Millicent Glenn's Last Wish: A Novel

by Tori Whitaker

I would never get over losing my baby. But this part that went on all day—freed only if I managed an hour’s sleep—wouldn’t last forever. I wouldn’t feel this blue forever. Would I?

  Dennis carried an armful of work pants and shirts out of the bedroom. The washing machine was behind louvered doors in the kitchen.

  “I told you I’d do that,” I said groggily, angrily, as he passed through the living room.

  “I don’t mind. Really,” he said. “It’s not as if I can’t figure out how to push a button on a machine.”

  His words felt like a smack—as though the menial work I’d done at home for years was nothing. A silly, mindless push of a button.

  I was sitting up on the couch now, but I hadn’t moved to stand. “I don’t know why you couldn’t have waited a few minutes. I said I’d do it.” I sneered.

  “Janie needs her diaper changed and to be tucked in,” he said. He’d already carried her from the playpen to the crib. “Can you do that?”

  I rose. Then I came within an inch of Dennis’s nose in our living room and shouted in his face: “Can you let me know you feel this agony I’m feeling? How can you keep it locked up so tight?”

  He jumped back, confounded. Speechless.

  Janie whined. My little girl needed me. I padded to her room and changed her diaper in her bed. She smiled and grasped hold of her bare feet, and for a flash of an instant, I thought my life was normal. Happy. I lifted her up, using my arms and my shoulders as the nurses had shown me, not my core or my back. Janie smelled of sweet innocence. I kissed her night-night and laid her back down for her nap.

  I found Dennis in the rake-back wooden armchair that he’d gotten to replace the womb chair. This one, too, had red upholstery on its cushion. He had one leg crossed on his opposite knee, presumably reading the magazine splayed open in his lap. Without acknowledging my presence, he lifted a glass of milk from the side table and sipped. He laid the magazine down. It was only when his gaze met mine that I saw the misery in his eyes after all—and I knew that pain. It mirrored my own.

  I wanted to reach out. For us to come together. Hadn’t I declared that I needed to know he suffered, too? But in that moment it was hard enough for me to survive my own loss, let alone to bear the weight of his, too. I couldn’t look at him any longer. I retreated to our room and buried myself beneath three layers of covers.

  Monday had come, and Dennis was out providing for his family as the world said good husbands should. Janie slept while I let the house fall apart—in the way Abbie Glenn had said good wives shouldn’t. I didn’t frost cupcakes or organize next week’s calendar. The sink full of pots and pans lasted longer than before. I forgot the baseboards needed cleaning. The bed went unmade, and the sheets went unwashed. And I let the telephone ring off the hook. I dragged every morning, lay down every afternoon. Dennis rarely commented. “Unmade beds aren’t the end of the world,” he once said. And he knew that if anything got done besides simple dinner prep, it was my caring for Janie—she was clean and fed and cuddled—and my licking stamps for mailers. No way was I letting these go.

  I retrieved the pink-and-blue baby album, the one I had gotten for my shower, and sank onto my bed. I flipped to the page for Baby’s Arrival.

  I tried to write in my meticulous penmanship, but the ink ended up wobbly on the page. I completed what few facts we had of our daughter’s short life. Her birthdate, her name, her weight: seven pounds, two ounces. I ran my fingertips along the hospital’s inked imprints of her feet—two perfect, tiny feet. I mused about how her soles had the deep curves of my own arches. Had she also been born with Dennis’s dimples? I completed Kathy’s family tree, where little birds fluttered their angel-fairy wings in its branches. And I wrote on the designated line her doctor’s name—Dr. Reynolds, who’d delivered her. Forever to remain blank were the festive pages for her Visitors Who Came, her Favorite Playthings, her First Birthday.

  2015

  The day had arrived. The girls would store some belongings in the basement. And I would finally let go of my story and bring us even closer together.

  Aaron’s SUV pulled up out front, followed by Kelsey and Jane in Jane’s car. Kelsey’s husband had to write up a contract for a corporate client that Saturday, but first he’d loaded up their SUV and Jane’s midsize car with stuff to store at my house. Jane had extra boxes that cramped her temporary apartment. Kelsey was itching to decorate her nursery and needed their spare room emptied. We’d hired my capable neighborhood lawn boys, who never turned down a buck. The two teens, freshman football players, would arrive within a few minutes. I only hoped they’d get everything out of the girls’ cars before the skies opened up and it started to pour.

  Aaron made his way up my sidewalk with his first load in his arms. He had a stocky build, was no taller than Kelsey when she wore pumps, and had the curliest crop of black ringlets. Aaron’s father was an attorney, too, and his mother a judge. Aaron had made partner and opened up the OTR outpost of Goldberg LLC and was doing quite well, albeit working weekends. The first time I’d met him, Kelsey brought him down from the university when they were seniors. She’d been animated and glowing and said, “Aaron, this is my beloved grandma, Millie.” And he’d smiled wide and said, “Hello, Grandma Millie.” He’d ignored my extended hand and given me a friendly hug instead. I’d loved that boy from the get-go.

  “Hey, Grandma Millie,” he said now, and winked.

  “Hi, sweetie-pie Aaron,” I said. “You can put that box right over there.” I pointed. “My plan is for you and the guys to haul everything into the house, then you can go on your merry way. They’ll lug everything to the basement for us.”

  “You’re a jewel,” he said. He set the box down and then touched Kelsey’s shoulder with utmost tenderness, reverence.

  My heart smiled. How fortunate it was that she had this bountiful love. I’d not gotten to see it with Jane.

  “Kels and I appreciate you letting us store our junk,” Aaron said. “Someday we’ll have three bedrooms.”

  “Happy to do it. I just can’t wait for your little baby to arrive.”

  As for my pending confession to the girls, I hadn’t changed my mind for a minute. I’d tell them about Kathleen. Jane and I had talked by phone or texted twice a day since she’d been here for Chinese food and the sleepover. I could hardly believe how close we seemed to be becoming. But for Jane’s medical testing hanging in the balance, it was a dream come true. I’d already figured out how I would begin my story once the movers left: I’d prepare the girls with memories of my overcrowded, baby-boom maternity ward. Then I’d simply tell them about the worst time in my life, in Dennis’s life, and how Janie had been too young to remember. I would let them hear of my deep remorse for withholding this story for all these years, but how now, my deepest hope that was the biggest truth would forge in us an unbreakable bond.

  I would go through with the telling, no matter how afraid I was of them knowing my guilt, my failing as a mother. Opa’s words echoed: You’re Millicent the Strong. Don’t you ever forget it.

  Aaron went for another load, and my girls insisted on getting the lay of the land in my basement as the boys arrived. Jane went down the steps first, ducking when reaching the bottom step and avoiding the low overhead beam. I descended slowly, gripping the handrail while Kelsey steadied me with my other arm. We inhaled the musty smells born of the sixty-year-old cinder-block foundation in this house my husband had built. No sump pump glitch, no flood or mildew could ruin containers stored here—Dennis Glenn had seen to that. I batted away a cobweb and grasped the yellowed string dangling from the low ceiling. I yanked, and the bare bulb cast shadows across Dennis’s old workbench and containers stacked along walls. My girls scanned the rows of crates and trunks. There would be much for them to clear out once I was gone. So many memories to unpack, like fragile little heirlooms, memories to grieve over or laugh over and settle into new homes—or to dispose of and to forget.

  “There,” I said, pointing. “In additi
on to the floor, there’s some open space high on those shelves.” Along the lower shelves were ornaments, wreaths, and canning jars once filled with bread-and-butter pickles.

  “If I store something on the highest shelf, what can I stand on?” Jane asked, rubbing her forearms. It wasn’t as warm down here as in my cozy den.

  “I used to have a small stepladder.” I poked around. “It’s probably in the garage. We’ll get it when we go back up.”

  “That couch has seen better days,” Jane said, indicating the gold one I’d had upstairs two couches ago. It formed part of a last-resort seating area in the center of my concrete floor. There was a ragged, braided rope rug woven with colors of gold and rust, together with a vinyl recliner that didn’t recline anymore.

  “I remember when you bought that couch new,” Jane said. “Now it looks more like one I fooled around on in a run-down Victorian—a house in the Haight-Ashbury at a party with the Grateful Dead.” She snickered.

  “Ah, yes, the glory days of your trip—in all senses of the word—to San Francisco,” Kelsey said. “Your whole sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll thing. Doing deeds you later forbade me to do.” The two of them cracked up.

  To me, this particular memory hadn’t quite risen to the point of being funny yet.

  “LSD was practically still legal in California then,” Jane said now.

  “Practically,” I said with great emphasis. “You were one year late for that party.”

  “Hey, now,” Jane said, pretending to be put off. “It’s not like you were Miss Goody-Goody Two-Shoes all your life. What with the barbies you popped back in the day.”

  What? I was completely taken aback, my body ablaze.

  “Barbies?” I said. Where had that come from?

  Jane laughed. “Barbs. Downers. Dolls. Whatever y’all called ’em in the fifties. I’m not judging. Barbiturates were legal then. I’m just glad you didn’t die.”

  “Lots of women took those then, and amphetamines, too,” Kelsey said. “No wonder housewives had waists the size of bread loaves.”

  “Who in the world told you I took barbies?” I wouldn’t let it go.

  “Oops,” Kelsey said.

  “Linda Jo mentioned it eons ago,” Jane said of her cousin. “Aunt Abbie had apparently let it slip.”

  I was livid. Abbie Glenn had been six feet under for going on twenty years, but her careless mouth could still slay me. In all the time we were sisters-in-law, we had never gotten on well. We had “too much baggage,” to borrow a modern term. But I had to push these thoughts away. I had to keep faith that Abbie hadn’t let anything else “slip.” As soon as the thought entered my mind, another one struck me: Had Abbie also broken her promise about Kathleen? Was this why Jane had punished us by not sharing how she’d given birth to Kelsey? And had Jane’s knowing of my taking pills led her to experimenting with drugs on her own? Then I had to wonder, had Jane also told Kelsey?

  I felt empty. No, not empty. Filled. Filled with wrath. And frigid cold. But I couldn’t let these negative feelings disrupt more precious minutes with my girls. I would learn soon enough the extent of the damage Abbie had wreaked. I had to calm down.

  Thankfully, it seemed my girls were already on to the next thing.

  “What’s this?” Kelsey asked. She’d picked up something stuffed in an old wicker clothes basket.

  “Oh,” I said. I was still cold and could barely think straight to answer, despite how I tried to shove Abbie Glenn’s big mouth out of my head. “It’s a plaque your grandfather was awarded from Gunnison Homes.” I’d always wished my name were engraved on it, too. But I refrained from saying that.

  “Hey, let me see,” Jane said. Her fingertips traced the letters of her father’s name engraved on the brass plate.

  Jane told Kelsey, “Your papaw used to lift me onto his back and lug me all over his building sites. He taught me about blueprints. They were like paint-by-numbers for constructing a house.” She paused, looked at me. “He taught me a lot about the building trade. That’s largely why I pursued the work I did. Mind if I keep the plaque?”

  “It’s yours,” I said, not wanting to linger on it. “So over here,” I said, swooping my arm in the direction of a fairly open space on one far end of the basement. “You can have the boys shift a few things around if you need to. But I suggest you each keep all your belongings in a designated area.”

  “Gotcha,” Kelsey said, and gave a thumbs-up.

  “Look here, Jane,” I said, drawing her attention to a box I’d kept filled with mementos from her youth. Report cards, spelling bee ribbons, elementary school yearbooks. This was exactly what I needed to get back on track—happy memories to settle my nerves.

  “What fun!” Kelsey said. The movers were almost done with their part, and both girls began digging into the box. Jane pulled out a hand-drawn picture of three people—a mommy, a daddy, and a girl standing beside a Christmas tree colored with green and red crayons. It was signed Janie, and I had made note in ink that the year was 1955.

  “I didn’t realize you’d kept all these things,” Jane said. “I love them.” She looked genuinely pleased.

  “Of course I kept them,” I said. My chest puffed up.

  “Aww, check this out,” Kelsey said. “A dried clay figure of a baby in a basket.”

  The sight of that handmade gift from Janie stilled me. The clay figure fit in the palm of a hand. I’d not thought of that thing in years. I regretted getting out the box now.

  Jane was equally solemn. What was she thinking? If Abbie had told Jane my secret, did Jane know the significance of the figure in a way she hadn’t when she made it?

  “I remember making this,” she said after what felt like ten minutes. “I was maybe seven? I gave it to you, and I thought you loved it at first. But then I thought you hated it. You had put it away the next day and I never saw it again. I’m surprised you kept it.”

  Janie had come home from Sunday school with her grandma and told me how she’d rolled the clay into baby Jesus’s body, rolled a little ball for a head, patted a piece of clay flat for a blanket. I had oohed and aahed, delighted at her skill and creativity. And then she pointed her index finger just so and said she’d placed the tiniest little fist by the baby’s mouth. “It’s sucking its thumb,” she said, her thickly lashed eyes gazing up at me so proud. I’d drifted into my room and silently wept.

  Rebounding now and wanting to smooth things over, I said, “It’s wonderful that we found this box, then, huh? Now you know. I treasured everything you ever gave me.”

  Jane smiled, and our eyes held for a moment. I never wanted to hurt her again. I would say what needed to be said when the packing boys were gone.

  Jane headed upstairs to use the bathroom and to get a drink.

  “Grandma,” Kelsey said, “what’s in this box over here?”

  “Let me look.”

  “See? This one says SAVE in big, black letters,” she said from the other end of the basement. The decades-old wrapping tape had warped and loosened, and Kelsey began to lift the box flaps. “There’s a random shipping mark in the corner. Dated 1951. The historian in me is dying to know what’s in here.”

  “Don’t open that box,” I ordered. Had I spoken too harshly? I was trembling. The anchor of guilt shifted inside of me. “I mean, don’t waste your time, honey.” I gave her a fixed stare. “We’ll get to it later.” I hadn’t thought of bringing that box out with my story, but it would be a natural thing to do. If I could bear to lay eyes on its contents again.

  “Okay. Mind if I just slide it over here? I’ve got a couple of pieces that I don’t want getting mixed in with Mom’s stuff. I need a teensy-weensy bit more space.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Push it over there.”

  Jane called down the staircase from above, “Kels, the guys need your sage advice on one last thing in the den.”

  “Coming,” Kelsey said.

  Jane returned from upstairs with bottled waters. She handed me one and smiled. She’d
already broken the seal and twisted the cap open on mine. Thoughtful. “Thank you, sweetie.”

  The boys’ tramping feet on the steps signaled the last load on its way. I had forgotten to set out the money. I headed back up.

  Kelsey was in the kitchen on her cell phone, presumably with Aaron. “Yup, they’re finishing now. Going to be close, but it’ll fit.”

  I laid out the money for the boys with a nice tip and went to the bathroom. When I returned, Kelsey was still on the phone. I had to sit. My knee joints screamed at me that one trip, let alone three, up and down those steps was enough for one day.

  I needed reserves of energy, too. The time was drawing near, and I found myself leery. Telling this story would be harder than I thought. But I’d do it.

  “Mrs. Glenn,” the taller boy said as the two reemerged from the basement, “your daughter needs you.”

  “Is she hurt?” My heart skipped a beat.

  “No. I think she just said it’s important,” he said.

  Kelsey signed off her call and said, “She needs the Master General’s approval on where to put her Jane Fonda exercise mat or her sacred lava lamp.” We said goodbye to the boys, and she helped me descend the steps.

  Jane sat on the ratty couch, hovered over a large open cardboard packing box. Wads of airy, crisp, browned tissue paper floated like seafoam at her feet.

  She didn’t look up. Was Jane ignoring me? I didn’t want to return to those cold shoulder days. I saw then that the box she had was the one marked SAVE. I froze.

  Kelsey saw it, too. “Eek,” she said, thinking Jane was in trouble. She joined her mother on the couch.

  Jane held the old pink-and-blue baby album open in her lap. Whether or not she knew yet that it was her sister’s, I had no idea. The world went dark, and the cement floor seemed to slant. I felt a loss of balance. Yet I felt like a mummy, too, petrified and unable to move.

  “Yay, another box of keepsakes,” Kelsey said. She dangled tiny yellow booties that her great-grandma Glenn had made. “Were these Mom’s when she was a baby?” Kelsey asked, dipping back into the box. “Look at all these little baby clothes; they’re so cute.”