back in her chair and smiling. “I think you have a fan.”
“Oh my,” my grandmother says again as Sage, overcome with his newfound love, stands up on his back legs, sniffs her eyeballs and then rubs his chin against the side of her jaw.
“I see I’m going to have to get another cat of my own,” my grandfather says, winking at my mother and helping himself to more nokedli.
By the time we finish eating, cleaning up and waving good-bye to my grandparents, it’s after eight o’clock. The sun hangs low in the sky, the breeze is soft and the shimmering light casts a rich golden sheen across everything, which would be even more beautiful if Eli was here to share it with me. I haven’t heard anything from him since I responded to his Miss me yet? text with, Yes, do you miss me? and then because it sounded so needy added, Crazy day here, and then because my day was nowhere near as crazy as flying to Houston for a dog, added, But not as crazy as yours I’m sure.
And an hour ago, with still no response, I texted, Hope it’s going good with Rosie, and am trying hard not to picture him out with an old girlfriend.
“Whew, what a day,” my mother says, plopping down onto the couch and smiling as Stripe jumps up onto her lap. “Thank God it’s almost over.”
“Yeah, huh?” I say, fidgeting as she starts sorting through the books on the end table. I pull my phone from my pocket
and give it a surreptitious glance. Nothing. I wish I’d thought to take a picture of us before he left. Damn. I glance up, catch her watching me and shove my phone back in my pocket. I haven’t told her about seeing Eli again and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because he’s gone and it won’t feel real until he’s back. Or maybe it’s just because I’m supposed to be grounded, and that usually means no company. I don’t know, I—
The phone rings.
“I’ve got it,” my mother says, reaching for the portable. “Hello?” Her face softens into a smile. “Oh, hello, Arnold. What a pleasant surprise.”
I scowl and shake my head. No it’s not. Even though I stopped hating Lieutenant Walters when he stood on casket watch at the wake, that still doesn’t make us best friends. What does he want? I mouth.
“Oh, we’re muddling along,” my mother says, giving me an absent frown. “No, it hasn’t been easy. Quite the opposite.” She listens a moment and chuckles. “Well, that’s because we haven’t been out in public lately. It’s been a very quiet summer. Exactly what we needed.”
Hmm. I’m starting not to like this.
“Oh really? That’s right, I forgot all about it,” she says, and bites her lip. “That’s very nice but I don’t know. Can I think about it and let you know tomorrow?”
What’s very nice? I mouth.
“All right, I’ll give you a call back tomorrow,” she says with a smile. “And thank you, Arnold. I really appreciate you thinking of us. Bye now.”
“That was Lieutenant Walters, wasn’t it?” I demand the second she hangs up. “What did he want?”
“Yes, it was,” she says, giving me a curious look. “He called to remind us that the annual PBA picnic is this weekend and he hasn’t gotten our RSVP form back. I couldn’t tell him that it’s probably buried somewhere on the kitchen table.” She tucks back her hair and sighs. “I don’t know, Rowan; what do you think? He said we would go as honored guests—”
“Whose, his?” I hear myself say snidely, and stop. “Sorry.”
“No,” my mother says in the overly patient, careful tone that means she’s starting to get annoyed, “as honored guests of the PBA and the department, which, despite your rudeness, I think is a very thoughtful and generous gesture.”
“It is,” I say after a moment, feeling kind of stupid. “Are we gonna do it?”
“I don’t know,” she says, picking up a book and opening it to the dog-eared page where she’s left off. “It’ll be strange to go without your father. They were his friends and colleagues, not mine.” She glances at me, her gaze thoughtful. “I haven’t seen any of them except for Vinnie since the funeral. Our being there might make people uncomfortable.” She shrugs. “It might make us uncomfortable, too.”
“Why?” I don’t like where this conversation is going.
She hesitates.
“Why?” I say, because her silence is even more unsettling than her words.
“Because I’m not sure we fit in there anymore,” she says quietly. “Nicky’s gone. He belonged there. He was an officer; he isn’t anymore. It’s over. They’ve moved on, continued to live their lives, and then here comes yesterday’s bereft widow and her sad, fatherless child still holding on, walking reminders of what can go wrong for every single one of them. Talk about putting a damper on the festivities.” She sets the book aside. “I don’t know, Rowan. I think maybe it’s time we started cleaning this place up. We could sort through your father’s things and pack some of it. Not all,” she adds hastily at my shocked look. “Just some, to start.”
“Why?” I croak, clutching the arm of the couch. “What’s the rush?”
“No rush,” she says, taken aback. “I just thought . . . it’s been months. Don’t you think it’s time to—”
“What, move on?” The words burst out unbidden. “Get on with your life?”
“Not just my life,” she says, giving me a funny look. “Our lives. Rowan, Grandma was right. It is like a time warp in here.” She glances around the room, her gaze landing on my father’s jacket still hanging on the coatrack, the Stephen King book he was reading still lying open at his place on the table near his chair, the reading glasses on top of them. “Nothing has changed since the day he died, and that was all right; I know why we did it. We needed something to hold on to and it made sense back then but—”
“But not now?” I say, pushing myself to my feet.
“No.” She stares at me, bewildered. “It’s been too long. It makes me feel like every day is yesterday, and for the rest of my life I’ll be nothing but the curator of the Nicky museum. And I don’t mean that in a bad way, but keeping all of his things out like this, the way he left them, like he’s only away and going to come back . . . it’s not comforting anymore. It’s paralyzing. Do you understand?”
“Sure,” I say coldly, blowing off her words. “I get it. You want to move on and start your new life and Daddy’s stuff is just in the way.” I take a step backward, away from her. “Well, you can do what you want but I’m not going to move on and forget him, Mom, no matter how much—”
“I don’t want you to forget him,” my mother says, staring at me in disbelief. “Why would you think something like that? He was your father—”
“He is my father!” I yell, stamping my foot and making the cats run for cover. “He’ll always be my father, my only father, and I don’t care who you bring here but I’m never calling anyone else Dad, do you hear me? Never!”
My mother gapes at me, astonished.
“I heard what you said,” I shout, infuriated. “You’re a widow, that means you’re single now, okay, and I get it. I do.” I’m shaking all over, caught in the grip of some bone-deep, fear-fueled rage. “But you didn’t ask me what I want and I don’t want another father, I love my father and—”
“Stop,” my mother says, and her voice is so quiet, so strong, that I fall silent. She gets up and comes to me, her face solemn. “Shh,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around me and pulling my stiff body close. “Shh.” She strokes my hair until the trembling subsides. “Rowie, I love your father, too. No one could ever replace him. I feel sorry for any man who would try. He’ll always be a hard act to follow.”
“So then why did you say what you said about being mad at him?” I say, pulling away and wiping my face. My head is pounding and my heart feels like somebody took a knife to it. “Why did you have to say it out loud like that?”
“Because I had to,” she says with a helpless gesture. “Maybe it was time. I don’t know. These feelings come and go in waves, the anger, sadness, trying to find something to hope for or try to be happy about . . .”
“You still have me,” I say in a small voice, wrapping my arms around myself and staring at the floor because I know that’s not what she means but it’s all I have to offer.
“I know, and you’ll always be the best part of my life,” she says, touching my damp cheek. “So don’t worry about this now, all right? Forget I said anything.”
“No, wait,” I say as my phone signals an incoming text. “Mom, I’m sorry. I—”
“The packing was just an idea. Maybe a bad one. I felt pretty good for a minute and I maybe thought it was time but—”
“No, it’s okay,” I say, horrified at how completely her smile has died.
She shakes her head, puts a weary hand to her temple. “I’m going to lie down for a while. I have a splitting headache.” She plods to the couch, wraps the afghan around her and eases down, huddling into a ball. “Turn off the lamp for me, will you?”
“Okay,” I say, but don’t move, only stare at her forlorn figure. I did this to her, I did, not my father or my grandparents, and suddenly it occurs to me that we mourn differently too, my mother and I. We may be in it together but our grief is different, and although sometimes our stages seem to be the same, they can’t possibly be, because he was my father but he was her husband, and those are two totally different roles. We miss the same person but we each miss him in our own way and
I don’t know how I never saw that before. “Mom?”
She opens her eyes.
“I’m really sorry,” I say, taking a step toward her. “We can start tomorrow morning before I go to work. I’ll help. We don’t have to do it all, we could just do some and see how it goes, okay? Please?”
She cracks an eye and gazes at me for a long moment, then heaves a sigh, sits back up and looks at her watch. “You know what? I’m sick of this stupid couch. It’s a beautiful night for a walk. I wonder if the ice cream depot is still open.” She catches my surprise and gives me a rallying smile. “When was the last time you and I went for ice cream together?”
I shake my head, throat tight, because I can’t remember, because my father was usually the one with the urge for ice cream. “But what about your headache?”
“That’s what fresh air is for,” she says, rising and smoothing her blouse. “Let me grab some money and my keys, and then it’s two scoops for everyone!”
“Mom?” I say without moving.
She stops in front of me. Searches my face and pulls me to her in a fierce hug. “I know these are baby steps, Row, but we’ll get there. I promise.”
“I promise, too,” I whisper, and this time I actually believe it.
Grief Journal
Dad, I messed up again, and I don’t know why.
Mom was actually feeling good, maybe even at a turning point of her own, and I don’t know what happened but I just lost it, freaked, and knocked her backward again.
I made her feel bad. Really bad.
I don’t know why I did that.
I mean I knew she wasn’t trying to forget you, I knew that, but I just panicked . . .
She was only talking about packing away some of your stuff.
That’s all.
Why did that scare me so much?
And why does it still?
Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I don’t think about you.
I do, all the time.