“I know. I was remembering her at our party. It wasn’t that long ago.”
“And at the diner, how she challenged Murray, telling him to give Sylvie room to breathe and didn’t mean house space, either. Remember?”
“Yes. Always the odd yet correct take on a situation and not afraid to say so.”
“Each day I come here it hits me again. There’s no getting used to it. I was surprised when she sent Jack back to London. I wanted to say keep him around, who wants to die alone. Thing is, we do anyway, don’t we, even if someone’s in the room. Anyway, this is morbid. You’re early. Is something the matter? Pale, too. Is it the heat?” Mila studies her a few seconds.
“Must be,” she mumbles behind an urge to reveal everything and have Mila decide.
“I’ll get my stuff.” Mila gives her arm a squeeze.
“Wait. I need to talk.” She sits on the couch.
“Oh lord, Ava, not bad news. I can’t deal—”
“Nick wants to buy the diner.”
“Great!” Mila claps. “You guys as bosses. No more Murray . . . hooray.”
“Nick wants me to sell my house, use the money for the down payment, move in with him, marry, and—”
“Huge.” Mila can’t help grinning.
“It’s such a big commitment, everything at once. How can I—”
Mila sits beside her. “Hold on a sec. If it doesn’t work for you and Nick, you move out, find another place.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Nothing is.”
“But I’ve been on my own so long.”
“Yeah, change is horrible, but only for a short time.” Mila still sounds gleeful.
“I don’t want to sell my house.”
“Don’t. Sell his for hell’s sake.”
Why didn’t that occur to her? He doesn’t have a mortgage either.
“And listen to this . . . you don’t have to marry him. Last I heard living together isn’t against the law.”
If only Mila’s words could seep through the certainty of her resistance. But memory is in the way and trust comes hard to her.
“Do I want to change anything?” she blurts out.
“Hey, I’m no fan of unnecessary inconvenience, struggle for struggle’s sake . . . all that bullshit, not when life’s too ready to surprise you on its own. You didn’t expect to be a widow. Rosalyn didn’t expect to die young. I didn’t bring up Darla to send her into danger?” Mila’s face tenses, any mention of her daughter upsets her.
“True,” she admits.
“The alternative, though, is some crazy attempt to hold it all in place. It can’t be done. You know what I think, change isn’t about taking chances. Uh-uh. It’s about using time differently.”
“I know.”
“You can’t know . . . it’s all unknown. Did I believe I’d see my Jimmy again?”
“My Jimmy—” she repeats. My Nick, she wonders . . .
“The last great hurrah, Ava. We need it, even if—”
Mila’s cell phone rings. She fishes it from her pocket. “Hello? Hello? Darla! Wow! Baby! Where are you, I mean right now? I’m with Ava at Ros . . . Hellohellohello . . . shit.” She stares at the phone as if it will tell her something, then throws it on the couch. “Disconnected. Happens nine out of ten. I get to speak to the girl never, hardly. I can’t stand it. It’s like coitus interruptus. Not quite, but hearing her voice for two seconds, then gone, it’s a frigging tease. Okay, I promised I wouldn’t complain. But I can’t get used to this crap, Ava. I just can’t. Another six months in that terrible place, but who the hell knows, they could send her back again, they’re not about to ask my permission. Bastards. I hate them. Hell and more hell. I need a drink.”
“Are you on shift tonight?”
“Yeah. So what? Murray says one wrong word I’ll let him have it.” Mila seems to be channeling words Rosalyn would say. Is that what happens between friends?
She thinks to slip an arm around her friend’s shoulders, but Mila’s batting her eyes with the back of her hand to conceal tears.
“I’ll check on Rosalyn,” she says.
• • •
Light leaks through half-closed bedroom blinds. On the dresser, a vase with fresh lilies does little to mask medicinal smells. A portable commode, bedpan, oxygen tank crowd the space. Wipes, cotton balls, lotions, scented oils are on the bedside table. Soiled nightgowns are puddled in a corner. A silky robe drapes the chair, slippers beneath. Rosalyn’s no longer walking.
Once upon a time Rosalyn spent hours shopping, choosing lamps, rugs, whatever doodads she envisioned would create a beautiful room. Now the lamps are gone, the rugs rolled up, furniture pushed to the wall to make room for the hospital bed, everything topsy-turvy to facilitate treatment. Material things suddenly made trivial, replaceable.
“Hey there.” She perches on the side of the bed, strokes Rosalyn’s cool, slim hand, the fingers splayed lightly on the coverlet. Rosalyn’s wrists are the size of a child’s, her body beneath the blanket shrinking back to where it began. Her hair, grown in some, is a dark halo around the thin white face, which becomes smoother each day as lines of definition disappear along with worries. Her eyes, though, remain luminous, feverish. Dina says morphine can do that.
Any other day she’d be applying moisturizer, adjusting pillows, fixing covers, chattering away, the whirlwind everyone says she is. But something unusual in Rosalyn’s calm but distant expression warns her movement or noise will be distressing. She thinks to drape an arm around her friend, simply to be there, except that too might be disturbing, even painful.
She remembers the two of them out on the patio. Rosalyn half-reclined in a well-padded chair. It was early evening, the end of spring, not too hot or breezy, chips and dips and wine on the table, though Rosalyn took most of her sustenance through an IV hung on a stand beside her. Still talkative, though her voice weak, gravelly, her speech slowed, she described colorful dreams with real stories played out as if on a movie screen. Said with all the sleeping she does they kept her from being bored, and if they were chemical hallucinations, so be it. When the cell phone on the table rang, she handed it to Rosalyn. It was Jack. Rosalyn murmured a word or two, mostly listened, said “Me too” a few times before clicking off. Then turned to her and whispered love was a learning curve.
Rosalyn could do that, offer a usable truth in a few words. That night, long ago, at Murray’s housewarming. Rosalyn traipsing the cold beach in high-heeled boots, so spry, so eager to be on the go, persuading her to leave the safety of the car to look at the stars, hear the waves. Rosalyn could do that too, insist on life.
Gently, she touches Rosalyn’s forehead. It too feels cool. Asleep she looks young, vulnerable, far away, unwilling to be called awake. Tawny stripes of early evening sun slide across the blanket. She sits there till they disappear.
• • •
After tossing for hours, the sheets are hot, clammy. Her head filled to aching with Mila’s words, Rosalyn’s translucent face, Nick’s earnest expression. She wants to be with him, of course she does. He loves her, relies on her. Pleasing him pleases her, yet her brain can’t wrap itself around the future he proposes.
The chores she planned to do today didn’t get done, that weighs on her too. Bobby needs another pair of summer pants, even if he won’t take off those stupid jeans. And what about new sneakers, which he actually wants? Except none of that is important. Her friend is dying, her relationship with Nick threatened, her sense of order dissolving faster than ice on a grill. It’s a test, a challenge to her resilience. All those years ago, everything crumbling, when going on seemed impossible, what did she do? Was it Bobby, his needs, his very being? Maybe. She sighs and switches on the lamp. It’s after five.
Tiptoeing past her son’s room, she considers two aspirin, anything to get another hour of rest. Instead she sta
nds gazing out the living room window at the empty street of houses still shuttered against the day, wondering if somewhere others, too, are staring into the darkness edged now with pale blue light.
“Mom?”
“Oh honey, did I wake you?” How scrawny he looks in his long T-shirt, one he’ll wear even during the day. The summer sun has whitened his hair and darkened his skin, her beautiful boy. After a few weeks indoors, the paleness he shares with her will return.
“Why are you up?” he wants to know.
“Why are you?” she teases.
“Can’t you just answer?” one hand on his hip.
“I keep thinking of Rosalyn.”
“Oh.” He sits cross-legged in his faded TV chair, with it’s food stains and god knows what else. He’s offering her his company. She tries to read his face. But, really, what can the child know about illness? Nothing she hopes, ever.
“Want breakfast? It’s getting light out.”
“I’m starving.” The boy eats like a logger and never gains weight.
“The whole deal? Pancakes and eggs?” she asks.
“Yup.”
Life intrudes and that’s encouraging. Children can do that.
Her arm around his shoulder, they traipse to the kitchen, where Bobby disentangles and plops on a chair. A surprising memory of the pristine, modern kitchen in Colorado comes to mind. If she and Mark had worked out together, there’d be no relationship with Nick. How strange.
“How would you feel if Nick moved in here?” Just saying so increases her adrenaline.
“Is he?” her cautious son, not willing to take a stand till she does.
“Honestly, I don’t know. It’s an ongoing discussion and how you feel about it matters.”
“Would Glory come, too?” He studies the table as if the answer’s written there.
“She’ll be leaving in a month or so.” Opening the fridge, she pulls out the eggs and milk, then pancake mix and syrup from the cabinet.
“She’ll be here on vacations and holidays. Kids always come home for those,” he informs her.
“Well . . . she may be too far away. But yes if she does she’ll come here.” She eyes the coffee, accepting the end of sleep.
“It’s okay if Nick stays, except there have to be a few rules.”
“Oh?”
“Nick can’t use my computer or my TV chair or my bike or—”
The phone rings and the sound slices through her. She sprints to the living room and grabs it. “Yes?”
“It’s over. Ava, she’s gone, really gone.”
Bobby follows her in.
“Dina, you shouldn’t be alone.”
“Hospice is here. Mila’s on the way.”
“Me too.”
Her son looks at her.
“Rosalyn . . . it’s over,” she says. “Can you make some breakfast?”
He nods.
She ought to take a minute, talk about his feelings, reactions, what a mother’s supposed to do. Later. She rushes to the bedroom, dresses quickly in shorts, shirt, flip-flops. Then phones Nick at the diner to tell him it’s over. She can’t bring herself to say Rosalyn’s dead.
• • •
She steps outside. Her legs feel heavy as if the aches in Rosalyn’s bones have landed in hers. The sky’s heavy as well, and white, the sun pulsing somewhere far behind. The adjacent house is there same as yesterday, the dried-up lawn littered with sad little toys. Someone inside opens the blinds, someone alive. Anger surprises her throat.
In the car she rolls down the windows. The hot morning air, she needs it to breathe. She drives through streets too quiet by far. Noise, traffic, daily distractions could help. That’s a joke . . . nothing helps. She knows that. The two baby-faced uniformed men who arrived to give her the news, who wanted to come in, sit with her, commune, she shut the door in their faces. Rude, yes, but weird things happen around death. Or maybe nothing that happens is weird. For days after, she of small appetite couldn’t stop shoving food in her mouth. Chatted nonstop on the phone, but not about her husband. Friends tried to pry out her feelings but she would have none of it. Weeks after the funeral, leaving the obstetrician’s office, she turned her ankle. Strangers had to help her, hugely pregnant, to a nearby bench. Waiting for a promised ice pack she began to cry, no, wail, and couldn’t stop, her head screaming he’s dead, gone, never again.
His death was a shock, yes, but Rosalyn’s death she knew was coming, thought about it each day, tried to prepare herself for a world without her friend. So why does it feel sudden, cold and sharp? Why is it tearing away at something inside her she can’t name but needs to hold on to? Why does she want to shout she’ll never forget her? Some people pass through, not Rosalyn. She was definitely here.
12
Stop Here
The buzzing alarm wakes her. Reluctantly hoisting herself out of the warm bed, Ava reaches for her robe and slippers. She goes to the window. Snow again. The lawn and the shrubs are blanketed. Nick’s car is gone. Her car, though, is shoveled out, rescued, the big shovel left lying in the driveway. She shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing her hands together for warmth. How sweet, he brewed the coffee. She pours a cup, sips at the hot liquid quickly, no time to linger. She scrambles two eggs, sticks the plate in the microwave for Bobby to reheat. She leaves jam, butter, milk, and cold cereal on the table, places two slices of bread on top of the toaster. She’ll let him sleep. It’s Saturday. The other morning he mumbled some criticism about Nick living here. She zeroed in with a bunch of questions but couldn’t pin him down. He offered small grievances . . . Nick’s odd sleeping hours, used his towel, TV on too loud . . . what he wanted was assurance that all would go on as before. She couldn’t promise that.
She, too, is adjusting. Nick brought no furniture, a few bags of his and Glory’s stuff, yet the house seems tighter. Or is it how she feels? What isn’t in question is Nick’s disdain for routine. Structure and expectations make him suffer, feel hemmed in, managed. He’s explained this to her and she tries to understand, but it can be annoying. If the diner makes lots of money, she’ll build an extension on the house. Fat chance. Nick would hate too much space, if it takes him too far away from her. He’s grateful for her presence. And her? She’s here with him, isn’t she? That means something.
Pulling the list off the fridge, she grabs a pen from the cracked mug on the shelf, crosses out electrician, phone company, tires, adds baker, toothpaste, bulbs, laundry, Dina’s birthday gift. Nick snickers at her sense of order. Well . . . tough. There’s much to be done.
Another sip of coffee and she hurries to the bedroom to dress. Constitutionally unable to leave a mussed bed, she tightens the sheets, then tugs the yellow spread into place and remembers last night’s pillow talk. Their voices low, her son a door away. Unexpected things can happen, she said. Would they have enough money? Someone could slip and fall, she warned. And what about the insurance policy, did he change the name? Does he realize that how people see, feel, talk about the diner will reflect not only on business, but on them as well? That whatever happens they’re still accountable for paying their employees? He pulled her close to stop her chatter, murmured the diner isn’t her house or her sole responsibility. “Yeah, I know, but . . .” the words muffled against him. “All we can do is our best,” he declared, sounding more solemn than wise.
• • •
She pulls into the parking lot, relieved to see that the snowplow has come and gone. Slowing to flurries, the snow lands daintily on the windshield. She sits for a moment unwilling to begin the busy day. It’s there, waiting, solid and snow-covered, undaunted by weather or change, a long bus with steamy windows, and as Nick likes to remind her, the only diner for miles. The other day Mila asked how it felt to be a proprietor. She had no idea. It’s difficult to absorb the idea that the diner is theirs. Things need to be around awhile before she can cl
aim them.
Enough musing, she chides herself, getting out of the car to hurry up the few steps. She pushes open the door and smells paint. Odors will not do. Also that ridiculous chime, they have to get rid of it. One more item for her list. The diner’s been closed a few days, something Murray would never allow. How else would they get things done? Workers have installed indirect lighting, repainted inside and laid new floors. The wood tables with captain’s chairs arrived yesterday. Nick would’ve left more of the old stuff intact, but she insisted. The room looks younger, inviting, warmer, which is a plus in this freeze.
Days ago workers removed the neon sign with Murray’s name, and a new one needs to replace it. Baptism, christening, a party . . . it was Shelly’s idea to have friends participate in renaming the diner. Leaving her boots at the door, she slips into shoes and hangs her coat on the new set of wooden pegs nearby. There are still a few hours before people arrive.
Murray, yakking loudly, hovers around Nick in the kitchen where she heads. He arrived so early. Damn. Rumor has it he’s looking for a house in San Diego, maybe another restaurant there. Mila swears the man has more than enough to retire on. Still, what would he do at home except drive Sylvie crazy? Not her problem. Finding time for a hot bath is a problem.
The unusual clatter of dishes tells her Nick’s trying to drown out Murray’s prattle. She slides an arm around Nick’s waist and whispers, “Thanks for shoveling out my car.”
He doesn’t respond, his face a tight mask, Murray’s impinging on his space.
“—and always make sure there’s enough toilet paper. It can turn off a customer like that.” Murray snaps his fingers. “Also the paint smell. Do something about it.”
“What can we do?” she says quickly, ready to wring her hands if needed.
He looks surprised to be asked, and describes some solvent spray that lifts off smells. The man does know the business. Wearing a black turtleneck sweater and black slacks instead of his usual rolled-up shirtsleeves and jeans, he appears faintly sinister.
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