Sometimes society took things too far. Sometimes it cut off its nose to spite its own face.
Kelsey fondled one of her loop earrings. “C-sections are the most common surgery in the country now. That’s a lot of knives.”
The waiter was coming our way. “Mind if we shift the topic to the kind of knife I’m going to use for my steak?” I said.
By the time we placed our orders, diners had filled more tables. The room wafted with scents of lemony-buttery Dover sole as it was filleted right in front of one couple. The thirty-something lovebirds at the table a few arms’ lengths away appeared to be marking an anniversary. A bottle of champagne chilled in a silver bucket. Their fingers—hers bearing a rock so big it could carve bulletproof glass—were interlaced across the table’s wide stretch of white linen. I wondered, as I often had over the years when observing strangers, whether their blissful existence might one day shatter. Would this sunny, unsuspecting couple suffer great loss, as Dennis and I had? I sent over silent vibes for them, that they’d be strong, that they’d last. That they’d keep their vows for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health till death did they part.
This had been the only way for Dennis Glenn and me. Our vows and our love had held us together. And I felt a swell of wholesome pride in that.
“I brought something fun,” Kelsey said. “A few pictures.”
She’d taken a shoebox of old photographs home from my basement. For tonight she’d hand-selected the black-and-white studio shot of my young, happy parents. And a picture Dennis had snapped of me in the Eden Park gazebo after he’d proposed. There was also Janie and me rolling out Christmas cookie dough—her with flour and sprinkles all over her face.
Mother Glenn had once said that our good memories were there for us when we needed them; they’re there to sustain us. How wise that woman was.
“Grandma, look at this one of you at Kroger. You’re so official.” She passed it around.
“I was quite a bit younger then,” I said. But it wasn’t a pose at my first Kroger job, the one before I’d married. It was me when I retired.
When Jane was in high school, I’d left Gunnison Homes, gone to college, and earned a degree in accounting. On the evening before my first day of class, Dennis had come home with a bouquet of fall flowers . . . and a note attached:
To the prettiest girl a guy ever got, not to mention the smartest. Go get ’em, Mil. Can’t wait to see how high you soar. Love, D
I’d kept that note. How heartwarming it’d been to see how far he’d come. He’d watched how I’d stepped back into the home-building business without waiting for his consent, worked by day while Janie was in school, and by the time she reached high school, revenue had grown by 15 percent.
After earning my college degree, I got a job fulfilling my first passion, crunching numbers—as an accounts payable specialist for the largest grocery chain in the country, Cincinnati-based Kroger. I’d started out at the very first Kroger Super Market when I was seventeen, and years later I got the gold watch from the company headquarters.
“Grandma,” Kelsey said, “you’re such an inspiration.”
Sweet Kelsey. “The day I’d gone to interview for that job Pauline said I was a shoo-in, because I had tons of experience with numbers and groceries.”
Kelsey and Jane chuckled—but it brought a pang to my heart. It was less than two years ago that my best friend had phoned me, saying, “Millie, it’s me.” I’d known right then and there that something was terribly wrong, because Pauline had always called me Millicent, not Millie. In the end, I was holding her hand when she died of kidney disease in hospice.
Jane said, “I agree with Kels, you’re inspiring. I remember you talking to me about The Feminine Mystique. You even quoted to Daddy from the book. And when we watched the March on Washington, you served sloppy joes on TV trays—I still ate meat then, ha, ha—and after Martin Luther King Jr. gave his now-famous speech, you asked me if I had a dream of my own.”
“I vividly recall what you said,” I told her now. I hoped I wouldn’t get choked up by repeating it. “You said, ‘I want to grow up and help people.’” We’d had good times along with all the bad, she and I.
“And that’s exactly what you did,” Kelsey said. “I’m proud of you, too, Mom.”
“I took a few detours before landing at Habitat,” Jane said. “But we should never say never.”
No, never say never. I should never have counted Jane and me out. I’d lost one daughter. But Jane wasn’t lost after all.
Kelsey handed another photo to her mom. “Here’s you and Papaw, wearing your hard hats.”
“Daddy built houses for a living. I built houses for living,” Jane said. The nonprofit at which she’d first volunteered, and then spent her career, helped families in need around the globe. “But Daddy,” she said, remorse tinging her voice, “was a man who offered his little girl what other men left only their sons. And I turned it down.”
In the eighties, Dennis had asked Jane if she wanted to take over the home-building business when he retired. He’d been disappointed that she’d said no, and he’d later sold it.
“Don’t fret about that decision,” Kelsey said. “The whole point of the women’s movement meant you got to choose, right?”
How that dear child warmed my heart.
Two servers arrived at our table. “Petite filet with cognac-peppercorn sauce?” That was mine. I’d ordered the steakhouse hash browns, too. I’d never eat it all, but it would warm up well the next day. “Wedge salad with extra blue—hold the bacon—with a side of mac and cheese? Sea bass with carrot purée?” The stiff-collared server pressed his palms together. “Ladies, will there be anything else?”
“We’re all set,” Kelsey said.
“I know you have a career choice ahead, too,” I said to her. “Have you given more consideration to what you’ll tell your boss?”
“I have,” she said. “You two are an amazing pair of role models, you know? Career women. And wonderfully imperfect, loving mothers. I want to be both. It doesn’t have to be either/or.”
“So what are you going to do?” Jane asked.
“My job will let me go part-time after six weeks of maternity leave.” Kelsey’s face was a mix of hope, satisfaction, and distress. “I love my work. But I want to be home with my son or daughter, too. I don’t know if this plan will last forever. I may end up going back to work full-time—or I may change my mind and become a stay-at-home mom. Playdates and carpools to soccer practice. I don’t know. But I think part-time will be a good balance for starters.”
“Best of both worlds?” I said, cutting my steak. It was tender as could be, and delicious. Worth the pain in my hands to slice off another bite. I considered Kelsey’s pending decision: Why couldn’t my granddaughter be happy at home—even if one day she stayed home full-time—no matter what Mama had drilled into me? Kelsey had earned a reputation in her field, and whatever she chose moving forward would be good enough for me.
“We’ve got the best of all worlds right here. The three of us,” Jane said.
I remembered again how I’d felt on Janie’s first night home from the hospital as an infant. And my heart overflowed again with that abundance of love.
“Dessert, madams?” said the server.
“What kind of cake do you want?” Jane asked.
I scanned the menu. “Three-layer carrot cake sounds good.”
“Can you put ninety-one candles on her piece, please?” Jane said. Had she let a stronger Southern accent seep out on purpose? “Or one candle would do,” she said. Then she pointed to her menu and added, “And bring us one of these, too. The warm skillet chocolate chip cookie. Don’t skimp on the ice cream.”
“Three plates. Three spoons,” Kelsey said.
The whole meal and conversation were what I’d long hoped for: harmony, closeness, love, and respect. My purse, a large one, was hanging on the arm of my chair. I pulled out a framed keepsake, one that
I’d removed from the shelves Dennis had built.
“It’s my turn.” I handed the frame to my daughter while Kelsey looked on.
“What’s this?” Jane said. “Your collage?”
“Take the collage out of its frame,” I said. “Go on.”
Jane raised her brows but complied. She slid her glass of water aside. When she got the frame’s backing and the muslin and the yellowed slip of paper removed, the message was as clear as the day I’d written it in cursive. She read it aloud: “Made with love, in memory of our happiest day yet, a day that will only be surpassed by the glorious moment that our first baby is born. Millicent Glenn. April 13, 1949.” That was several months before Janie was born.
“Oh, Grandma,” Kelsey said. She gave me a big smile.
Jane wiped her eyes. “It’s a preserved moment in time. It’s over the top.”
“I wanted you more than I’d ever wanted anything my whole entire life,” I said. She blushed. It felt good for my throat to hurt when saying words that actually made her happy.
Kelsey excused herself to head to the ladies’ room, but not without kissing the top of my head first.
“Mom,” Jane said. “Have you ever regretted making that call to Nurse Breck? Learning what happened?”
“Never. Kathleen had been forced to suffer it. As her mother, she deserved for me to be strong enough to hear it and never forget it.”
A few minutes later I emboldened myself and asked my daughter, “Not long ago, you said you’d wished I’d told you about Kathy much sooner. But now that you know everything you know, would you rather have never been told?”
“No regrets,” she said. Kelsey was walking back toward our table. “And you know what? Maybe I needed this health scare, too. I needed to experience some hint of personal trauma. I can’t begin to imagine the crisis if it’d been my child at risk instead of me.” She took my hand in hers as Kelsey took her seat. “Kelsey’s right. You’re a survivor.”
Something in me fluttered. If the sensation had a name, it might be affirmation. I’d made the right decision in telling Jane most everything after all. Surely knowing would be better than not knowing.
I had no regrets.
“I love you, Mom,” Jane said, surprising me with these three beautiful words and her eyes glistening. “Don’t ever worry again about what you told me or what you didn’t. You hear? You did what you had to do to survive something no mother should ever have to endure. I’ll be okay. Promise.” She had a warm bend to her lips. “All is forgiven.”
Forgiven. My heart leaped and did a flip. I’d gotten my last wish.
“I love you, my daughter,” I said. Jane leaned over the table and embraced me with one arm. I breathed in her scent of sandalwood. Her hair tickled my face. Kelsey actually got back up and joined in, and we had a family bear hug right there in public.
Kelsey said as our arms slipped aside, “It’s like you both always needed to know the other was there and you were loved, but you were both too hurt and vulnerable to ask.” Out of the mouths of babes.
Our desserts arrived, and I blew out my candle, my heart full. Birthday parties, it turned out, need not be big to be special.
As we shared the cake and the melty skillet cookie, my mind slipped backward again—far, far back this time toward a day I would not share with my girls. Indeed, I would forever hold private this one last memory.
My storytelling was done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
December 1957
Pauline and I poured out of the theater with the rest of the throng. It’d been a Saturday matinee, and we had just seen Peyton Place. The year before, Pauline and I had both devoured the New York Times bestseller by the same title. A housewife whom no one had ever heard of had written it. The story boasted well-heeled characters with loose morals—New Englanders who’d committed everything from adultery to murder. The film wasn’t without controversy. But it starred Lana Turner and Hope Lange. Pauline said as we filed through the lot to my car, “My lands, that Hope Lange should win an Oscar for that performance.” I had to agree. Her character had been raped by her stepfather, whom she subsequently killed in self-defense.
Dennis and Bob had expressed no desire to see that film. I think my husband wondered why we women were so keen on peeking into other people’s problems. Hadn’t we had seen enough of our own? I could appreciate that.
We had lost a child.
Pauline said as we climbed into the front seat, “You’re not gonna believe this.”
“What am I not gonna believe?” I inserted my key in the ignition.
“My head is throbbing,” she said. “And I’ve got cramps. I think I’ll take a rain check on shopping.”
I craned my head her way. “You? Turning down a shopping spree?”
“I know,” she said. “It’s a rotten shame, isn’t it?” We burst out laughing.
It wasn’t a problem for me, though. Janie was at the farm for the weekend, baking gingerbread with her grandma, and I could spend more time with my husband. Just us two.
Pauline crossed the lawn, and I waved and headed into the house. Because I was home early, I expected to find Dennis watching basketball on TV. Or reading Popular Science.
“Honey?” I said from the kitchen. “I’m home.” No answer. His car was in the garage. But there was no sign that he’d eaten a thing. No soup bowl and spoon. No Oreo crumbs or graham cracker wrappers.
I made my way to the living room. “Dennis?” All was still.
Where was he?
The hall bathroom was open and dark. As I went toward our bedroom, I removed my clip earrings, which had started to pinch. I thought I heard something. Was that moaning? Dennis moaning?
There was no sign of him in our room. The bedspread was perfectly neat, just as I’d left it that morning. But again I heard him moan.
I scurried to Janie’s room. Nothing.
I ran across the hall and burst into our spare room, the messy one with all my sewing stuff and his home files for the business. There Dennis was, wriggling on the twin guest bed, bunched up in yellow-striped linens. His feet stuck out at the foot of the bed, his shoes still on. His face was in agony.
“What are you doing?” I said, trembling. I spoke loudly so there’d be no mistake.
His head popped up. His eyes wide. I could see from where I was that his pupils were dilated. His shirt collar was crooked. His hair was in disarray.
“What in the world are you doing in here?” I said, coming closer. I smelled the alcohol before I noticed the bottle on the cabinet of my sewing machine—the bottle was beside wadded-up packs of cigarettes and an ashtray bulging with butts. Bourbon. Almost empty.
He was sloshed. My husband of almost thirteen years—we would celebrate our anniversary the day after Christmas—was sloppy drunk. Of course, he imbibed with our friends and at parties, just like I did. But I couldn’t recall a time I’d seen him soused.
He tried to sit up. He flopped back down.
Besides the alcohol and the smoke, there was another odor, too. I sat next to him on the bed, and beneath the cover sheet on his other side was a stinky patch where he’d barfed. Not a big patch, thank goodness.
“Can you get up? So I can clean in here?”
“I may never get up again,” he mumbled.
“Dennis Glenn,” I said. I was so frightened I was angry. “What’s this about?”
I hopped up and looked around the room for a clue. He had house plans on his drafting board. A stack of paint chips. Nothing unusual. That’s when my foot slid on a crumpled-up pile of newspapers. I bent to the floor and picked up the top page.
“We should have discussed this years ago,” Dennis said. Discussed what? Now he had me even more mystified.
Dennis had folded the newspaper page in such a way as to highlight one section. I glanced at the date in the corner. This morning’s edition. The society section.
He repeated, “We should have talked about this years ago.” He rubbed his whi
skered cheeks roughly with both hands.
Talked about what?
I faced the window to scan the page without him watching. What could these photos of pretty women with wedding announcements mean? Then I saw her: Mrs. Reynolds.
The doctor’s wife had married a second husband. She looked elegant—a more mature Grace Kelly, perhaps. But happy. Her fiancé had also been widowed, the article said. An engineer.
I lowered my head. Ashamed to think of her. I recalled vividly her flagstone steps. The toys scattered in the yard, the Tudor lines of her house. Two darling girls—and their mother closing the draperies one at a time in the daylight.
Dennis blocked his eyes with his arm as if too much sun streamed in. But it did not. The sun was setting.
He said, “I lied to you.”
“That time I went to the builders’ conference for the award,” he said. I started. “I didn’t really go. They shipped the plaque to me the next day, on a truck with a kit.”
Was this to be some sort of confession for sins of the heart? An affair? I had doubted Dennis once before—when I thought he’d signed consent papers. I’d been wrong then. Now I knew that trust must be stronger than doubt.
“If you weren’t at the conference, then where were you?”
“Dr. Reynolds came to see me,” he said. “At my office, when I was gathering up things for the conference.”
I winced. “What?”
“He came to apologize. For his negligence that led to the death of our daughter. Nothing more.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
“When the doctor had gone, I decided I’d let him off too easy. I hadn’t yelled or cursed enough. I hadn’t punched him in his face or broken his surgical fingers. I couldn’t forget ripping up my box of cigars—the ones I’d bought to pass out to the guys—or the tobacco leaves I’d crumbled into the trash. I couldn’t shake the memory of holding Kathy. I couldn’t get the picture of her purple wound, her tiny lips, out of my head. And I couldn’t forgive what he’d done to you, too.”
“Dennis.” My heart was thudding so hard, so fast, I thought it might explode. “What exactly are you saying?”
Millicent Glenn's Last Wish: A Novel Page 30