“I do love you. Unconditionally,” I said without pause. “And not ‘in my own way’ either. I love you in the way you love Kelsey.”
She nodded once. Bowed her head. “We have many blessings. Thank you for bringing me to church so I could be reminded of that fact.” She raised her head and looked at me. “I’m healthy, as much as any old, reformed stoner can be. And somehow I did something right in raising Kels. Part of your good mothering wore off on me after all. Tell you what, let’s go toast to your birthday at a fancy-ass restaurant—your official celebration, not with carry-out food. Real cake and candles and all. We’ll celebrate my nondiagnosis as well. Tomorrow night?”
We embraced goodbye. A nice, long, warm, real mother-daughter hug.
As I drove along the streets I’d known since I was a young woman, streets with a few more stop signs and lights, I realized what a journey I had taken in the last two weeks. I’d set out to have Jane understand me—to understand why I am the way I am. And I’d held hopes of understanding her better, too.
I pulled into my drive and grasped that I had arrived there: at the beginning of our healing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
December 1953
It was almost time for the holidays, more than a year since I’d weaned myself off the pills, and Pauline and I would soon head out for our first-ever Tupperware party. It would be fun to shop for canisters, salt and pepper shakers, and tumblers in the home of a friend in the neighborhood—I could buy Christmas gifts for all the Glenn women. And Dennis liked that I was getting out with Pauline more these days.
I bathed four-year-old Janie and put her to bed early—not that my husband was incapable, but I needed to ensure no soap trickled into her eyes and that she had her Muffie doll in case she awoke while I was gone. And I couldn’t possibly leave without reading to her a few pages from The Velveteen Rabbit. Dennis flipped on the front porch light and wrapped me up in my red woolen coat—ever the gentleman, even with our ninth anniversary just around the corner.
The golden glow of the light shone through the door’s two half-moon-shaped windows as he gave me a bear hug goodbye. “You’re the prettiest girl a guy ever got,” he said. “Not to mention the smartest.” He had been with me every step of my recovery; he’d never given up on me.
“And you’re the most charming guy a girl ever snagged,” I said.
Dennis kissed my cheek. “You girlies have fun.”
Pauline arrived and off we walked, attired in gloves, hats, slim dresses, earrings, and heels. Thankfully, no snow had fallen in two weeks. Soon we sat in Dorothy’s living room before piles of plastic containers in all manner of pastel colors, artfully arranged on a six-foot table set up in front of the dormant fireplace. The hit song “Come On-A My House”—sung by Rosemary Clooney, a gal from just over the river—played in the background.
We still lived in Mount Auburn, where another cluster of midsize Gunnison homes had recently sprouted. The neighborhood had grown so much. Last summer, Bob Irving had been the first to buy a Weber kettle grill, and Pauline had invited our newest neighbors to what she called a “backyard patio party” so we could all get acquainted around their pool. She’d had a picnic table with benches, red-and-white checkered linens, Kahn’s wieners. The works.
Although Pauline had had another son by then, she bounced from one social event to the next. I was busy decorating. Trying new recipes. I took time for myself twice a week to relax while Ruth Lyons hosted The 50/50 Club on TV. My schedule was filled to the brim. I sewed corduroy drop-seat overalls for Janie. Taught her to count to one hundred. Read to her every day. Played with her in the yard. Cuddled and kissed her. Sang songs to her. Prepared her favorite foods.
I suffered moments, of course—those triggered by memories or dates or words people said—where I’d lapse into spells of great sadness. But I was good to Janie.
One thing that was hard on me was card club with the girls. I was held captive every four weeks, rotating among portable tables with mothers obsessing over everything from trouble with teething to whether the polio vaccine worked. Eventually someone would lay down her trump card, perhaps a jack of spades, and then turn to me and innocently ask, “How many children do you have?” Or, “Are you planning to have more? I’ll bet Janie would love a little brother or sister.” It was hard to hear. But I’d learned how to say I had one. I’d learned to pretend I might have more.
The most difficult part of making Abbie and the rest of the family promise not to talk about Kathleen was that sometimes I needed so badly to talk about her. Not often. But I needed for someone besides Dennis, someone who remembered what I’d been through, to let me speak of our loss freely. Thank God Pauline was that friend.
Tonight neighbors from two blocks over and ladies from church squeezed into folding chairs our hostess’s husband had dragged up from the basement. These women were giddy as kids gathering to go trick-or-treating.
“Bingo!” someone shouted. The Tupperware lady warmed up the guests with games before demonstrating the benefits of her food storage products. So we all matched tokens to square cards in our laps that bore the names of famous people. President Eisenhower. Ricky Nelson. Lucille Ball. The bingo winners took home sets of Tupperware wagon-wheel coasters.
Dorothy, ever the model hostess, jumped up to pour hot coffee and asked that we help ourselves to her pineapple upside-down cake. It was set on her dining room table strewn with candles, smartly displayed in a Tupperware piece she called her bake-and-take cake carrier.
Word spread like wildfire that the Tupperware dealer had bought a new car with her own money. I was pleased that I had come tonight to support a modern, industrious woman. Being there prodded the yearning I already felt for getting back into our own business.
For the first time in my marriage I could even foresee the day I might break out and do something else beyond the business, too—something big on my own.
“Ladies,” the dealer said, “to keep your food’s freshness locked inside, let the air out, and then ‘burp’ the lid.” With much fanfare, the Tupperware lady revealed the secret to a container’s airtight seal.
“Burp, burp, burp,” the women all chanted amid bursts of laughter. The dealer passed around a pale-green, six-piece bowl set with lids, so we could all have a try. The more products we bought, the better Dorothy’s chances of earning a special hostess gift—a rose-patterned set of silverware. It was good marketing. So we all scribbled away on little pink forms with stubby pencils without erasers. I was having a swell time.
Ideas bubbled up in my head. To get my job duties back, I would not appeal to Dennis with a dinner of Swiss steak and hope for the best. Taking a cue from the Tupperware lady, I would go to him with a means to increase sales. We could host a pizza party for past customers to encourage referrals. I could launch an ad campaign with testimonials—people loved to see their pictures in the paper. I might establish a program with local vendors to give our customers a discount for appliances and furniture and more. It would get more traffic through their doors and be a win-win for everyone. A whole plan for the business was taking form in my head. I would present the plan to Dennis as his partner with a fully fleshed-out case. I would follow through on the plan without asking permission.
I was beginning to be excited again. I could contribute. If Mama were alive, she’d be proud of where I’d come after falling so far. I had new purpose.
That’s when I saw our neighbor from over on Oakbrook Lane, tucked behind two others beside an antique armoire. The pregnant neighbor. She rose steadily from her seat as if she were the newly crowned Queen Elizabeth of England, and as she spun to her right to greet her many admirers, the hems of her generous, bell-shaped top swished happily to and fro about the tops of her thighs.
None of these women doubted that when a nurse wheeled the new mother out of the hospital come discharge day, she would be cradling a bundle in her arms. Not a soul could possibly doubt that a bit. Except me.
I would be stron
g, though, not letting the pregnant neighbor sink my spirits. “When are you due?” I asked like any other one of the girls, smiling.
She rubbed circles on her tummy. “I’m six months along. I’ll have a spring baby. My due date is March 23.” She beamed.
I grasped hold of the arm of Pauline’s chair beside me. Pauline touched my hand, and her soothing voice echoed as if from miles afar. “Oh, honey. That date. You going to be all right?”
Kathleen would have turned three on the following March 23. I shifted my eyes to where our hostess was extolling the benefits of her Wonderlier bowl. The bowl was perfect for leftovers. Spillproof, too. And so durable. It saved time. Saved money. Nearby, three neighbors huddled, gossiping all the while they crammed celery sticks stuffed with Cheez Whiz into their faces. The room began to spin, and I pinched the bridge of my nose, the noise around me becoming louder and louder.
“You look wonderful, my dear. Any names picked out yet? You say little Jimmy learned to ride his bike last summer? Shh, don’t repeat this, but Maryellen found that new magazine, Playboy, in her husband’s desk drawer. The one with Marilyn Monroe? I suppose he’s stashed away the Kinsey report on women too? Burp, burp, burp. Bill’s whole clan is coming for the holidays. Did you hear? Lynn is expecting again too!”
I longed to dip into my pocketbook, slip out a bottle of pills, and make my way to the powder room. So easy. But I had none. My hands fisted, my nails making dents in the life lines of my palms. I would not backslide.
“Excuse me, aren’t you Mrs. Glenn?”
I twisted to see a young woman with wavy hair the color of mayonnaise, juggling some Tupperware bowls. I should have been able to place her. Grocery store? Church? But in my current state I could not.
“I’m Valerie Percy. Your husband built our house.” She was bubbly with round cheeks, full and sweet as cinnamon buns.
“Of course,” I said. “The Percy home, over on Birch, isn’t it?” The importance of Dennis’s sales, of clients and referrals, of our security, rocked me back to attention. In this moment I had to do my part, however slight it was. An upwardly mobile, satisfied homeowner could be a builder’s customer for life. She could send droves of referrals our way, too.
“We love our home,” she said. “It’s so convenient and cute. You know, you were a big help in our making a decision.”
I was taken aback. “Me?”
“Yes. I remember the first time I met you and your husband at an open house. My Joe and I were so nervous. Picking out house plans and a mortgage and all. But you and Mr. Glenn were so patient. We felt we were in the best possible hands when it came to signing the papers. I’ll never forget how you told me on the side, woman-to-woman, that a house was more than a home. It might fall under our domain, but it was a beginning. It was there for us to prove what else we could do.” She glowed. “I’m going to the university now. Training to be a pediatric nurse.”
That woman brought hot tears to my eyes. “You’re so sweet,” I said. Pauline had a broad smile. This past customer, Mrs. Percy, would have a job helping children. “I’m humbled,” I said. “Truly.”
Another idea for the business came to me. I could start up a morning program, a women’s group for Gunnison homeowners’ wives. We could meet and have speakers or test new products. Maybe we all had something of import to share.
I had Janie. I had Dennis. And I had much work left to do.
2015
Having been given my choice of restaurants to celebrate, I picked the Precinct, one of Jeff Ruby’s steakhouses. Beef was a bit hard to chew, but these old teeth had gotten me this far, and red meat hadn’t killed me yet. Jane had said she’d choose a salad. And besides, I liked to get all dolled up in a dress and earrings every once in a while, brush a little rouge on my cheeks. This place reminded me of going out on the town with Dennis and Pauline and Bob when we’d come to the Precinct when I turned fifty-eight—the fall before Dennis first got sick.
Jane played chauffeur. The restaurant was in a former police patrol house built in 1901. We climbed out at the corner of Delta and Columbia and let the car be valeted. The building had a high foundation of large rectangular stones, while old red bricks ran up the rest, including a turret on one end. Jane took my arm, and we ascended the few steps under a large purple awning bearing a big and elegant P.
We were greeted with Sinatra music. The foyer was warm with rich wood floors, a red button-tufted circular bench, and two vintage barber chairs to sit in for fun.
“Let’s take a selfie,” Kelsey said. “You two act as if you like each other.” Jane and I rolled our eyes, laughed, and posed.
I pressed my lips together to add sheen to my lipstick and perk up my face. As if that would do any good. Men’s hairlines may recede, but so did women’s lips. Such were the perils of becoming elderly, a word I despised, though I didn’t mind old.
Kelsey snapped our picture as we snuggled before the wall of celebrities’ photos; the Precinct had welcomed everyone from Sylvester Stallone to Pete Rose. We checked our coats, and my girls looked pretty—Kelsey had painted her nails blue and wore black leggings, black Tory Burch flats, and a sleek black maternity top with a tangle of long blue beads around her neck. Her shoulder bag was large enough to tote a dozen diapers. Jane was in slacks, boots, and a flowing kimono in paisley and fringe. I was relieved to see her looking radiant.
The hostess led us through the swinging saloon doors of wood and leaded glass. “I never tire of this cool, quirky place,” Kelsey said. “Good choice, Grandma.” I patted her back.
I wanted to breeze by the ornate Brunswick bar as we went to our table. I loved hearing the shaking of martinis—that rigorous sound of ice cubes on metal, a sound from my younger days and now back in fashion. Soon we were seated in the main dining room, where giant images of turn-of-the-century policemen hung in relief against exposed brick walls. This contrasted with chandeliers of both brass and crystal and paintings of nudes.
Jane said, with her index finger poised on her jawbone and tilting her chin left and right, “How do I look? This dim, flattering light would make even Norma Desmond appear decades younger.” She laughed. “Grandma Glenn and I stayed up late one night watching Sunset Boulevard. She loved that movie.”
“I had no idea,” I said.
“I miss Great-Grandma Glenn,” Kelsey said. “No more stories about her taking a cow’s udder and squirting milk in Papaw’s face when he was a toddler.”
“No more ice-box cake,” Jane said. “Goodness gracious, I loved that woman. Has it really been twenty-five years since we lost her?”
“She was a good egg,” I said. Mother Glenn had been a second mother to me. Loyal and kind and true. She had outlived Dennis. She’d lost her own child, and I’d held her as she wept. It was a twisted fate of the world that as mothers we’d been forced to do that for each other.
“I’m gonna watch Sunset Boulevard this week just for shits and giggles,” Jane said. “Unless Tommy Irving asks me out on a date.”
“Whaaaat?” That was Kelsey, her eyes big as cow patties and surely matching mine. Tommy was recently retired from Procter & Gamble and had been divorced for years.
“Just kidding,” Jane said. “Got you. But he heard I was back, and he’s going to pull some old friends together soon.”
“Wonderful,” I said. Might those two end up together? I smiled at the possibilities. Yes, my Janie was in a great mood tonight. She didn’t have cancer. And neither of us could get the smiles off our faces.
A server set down two kinds of bread: sourdough and salted rye. These were accompanied by two kinds of butter, one a velvety sweet cream and the other dotted with minced black truffles.
“The bread service alone makes this place worth coming to,” Jane said, grinning. Perhaps only in Cincinnati would fine dining feature rye bread, a nod to the city’s German heritage.
The server brought Jane a glass of Riesling and me a cabernet. Kelsey lifted her goblet of sparkling water and said, “To my two
favorite women in the whole wide world—two women who’ve survived everything life has thrown at them.” Her voice was sentimental and joyous and young. “May there be many more birthdays for each of you . . . our birthday girl and for my mother, who escaped a close call.”
“Cheers!” We clinked glasses. Life presented these moments of unexpected beauty to balance out all the rest.
“Jane,” I said, “I am over the moon happy for you. A prayer answered.”
“Thank you,” she said warmly. “Now I can concentrate on my grandchild.” Jane asked Kelsey, “Any update on midwife versus hospital?”
“Midwife,” Kelsey said.
Jane said, “I assume that means no labor meds.”
“Well, yeah. I have friends who view vaginal births as barbaric, who don’t need to ‘prove their womanhood’ by going through all that pain. That’s what makes them feel in control. Not so for me.”
It always came down to yearning for control. But as Jane had said in the church, how much could any of us be in total control?
“Remember our talk about C-sections?” Kelsey went on. “They’re vital for some women and babies. But Aaron says his buddy, a medical malpractice attorney, told him that women aren’t seen as mothers-to-be by hospitals anymore. They’re litigants-to-be. Therefore, doctors are more apt to operate, and that way if they get sued, they can claim they tried everything they could.”
“Scary,” Jane said.
I slathered sweet cream butter on rye bread and said nothing. Over the course of sixty years, then, society had gone from no one getting to question a physician to everyone questioning physicians. In my view there were good doctors and bad. More good than bad, I thought. Why couldn’t there be a fair balance—a clear recourse for patients who’d been wronged, but not everyone jumping on the bandwagon?
Millicent Glenn's Last Wish: A Novel Page 29