by Mary Campisi
“I’m here for you, Gracie,” Jenny whispered. “Whatever you need, I’ll help you.”
Grace moved her mouth, a faint twist of lips that reminded Jenny of the time when they were kids and Grace had the flu. It was the day before her twelfth birthday and their mother had said they’d have to cancel Grace’s party if she wasn’t better by bedtime. Jenny knew she had to do something to help her, so she sneaked into Grace’s room and gave her Stuffy, Jenny’s pink rabbit. He’d make her all better, she’d said. Stuffy could make anything better. Jenny still remembered Grace’s face, all pale and sweaty as she worked her lips into that same almost-smile.
She gave Jenny that smile now, the one that meant she needed a lot more than what Jenny was offering, but she loved her for the gesture. Stuffy hadn’t been able to help her that day, either. She’d thrown up most of the night and again in the morning, and the party had been canceled.
Grace sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Remember when we were kids, and I used to try to beat the light to bed?”
“Sure.” What did that have to do with anything? “I used to count and you’d turn out the light and try to make it to the bed before the room went black.”
“I really used to think I could beat it.”
“I know.”
“That’s how I feel now. Like I’m trying to beat the light, but I can’t. No matter what I do, or where I turn, I can’t get away from the darkness. It’s all around, closing in on me.”
“No.” Jenny squeezed her hands. “It’s not going to get you this time. I won’t let it.”
“Help me,” Grace whispered, clutching Jenny’s hand. “Help me, Jenny.” And then the tears came.
“I’ll help you, Gracie,” she vowed. “I’ll help you.”
* * *
Jenny lifted another magenta-colored impatiens from the gray plastic container and brushed the dirt from its roots. Grace had always loved vibrant colors, said they were like a heartbeat, pulsing with life.
Jenny had gone to the garden center at 8 a.m., with Danielle and Natalie. Danielle still wasn’t talking much, but at least the one-word sentences were more frequent, and a few times she’d almost smiled. Jenny studied the trays of impatiens sitting on the sidewalk. They’d each chosen a color. Jenny’s was magenta, Danielle’s fuchsia, and Natalie’s salmon. The girls had helped pull the old impatiens from the beds and planted a few new flowers before insisting they’d had enough and begged to go to Laura’s. Jenny had let them; she needed this time alone, digging in the soil, planting flowers that made her feel closer to the old Grace.
She placed the base of another flower in its hole and smoothed dirt over the roots, careful not to get any on the petals. A pile of uprooted impatiens lay in a discarded pink and white heap in the wheelbarrow next to her. Pale pink, very pale pink, almost medium pink. And white. No deeper colors, no traces of red or purple, not even a yellow.
Why hadn’t Grace chosen the colors she loved most? Jenny scanned the street and took in the other neighbors’ landscaping. Carpets of muted pink and white wrapped themselves around entrances and beds, up driveways and under mailboxes. There was an occasional salmon or yellow, but nothing as outspoken as magenta.
Was that the reason Grace had such an anemic display of beauty in her front yard? Was it because of the neighbors? Jenny was still pondering this when an attractive thirty-something woman strolled up her driveway.
“Hello,” the woman said in a strong, well-modulated voice that sounded like the opening greeting for an Infomercial. “I’m Samantha, Samantha Steward. You must be Grace’s sister, Jenny.”
“Yes, I am.” Jenny set down her spade and leaned back on the heels of her old sneakers. “Nice to meet you.”
The woman offered a sympathetic smile. “We were all devastated to hear about the accident. Truly devastated. And poor Grant.” She tsk-tsked. “What a shame. He was such a wonderful husband and father.”
“Yes,” Jenny murmured. If she only knew.
“To think that less than a month ago, they were just like the rest of us. A husband, a wife, children. And in the space of a few seconds, everything changed. Gone. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers and Jenny zeroed in on her coral nails. Filed and shaped, too perfect, like the rest of the woman; her skin, too tan, her eyes, too blue, her ultra-lean shape perhaps the result of too little food or too many diets. Jenny pretended a smile and chewed harder on her gum.
“Now, who knows how the children will be affected,” Samantha Steward went on. “No father, no role model.” She folded her arms over her flat stomach. “What a shame.”
“Grace will still be their role model,” Jenny said, making no attempt to hide the sharpness in her voice. “She’s a great mother. She’ll handle things once she’s back on her feet again.”
Samantha Steward offered a smile that looked an awful lot like pity. “Yes, of course, but things will never be the same.”
Jenny bit down on her gum again, hard. “True.” Grace won’t have a husband in the house who’s screwing another woman.
“There are so many single-parent households today,” the woman continued, shaking her head. The sun fell on her black hair and Jenny wondered if it was natural or a salon sample. “There’s only one in our neighborhood, though. Except for Grace. That will make two.”
Jenny wanted to ask if she’d tallied the number of husbands in the neighborhood who were cheating on their wives. She’d bet the count was higher than two. “People do die,” Jenny said. “And others get divorced.”
“Well, yes,” she agreed. “Death is such a tragedy. Divorce, however, is altogether different.”
“Why?”
“It’s just not an option in my family.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m Catholic,” she said matter-of-factly.
Ah. So, the Catholic church was behind her remarks. “So? I am, too. Or at least I was. And I know that Catholics have been getting divorced for years.”
“Larry and I are from the old school,” she said, shrugging an angular shoulder. “We honor our vows.”
“Do you really think God wants a person who gets slammed against the wall by her spouse every night to stay married? And what about the man who sleeps with every new employee just because he’s the boss? Should his wife cling to those marital vows, too?”
Samantha Steward’s coral lips flattened into a straight line. “There are always circumstances...” she fumbled along. “Of course, it’s not right, but...we all do the best we can.”
Did her husband fit into one of these categories? Which one? Wife abuser or adulterer? “It’s never okay to hit someone or cheat on someone. I don’t think God would want anyone to live like that.”
The woman cleared her throat twice and hazarded a quick glance in Jenny’s direction. “Of course not,” she murmured. “Religion isn’t the only factor. There are other,” she paused, “considerations.”
“Such as?”
“Well,” the woman waved a hand in the air. “Economics and livelihood.”
“Oh.” Money.
“It would be terribly naïve and quite foolish to ignore the ramifications of divorce. Especially for a woman.”
Yup, it was money all right; the Church was just a convenient scapegoat. “Imagine if a woman in this neighborhood were going through a divorce,” Jenny said, casting a glance at the rock on Samantha Steward’s finger. “She’d probably have to move out of here and into a smaller house. Maybe even an apartment.” The woman cringed. “And get a job. A real job, not just volunteer work.” Jenny threw her a wide, innocent smile as the woman clasped and unclasped her hands. “No more charge cards. No more extras.” She went in for the kill. “I’ll bet she’d even have to sell off the tennis bracelet and diamond studs.”
Samantha Steward let out a shaky laugh. “She might as well kill herself and be done with it.”
“You think so?” Jenny asked, standing up and brushing dirt from her knees.
She nodded. “Absolute
ly. A life without a charge card isn’t worth living.”
Her words stayed in Jenny’s head long after the woman disappeared down the street, her black bob bouncing with each step. Is that what middle-class suburbia really thought? Did women stay in their marriages for the silverware? Maybe that sounded ridiculous, but did it all boil down to things? Cars, houses, jewels, vacations. Lawn care. Garage door openers. And security. The charge card with the high-end limit. The bank accounts and financial statements. Stock options. Mutual funds.
And what about Grace? Had she discovered Grant’s duplicity and stayed anyway? Had she thought there was no way out? Had the accident not been an accident, but a subconscious moment of retribution?
Grace was too rational, too even-keeled, too nice to even think such a thing. But if her world were on the brink of splitting wide open like a pus-filled sore, could she have turned the steering wheel into a telephone pole? A month ago, Jenny couldn’t have considered such a notion. But a month ago she didn’t know Grant was screwing a leggy brunette.
12
“I like the flowers,” Grace said, staring out the front window. “They’re beautiful.”
“Thanks.” Jenny had picked up Grace from the hospital in a rented minivan a few hours ago. Common sense told her Grace could maneuver in and out of a van much easier than a low-to-the-ground convertible. Still, the mere fact that Jenny had considered this without prompting told her she’d been in the suburbs too long.
“The colors are perfect.”
“That’s not what Samantha Steward said.” Jenny smiled, just thinking about their second meeting. Or rather, confrontation. “She paid me another visit and gave me the address of the garden center where the whole neighborhood buys their impatiens.”
Grace’s lips twitched. “I see you didn’t follow her subtle advice.”
“When have you ever known me to follow anyone’s advice, especially when it’s shoved down my throat?”
“I’ll bet she didn’t like that.”
Jenny shrugged. “She stomped away so fast the balls on her golf socks almost fell off.”
“Good for you,” Grace murmured.
Jenny hesitated a second, then asked, “Did you pick the pink and white impatiens?”
Grace looked away. “Grant thought we should try to blend in with everyone else.”
So, Grant, dead, two-timing husband that he was, had chosen the color. Hmm. Was he “blending in” with the rest of the husbands on the street when he started his affair? Or hadn’t he considered what his extracurricular activities would do to his family and his role as husband and father? She’d bet the second, and she’d bet the only head doing the thinking was the one tucked inside his underwear.
“Would the pinks and whites have been your choice?”
Grace didn’t say anything for several seconds. “No. I’d have planted the colors you chose.” A wisp of a smile spread over her lips. “But I would’ve wanted poppies.”
“Poppies?”
“Big ones. All over. Even in the backyard.”
“Poppies,” Jenny repeated.
“Bright, orange-red ones,” Grace said with actual enthusiasm in her voice.
“Fine. I’ll go to the garden center tomorrow and get some.”
“No!”
“Why not? I’ll pull the other stuff out. I don’t mind. Really.”
“It’s not that,” Grace said, with a hesitancy that put Jenny on alert. “It wouldn’t look right.” A laugh escaped her lips. “After all, they’re poppies.”
“Yeah, they are. And I think it’s a wonderful idea. Poppies are beautiful.”
“But they’re poppies.”
“So?” Was she missing something here?
Grace shook her head and patted her pink and white bandana. “So, poppies are used to make opium. That’s a drug.” Her eyes grew wide when she said the word drug. “I can’t have opium growing on my front lawn.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jenny muttered. “Do you mean to tell me that you would keep from planting poppies because somewhere, somebody might be harvesting twenty zillion to make opium?”
Grace gnawed on her lower lip. “It’s the principle. It’s just not a good thing.”
“Says who?” This neighborhood was more dangerous than walking along a deserted highway at midnight. At least there, a person knew the harm and could protect himself against it. But here, among the seemingly quiet, welcoming stretch of houses, one could be blindsided, sucked in by an insipid, all-consuming force that choked, maimed, and killed thoughts and ideas that were different or unique. Here, in this sleepy development, individuality was cursed, not encouraged.
“Says who?” Jenny repeated when Grace didn’t answer.
“Nobody says. It’s just the way it is.”
“Too bad. I’m getting you those damn flowers tomorrow.” This was ridiculous.
“You can’t.” Grace blinked back tears. “I don’t want them.”
Jenny opened her mouth to speak but clamped it shut before she said something she’d regret. Grace had only been home a few hours and Jenny wasn’t going to get her upset already. There would be time for poppies later, and talking about things like rights and choices and being your own person.
What did Grace fear more, not being accepted or being different?
“Thanks for the balloons and the banner,” Grace said in the quiet tone, signaling the end of the conversation on the poppies.
“You’re welcome.” Jenny glanced at the three Mylar “Welcome Home” balloons fluttering from the mailbox. “The kids picked them out.” She glanced at her watch. “They should be here any minute. Or maybe not,” she said, shaking her head. “Natalie takes forever to eat a measly chicken tender.”
“I know,” Grace said, her voice soft, gentle.
“And I think she tortures me on purpose with those French fries. Whoever heard of dipping them in ketchup after every single bite? Do you have any idea how long that takes?”
“Oh, yes. It used to drive Grant—” Grace stopped mid-sentence, her face turning white.
Jenny put her arms around her sister, pulled her forward. “It’s okay, Grace. I understand.”
Her sister sniffed and shook her head. “Who would have ever thought this would happen? To me?
“I know,” Jenny whispered. “I know.”
They shared their grief in the quiet of the early afternoon sun, a blue, cloudless sky outside, each mourning her own loss, too painful to put into words. But the feeling was there, pulsing just below the surface, a living, breathing loss.
For Grace, it was more than the death of a husband. It was the end of a dream. Jenny mourned her own loss, surrendering the belief that her older sister could make everything right and protect them all.
Damn Grant to hell.
The phone rang, interrupting Jenny’s silent curses. She straightened and pulled away from Grace. “Let me grab that. It might be Laura and the girls.”
Grace sniffed and swiped at her eyes. “Sure,” she mumbled turning back toward the window.
Jenny ran to the coffee table and snatched her cell phone. “Hello?”
“Jenny? Jenny?”
“Hello, Mom.” She tried to keep the tension from her voice but she was in no mood to play twenty questions with her mother today.
“Jenny!” There was a breathless anticipation in her voice. “Is Grace there? Is she home yet?”
“We just got home a little while ago,” Jenny said, eyeing her sister. “Hold on.” She moved toward Grace and handed her the phone.
Grace hesitated, as though the last thing she wanted to do was talk to their mother. Then she cleared her throat and said in a tired voice, “Hi, Mom.”
Jenny plopped on the nearest chair, closed her eyes, and listened to the one-sided conversation.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
Pause.
“No.”
Long pause.
“No. I understand. She’s doing a great job. Really.”
Very long pause.
“Okay. Next Thursday. See you then.”
Short pause.
“I love you. Bye.”
Jenny opened an eye and stared at her sister. “Let me guess. The cavalry is coming next Thursday to protect the fort. Mom’s worried the kids have been taken hostage or worse,” she raised a brow, “have missed a meal.”
Grace actually smiled, a half-smile that lit up her pale face. “Don’t be so mean. She’s just concerned about everyone.”
“Can’t she be concerned from her own home? Once she steps through that door, the whole house will be in chaos. We’ll have to eat three squares a day, sit up straight, pick up our wet towels, and be in bed by ten.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“It would,” Jenny said, making a face.
“She needs to come.” Grace’s voice turned soft and serious. “She’s a mother.”
“I guess,” Jenny muttered. “I just thought that surgery would keep her grounded a little longer, say another two months or so.”
“How long do you plan to stay?” Grace asked, easing into the recliner beside Jenny. It was a light mauve velveteen. Soft and welcoming, with rounded edges. Just like Grace.
Jenny shrugged. “I’m supposed to go to Italy in about nine days to do a photo shoot of the pope. A really big deal, the Vatican, bishops, cardinals, you know, the higher ups.”
“Nine days?”
“I know it’s not exactly the best time…but I thought once I finished up there, maybe I could come back for a week or two. What do you think?”
If that’s,” Grace paused, looked away, “if that’s good for you.”
It was the nine days that had Grace bothered, Jenny could tell by the expression on her face.
“Grace? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Fine. It’s just that I really like having you here, Jenny.” Her lips curved into a faint smile. “There was such peace waking up in the hospital and seeing your face. And even before I really woke up, I sensed you were there. Sometimes I heard your voice. And I can’t begin to describe how good that made me feel…how safe.”