by Lynne Gentry
“I doubt I have a choice,” she mutters.
“I’m losing my mind. Not my hearing.” I grab the handrail. “Hearts don’t stop because they get old, Charlotte Ann. Closed off emotions is what stops hearts.” I continue before I lose my courage. “I was wrong earlier.”
“Admitting wrong?” Charlotte says this like she’s surprised the words had tumbled from her mother’s mouth. “For a second time? This is a first.”
I look my daughter up and down. “I do recognize you. You’re me.”
Leaving Charlotte looking as if I’ve slapped her hurts me. But leaving her without a comeback, feels smart. Mentally sharp. Like my old self.
I turn and hobble down the steps. “Aria, put that cat in the house,” I call over my shoulder and make one last peevish point. “I want to teach you how to properly prune a rosebush and I don’t want that shifty-eyed feline getting any ideas about eating one of my birds.”
Chapter 3
CHARLOTTE
Living with someone who’s difficult is far different from popping in for an occasional visit. According to the book my ex-paralegal gave me on how to care for aging parents, I’ll get used to Momma’s cranky ways, learn what works for us and what doesn’t. Maybe if Loraine were here to run interference, I might stand half a chance of pulling off this new gig. But I can tell, the truce I made with Momma when I agreed to move home has not made us family. That bridge was washed out twenty-five years ago and will have to be rebuilt from the ground up.
Just as I’m about to scream “I’m going back to DC,” Aria opens the screen door and carefully sets her beautiful, blue-eyed Siamese inside on the braided rug.
“In you go, Fig.” She pats her cat on the head. “Go take a nap.”
If I’d ordered Aria to put up her cat, she’d still be arguing. But my daughter’s tossing her faithful companion aside as if pruning roses is an adventure.
“Ari.” I snag her arm. “I’m sorry that Teeny and Ira couldn’t stay. I didn’t send them back to upset your Nana.”
She shrugs off my explanation and my touch. “And yet...”
I reach for her arm again, as if I can squeeze out the sorrow all of us are feeling. Over the top of my daughter’s head, I notice Momma leaning against the thorns of her New Dawn climbers and clipping with a vengeance.
“She’ll come around.”
“Don’t count on it,” Aria mutters.
I don’t care what that stubborn old woman says, she and I are nothing alike. “Your grandmother hates losing a fight almost as much as she hates cats.”
Aria pushes away from me and the distance she’s intentionally put between us feels as cold as the Frio on a hot summer’s day. “Is this going to get ugly?”
Tucking a blonde curl behind my daughter’s ear is my attempt to bridge the gap. “I won’t let it, kiddo.”
Ari puts me in my place with a firm, “Mom, I’m thirteen.”
“And growing up way too fast.”
“I love her, Mom.”
“And I love both of you.”
Aria’s brows draw together in doubt. “When you love people, doesn’t that mean you do hard things...even things you don’t like?”
“I moved us here, didn’t I?”
“You moved us here to get me away from my bad friends and...,” she hesitates. “and to hide from Dad’s bad press.”
“Ari—” I bite back the urge to defend my point of view. This is an argument I can’t win. These ugly accusations sit squarely on the side of truth. “Coming here was not a decision I made lightly, nor was it easy to send Nana’s friends back. I can see how much she adores them, but I’m doing what I think is best for you and Nana.” I cup my hand on my daughter’s cheeks and realize that while I was busy managing my career and my mother’s declining health the baby fat had melted away from my little girl’s cheekbones and left her with the defined face of a budding adult. “This is hard, sweetheart. Harder than I anticipated.”
She removes my hand. “You’re not the only one who has to adjust.” She turns from me and leans over the porch railing. “Nana, do I need gloves.”
“If you don’t want to bleed.” Momma reaches for another branch and clips without so much as a glance in my direction.
I can stand here feeling hopeless, or I can ignore the frustration of my mother’s pout and the sting of my daughter’s lack of support.
I opt to get to work putting this family back together. Staying busy is something I know how to do. “While you two are tackling the roses, I think I’ll look around and make a list of what needs to be done.” Neither Momma nor Aria pay me any mind. “Just holler if you need me.”
The quiet of the country swallows the exchange going on between my mother and daughter and shuts me out of their world.
That leaves me on my own to contend with the real world. There are so many projects to tackle in this world my mother is abandoning at breakneck speed, I’m not sure where to begin. It’s a toss-up between the mounds of paperwork on her desk or an arm’s-length list of repairs on the house, barn, and fences. Despite the heated start to the morning, the temperature has remained remarkably tolerable for August. It would be foolish not to take advantage of the weather and let Momma cool down.
I decide to start prepping the house for paint. The turret is three-stories high and probably better left for a professional, but I’d rather risk breaking my neck than stirring up my mother anymore today. The last time I disregarded Momma’s objections to hiring a handyman, she took a water hose and blew Raymond Leck off a ladder.
But when it comes time to patch the tractor-sized hole she made in the side of the barn or repairing the split-rail fencing she hit with her little Ford Escort, I may have to ignore her protests and hire someone.
For now, painting I can do. I love having a reason to be outside and the mindlessness of dragging a brush will give me a chance to think, regroup, and figure out the best way to make this new arrangement work. Without help, I estimate it could take at least two weeks just to scrape away the peeling blue chips. Replacing all the warped siding and shoring up the loose shutters will keep me too busy to worry about the mental steps leading Momma farther and farther away from me.
On my way to my father’s woodworking shed, I skirt the flower bed on the side of the house. Momma and Aria are so engrossed in their task that I’m able to eavesdrop.
“Rose gardening in this rocky soil requires a little more thought than it does in other parts of the country.” Momma proudly offers Aria a freshly clipped blossom. “That’s why I only plant roses with resilience and fortitude.”
Aria buries her nose in the delicate pink petals and inhales deeply. “Tough like you, right Nana?”
“You reap what you sow, young lady. Take it from an old lady...you must learn to be careful with what you sow. Do you understand what I mean, Aria?”
“Not really.”
“Bad friends corrupt good morals. Don’t let anyone pick your flower before you bloom.” Momma points at a drooping bud. “Clip right below that thorn.”
A smile pushes its way past my earlier frustration. Momma is still a darn good teacher at heart. But how she can make life analogies about roses and not remember the order of the pills she takes is a mystery. It’s obvious having Aria around is giving Momma purpose, and that’s a good thing. My presence, on the other hand, she treats like a bud she’d rather nip than allow to bloom into something meaningful.
I retreat and head toward Daddy’s woodworking shed.
The flimsy metal door is chained shut. Freeing the padlock requires a quick sprint to the house for the keys hanging on a nail by the back door. One of smaller keys fits, but I can’t get the rusted lock to turn. I stomp back to the kitchen for the can of WD40 I’d spotted next to the garlic salt in Momma’s cabinet above the stove. If I hadn’t made spaghetti last night, I’d have never thought to look for an anti-corrosion lubricant in the kitchen. When I asked Momma why she was keeping a can of WD40 in her spice cabinet, she shru
gged and said, “To grease things.” I don’t even want to know how many times she’s used WD40 in place of cooking spray.
I swing open the door to the shed. The garage-size space smells of rough cedar logs, rusty lawn equipment, and the piles of saw dust on the floor. Sunlight spills through the crack around the shuttered window. I take a tentative step inside and flip the light switch. The light above my father’s workbench does not awaken. I navigate to the waist-high table, reach over all the tools, and pry open the shutter. Sunlight pours over the abandoned sandpaper, drill bits, and a pair of old work gloves.
I run my finger over the curves in the leather left by my father’s sweaty hands. The hole in my heart opens up. In an attempt to plug disturbed emotions, I slide a trembling hand inside the right glove and bring the leather to my nose. The dry, dusty smell evokes images I haven’t visited in years. Momma calling Daddy to supper. Daddy stomping up to the back door, lowering his head, and running his gloves through his hair to rid his sun-bleached curls of any wood shavings. Me waiting at the table. Daddy lifting his head, putting on a smile, and then barreling into the kitchen. He always swatted Momma on the butt with these gloves. His chuckle when she protested was the music of my life. I couldn’t wait for the light pop of his gloves on my head. “Beetle Bug,” he said as he took his place at the table. “You’re pretty enough to eat and smart enough to make me regret my haste.”
I swallow the resentment this memory churns in my gut, yank the glove from my hand, and return it to its resting place.
Behind me, a half-spun wooden bowl is attached to the power lathe. The unfinished art is a gaping reminder of a life half-lived. Now that I know about my father’s drinking, I can’t blame mother for shutting the door to this painful part of her life. When my father chose to jump off the bluff, he didn’t just leave me, he left Momma too. I spin the unfinished bowl attached to the chuck. There are many ways to leave someone. James stayed in our bed but he’d actually left me years ago.
Glancing around the shop, I search for a paint scraper and a ladder among the abandoned tools and stacks of unused wood. I spot the closed door of Daddy’s darkroom at the far end. Above it is a caged light bulb. When the red light was on, Caroline and I knew better than to open the door and spoil the magic in Daddy’s secret world.
Curiosity pushes me past the band saw and clambering over a pile of scrap lumber. I yank open the door to my father’s private sanctuary. The pungent odor of vinegar and sulfur assaults my nostrils. My search for a light switch ends when the string hanging from a single bulb brushes my face. One hard pull and the bulb flickers to life.
No solution shimmers in the trays my father used to develop, bathe, and fix his photos. Above the dried-out trays a wire is strung between two nails. Three black and white photos dangle from clothespins.
A gasp escapes my lips.
My knees are jelly as I step forward and unclip the photo on the left. It is a photo of me...and my sister. Based on the new bikini Caroline was wearing, the one she’d proudly brought home from college and then fought with Momma when she judged it far too skimpy, this shot was taken on the day my sister died. Lina and I are laughing and spinning together on the tire swing.
I don’t remember my father having his camera with him that day. But of course, he did. Photography was his true love. His passion. His ticket to finally being able to provide for his family. If Momma hadn’t threatened him with bodily harm if she ever caught him wearing his camera while he was turning a bowl on the power lathe, his camera would have been around his neck every minute of the day.
Why hadn’t he shown us these pictures?
Moving on to the next photo, my hand stops mid-reach. Caroline and I are standing opposite each other on the swing and blowing kisses toward the camera. I step closer and let my finger trace my sister’s dark hair and then trail across her fierce, impetuous face.
“Oh, Lina. I need you.” I unclip the picture, slide the treasure beneath the one in my hand, then eagerly look up to confiscate the last photo.
The breath leaves my lungs. Neither my hands nor my eyes move. I bite back the gut-wrenching scream clawing at my throat.
Daddy must have snapped this picture in that terrible split-second after I jumped off the swing and gave Caroline the push that sent her sailing to her death.
I move closer and study the photo with blurry eyes. Caroline’s body is threaded through the hole of the tire. Her toes are pointed in preparation of a splash-free entry into the river. Her shiny black hair is a veil that flows behind her. Above her the loose end of the frayed rope dances like a snake. From the carefree smile on Caroline’s face, she’s blissfully unaware that in the space of a breath, the rope will fall around her neck and twist into a knot I can’t free.
Hot tears drip onto the two photos I hold in my shaky hands. The need to escape is a hammer pounding inside my head. Truth rises to the forefront of my thinking and suddenly clarifies.
I know why Daddy killed himself.
He didn’t drown himself because he was drunk the day his eldest daughter drowned. He jumped because he was so wrapped up in capturing the perfect shot of his beautiful daughters that he’d failed to notice the rope stretching thinner and thinner above us. By the time it snapped, it was too late.
Hands trembling, I release the last photo from the line.
Do I show these to Momma and drag her through that terrible day again? Do I let her know that for a year Daddy stood in front of these photos and tried to douse his shame in alcohol? Or do I just tuck them away and pretend putting this family back together is even possible?
I slide the photos into my pocket and close the door.
Chapter 4
ARIA
Fig is curled up on the sill of the bay window that overlooks miles and miles of rocks, twisted trees, and a river I’m never to go near. My cat’s tail waves to the rhythm of my fingers plodding across the yellowed keys of Nana’s piano. Mom promised she’d have this dinosaur tuned soon. In the meantime, she expects me to pretend the tinny strikes of this console mimic the deep rich tones of the baby grand back home.
My fingers are focused on a minor scale warm-up, but my mind is back in DC. Maybe Mom can act like moving us into her old room will make us one big happy family, but this is not my home.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my grandmother. I’m glad moving here has given me time to hang with her. She’s a little cuckoo sometimes, like when she can’t remember where she put her teeth. I don’t know what’s more gross: seeing teeth floating in a glass or having to rinse them off and take them to her. Truth is, I’d carry Nana’s teeth all the way to town to hear her say Sweet Moses right before she gives my Mom what for. Makes me want to grow up to be just like my Nana...except for the false teeth.
Nice as it is to clip roses with Nana, I miss home. Not the fighting. Mom and Dad didn’t duke it out in front of me. They’re far too civilized for that. They always took their arguments outside, even when the snow was three feet deep on the back deck. Like that stupid Christmas Eve when they had the mother of all their arguments.
My mind drifts back...motion sensors flip on the patio lights. From my upstairs bedroom window, I can see my parents shivering but squared off in the snow. Dad is wearing only his boxers. Mom is barefoot and draped in that ugly robe Dad can’t stand. All it takes for me to hear what they’re saying is a small lifting of the window pane.
“James, who were you messing with in your studio this time?” Mom jabs her finger into Dad’s bare chest.
“Dang, Charlotte. Do we have to do this outside?” Dad crosses his arms and rubs his hands over his biceps. “It’s freezing out here.”
“Who was she?”
“A client. A model. Okay?”
“For who? Playboy?”
“None of your business.”
“It’s 2:00 am and I’m just getting in from a long, horrible day in court. Instead of welcoming me home with a bowl of hot soup, you give me a blonde wearing nothing but her coat.”
Mom’s yelling and slapping her palms on his chest. “When you and your clients can’t keep your clothes on in the house we share with our child, it’s my business.”
Maybe Mom thought I couldn’t hear her accusing my dad of all kinds of disgusting things. But I did. Every word. Every time she caught him with a female in his studio. I don’t know why I was surprised when my friend Caitlyn showed me the national rag sheet with Dad’s picture plastered on the front. A stupid grin on his face and his arm around an NFL cheerleader. In the bottom corner of the front-page spread was a pic of Mom looking all mean and serious. Caption read: Capitol Hill lawyer can’t fix this.
Geez, Dad. That skanky cheerleader was barely old enough to drink. The next edition of that same rag quoted Mom saying, “James McCandless can rot in jail.” She denies saying that, but I know she didn’t bail him out.
Obviously, neither of my parents give a flip about how hard it is for a flat-chested, skinny girl to make friends when they act like idiots.
So, yeah, I sold my soul and fell for the BS the most popular girl in school shoveled my way. Caitlyn said her parents were famous too so she acted all “oh, I totally get you so maybe we should be friends.” Like an idiot, I thought Caitlyn and her friends liked me. But when everything hit the fan, the truth came out. All these pretty-girl users want is a photo shoot with my dad. Caitlyn and all of her friends are tools. None of them care about me or my dream to go to Juilliard. At least, for a few weeks during my seventh-grade year, I wasn’t alone.
“Your technical ability has improved.” I don’t know how long Nana’s been standing at the piano watching me. “But your fingering is off. That’s why it’s labored.” Faint red lines spider out from her bright red lips. Nana’s beautiful, for an old woman. Her white hair, blue eyes, and perfect skin pop with the touch of color she likes to add...on her good days. When Ira and Teeny lived here, she combed her hair and put on makeup every morning. But after Mom sent Nana’s friends away, she didn’t shower for three days.