She numbly filled boxes with her own clothes and toiletries, stuffing the bedding into garbage bags. Important memories of Joe—the flag from his funeral, all of the pictures from their happy times, each item chipped at her heart until it felt like one more blow would shatter it—went into a separate box. She looked at each item one last time, pausing on the photo Roza had taken right before he’d left for duty. She took it and Regina’s birth certificate, pulled back the lining on her coat, and put them there, close to her. Once she was settled, she would hide it in her new bedroom—a place Floyd would never look. She could have this one small memory to look at when she became too lonely.
She slid her boxes into the blue VW Beetle, and walked the box containing her Joe memories to Roza’s flat upstairs. When Roza answered, she motioned Lorraine into the kitchen, one of her tall, blond sons taking the box before she could even say hello.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were packing things up? I would have helped you.” Roza guided her to the table, noticing her raw face, but not commenting, thank goodness. “You need to take care of yourself and the baby. She’ll be here any day.”
Lorraine couldn’t help but smile. Roza had been claiming she was carrying a girl since the moment Lorraine told her she was expecting.
“You’ve already done so much for me, for us.” Lorraine sipped the water that appeared in front of her after she eased herself to a seat at the table. “And I need to ask you for two more favors.”
“Anything.”
Lorraine studied Roza’s face, her dark hair streaked with gray pulled into a bun, her skin still smooth around alert blue eyes. She had no reason, really, to ask anything of Roza other than she had been a kind neighbor who had become a friend. Roza wasn’t obligated to share Lorraine’s burdens. Only self-preservation allowed her to humble herself enough to say the words. After losing and giving up so much, she needed to ask for help. It was selfish. It was necessary.
Lorraine dug deep, pulling her protective shell around her. She could no longer be ruled by emotions. No more breakdowns.
“First, can you keep the box of Joe’s things at your house, someplace safe? I can’t bring them with me and I can’t throw them out.” Roza nodded, as Lorraine had expected. That was the small favor. Now for the big one. “Second, I’m getting married in a few days, and my new husband has agreed I should have a nanny for Regina and the new baby. Will you be their nanny? You’ll be paid well. But—”
“Of course, I’ll help with the children.”
“Let me finish, please. If you agree to this, we can’t talk about Joe or acknowledge our previous history. You would just be a qualified nanny that I interviewed and hired. I don’t want Floyd to know you knew Joe, and I need you. I am going to have to play the good society wife. But with you, I won’t forget. I can’t forget.”
Roza clasped Lorraine’s hand, so warm against her cold one. Lorraine felt numb, frozen from the inside out. But Roza’s warmth was a life preserver. “You can’t pretend Joe never existed. You can’t ignore that he’s the father of your two children. This won’t help you heal, and you need to heal for the girls and yourself.”
Lorraine’s armor snapped around her, waking a lurking fury at her own widowhood. How dare Roza tell her she was wrong! Roza still had a husband who came home every night. Someone she could greet with a kiss on the cheek and a warm meal. Someone to whisper with late at night. Lorraine was trapped in a dark room with all the air sucked out, scrambling to find the cracks that would give her enough oxygen to make it to the next moment. Then another crack, another moment. Roza thought she knew a better way. But she knew nothing. Anger gave Lorraine a wave of strength, and she clung to it with both hands.
“Roza, this is what I need from you. I don’t expect you to understand why. I don’t even understand why. But knowing that you knew Joe, even if we can’t talk about him, it will be the proof I need that it had really happened. But I am marrying again, to Floyd, and this is the way it has to be. I understand if you can’t do it.” Lorraine slumped, her little speech had tapped her remaining energy. She needed her bed and soon.
Roza sat back in her chair and stared at her. Lorraine could guess what she saw—a pale, drawn woman in a black dress from JCPenney that tented over her huge stomach, her straight brown hair dangling on each side of her face. Dark stains shadowed her blank eyes. A woman whose future had crumbled and who had to carve a new one from the remaining rubble. She was desperation and despair. A woman reaching for a life raft in an ocean of grief.
Roza’s mouth opened and closed, questions visibly bubbling to the surface. Her every misgiving and worry was written on her face. When Roza made up her mind, Lorraine could see the determination flash in her blue eyes, a fire that would light both their ways.
Lorraine took a deep breath and waited to hear what Roza had decided.
“Yes. For you and Regina, and the new baby, yes, I can do it.”
Lorraine nodded, eyes welling in gratitude, and rubbed her belly.
“Thank you. I’ll call you with everything you need to know, and I’ll pay you so much you won’t think twice. Floyd emphasized money was no object.” Lorraine stood and hugged Roza, hoping her gratitude shone through in her grasp. “But, honestly, I’ll never be able to repay you. You are saving me and my children. Thank you.”
The women held each other, a silent agreement that would get Lorraine through the coming years. And that was before Lorraine even knew how much she’d come to rely on Roza’s steadying hand.
When Regina was in first grade and Victoria ruled kindergarten like a queen, Lorraine was brushing Regina’s hair, working to get it smooth so she could braid it for school, but the seven-year-old kept reaching up to scratch her head, ruffling the sleekness.
“Stop that. You’re messing up your hair. Do you want to look like a ragamuffin?” Lorraine said.
“But it’s itchy.”
Lorraine paused her smoothing and parted her hair to see if there was a rash. What she found was so much worse, she threw the brush into the sink and stepped back from Regina’s head, hands held high while trying to keep her calm. Lice.
“Victoria, get in here.”
“What is it?” Regina asked, scratching at her head again.
“Stop doing that. Don’t touch anything.”
Victoria appeared, and Lorraine motioned her to stand next to her sister. She was loath to touch Victoria’s head, worried she’d find the disgusting things. Examining the part running down the center of Victoria’s silky light-brown hair, she didn’t even need to touch it to see clearly. Victoria had them, too. Suddenly, her own head erupted in the buggy sensation. Could she have them?
“Stand in the shower, both of you, and don’t move.”
“But we have to go to school.”
“Not today. You can’t.” She leaned her head out the door and called, “Floyd, can you come to the girls’ bathroom, please?”
While she waited for Floyd to arrive, she leaned toward the mirror, lifting up chunks of her immaculately feathered hair, looking for the telltale immovable white dots. Her roots were starting to show, so she couldn’t tell. Doubly disgusting. Floyd appeared, already dressed for work in a dark gray, three-piece pinstriped suit.
“The girls have lice. Can you check my head?”
She leaned forward, head tipped, for him to look and he recoiled back, his hands up, as if he were under arrest.
“Absolutely not. Call Roza. Pay her extra if needed.”
Lorraine looked at her husband of six years as though seeing him for the first time. Who was this man? He’d always been pleasant enough. A perfectly fine roommate. On time for dinner, respectful of her privacy and parenting decisions, and positively doting in public. As a family, they had all the creature comforts they could want.
But for the first time since she’d made the decision to marry him, she needed more. She needed a life partner, someone whom she could count on to check her head for lice. Floyd couldn’t make it clearer tha
t he was not, nor would he ever be, that kind of partner. Joe would never—no. She couldn’t go down that road. Just solve the problem, Lorraine.
“Fine,” she said, closing the door. She heard his steps retreat and the front door close as she watched her girls stand in the giant, cobalt-blue tiled shower.
Floyd had been right on one point, though—Roza would help.
“Stay there, girls.”
She called Roza, who arrived to all three of the Price women scratching their heads. Under her arm she had a large tub of something white and on her face rested the self-possession of a general who knows what battle entails.
“Okay, who’s first?”
Lorraine bent her head so Rose could check her scalp.
“You’re all clear.”
Lorraine relaxed a bit.
“You take Victoria, and I’ll work on Regina’s head.” Roza motioned the girls to get out of the shower and stand in front of them. They listened immediately. “You didn’t need to quarantine them. It’s not the plague, just a few little buggies.” The girls giggled.
She scooped out a large glob from the tub and plopped it onto Victoria’s head, then did the same for Regina.
“Now rub it in. We’ll put shower caps on them while the coconut oil suffocates the live ones. In a few hours, we’ll comb through their hair. Then you need to do this every three days for three weeks.”
“Isn’t there someplace we can take them? Something to kill everything faster than that?”
“Do you want to put pesticide on your child?”
Roza was right, as usual, she didn’t want that. Lorraine shook her head.
“You can do this.”
The women got to work. As the girls waited for the bugs to die, sitting in front of the TV, Lorraine and Roza stripped their beds and washed anything a bug-infested head could have touched. The mountain in the laundry room grew, and Lorraine whimpered at the thought. Thank heavens for Roza.
Roza brushed Lorraine’s hair off her face and then paused to look her in the eye, the older woman’s deep wrinkles matching Lorraine’s, her hair white and pulled into a low bun, the way she had worn it for years. Without Roza, Lorraine would never have made it through those early years without Joe. For the last forty years, she was the only one who’d known Lorraine’s secrets.
“Your hair looks a mess. Did they take away your mirror privileges?” She looked around for a brush and found one in the toiletry bag in the bathroom. She helped Lorraine sit up and propped her back with pillows so she could brush the messy locks. “In the forty years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you let your hair go. But don’t worry, I’ll fix you up.” As she brushed with slow, gentle strokes, she spoke.
“It’s time, Lorraine. They are halfway there. Unless you tell me otherwise, I’m going to tell them.” She paused to assess Lorraine’s reaction. With all the strength her neck had, she managed to bob her head. It was the best she could do. “I’m going to take that as a yes, and God forgive me if I’m wrong.” She paused her brushing to make the sign of the cross. “They are going to have so many questions. You’ve really chosen the worst possible time to lose your voice. But then again, you’ve never been one for good timing.”
She smoothed Lorraine’s hair one more time, then helped ease her back to a comfortable position.
“There, now you look more like yourself. I can’t believe you’ve let them keep you in those hospital gowns. I’ll have the nurse get you into one of your own nightdresses. They can’t expect someone to get better when their caboose hangs out the back.”
Lorraine looked at her old friend, hoping her gratitude was clear. One thing was for certain—she didn’t like not being able to say the words. The stroke reminded Lorraine that time was not infinite, and some words shouldn’t wait. She grasped Roza’s arm with a trembling hand, squeezing it the best that she could. Roza wiped up the tears that wet both their faces.
“I know. I know.” She squeezed Lorraine’s arm back and returned the hairbrush to the bathroom, clearing her throat before she spoke again. “I’ll stop by Gina’s house tonight after she’s done working. I’ll bring them some pierogi. Your girls always handled bad news better with my pierogi.”
It was true. Just the smell of Roza’s dumplings calmed her, like the thrill of drawing a bath and anticipating the comfort to come. Or like two fingers of good bourbon after a stressful day. The two women had made pierogis a million times together, but Lorraine still didn’t understand what made Roza’s so much better than any she had tried elsewhere. The dough was more tender, more flavorful, the edges crispy, and the filling, no matter if it was sweet or savory, was always delicious. She had eaten them cold at midnight, straight out of the pan, and at every point between.
Now she just hoped the pierogis were delicious enough to soften the hurt Lorraine’s secret could cause her daughters.
WHAT’S BEEN YOUR GREATEST JOY?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
May tossed her boring cotton sports bras onto the floor. She wished she had some pretty bras, something that would catch Connor’s attention, make her seem more grown up than plain white cotton. May and Olivia had spent all day yesterday dissecting every moment of her makeout session with Connor. They both agreed he really did like her, and she wanted to show him that she liked him, too. That’s what lingerie was for, right? She pulled out an old bikini with a fun turquoise and green pattern. Would this work as a replacement if he didn’t notice it was a bathing suit? A knock sounded on the back door, and all her nerves sprung to the surface, a porcupine of anticipation. Too late. Boring cotton would have to do.
As May dashed out of her room, she pulled a black T-shirt over her head—this one had an adorable zombie rabbit wearing pajamas. Connor had made good time. She only had had enough time to change clothes and rub on some strawberry-scented lotion. She hoped Connor liked strawberries.
“Come in,” she shouted, sliding down the hallway and into the kitchen. He opened the door, stomping his feet on the rug to get off the snow that covered his shoes from running through yards. While this was only the second time he had come over, it felt like a routine, a new routine. May liked it. He looked up, snow dotting his dark hair and fleece coat.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi.” What now? Would he kiss her right away, or later? She licked her lips. She definitely should have put on lip gloss. “Are you hungry? I can make a snack?”
“No, not really. Thanks.” He lined up his shoes carefully on the rug and hung his coat on an empty hook, then rubbed his hands on his jeans. His nervousness made her feel a little better about her own.
“We can watch Netflix. I started watching Buffy, and it’s pretty good. I’m only on episode three, so I can catch you up in a few minutes.”
Connor nodded and stopped fidgeting with his hands, looking relieved she had a suggestion.
“Sure, that sounds good.”
They walked down the carpeted steps into the dark basement, May’s nerves bouncing, light making random rectangles on the carpeting where it leaked through the snow-covered basement windows. The room was warm. It always was—the hot air got trapped in the basement, so it was always the coziest spot in the house. She needed to relax or Connor would think she was a huge dork. She needed something so he’d think she was cool. And normal. What did cool, normal people do?
Her eyes landed on a part of the room she’d never given much thought to before: a small, dark wood bar. It had enough room for two stools in front and a few shelves behind. Underneath was a small refrigerator and a few bottles of alcohol her mom never drank.
“Did you want some wine?” She went behind the bar in the corner of the basement and pulled out a dusty bottle of wine that had been stashed there for years. The label was white with a picture of a fancy building.
“Wine? Are you serious?”
She opened the bottle using the fancy cork remover she’d seen her mom use and poured some into a glass.
“Sure. Why not? It’s not like w
e’re going to be operating any heavy machinery.”
“Okay. I’m down.” Connor didn’t look too sure, but she poured him a glass anyway.
“Cheers.” They clinked their glasses and both sipped. Connor made a face, but May used all her self-control to keep from doing the same, even though the sour liquid burned as she swallowed. She took a bigger gulp, which tasted a tiny bit better. Connor took another sip and carried it to the couch, so she poured a bit more in her glass and followed him. She knew it took time to feel drunk or whatever, but she already felt a little light-headed and rebellious. In a good way.
Leaving all the lights off, they both settled on the couch, with only a few inches between them, setting their glasses on the coffee table. She started the episode, and by the time the opening credits were over, she had updated Connor on the major characters, and they were holding hands. Her body felt a little numb, but good. By the time the theme song started on the second episode, his lips were on hers.
“You smell amazing,” Connor said between kisses. One hand traced a path up and down her arm like a robot programmed to perform only that action. She turned her body toward him, giving him more room to move his hands. He leaned into her until she tipped backward, following so he was on top of her.
“I can’t move,” she exhaled. He rolled toward the back of the couch so they were facing each other as they lay on their sides, their legs bumping into each other as they kissed. Finally, they settled into a pattern. Three turns with her head to the right, then they would switch and do three with her head tilted left, then switch again. She didn’t mind his tongue as much anymore. She knew a good chunk of time had passed because her lips started to get sore and she heard the end credits of the second episode. Should she stop? Pause Netflix? She adjusted her hips so she could get leverage to reach the remote, but Connor mistook what she was doing. His kissing became more eager, his fingers edging the bottom of her shirt, touching her back and sides with his hands. They were warm and gentle. What if? She moved her free hand to the edge of his shirt. The other hand was trapped under his body and she could only flap it against his shoulder blade. Was she doing this okay? His skin was smooth, so she moved it upward, and he didn’t move away. In fact, his hips rubbed against hers. She could feel a few small pimples on his back. Suddenly, Connor paused, his hand at the bottom of her sports bra.
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