“Fine!” That nugget had provided more incentive than she expected. “The earth rotates at nearly 1,000 miles per hour. What is your point?”
He was grinning now, practically licking his lips at his delicious victory. “It’s what I tell myself when I need a reminder that I can’t control everything. I say, Ed, no matter what you do, no matter how badly you want this, the earth is going to go on spinning—1,000 miles an hour, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”
Violet eyed him. “You’re saying I have control issues?”
He eyed her back. “You’re saying you don’t?”
Of all things.
“I hardly think petty accusation is helpful, Edward. Frankly, I resent it.” She could hear her voice rising.
Ed didn’t rile, not even a twitch. “Hmm. So your compulsion to discover Adam’s donor father didn’t lead to any disappointment or upset.”
Violet scoffed. “And you’re thrilled about the child sharing Kyle Endres’s DNA?”
Ed shrugged. “At least we know he’s a decent human being. At least we know what we know. We wouldn’t have any information if they’d used an anonymous donor.”
Exasperating, this man! Violet threw her hands in the air. “That’s what I’ve been saying for months.”
“But...” Ed squeezed her hand—too hard, though she wasn’t about to let on. “Don’t you see? That’s our opinion, not our right. Cerise and Barb are his parents. These are their choices. We have to trust they’ll do what’s best. And they will.”
Of course he was right. It was one of the only positive revelations from the horrors of the past weekend. Cerise and Barb didn’t turn on each other. They stayed cool. Even as the earth turned to salt around them, they kept their focus exactly where it needed to be: on their family.
And then the call from Meg.
Even so.
“It’s unnatural for a mother to give up on her child.” The words stuck in her throat. “I push Cerise because I love her. And if I don’t push—” She stopped, her throat closing its gates against a rising emotional tide.
This loop. She knew it so well. Push because you love, know you’re loved because you were pushed. It felt as familiar as an old housecoat. Practical and necessary.
“Letting go isn’t the same as giving up,” said Ed. “I don’t think that’s news to you, but I do know it’s difficult to accept.”
Violet nodded, but put her hand up to stop him. He was getting too far ahead, while she lagged behind, still wading through her last set of thoughts.
“It’s like,” she said, “I started pushing the day my mother stopped. While I was growing up, she was our family’s biggest cheerleader. Always the first to sing my father’s praises. Always prepared to ensure our accomplishments were properly recognized. And as soon as Daddy was gone, as soon as we needed her the most—poof! She just walked away. Just let him die and his reputation along with it.”
Ed closed his eyes. He recognized the trope and Violet knew what he was thinking—Here they were again, back spinning the same yarns.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Violet stopped him.
“I know. I know. I’m not going there again. It’s just that I realize—I don’t want my mother’s old housecoat.”
Ed screwed his face, confused.
“Never mind.” She waved the metaphor away. “The point is—” She took a deep breath. “Oh, Ed. The point is—I just farking hate getting old!”
Ed, who until that moment had been so present, so intimately concerned with her thoughts, suddenly opened his mouth, peeled his eyes back and howled with laughter.
His voice rang around the lip of her water glass and up the tinny brass candlesticks of her coffee table display.
The couch cushions shook as he shook, the two of them bouncing up and down, and their stomachs with them.
Violet, desperate to get her words out, howled back, undeterred. “I do! I farking hate it! I hate having to write every blasted thing down because I can’t remember any of it. I hate having to go to bed by nine o’clock, knowing that I’ll have to get out of bed at least twice to go to the bathroom. I hate that Alice Tobler—that old biddy who wears the same plastic mistletoe pin every blasted Christmas—looks at me like I’m decrepit.”
She had to stop to breathe, trying to find a gasp of air between heaving sobs of laughter. “And,” she added, pointing directly at Ed, “I HATE that you saw me wearing a diaper in the hospital!”
Ed howled again, clutching his stomach and collapsing against the back of the couch.
“I hate that it took me thirty years to discover that you’re a wonderful cook. I hate that I can’t even hire a cleaning service because no one can do it the way I do, even though I hate scrubbing the floor and if I never cleaned another toilet in my life I’d be perfectly happy. I hate that I’m now the age my mother was when she checked out so spectacularly, and I hate that my daughter—at just thirty years old—is already a better mother than I ever was!”
The room suddenly died.
Ed looked at her, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. “Why do you say that? You’re a wonderful mother.”
She hadn’t planned to—the words just came. “I don’t know.” She reached for the box of tissues on the coffee table. She offered one to Ed, and then took one for herself, wiping her cheeks. “It’s just that as each year passes, I’m acutely more aware of all the mistakes I may have made in life and how little time I have left to fix them.”
“Violet,” Ed said softly.
“Yes, yes, I know. We are not our pasts.” She blew out a long breath and steeled her spine against the cloud of self-doubt clinging to her. “And I know that being a grandmother is different. Things change for me now.” She smiled. “I don’t understand those changes yet, but I will do my best to accept them.” She patted her knee as she spoke, accentuating her final point.
Ed smiled. “I know you will.”
Violet cocked her head, feeling oddly proud. “Yes, I will.”
“Things are going to change around here for both of us, you know.” Ed stood, gathering his tray. “You don’t want me underfoot and frankly, I have no desire to be.” He patted his growing middle. “Besides this lovely addition, I worry all this time at home has also made me a bit thick in the head.”
“Nonsense.” Violet stood and gathered her own tray, then followed him into the kitchen.
“No, I’m afraid it’s true. Life has to involve more than mowing the lawn and trips to the Home Depot.” He turned on the sink and squeezed a dash of dish soap into the basin. He set the soup pot under the running water, letting it fill with suds.
Violet loaded their bowls and spoons into the dishwasher. “You may be underfoot but I certainly can’t complain about all the help around the house.” She pulled a clean dish towel from the drawer and waited while Ed scrubbed the pan and rinsed it clean. She looked at the towel she’d chosen. “Do you remember this?”
She held up the towel for him to see. It was crisp white linen, embroidered with the words of Matthew 25:35.
For I was hungry and you gave me food,
I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink,
I was a stranger and you welcomed me
“If I remember correctly, that was a gift from Barb,” he said.
“Yes,” Violet said, smiling as she recalled the day. “The very first Christmas she spent with us.”
That reminded her.
“Now, what do you know about Pastor Norblad’s nose?”
45
Cerise
BARB WENT BACK to work on Monday afternoon. Her new furniture client liked the work she’d done for their Luscious Leather Days Sale and hired her back to shoot the spots for their July 4 Exploding Savings event. She warned Cerise it was likely to be a late night.
“Just do a
good job,” Cerise said. “We could use a new mattress and I want their cr-aaay-zy-est discount.” She winked and shooed her out the door.
Anyway, Adam had just woken up and Cerise was in the process of packing him into his car seat to head over to her parents’ house. She’d spoken to her dad that morning and he said the mood at their house was still a bit grim. Maybe some baby love would help.
She and Barb were feeling shaken by the weekend’s events, themselves. At times, it felt to Cerise like she had a news ticker running at the base of her brain, constantly reviewing the headlines: Fistfight at the font, Suburban housewife drugged at dinner party, High school reunion hopes to answer the question, “Who’s the daddy?”
And yet, she and Barb also both admitted to feeling a bit numb. The weight was still settling. “Like, I’m thinking,” Barb said as they lay in bed Sunday night, “That happened to someone else, right? That could not have been real.”
Cerise nodded and thought about the moment Kyle said, “I do” at the baptismal font. She couldn’t shake the look on Rhonda’s face, like she hadn’t been the least bit surprised. But also like she was ready to murder him. How could it be both?
She pressed Pause on the memory and erased Rhonda’s face from her mind. Kyle had the ring back; Cerise could forget her now.
“I’m sorry I pressured you to invite your parents,” she said after a moment. “I had no idea.”
Barb put a hand on hers and squeezed. “Neither did I. They’ve always been complicated, but never this much of a mess.” She shook her head as if replaying her own nightmarish collage of memory. “And for what it’s worth, you didn’t pressure me. I ought to be able to invite my parents to come visit without expecting them to bring the apocalypse.”
“Has your mom always—” Cerise wasn’t exactly sure how to finish without accusation.
“Always liked her vodka, yes,” said Barb. “The pills are new.” She stopped. “Or maybe they’re not. It’s like I told you—they like to keep you guessing.”
“For what it’s worth, I think their visit reminded me of why I fell in love with you.” She moved in close and nestled into the warm nook at Barb’s side. “Why I love you still.”
“Because surely I’ve had plenty of practice mixing a strong vodka martini?”
“No.” Cerise laughed. “Because it reminded me of how steady you are. Watching the chaos your parents created reminded me that I’ve never doubted you. You’ve never given me reason to.” She pulled herself up out of her Barb cocoon and kissed her. “You’re exactly who you say you are.”
“So—boring, in other words.” Barb winked, both accepting and deflecting the compliment.
“Strong,” said Cerise, kissing her again before nestling back down. “And smooth. What you just said, like a good martini.”
Barb nestled in, too, turning her face to Cerise and smiling. “Make it a gin martini.”
Cerise smiled back. “A gin martini.”
* * *
“HELLO!” CERISE KNOCKED on her parents’ front door but didn’t wait before walking in. She peeked through the entryway into the kitchen and spotted her dad pulling yellow rubber wash gloves from his hands.
“Just finishing the washing up, dear,” he called. “Come in, come in. Your mother is in the living room. Say hello, Violet!”
Her mother stood to give her a hug but didn’t say a word. Then she reached for Adam and brought him directly to her nose.
“Is there anything sweeter than the smell of you?” she said, kind and soft and looking directly into his eyes.
Yes, baby love seemed to be just the thing she needed.
“How is Barb?”
Cerise was momentarily taken aback. Barb was never foremost on her mother’s mind, not to mention that she almost always began a conversation with an agenda.
“Well, her head is still spinning, I think,” said Cerise. “But she’s open to talking about what happened, at least.”
“Good,” said Violet, adjusting the collar on Adam’s jumper. “Keep talking and don’t let her quit until it’s all out there. I had no idea what she’d faced as a child.”
“Nor did I,” answered Cerise.
In another time and place, she might have been tempted to force her mother to look at the role she, herself, had played in the whole fiasco—pushing the paternity question to its breaking point and, worse, imagining a universe in which Adam shared DNA with Erik Clarkson or Donny Davies. There was no denying that her mother had created a carnival of her son’s whole start to life.
So, yes, she would have to address it someday. Only, not today. Adam was safely tucked away in his grandmother’s arms and life, for just a moment, felt quiet.
She sat back on the couch and closed her eyes.
“Cerise?”
“Yes, Mom?” She resisted the temptation to open them, hoping her mother would take the hint.
“I’ve done some very serious thinking and I’m afraid I have two very important apologies to make. I’d like to start with you.”
Cerise opened her eyes and sat up. This was interesting. “What for?”
Violet smoothed the tufts of hair just beginning to grow above Adam’s ears. “It’s hard being a mother,” she said.
Cerise nodded. “Yes, but also rewarding.”
“Rewarding, of course. But what I’m trying to say is that I understand. I watched you and Barb this weekend, caring for Adam and dealing with her parents’ nonsense, and I just...” She looked at Cerise, then reached for the locket at her throat, enclosing it in her fingers. “Sometimes it’s hard to accept I’m not needed anymore.”
“I’ll always need you, Mom.”
Her mother held up a hand and waved the words away. “Yes, I know. But not in the same way. And that’s what I’m saying. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Adam needs you now—and Barb—the way you once needed me. I want you to know that I see that. I understand. And I’m sorry if it’s taken me some time to adjust.”
She nodded her chin with the word adjust, as if reassuring herself that, yes, it was the correct choice of word. She’d just needed some time to adjust.
“I appreciate that, Mom.”
“I want you to see something,” she said, raising a hand and pointing toward the den. “Go in there and open the closet.”
Cerise gave her a skeptical look.
“Go on,” said Violet, shooing her off with a wave of her hand.
Her parents’ den had always felt like a room where time stood still. The walls were lined with the same bookshelves her father had installed the very first year they moved in and the shelves, themselves, were lined with encyclopedias, atlases and every hardcover collection, treasury and do-it-yourself book published by Reader’s Digest since 1980. The computer, which her mother had resisted until Cerise’s teachers started sending notes that “homework must be submitted via email,” still sat on a desk in the corner under a yellowing plastic dust jacket. Her father had owned and worked on a laptop for years, but never in the den; perhaps he sensed the anachronism.
She pulled open the closet door, realizing that she’d never had a reason to go in it before. She didn’t know why. Perhaps she assumed it was full of—what? She really had no idea.
The shelves inside were neatly stacked with plain, white stationery boxes, not unlike the paper aisle at Office Depot, and the side of each box bore a number—was it a year?—written in black marker. She took a closer look at the box at the very top. It read, “1978.” Below it were “1979,” then “1980,” “1981” and so on. Dozens of them, all the way up to 2017.
She pulled out the box labeled, “1978” and opened the lid. She hadn’t been wrong—the box was full of paper and she flipped through the stack. Every page was the same.
She pulled the first sheet from the pile and began to read.
Christmas 1978
&nbs
p; Dearest loved ones, far and near—
Evergreen Tidings from the Baumgartners!
* * *
SHE WASN’T EXACTLY sure how long she sat on the floor reading, but it had to be hours. She heard her mother feed Adam a bottle, sing him to sleep and lay him down for a nap. Cerise heard him wake just as she reached the letter in which she’d graduated from high school.
The boxes were just what they appeared to be—a lifetime of Christmas letters, each written by her mother and each photocopied and boxed. The printer, Lake City Press, taped its invoice to the inside of each lid and every year it was the same: two hundred copies.
It looked as if her mother had never mailed a single one.
Cerise stood, stretched the cramps out of her back and neck and walked into the living room, where her parents both sat, drinking tea and playing with their grandson. The sunlight had shifted from bright afternoon to early dusk.
“You wrote a Christmas letter every year?” She sat down next to her mother and looked at her face. She felt as if she’d just spent hours swimming inside her mother’s head, listening to her narrate the ups and downs of their lives.
“Well, that’s a silly question,” said Violet. “You just saw for yourself.”
“But you didn’t mail any of them?”
Her mother stiffened and shook her head. “No.”
There were a million questions urging themselves from Cerise’s lips, but she stayed quiet and let her mother speak.
“I was going to. At first. I was a newlywed, going by script. But it felt too—” she searched for the right word “—assuming.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, who am I to assume people even want to hear about our lives? What if I sound as if I’m bragging? What if people don’t even care?”
For the first time in as long as Cerise could remember, her mother didn’t look as if she were formulating the next argument in her head, as if this conversation were nothing but a battle she was prepared to win. Instead, she looked resigned. Not beaten, exactly, but simply—maybe—peaceful.
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