by Dyan Sheldon
“Well, of course he’s coming, too. They can’t very well leave him home by himself, can they?” Lilah’s smile becomes serious. “And you can’t spend the whole Summer sitting in your room playing your guitar, Celeste. How many times do I have to tell you? You need to get out and meet people.” Especially boys with promising futures. “Have a life. There’s nothing to stop you now.” Meaning Sorrel. “You’re not going to be young for ever, you know.”
“Oh for God’s sake, if she didn’t get palpitations every time you say you want to join a band you’d have a life and be meeting people all the time.” Sorrel slides gracefully from the desk. “And anyway you are still in your teens. You probably have a few good years left. If you don’t get hit by a car.”
“Celeste?” says Lilah. “Celeste, are you listening to me? Are you going to put on a dress?”
“Ooh,” squeals Sorrel. “Does she want you to wear the bright colours or the stripes?”
Celeste smiles. “You mean one of my new outfits?”
“I was thinking of something a little more conservative,” says Lilah. “After all, these are people who dine with senators and lobbyists.”
Celeste can feel herself getting ready to give in; she usually does. It’s always easier to do what her mother wants than go against her. Especially when you’ve been ambushed like this and have had no time to prepare your defence.
“Tell her to stuff it,” says Sorrel. “She’s always trying to fix you up with somebody’s nephew or son or grandson. What is she, your pimp? I swear, she’s almost as bad as my mother. And anyway, it’s Sunday afternoon, Cel. You’re going to yoga. Like we always did.”
Yoga. Celeste had totally forgotten about yoga. She and Sorrel would spend Saturday night at one or the other’s house, mooch around in their pyjamas all Sunday morning, and then go together to the yoga class in the room above the hardware store. Sorrel loved yoga; Celeste likes it okay, but mainly she went because Sorrel did. She hasn’t been back since Sorrel died; it never occurred to her to go without her. Celeste is the only member of the class who isn’t slim and who is only slightly more flexible than steel. That didn’t matter when her black mat was stretched out next to Sorrel’s green one. She could do anything, go anywhere when she was with Sorrel; Sorrel was like a free pass to life – accepted everywhere and welcomed with open arms. Sorrel showed her how to make an advantage out of being herself. Sorrel said she wasn’t odd, she was different – original, exceptional, unique. Celeste on her own is self-conscious and unsure. And very tall for a girl.
“Celeste? What’s wrong with you?” demands her mother, her smile hardening. “Are you going to get dressed? They’ll be here soon.”
But of course, Celeste isn’t on her own any more. Sorrel is keeping an eye on her. Sorrel is giving her a way to get out of this stupid lunch.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Celeste puts her guitar aside and stands up. “It’s Sunday, Mom. I have my yoga class. I have to go.”
“Surely you can miss one class.” If Lilah were ever home on Sundays she would know how true that is. “As a favour. To me. I told everyone you’d be here.”
“I’m really sorry, Mom. I have to go. I already paid.” Neither of those statements is actually true. “And, besides, it’s important to keep up.”
Lilah sighs, but it’s a sigh of compromise. “Just make sure you’re back in time for dessert.”
When the door shuts behind her mother, Celeste finally turns to face Sorrel. There’s no one there.
But she can hear Sorrel laugh. Job done.
The months since he found his mother in the bathtub haven’t been easy for Ruben. The eye of a hurricane is the part where the winds are light and the sky is clear – the calm within the storm that rages around it. Sylvia Rossi is like the hurricane’s eye. Safe and protected, her life is relatively undisturbed. Which isn’t something that can be said for her son’s life. Ruben’s life has been torn apart and battered by his mother’s fears. Now everything he does has to accommodate her. He’s even stopped painting. Because it seemed too much like fiddling while Rome was burning to the ground, the only art he’s done are nervous doodles when he can’t distract himself from worrying about Sylvia – spiky characters with wide, wild eyes and expressions of panic. To fill the empty space, he’s thrown himself into a variety of activities besides his job to keep himself busy and have good excuses for not seeing his friends. During school it was clubs and community service; during vacation he gives a few hours a week to walking dogs for the animal shelter and works in the garden so at least the house looks normal on the outside. But no matter how busy he is, Ruben is still as isolated and alone as the sole shipwreck survivor marooned on an uncharted island. And with as little hope of rescue.
This morning he’s thinning out the bedding plants, and missing his old self even more than usual. Each plant he removes he puts in a plastic container, and fits into a cardboard box, to be taken to his father’s grave. Ruben visits Enzo every week or two; there’s no need for both of them to be lonely. It’s as he’s finishing his work that he has the idea to bring a few plants to Mrs Gwinnet. Orlando once joked that after Raylan was killed his mother discovered Jesus and geraniums; the only time she doesn’t work in her garden is when there’s snow on the ground. Suzanne Gwinnet wins prizes every year at the local flower show; her garden has even appeared in the Sunday magazine under the heading “Small but Perfectly Formed”. The more Ruben thinks about this idea, the more he likes it. He’s always been fond of Orlando’s mother, and he hasn’t seen her since before Sorrel died. It would be a nice gesture. The plants would get a good home. Whistling to himself, he puts the boxes on the passenger seat of the car. He hasn’t seen much of Orlando since the funeral, either. Time really flies when you’re a paranoid wreck.
Suzanne Gwinnet and Orlando are in the backyard, on their hands and knees in the vegetable patch. The fact that Orlando is weeding with his mother and not shooting baskets or doing push-ups suggests that his father isn’t home, but Ruben glances cautiously around, just in case. Officer Gwinnet doesn’t approve of much, and boys who aren’t into sports are most definitely not an exception to that rule.
Orlando spots Ruben first, coming across the grass with a box of plants in his hands and a smile on his face. “Yo, Rube! What’s up?”
“Why, what a nice surprise! It’s been ages since I saw you,” calls his mother. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”
“Oh, you know,” says Ruben. “I’ve been pretty busy.”
“And how’s your mom? I never seem to run into her in town any more.”
“She’s great,” Ruben not-quite lies. “She’s busy, too. You know, with her writing. She says hello.”
Suzanne gets to her feet, brushing her hands on the dungarees she wears when she’s gardening. “Well, tell her I say hello back.”
They both seem glad to see him; maybe as glad as he is to see them. Back in the real world where people go out in the sun. All systems normal.
Ruben holds out the box. “I was thinning out our beds, and I thought maybe you could use these.”
“Why, isn’t that thoughtful. Thank you.” She puts the box in the shade, brings them iced tea, and vanishes into the house where, it seems, she has things to do.
Ruben and Orlando sit at the picnic table. They’re a little awkward at first – Where do the days go? What you been up to? How are things? Summer’s almost over – but they relax soon enough. Orlando has lifeguard stories to swap for bookshop ones. They sip their tea and laugh, as if nothing has changed between them.
And then, pretty much apropos of nothing, Orlando says, “Remember that time Sorrel said she thought a slam dunk was a doughnut?” He laughs. “Man, did that crack us up or what?”
“I forgot that.” Ruben watches the ice bob in his glass. “I forgot how funny she could be.”
“Me, too.” Orlando nods. “Sometimes, you know…” Orlando, too, seems to be watching what the ice in his glass is doing. “Sometimes it
doesn’t seem possible she’s really dead. Sometimes I kind of forget. And…”
“Yeah,” says Ruben. “So do I.” Though not for want of trying.
“I’m always thinking I’m going to see her, you know?” Orlando’s eyes now are focused on a point to the right of Ruben’s head. “That I’m going to bump into her on the street. Or look out the window and she’ll be coming up the sidewalk.”
Ruben, still looking at his glass, nods. “I know what you mean.”
“There are even times when…” Orlando laughs. “Times when I almost think I do see her.”
Ruben looks at him. “You do?” Sunlight glints off their glasses; next door someone turns on a sprinkler and small children shriek. Ruben takes a conscious breath. Now he knows why he’s here. To stop feeling so alone. To talk to Orlando. To tell him about seeing Sorrel. To exorcise her once and for all. If he tells Orlando, Orlando will tell him that she’s just his imagination and she’ll disappear once and for all. Ruben hesitates, trying to get his words together so they don’t sound crazy spoken out loud while sitting at a picnic table on a sunny afternoon.
His hesitation lasts too long. Just as he starts to answer – just as he says, “Well…” – Bernard Gwinnet’s car pulls into the driveway. Ruben and Orlando both turn to look at it.
And so the moment passes, as moments do. Ruben feels the sun on his head and the cool wetness of the glass in his hand, and hears the car engine turn off and the door open.
“I better go.” He stands up. “I have stuff in the car that I have to get in the ground.”
“Right.” Orlando stands up, too. “Hey, I’m glad you stopped by. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
“Yeah,” says Ruben, “I’ll give you a call.”
Enzo Rossi is buried in the small cemetery just outside of Peakston. Sylvia comes on the anniversaries of his birth and death, but these more frequent visits are just for Ruben – so Enzo knows how much he is missed.
He leaves the car in the parking area by the entrance and walks to the grave. He doesn’t hurry, following the narrow pathways, stopping now and then to read the inscription on a headstone. Precious daughter… Cherished father… Gone to Heaven… Only sleeping… An empty tale… A morning flower… At rest… At peace… Safe with God… Our loss is Heaven’s gain… Until he finally reaches the one that says Enzo Rossi, Beloved Husband and Father.
Ruben puts the box and the trowel down on the ground, then takes an apple he brought from home and sets it on the headstone. His father loved apples. Ruben is thinking about that, about how his father would eat even the apple’s core and joke that he’d be sprouting apple trees after they put him in the earth, when someone speaks.
“You know what they’re going to put on my headstone? Take a guess.”
Ruben stiffens, but looks towards the voice. Sorrel is sitting on the stone marking the final resting place of Johnathan Webster and his wife Sandra – Together again – her feet tucked under her and an elaborate bouquet of flowers in her hand. Would she have appeared if he had managed to tell Orlando about these visitations? Now he’ll never know.
“You don’t want to guess?” says Sorrel. “You’re no fun.” She touches the bouquet to her head. “Okay, I’ll guess. I figure it’ll probably be something like, After all we did for her, this is how she thanks us.” Sorrel laughs. “Or, maybe, If we’d known this was going to happen we wouldn’t have spent all that money on her teeth.”
“Is that a joke?”
“Not completely. My mom would think that for sure. She’s a total scorekeeper. All the time and effort she put into making me beautiful so I could be famous and I go and die young. But not my dad. He’s not petty like that.” The flowers sway, thoughtfully. “Well, probably not my dad. But you never know.” Sorrel winks, shaking the bouquet. “People are full of surprises, aren’t they?”
Even after they’re dead.
“They’re your parents,” says Ruben. “They love you.”
“Love can have multiple personalities,” says Sorrel. She poses the bouquet coquettishly against her cheek. “Don’t you think?”
Ruben glances around to make certain there’s no one who can hear him. There are quite a few visitors on this sunny morning, but none of them are close, and all of them are occupied tending their own loved ones’ graves. “Why are you here, Sorrel?”
She spreads her arms. “Where else would I be? It’s a cemetery. I’m dead, remember?”
And he’s the one who’s forgotten that?
“Yeah, I know you’re dead. But this isn’t your cemetery. You’re buried miles away. Shouldn’t you be hanging out there?” As if there is a shred of logic in what he’s saying, as if that makes the whole thing sensible.
She shrugs. “Maybe I like this one better.”
“Why are you following me around? Why don’t you leave me alone?”
“You’re my friend. I like to talk to you.” She swings her feet over the headstone. “And it’s a lot easier to do now than when I was alive. When I was alive I was lucky to see you in school. You were always doing something, always so busy. Can’t do this. Can’t do that. Have to take a rain check. Maybe next week. I’ll let you know.” She points the bouquet at him. Accusingly. “Or slamming the door in my face.”
She makes it sound as if he slammed the door in her face all the time. “I don’t want to talk about that.” He sees a couple coming towards him, two women maybe ten yards up the path, and bends his head so that, if they’re looking, they’ll think that he’s praying.
“Why not? Why don’t you want to talk about it?” She gives him one of her melt-your-heart smiles. “Now you can tell me why you started acting so weird. That’s one of the benefits of death. Everybody knows they can trust you with their secrets.”
“Yeah, only you can’t say you’ll take them to the grave,” says Ruben. “Not when you won’t stay in your grave.”
She reaches down and pulls a rose from the bouquet. “Believe me, Ruben, grave or no grave I know how to keep a secret. You think I didn’t have secrets? You think everybody doesn’t? What makes you think you’re so special? You’d be amazed the things you don’t know about people you think you know well.”
“Go away, Sorrel. Now. Put those flowers down and leave.” Suddenly the cemetery seems very busy, people everywhere he looks.
“You really have to lighten up, you know? It’s not healthy to be so uptight.” She takes the rose she plucked from the bouquet and throws it at him. “And anyway, we’ve had this conversation before, Ruben. I wouldn’t leave then and I won’t leave now.”
She always was stubborn.
It almost looks like a commercial. Three people – mother, father, son – sitting on their colonial-style chairs, around their colonial-style table, plates in front of them, forks in hand, knives at the ready. A colonial-style lamp hangs over them, casting a soft light that doesn’t reach into the corners of the room. It’s obviously not a commercial, however, because no one is smiling or even pretending to be having a good time. Officer Gwinnet is talking, accompanied by the occasional murmured response from his wife.
The Gwinnets are having supper, an activity only slightly less stressful than walking a tightrope between skyscrapers while juggling eggs. Officer Gwinnet works shifts, so he isn’t always home in the evenings. When he isn’t home, if Orlando and his mother eat together they listen to music and talk about this and that; if they don’t eat together, Suzanne will have her meal in front of the TV, watching a programme she likes, and Orlando will have his in his room, watching something he likes. When Officer Gwinnet is home he insists that the three of them eat together, at the kitchen table, the way a family should, having intelligent conversation, and not listening to the crappy music his wife favours or watching some idiot showing off on the TV. Families, like societies, need rules, and Bernard Gwinnet has provided his family with enough to satisfy the fussiest bureaucracy. It goes without saying that he has no idea that, in his absence, the rules he’s put in place so as
siduously are flouted wilfully and often.
Normally, Orlando listens when his father is speaking (it’s dangerous not to; there’s always a chance he’ll be quizzed on it later), but recently he’s found it difficult to concentrate on anything for long. His mind wanders from one thought to another as if searching for just the right one instead of focusing on whatever’s at hand. Tonight he’s so preoccupied that he only knows his father has been trying to get his attention when something hits the table with such force that the dishes all jump and the bottle of ketchup falls over. There’s a sharp intake of breath from his mother. Orlando looks up.
“What’s wrong with you, boy? You’ve had your head up your butt for days. Sulky as a girl.” Officer Gwinnet is glaring at Orlando as if he’s been caught breaking into an off-license, an offence the elder Gwinnet views as being on a par with being anything like a girl. Obviously, what slammed against the table was his father’s fist. “I was talking to you.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.” Which is certainly true; his father’s displeasure is the last thing Orlando or his mother either wants or needs, even if it is one of the things that comes to them far more readily than anything else. The tyranny of Bernard Gwinnet’s moods runs their lives. “I was just thinking of something.”
“I presume it’s something a hell of a lot more interesting than anything I might have to say.” Still glaring at his son, Officer Gwinnet stabs the last piece of steak on his plate with his fork as if he’s making sure it’s dead. “Well, if it’s that interesting, I’m sure your mother and I would like to hear what it is. Wouldn’t we, Suzanne?” He waves the pink chunk of flesh at Orlando. “Come on. Enlighten us.”
Orlando’s pretty sure they wouldn’t want to hear what he was thinking. It would worry his mother, who has enough to worry about; and it would infuriate his father, who has more than enough to be furious about. What he was thinking of right then was Sorrel. For a change.
“We’re waiting,” says his father. “What was so engrossing?”