Island Girl

by Lynda Simmons

  I kept my voice down, my tone level, matching his. “You’re so full of shit it’s a wonder your eyes aren’t brown. I’m only standing here because of my friend. Otherwise I would have told you to shove your ultimatum where the cat won’t get it. And I have always cared about Grace. All I’ve ever wanted to do is help her.”

  “Well, it won’t be much help to her if Ruby sells the shop, will it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your mother’s plan. She’s going to sell the business because she wants to tie up all the ends before she dies. I’ve tried to talk her out of it because it’s not necessary and it’s going to devastate Grace, but there’s no changing her mind. You know nothing of this, of course, because you haven’t once called to see how your mother is doing.”

  I threw up my hands. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve never called about Ruby before.”

  “She’s never had Alzheimer’s before.”

  I let my arms drop. “Fine, how is she?”

  “Not good. She refuses to take some of the medications because somehow she’s got her hands on some pot instead. And she’s started a blog. ‘Show Me the Ice Floe.’ That’s how she is.”

  I wrapped my arms around myself and turned away. “Sounds like she’s doing just fine. And a little pot is probably good for her. Takes away the anxiety.”

  “Don’t be smart with me, little girl.”

  I sighed and looked back at him. “Mark, what do you want from me?”

  “I want you to move back home.”

  “But what if that isn’t what’s best for her?”

  “Don’t try and turn this around. Ruby wants you here. You know that.”

  “Alzheimer’s patients are supposed to avoid agitation and stress, right? Well, talking to me, even seeing me from afar, only causes more of both. I can only imagine how horrible it would be for both of us if I lived there. Like it or not, Mark, the best thing, the most loving thing I can do for Ruby, is to stay the hell away from her.”

  “You tell yourself that if it makes you feel better.”

  “What would make me feel better is knowing why you’re pushing me this way. Why you won’t just leave it alone?”

  “I can’t leave it alone because your mother is going to kill herself. She has pages of notes, Liz. And a spreadsheet with more ways to kill yourself than I ever imagined possible. She even has a column of risks associated with each one. Risks that aren’t death.”

  “She always was thorough,” I said, and had no trouble picturing a spreadsheet with precise rows and neatly labeled columns: Method, Equipment, Pain Factors, Risks. While the last column probably wouldn’t have occurred to me any more than it had to Mark, I suppose she had to take the risk factors into consideration, be prepared for outcomes that weren’t part of the plan. Dismemberment, for instance. Or paralysis. Any number of fates that would definitely be worse than death, if that was the goal.

  “Not just thorough,” Mark said. “Meticulous, which leaves no doubt in my mind that she’ll try.”

  “And you intend to stop her?”

  “What else can I do?”

  “Leave her alone. Let her handle this in her own way.”

  “Even if her way is wrong?”

  “How dare you decide that for her. How dare you think you know what she needs, what’s good for her. My mother may have been a bitch, but she always knew her own mind and precisely what she wanted. Now that mind is telling her to get out while she still can, and I can’t fault her for that.”

  “Can’t fault her? You just said that her mind is telling her to do this, and her mind has Alzheimer’s for God’s sake. Her decision isn’t rational.”

  “Come off it, Mark. She’s always felt this way and you know it. ‘Take me out and shoot me,’ she used to say every time Great-Grandma Lucy took off all her clothes at the ferry dock or threw tea bags at the tourists. I was just a little kid, but I remember it clearly. ‘If I ever get like that, take me out and shoot me.’”

  “But no one ever took Lucy out and shot her, did they? Because life is precious.”

  “No one shot her because we didn’t have a gun. And the winter they found her body in the woods on Hanlan’s Point, we were sad, but we all breathed a sigh of relief, didn’t we? We were all glad the crazy old coot was gone and Ruby could finally fix up the house. Add the second floor we’d needed for years but couldn’t do until the queen bee agreed, which she wouldn’t do because she was fucking crazy. So don’t give me clichés about the preciousness of life, Mark. Give me one good reason why Ruby shouldn’t kill herself instead.”

  His shoulders slumped, his eyes closed, and he looked tired all of a sudden. Old and tired and vulnerable in a way that I hadn’t seen since the day Ruby packed his bags. “Because suicide is the end of hope,” he said, and opened his eyes. “It’s giving up and giving in. Turning your back on the possibility of miracles.”

  “You mean a cure.”

  “Yes, a cure. And if not a cure, at least something that will slow the progress better. Something to hold the illness where it is and prevent further loss.” He paused and drew in a breath. Shook off whatever had been weighing him down and pushed his shoulders back. Mark returning. “There’s research being done all over the world, scientists searching for answers every day, and that gives me hope. It should give Ruby hope too, but it doesn’t, and that’s not like her. Your mother has never been the kind to give up hope, no matter how pointless the cause. If anything, she’s been the patron saint of lost causes all of her life, fighting to save her home or stop the expressway or—”

  “Ban the ban on altar girls.”

  “Exactly. She knew she wouldn’t win all of her fights, but she never gave up trying, she never gave up hope. She still’s fighting the airport, for God’s sake. What kind of crazy optimism is that? Yet she won’t fight to save herself, and that’s not your mom, that’s not Ruby.” He put his hands on my shoulders, looked into my eyes. “She needs you, sweetie. She needs you because you’re right about avoiding agitation and stress. Both of those things will only cause the disease to advance faster, steal her from us that much sooner. And the biggest stress in Ruby’s life right now is the house. She needs to know the house will stay in the family.”

  I pushed him away. “Then let her leave the goddamn house to Grace. I don’t want it, I never wanted it.”

  “Grace can’t handle that house on her own. She’ll always need help.”

  “And that’s my problem, is it? The fact that Ruby needs to hold on to her piece of the Island is my responsibility.”

  “Yes,” he said, so simply and with such conviction that I realized he believed his own shit. He honestly expected me to come home and take over that goddamn house. How in God’s name was I supposed to answer that?

  “Liz,” he went on. “You don’t have to come forever. Just for a year, six months even. Just long enough for your mother to know that she can relax. Once she does that, then together we can show her she’s wrong about the suicide. Prove to her that this illness is worth fighting, and we’ll be with her every step of the way.”

  I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t make sense of it. But he mistook my hesitation for a way in, and he put those hands on my shoulders again. Weighed me down and held me in place while he made his closing argument. “I know it won’t be easy. I know you and your mother can fight at the drop of a dime, but that’s not how it has to be. You’re the healthy one, Liz, the one with the ability to think and reason. That’s why you need to be the one to change things. Your mother is who she is. She’ll always find fault, but only because she loves you and wants the best for you. Her idea of what’s best, yes, but that’s all she has. That’s all she’s ever had.

  “So I’m asking you to stop fighting with your mother. I’m asking you to come home, bite your tongue, and be the daughter she needs you to be. Not forever, just until she settles down. Comes to see that the future isn’t as grim as she imagines.” He paused there and smiled. “Can you do that
, Liz? For Grace. For me. Can you do that for all of us?”

  I looked away, watched the line for the patio growing longer. Thought of the pasta congealing on my plate, of Grace waiting to show me more pictures of the mockingbird, and Ruby plotting ways to kill it.

  I smiled, imagining her walking back and forth under the lilac tree, shaking her fist and muttering threats. Determined to get that bird off her property one way or another because, by God, this was Donaldson land and no bird was going to get the better of her.

  If nothing else, my mother was interesting. And I tried to imagine myself on the lawn with her, yelling at the bird, shooing it away. Trying to be the daughter she’d always wanted. The one who would bite her tongue until it bled while Ruby pointed out that she was shooing the bird the wrong way. Or wearing the wrong clothes, or thinking the wrong thoughts.

  The daughter who would play lady-in-waiting to the queen bee. The girl who would march at the airport and live in the house and keep her mother alive and take away the tea bags and follow in her footsteps long after she’d buried her mother’s ashes in the garden. And that was where my stomach started to heave and that image, that horrible twisted image, faded to black. Because I wasn’t that daughter. I never had been. And Ruby and I both knew it.

  I turned back to Mark. “As much as you’d like to believe otherwise, the last thing my mother needs is to have me in that house. Because if she didn’t kill herself, I probably would take her out and shoot her. I can’t move back to the Island, Mark. I simply can’t.”

  Disbelief moved across his face, followed by disappointment. I’d expected both, was ready for both. It was the disgust that brought tears to my eyes.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.” He checked his watch, glanced back at the café. “I need to get back to work. I’ve arranged payment for lunch. Go ahead and order something else. Your pasta will be ice by now.” He hugged me briefly, as you might a cousin with an odd smell at Christmas. Then he released me, stepped back, putting distance between us. “You’re so alike, you and your mother. But as much as I love you both, the fact is that Ruby needs me more, and I won’t be the go-between any longer. You’re on your own, Liz. Take care of yourself.”

  He turned and started walking away, and I knew a moment of real panic there on the lawn in front of the Rectory. Mark had never in my life turned his back on me. He had always been my champion, my white knight. The one man I could always count on, until now.

  You’re on your own, Liz.

  I ran after him. “Is that it then? You choose one of us and then just walk away?”

  He didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. Just kept on going. I slowed down as a chill moved around me, through me. I picked up a rock and threw it, missed him by a good ten feet. “Fine,” I hollered. “Keep walking. I don’t need you or her. I fucking hate both of you. Do you hear me? I fucking hate you.”

  “Liz?” I spun around, saw the feral cat crusader staring at me, open-mouthed. Benny on his bike across the road. Was it always Old Home Week on the Island?

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fucking perfect,” I said, and went back to the gate. Walked past the stuttering hostess. Between the tables of staring faces. Sat down with Jocelyn. “Where’s Grace?” I asked.

  “Bathroom,” Jocelyn said. “They took your lunch.”

  “Figures.” I reached under the table for my backpack. “We might as well go.”

  “Or we could get you a new lunch.” She held up a credit card. “My dad left me this. We can order everything on the menu.” She smiled slowly. “Twice if you want.”

  “You are my kind of girl, Jocelyn.” I smiled back and let my backpack slip to the ground as the waitress approached. “Bring us one of every dessert you have,” I said to her. “One at a time, and keep them coming. And while you’re in there, might as well bring me that double vodka. Don’t worry about the soda. I already have plenty.”

  GRACE

  My mom’s day off is Wednesday, but she doesn’t usually go anywhere. She usually stays here and does paperwork. Ordering stock, paying bills. “Mundane tasks that are part of running a business,” she always says, and then she smiles. “And you don’t have to worry about any of that. How lucky does that make you?”

  Pretty lucky, I guess. Especially since it seems like all those tasks are getting harder and harder. She used to sit at the table with her laptop while I worked, talking to me and my customers while she wrote checks and studied bank statements and counted stock and she always finished before lunch. But just after Christmas, she started taking her laptop upstairs where it was quiet, and lately she was still counting stock at dinnertime.

  “Banks and governments exist to make our lives more difficult,” she says when she finishes. “And I swear they’re getting worse every day.”

  So I guess I was pretty lucky I didn’t have to worry about any of those things. But that didn’t stop me from wishing I knew something about it when she came back from canoeing with Mark this morning, and said she wasn’t doing paperwork today.

  “Don’t make me any eggs,” she said when she came through the door. “Mark and I are going into the city, so we’ll grab breakfast over there.” She picked up the teapot and carried it with her to the window. “That stupid bird is barking like a dog. What kind of bird does that?”

  “A smart one. But what about the stock order? We’re almost out of peroxide.” I went to the stock cupboard. Took out the bottle and shook it. “We’ll be in trouble come Saturday.” I set the bottle back on the shelf and picked up two bills from the table. The hydro bill and the telephone bill. “And you left these in the bathroom yesterday.”

  She looked at me as though I was making it up, then laughed and gave her head a shake. “Well that is the quietest room in the house.” She opened the appointment book and stuck the bills inside. “I’ll take care of them when I get back.”

  “What about the peroxide?” I asked.

  “Grace, we’re fine. We don’t need as much now that summer is in full swing. You know that.”

  Sure, I knew that. Business always slowed down when the days got hot. But still, it wasn’t like her to let the stock get this low. Wasn’t like her to leave bills lying around either. Something was wrong and my stomach did a flip-flop when I thought about it some more. Was she sick again?

  “Now that silly bird’s got the real dogs barking.” She carried the teapot to the fridge. “Honestly, Grace you have to do something.”

  I didn’t know what she thought I could do, or what she was looking for in the fridge. All I could think about was the color of her skin and the state of her hair. Both looked fine to me. Like she’d been using the sunscreen and wearing her hat, but what did I know? I’m not a doctor. Just a worried daughter.

  “We need milk,” she said, and closed the fridge. “Can you put that on the list for me?” She carried the teapot back to the stove. “Do you want a cup?”

  “Sure.” I unclipped the list from its spot on the fridge and wrote milk underneath salt. “But I still don’t understand. We’ve never had so little stock any other summer.”

  She turned me around and laid her hands gently on each side of my face. Smiled and drew me closer so our noses were touching. “Grace, honey, trust me. We’ll be fine.”

  I couldn’t understand how that could be, but Mark and Jocelyn were coming through the gate and there was no more time to talk. So I quickly added peroxide to the bottom of the shopping list and stuffed the page into her ant bag.

  Maybe if she saw it written down, she’d change her mind. And I could ask her later if she was sick. Hope she told me the truth.

  “The lady mockingbird looks great,” Mark said as he came inside. “She was even poking her head out when I came up the stairs. Jocelyn’s waiting to see if she does it again. Who knows, this might be the day she flies.”

  “We can only hope.” My mom opened the ant bag to throw in her Tilley, saw the shopping list, and pulled it out. “Grace, what’s gotten
into you?” She scratched the line off the bottom and stuffed the list back in her bag. “Sometimes I swear you do things just to annoy me.”

  My face got warm and I wanted to ask why she was being so stubborn, so stupid about a bottle of peroxide. But Mark shook his head behind her back and made “calm down” motions with his hands. So I said, “Fine, no peroxide.” But it still didn’t make any sense.

  “Who’s that going by the gate?” my mom asked, pointing out the kitchen window.

  I took a quick look. “Kylie and Brianne. They’re getting really good on those stilts.”

  I was surprised when they stopped and Kylie called, “How’s the mockingbird?” to Jocelyn.

  I was even more surprised when Jocelyn said, “Good,” and walked a little closer to the gate. “She’s even poking her head out of the cage. Do you want to see her?”

  “We can’t right now,” Brianne said. “Our summer camp is having a garage sale at the clubhouse this weekend and we said we’d help put price stickers on stuff.”

  “But we can come later if that’s okay,” Kylie added.

  Jocelyn smiled. “Sure. I’ll be here.”

  I shook my head. Was everything going to be weird today?

  The girls waved and stilt-walked down the street. Jocelyn was still smiling when she sat down at the table. “The lady mockingbird is almost all the way out. She’s going to fly soon, I know it.”

  My mom poured a glass of orange juice for her. “I hear that garage sale is an important fund-raiser for the theater camp. Without it, they can’t afford new costumes or sets, and I’ll bet someone with something great to donate would be a big hit with everyone over there.”

  Jocelyn looked up at her. “What are you saying?”

  My mom smiled and sat down. “I’m saying I have a shed full of brand-new power tools that you can take over there. And I guarantee you’ll be the hero of the summer.”