Sisters One, Two, Three
Page 18
Callie gently pulled away. “I’m happy to see you.”
“This is super-duper great,” Mimi cheered. “Together again. Forward march!”
“Are you here for long?” Ginger asked. “Where do you live? What do you do?” She needed to stop. But there was so much she didn’t know. “I hope you’re back for good.”
“I’m back for now. One day at a time.”
As if possessed, Ginger’s questions kept coming. “How did you find out Mom died?”
Callie’s face seemed to flatten. “Mimi just told me.”
“Oh. You didn’t know.” Ginger reached out to embrace her again but stopped herself. “I thought that’s why you came. Why did you come?”
“The lady at the place called me last night. She told me mom was talking in numbers, and I should come see her. Just in case.”
Ginger blinked as she took this in. A lady had called. “Tracy? The social worker?”
Callie nodded. The microwave beeped. “That’s for me. I couldn’t find the teaspot. Teapot,” she corrected herself as she hurried to the kitchen. At least one thing remained unchanged. Callie still had what Glory liked to call the “Mangle Tangle.”
They stood close in the front hall, whispering.
“No,” Mimi said. “She didn’t say a thing about where she lives. Nothing. Nothing about anything. I’ve been blathering on, telling her about the boys, about Neil, about you. She asked a lot of questions about you.”
“Okay. We need to go slow. Let her be the one to tell us. I’m sure when she’s ready to explain where she’s been, she will. We just have to make sure we don’t scare her away.”
“Why are you lecturing me? You’re the one giving her the third degree.”
They heard the sound of a crash from the kitchen. When they got there, they saw Callie squatting on the floor, collecting the shards of a broken teacup.
“I’m so clunzy. I drop things all the time.”
“I’m clunzy too.” Ginger kneeled to help gather the pieces. “Family trait.”
“Clumsy,” Mimi corrected them both.
When Ginger dropped the shards she’d collected into the garbage, Mimi noticed her hand. “Are you bleeding?” She examined the cut. “Are you kidding me? Callie breaks a cup, and you bleed? How did you manage that?”
“I scraped my hand in the parking lot at the Meadows. It must have reopened. That’s all. I’m fine.” She grabbed some paper towels and sat at the kitchen table. “I was so excited to hear you came,” she told Callie, “that I fell running to my car. Ridiculous, right?”
“I love to run too,” Callie said, and then she went back to preparing her tea.
Making tea seemed to be a complicated process, and she did it with the focus of a monk. Could she be a monk? Ginger would not ask. Unless—what if Callie thought this meant she didn’t care? What if she went back to her monastery and told the other monks she decided to return because no one in her family had been at all curious about her life?
“So.” Ginger tried to keep her tone casual. “Mom said you were in a cult for a while.” Glory had shared that, about her sister. She was in a cult, which some time later, she left. “But she never said which cult it was. Or where you went after you left.”
Callie looked confused.
Mimi grabbed Ginger’s hand. “Gingie, you’re bleeding again. For god sake.” She got Ginger’s purse and handed it over. “You have a tourniquet in there? Or a big bandage at least?”
“It’s because I’m a nurse,” Ginger explained as she pulled out the zippered pouch she used as a traveling first aid kit, stocked with alcohol wipes, antibiotic ointments, and gauze.
“I know,” Callie said.
“Oh.” Ginger wondered how much Mimi had told her. “It’s very warm in here, isn’t it?” She touched her hot cheeks. “Or is it just me?”
“You,” Callie said.
“It’s not you,” Mimi told Ginger. “It’s not her,” she told Callie. “You can’t say things like that to Ginger. Do you remember that about her? How she’s always worrying the sky is going to fall?”
Callie shook her head and went back to preparing her tea.
Even though she was sitting on the other side of the room, the smell of the tea was making Ginger queasy. She peeled off one of the plastic place mats stuck to the table to use as a fan but circulating the air only made it worse. “I think your tea is spoiled. Can tea be spoiled?”
Mimi’s nostrils flared. “Smells like dog. What kind of tea smells like dog?”
“I can’t smell anything.” Callie put a mesh basket in a mug and sprinkled in the tea, a few leaves at a time.
“Quite a production,” Mimi observed. “When I make tea? I don’t even wait for the water to boil. Takes too long. If the boys see me at the stove, makes them automatically starving.”
Ginger tensed. She knew how these conversations went. After the introduction of Mimi’s boys, the subject would naturally turn to Julia. And she did not want to talk about Julia now. She went on the offensive. “Wait till you meet Mimi’s boys. They’re amazing. Practically men by now. Three talented young men. Mimi’s talented too. She’s an artist. Did she tell you?”
“I like to be busy, that’s all. Busy makes for happy.”
“She makes quilts,” Ginger went on. “But she doesn’t go to a store and buy fabric. She uses old clothes.”
“It’s a thing,” Mimi said. “I didn’t invent it. It’s called upcycling.”
“You do it well, is my point. It’s your energy. Mimi has incredible energy. Before she became a quilter, she owned a store. Furniture for kids. Beautiful shop. I didn’t even know she wanted a store and then, poof, one day there it was, open for business. That’s how she is. One day to think it, one day to do it. What came before the store? Real estate?”
Mimi nodded. “Talk about a grind.”
A timer rang and Callie took a measuring cup of water out of the microwave. She slowly poured it over her tea and said, “And before that, you sold jewelry out of your house, right?”
So they’d covered Mimi’s work history too.
Callie carried her teacup to the table. As she got closer, Ginger covered her nose with her hand to block the smell. “I really think your tea’s gone bad.”
“It does smell foul.” Mimi pried open a window and then held up the broken sash. “Come here, Gingie. You look green. Stand here and get some air.”
With her face pressed to the screen and the soft breeze of the early June night hitting her cheek, Ginger’s queasiness began to subside. Something scrambled above her head, and she looked up. “Does Mom have mice?” That came out wrong. “Did Mom have mice?” That sounded worse. “Are there mice here?” There was more scrambling and then a bark.
“A dog?” Mimi had a long-standing fear of dogs she refused to admit. The dog they couldn’t see barked again and Mimi let go of the window, which snapped shut like a guillotine, beheading a large winged beetle that had started a family on the sill.
“That’s Echo,” Callie said. “My dog. I left him upstairs. He doesn’t like to be alone.”
“You brought a dog?” Mimi looked outraged. “You know how allergic the boys are.”
“She doesn’t,” Ginger reminded her.
Callie looked concerned. “Are the boys here?”
“That’s not the point. I can’t go home with dog on my clothes. Troy has asthma and we can’t have anything with fur in the house.” She checked her phone. “I have to go pick up Wallace.” Her hand dug around in her purse for her keys.
“Before you leave,” Ginger said. “We should talk about the funeral tomorrow.”
“Right.” Mimi reviewed the plans: “Limo’s coming at one. Cemetery is an hour from the funeral home. After the burial we’ll have a consolation meal at my house, which Neil’s parents are arranging with the aid of a hundred or so of their closest friends. Afterward—”
“No,” Callie interrupted her. “We can’t do that.”
“Can’
t eat?” Ginger asked.
“Nobody has to eat,” Mimi said. “But there has to be food.” She held up her keys. “Found them.”
“Can’t have a funeral,” Callie explained. “Mom doesn’t want that. She wants to be cremated.”
Ginger took this in. “What makes you think that?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Mimi buttoned her coat. “Plans are made. Where do you want to stay tonight, Cal? Gingie’s house is quiet. Mine is like a circus. Take your pick.”
“I’ll stay here, thanks. And we can’t have a funeral. Mom told me. No funeral. She said I should insist.” She turned to Mimi. “She said I shouldn’t let you bully me.”
“Mom called me a bully?”
Ginger was confused. “When did Mom tell you this?”
Above their heads they could hear the loud thumping of the dog’s tail thwacking the floor. “Echo’s upset. I should get him. Ginger, would you mind changing the arrangements? Mom told me you like to take care of things.”
“I’m a bully, and Ginger likes to take care of things?” Mimi checked her watch. “I have to find someone to pick up Wallace.” She left the room, cell phone pressed hard to her ear.
“Is Mimi always angry?” Callie asked.
“It’s a lot to take in,” Ginger said. “She’s sad about Mom. And then you coming home? It’s amazing. We couldn’t be happier. But it’s been so long. And it’s confusing. Because we’re the ones who’ve been here with Mom. We thought you and Mom were estranged. That you two didn’t speak. So how could you know what Mom wanted?”
“The phone doesn’t always work.” Callie pressed her lips together, just like Julia.
Mimi speeded back from her call. “Okay. Wallace is taken care of. As far as cremation, that has got to be a misunderstanding. Glory is more a bury-me-in-a-cocktail-dress kind of gal. I’m going up to look in her closet to see what she’s got. You want to come?” Ginger and Callie followed, but instead of going upstairs, Callie headed to the front door.
Ginger grabbed her arm. “Don’t leave. We’ll have Mom cremated. Mimi, we have to have Mom cremated, like Callie says.”
“I’m not leaving.” Callie picked up a backpack that was leaning against the wall. “I’m getting something.” She reached inside and pulled out an envelope. “From Mom.”
Ginger and Mimi silently followed her back to the kitchen. After they sat down, Callie pulled a sheet of paper out of the envelope and laid it flat on the table. Even from a distance, Ginger recognized the handwriting. It wasn’t the compressed script of the elderly Glory, like the script on the cover of the journal now in the trunk of Ginger’s car. This was Glory’s handwriting before she got ill, all emphatic loops and flowery cursive.
It was as if a younger, healthy version of her mother had walked into the room. And as if she really had, all discussion stopped, and every head swiveled toward her words.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The trunk held sandy shoes jammed inside sun hats and bathing suits crumpled into sweatshirts. Suitcases had been hastily filled, dirty and clean mixed together. Charlie’s things were nowhere to be seen.
Solly slammed the trunk and got into the car. Everyone sat, eyes straight ahead. He adjusted the mirrors, and Ginger stared at the back of her mother’s hair. It was flat, the way it always went after Glory stayed in bed with a migraine. Callie noticed it too and reached over to fluff it up.
“Stop.” Ginger pulled Callie’s arm and fixed her hands so they lay clasped in her lap.
Mimi leaned forward and directed a question toward her father’s ear, her idea of a private conversation. “What should I tell people when we get home?”
Solly stiffened. “Nobody’s business.”
“That’s it? That’s what I’m supposed to say? Nobody’s business?”
“Say you don’t know,” Ginger told her when her father didn’t reply.
“I don’t know.” Mimi sounded frustrated. “For real, I don’t know.”
Solly gunned the accelerator. Nothing more was said. Other than a request for a rest stop and telling the gas station attendant to “Fill ’er up,” they made the trip home in silence.
That night, Ginger sat Mimi down and told her she had to stop asking what happened. It didn’t matter that Charlie waved when they took him out of the hole. Charlie was gone. What mattered now was that their mother was sick about it, and if they kept going over what happened, she would stay sick.
As for what to do when people asked, that turned out not to matter because over the next few days, they both discovered, no one did. Mimi decided it was because everyone was too busy. It was the beginning of the school year, and people were racing from shopping for loose-leaf notebooks to getting haircuts and new shoes. But Ginger wasn’t so sure. It seemed like a big thing to not notice, that a family who went on vacation with four kids came back with three.
When Evelyn finally came home at the end of the first week of September, she told Ginger she was right. “It is a big thing. Everyone noticed, and they’re desperate for details so they can be sure what happened to you won’t happen to them. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing since I’ve been back. People want to know. They’re just afraid to ask you.”
“What do you tell them?”
“Nothing.” Evelyn offered her a sad smile. “It’s not my place to say.” She was silent for a moment and then, as if she could read Ginger’s mind, she said she was sorry but she couldn’t use her as a mother’s helper anymore. Thomas was going to stay with his father for a while. “Change of scenery,” she gave as the reason and then seemed to regret her flippant tone. “It’s complicated. Thomas felt so bad about what happened. And his father’s just moved. Getting married—did you hear? To a very nice woman. Colleen. Not an evil stepmother at all. A widow with two children. Three now, I suppose.” She took a breath and smiled. “We all decided this would be the perfect time for Thomas to visit. Now everyone can get acquainted. It’s temporary, of course. I couldn’t bear it if it wasn’t temporary.” She got quiet and Ginger didn’t ask any questions.
But even if Thomas hadn’t gone to stay with his father, Ginger soon realized she wouldn’t have been allowed to work for Evelyn. It would have been too upsetting for Glory. That was the main thing now: making sure Glory didn’t get more upset. With their return to New Jersey, her headaches had come back. She had one every day, incapacitating migraines that sometimes were so bad, Ginger could hear moaning from all the way downstairs. The only thing that brought relief was being alone, staying in bed, and switching up washcloths—a cool one on her forehead while a backup soaked in the bowl of ice water that took up permanent residence on her night table.
Ginger was sure the headaches were, at least in part, because of her. She wasn’t sure exactly what her role was in the accident, but she knew accusations would be coming before long. Any minute now, they’d begin. That they hadn’t started yet was confusing. Every morning she braced herself for the blowup. But her mother did not emerge from bed. Finally, Ginger asked her father his opinion. “Do you think Mom will be mad at me forever?”
“Mad at you? For what?”
She shrugged and met her father’s eyes. “I know it was my fault. I’m sorry.”
“Fault?” Solly’s eyes shone bright, and then he wagged his finger. “No.” He sounded angry. “You did nothing. I don’t want to ever hear you say that again. Understand?”
Ginger didn’t, but she nodded anyway.
When school started up, Evelyn came over every morning to help them get ready. Everyone except Callie, who refused to go to school. It was hard to know why, because Callie was on strike against talking. It took them a day to notice that because Callie had never been a big talker. How could she be when she had three older siblings to compete with? It was hard for all of them to get a word in edgewise, but Callie’s solution was to make do with mime and playacting—sticking out her tongue if she was mad, stamping her feet when she wanted to demand attention. But on strike, she stopped even that.
It was Evelyn who coaxed Callie into talking. She didn’t get her to say much, but it was a start. “You can have a second Ring Ding if you want,” Evelyn told her one night after dinner. “All you have to do is ask. Just say, ‘May I have another Ring Ding?’ and a second one—I promise—will appear, presto, like magic, on your plate.”
When that worked, Evelyn moved on to encouraging Callie to give school a try. “Try for a day,” she suggested, and when that didn’t do the trick, “Try for a couple of hours,” and finally, “Go for ten minutes. I’ll be right outside, waiting in the car.” Ginger gave a try at picturing her mother making that offer, but her mind went blank.
As soon as Callie went back to school, her night terrors stopped, just like that. Ginger didn’t know why until Evelyn explained. Callie had been worrying about the same thing Ginger worried about: what to say when people asked about Charlie. But just as no one had asked Ginger, no one asked Callie. To Ginger it seemed like the whole world decided it would be better to pretend he had never existed at all.
Now they woke up every day to Evelyn in the kitchen plating whatever treat she’d baked the night before—muffins or banana bread—or cooking them a hot breakfast—French toast cut into hearts or waffles with sugar dusted on top. In the afternoon, Evelyn came back to cook dinner. Soon the house filled with the sounds of good cheer as they adapted to acting, if not always feeling, like everything was okay. Of course it wasn’t okay, but at least with Evelyn in charge, sometimes entire days went by without a single cross word or choked-back tears.