It All Comes Back to You

by Beth Duke

  Violet translated for her husband, “Tolly is trying to tell you I’m spoiled and pampered, afforded every luxury.” She locked eyes with him. “That’s true. My life is filled with things I never dreamed of. It’s a constant adventure.” Her mother beamed at Tolly, clearly missing her meaning.

  The family ate in silence for a few minutes. Violet listened to the kitchen clock tick away the seconds with Tolly in the house, willing him to leave. She studied her parents. Daddy’s hair was fully white now. Her mother had streaks of gray and creases around her mouth and eyes. Tolly was right. She couldn’t tell her parents the truth without risking their health. She chewed Mama’s fried chicken slowly, trying not to aggravate the split in her lower lip.

  “This is delicious, Mom,” Tolly said.

  Violet cringed at the blasphemy. He had no right to call her that. She didn’t know how much longer she could sit next to her husband and keep from exploding. She closed her eyes and tasted something metallic, then realized her mouth was bleeding. Nausea rose like a flooding spring creek. She tried to think of anything but the truth she was keeping from her parents, from the world. The taste was overwhelming her.

  This is the taste of secrets, she thought. Be quiet and let it linger on the tongue: the sickening cost of preserving the world for those I love, who can’t know I have a daughter in Florida; who can’t know my shining example of a husband is a drunk who beats me.

  Violet set her fork down and turned to see Tolly rising from the table to peck her mother’s cheek and shake Glenn’s hand.

  “I know you’ll take good care of our girl,” he said. “Goodbye, darling. I’ll see you soon.” She fought the urge to cry as he bent to kiss her.

  “Bye, Tolly,” they chorused.

  Violet scooted her chair out as soon as the front door closed. “If y’all don’t mind, I’m going to lie down.”

  Her parents exchanged worried glances. “Of course, honey,” Alice said. “Get some rest.” She switched the light over the sink on and off, over and over. Nothing happened. She sighed in exasperation. “Doug, we have to get an electrician here. Please call somebody.”

  “I’m goin’ to check the fusebox,” he muttered. “Probably blew another one.”

  Alice rolled her eyes at Violet as she left the kitchen, a universal “See what I put up with?” among women.

  If you only knew, Mama. Violet took the stairs slowly and collapsed on her childhood bed, inhaling the scents of home: Pine Sol from the hall bathroom, her mother’s Chanel No. 5, and Lemon Pledge. Her stomach lurched. She hurried to the bathroom down the hall, closing the door and leaning against it, trying to breathe.

  Later she found the basket of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies on her dresser. “Welcome home, baby girl,” the note read. “Love you, Corinna”

  She hoped she’d get to see Corinna before she left for Florida. Violet had two thousand dollars she’d saved up and the name of an investigator in Tampa. She knew the way to the bus station. She’d figure the rest out later.

  twenty-one

  RONNI

  I had been staring at my laptop’s email screen for an hour, clicking on messages about a missing teenager in Idaho, Groupon deals for deep sea diving excursions, invitations to chat with live singles in the area (highly preferable to the dead ones), and the latest Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes. Anything to keep from releasing my book into cyberspace and the hands of Jennifer Meyer, who would hate it and laugh at me in the posh break room of her snooty publishing office. “Look what came from Alabama, y’all!” Jennifer would wave the printed manuscript at her New York colleagues, all of them Harvard summa cum smugness grads and swathed in Versace. “A kudzu-covered pile of steaming manure.”

  “Not another one,” they’d chorus, yawning into their twenty dollar lattes.

  Mr. Sobel had said, “All you have to do is email the file. Jennifer will get back to you within six weeks.” I was having a hard time letting go.

  The stomach-grinding clock would start ticking as soon as I hit “Send.” I jumped up to pace the bedroom, kicking a stray Nike out of my way. I have to be at work in forty minutes. This is silly. I’ve read and re-read my manuscript a thousand times. I’ve done my best. I reached over and pushed my literary baby from its nest. Message sent successfully.

  Blood, sweat and tears converted to bits and bytes.

  Halle wove back and forth through my legs and bleated in Felinese, “I haven’t had Fancy Feast in hours.” I wasn’t moving toward the kitchen, so she bit my foot and hid under the bed. “Fine, cat,” I told her. “I’ll feed you tonight, when you’ll appreciate your server properly.”

  I wondered if Violet would be angry that I hadn’t used “Everybody Loved Her” as the title. I took out the letter I’d found taped at the end of the purple journal.

  Dear Ronni,

  By the time you find this you’ll have discovered a darker side of my life I didn’t discuss, with you or with anyone. I wanted to, on a couple of occasions, but I was afraid you’d have thought less of me for staying with my husband. I didn’t want you to see the woman I saw in the mirror back then. She was weak and it took me years to forgive her. It was a different time, though, and Tolly got away with things no man would these days.

  One reason I wanted you to write my story was to show you that a person can survive the most difficult experiences and go on to lead a joyful life. I did, and you will, despite what your mother and others did to you.

  I see so much strength and beauty in you, Ronni. I love your humor. I love your spirit. You’re smart and funny and loving. You’re everything I imagine my daughter to be, and I can only hope and pray she grew up with the love and attention every child deserves.

  I believe everyone comes into our lives for a reason. You came to show me my life with a daughter, the most precious gift imaginable. I hope you always remember how much I love you.

  Violet

  P.S.―The envelope taped below has the picture you took of me at the school entrance and one Sam took of Johnny and me in our junior year. We were supposed to look like we were jitterbugging. There’s also a costume jewelry bracelet with little angels I wore in high school, and I hope you’ll wear it and think of me. All my “good” jewelry was sold and the proceeds donated to a women’s shelter in Birmingham.

  I’d slid the photos out first. Violet’s pose for me was exactly as it had been all those years before, only with Johnny opposite her and their hands and feet stretched to meet in the middle of the archway. They were laughing. I could practically feel the joy radiating from the image Sam captured of two beautiful people in love and on top of the world.

  The bracelet was silver with tiny angel charms dangling between lavender and clear crystal beads. It was delicate and I could imagine it on Violet’s dainty wrist as she waved to her friends. I was wrapping it in tissue for my jewelry box when I’d noticed one angel was missing. That made it perfect to me.

  I took the bracelet out the next day as I dressed for work but decided against wearing it. I was a little teary-eyed as I gathered my purse and keys, both because I missed Violet and because she’d suffered so much and never told me.

  I spotted construction trucks all over the back parking lot at Fairfield Springs. This could mean only one thing—Violet’s entertainment room was being built at last. The detailed plans had been posted on a bulletin board for us to ogle for a month.

  She had designed a place I personally hoped to experience as an eighty-year-old. Only Violet could have envisioned it: a huge area for Wii and X-Box games like bowling and golf, a mock corner “cafe” with low lighting and four plush booths for romance (there is a lot of swooning in Fairfield Springs; precious few places to swoon effectively), and a fifties-style soda fountain where we’d distribute ice cream several times a week. There would be a jukebox stocked with songs she’d personally selected. She’s created a place for residents to date. How very Violet.

  I put my stuff in a locker and straightened my new scrubs in th
e mirror with a grin. They were two sizes smaller than usual and featured tiny police badges. Rick found them on eBay and made me promise to wear them at least twice a week. I texted a quick “I love you” and walked to the desk, where Kait was reassuring Mrs. Hartness that she did indeed live in Fairfield Springs, fetching Tylenol for Mr. Quattlebaum, and listening to Audrey condemn her mattress as “some sort of medieval torture device.”

  She smiled sweetly and muttered, “Well, Mrs. Haynes, we were trying to replicate the era when you grew up.”

  Audrey held a hand to her ear. “What’s that, girl?”

  “I said I’ll send maintenance to take a look.” Kait waved goodbye to Audrey in a futile attempt to get her to leave. “How are you, Miss Eternally-Free-of-Speeding-Tickets? Those scrubs are pretty cute.”

  “Wonderful, fabulous, in love with the man of my dreams, waiting for his children to murder me in my sleep.”

  “Have they been back to visit?”

  “No, but Rick says they’re taking karate lessons and can’t wait to show us what they’ve learned. I’m taking that as a veiled threat.”

  Kait laughed and swatted my butt. “Come on. It’s almost time for bingo, and you need to help Mrs. Hughes find her lucky pink pants. I’ll go set up.”

  Bingo always exhausted our patients, who were either euphoric with their ten dollar jackpots or trudging off angrily in defeat. Kait and I were settling people into their rooms for meds before lunch when Tina walked up and said Donna sent her to relieve me. “There’s a lady waiting to see you in the lobby,” she announced. “Says she’s Violet Thompson’s daughter.”

  I hid behind a pillar and studied her, holding my breath. She was on the short side, you could clearly see that even as she sat and clutched her handbag. Probably early to mid sixties. A decent but inexpensive black knit dress with a bright floral scarf around her neck. A bit chunky, with dark hair and huge sunglasses. Sensible shoes. This person looked nothing like Violet from a distance.

  She was glancing around and swiping at her eyes.

  Donna crept up beside me. “Her name’s Deanna Henderson.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “Palmetto, Florida. She found out a few weeks ago she was adopted. Can you imagine?” Donna shook her head. “Her parents have been dead for years, and an aunt decided to tell her at the age of sixty-three that she was adopted.”

  “So she tracked down her birth mother, and it was Violet?”

  “And I had to tell her,” Donna sighed, “that she’s ten months too late. I feel so sorry for the poor woman. She asked if anyone here might have known her mother especially well.” Donna patted my shoulder and pushed me a little. “Go talk to her.”

  Deanna stood and took off her glasses as I came closer. I saw her shining brown eyes, the same eyes I’d smiled into a million times. I bypassed the hand she extended and hugged her for a few seconds, inhaling a scent both familiar and new. Then she spoke in Violet’s voice: “You must be Ronni. The nursing director said you knew my mother.”

  “I did know Violet, yes,” I began cautiously. Slow down, Ronni. Why should you believe this is really Violet’s daughter?

  She held out a shaking piece of paper. “It’s my birth certificate. My aunt gave it to me when she told me I’d been adopted. My parents sure did a great job of hiding it, and I’ve tried to figure out how,” she sighed heavily. “You didn’t need one to get a driver’s license when I was growing up, and my mom made some excuse about needing to locate it when my husband applied for our marriage license. She delivered it to the courthouse while we were both at work.”

  I examined it closely. There was Violet’s name, the date and place were perfect, and the father was listed as “Unknown.” I nodded at Deanna to go on.

  “Would you please tell me about her past? Where did she grow up? Did she have brothers or sisters?”

  “She grew up in Anniston, Alabama, and had no brothers or sisters.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I was hoping to find someone who might know who my biological father is. The birth certificate said “Unknown.”

  I took a deep breath. “His name was Sam Davidson, and he also lived here, until he passed away a few years ago.”

  Deanna blinked. “You knew him, too?”

  “Not like I knew Violet.” I was desperately searching for the right way to introduce this woman to her past gently. “The thing is...well, Sam and his family never knew about you. He was married and living in New York when you were born. He spent most of his life there.”

  “New York? How did he end up in this place?” She waved her hand at the Fairfield Springs logo stenciled on the lobby wall.

  “Sam’s parents insisted he marry a girl—her name was Deborah—and go to New York with her and her family. They arranged a career for Sam running a large department store. That was the family business, and a sort of deal was struck...”

  “Wait,” she interrupted. “They made him go to New York? I don’t understand.”

  “Well, I don’t entirely, either, except it was 1947, and I think Sam knew they’d never accept Violet. His parents may have threatened to disown him if he married her.” Deanna was staring at me, puzzled and impatient. “Sam was Jewish. Violet was a Southern Baptist girl.”

  “So? If they loved each other...did they love each other?”

  “Yes, they did, very much. But like I said, it was a different time, and Sam never knew Violet was pregnant.”

  “And he came back to Alabama? Why was he here?”

  “After his wife passed away he returned to Alabama. His health began to fail within a year or two and he ended up in assisted living here. He used to sit next to Violet at lunch. I called it The Cool Kids’ Table.”

  Deanna paused to allow me a tight, fleeting smile, but her words came faster and faster. “She never told him? He never knew he had a daughter in Florida?”

  I shook my head. “You need to understand, Violet tried to find you for years. She was told that unless you inquired about your records no information could be released. In addition, she wasn’t sure you knew you’d been adopted. She didn’t want to shatter your world.” I reached for her hand and squeezed. “She didn’t want to burden Sam, either. He was a frail old man when he came to Fairfield.”

  “I might have half-brothers and sisters in New York,” Deanna said. She wrung her hands in her lap and began tapping her foot nervously. The nurse in me was worried about her blood pressure.

  “Yes, that’s true,” I said.

  Deanna looked at my face and read it quickly. “But they have absolutely no idea I exist. After a lifetime, I just show up and ...” She shook her head and collapsed into sobs, just as her mother had in a train station over sixty years ago, in a world neither of us knew or understood.

  You are always on my mind, no matter where I go

  or what I do.

  The thought of you brings light into the darkest day.

  twenty-two

  VIOLET

  She woke in the middle of the night and stared at the unfamiliar shadows dancing on the wall. A glance from her bedroom window revealed a new streetlight silhouetting the limbs of an oak tree she’d climbed as a child; now thirty feet tall and swaying gently in a pre-dawn breeze. A thin branch tapped the side of the house.

  Violet turned toward the darkness of her closet and tried to conjure the dream she’d been having: she was slow dancing in Johnny Perkins’ arms, her head on his shoulder. She nuzzled his neck, inhaling his spicy Seaforth cologne and the faint odors of fresh shampoo and soap. The music was familiar, something about forever love, and Johnny was softly singing along. They glided as one body across the polished wood floor, pure joy and peace. Suddenly there was a jolt and Johnny stumbled; he’d been shoved to the floor and lay in a heap at her feet. Violet turned to see who’d attacked Johnny; no one was in the room but the two of them. Then, off in the distance, she saw Johnny’s limp body carried away by a group of people. She chased them, screaming, until she collided with a cl
osed metal door. She’d been pounding it with her fists when she woke.

  She wondered if she ever crossed Johnny’s mind, if he closed his eyes and found himself dancing with her.

  Violet knew when the seed of this dream was planted: Katie Ruth telephoned one afternoon last week. Her husband, Roger, was a big, hairy army sergeant from Kentucky who’d been stationed at Fort McClellan during their whirlwind courtship; Violet and Tolly had attended their wedding in a chapel on base eight years ago. Roger was a likable guy who adored his three children and fussed over Katie Ruth like a movie star when he was home; cooking, cleaning and changing diapers more often than his wife did. She was struggling while he was away for three months of battle training and called Violet at least twice a week. After a long session of reading excerpts from his letters—during which Violet painted her nails and made appropriate noises—she said, “Oh, and there’s one more thing. I saw Johnny having lunch with Dr. and Mrs. Perkins downtown. He’s married and working as an attorney in Montgomery, at a big firm that does a lot of state government stuff. He has a daughter named Caroline who’s about four. She and the kids played together on the floor while the adults caught up.” She paused to see if Violet had any comment, then blathered on, “His wife is pretty; not as pretty as you, of course, but she kinda looks like you. He met her at the University of Alabama. I think she’s a teacher. Anyway, I thought he couldn’t have children?”

  “Apparently,” Violet answered, “he can.” She waited a beat to see if Johnny had asked about her, but Katie Ruth filled the silence with a lengthy monologue about My Favorite Martian, urging her friend to watch, then yelling at her five year old and explaining she’d have to hang up.