by Karen Day
But it was unbearable. A hospice nurse once said to me that “passing” was sometimes graceful, even peaceful. Not for my mother. Her fear of death was palpable in her shrieks and moans and dry heaves and shakes. She had bedsores, bleeding skin, terrible hallucinations, and a face constantly contorted with pain and fear. She had only twenty-four hours of unconsciousness before she died. It was hard to remember that day. Mostly I remembered her misery. And that there was absolutely nothing I could do to save her. Was there any wonder why I felt ready to move on when she finally died?
Under the desk and to the right were three large drawers, each stuffed. I’d tried to go at them before, but my dad had been adamant about leaving this for last. I pulled open the bottom drawer as far as it would go and lifted out a stack of papers. There were a few letters from Janice, a bunch of envelopes tied together with a rubber band, a box of pencils (unsharpened), a dry cleaning receipt, and a large manuscript in a blue binder. I opened to the first page. It was a draft of the ground patrol story. I glanced at the note she’d scrawled at the top of the page. Draft #1.
This would have to go to the library with the other drafts. I closed the cover and when I lifted it again, a paper slipped out and fell to the floor. It wasn’t part of the manuscript. It was a letter. From Lucy. I sat back in my seat. I’d often thought of her over the years, especially toward the end of my mother’s life when she lay in bed, thumbing through her copy of Listen, and I sat silent and baffled, unable (because she was dying? Because I was a coward?) to confront her with my understanding of what she’d done to this poor woman. I picked up the letter and began to read.
Dear Eleanor,
I have written you three times, all delivered to your publisher, without a response, and so I don’t imagine you’ll write me back this time. But I hope you will because I’m sure that I deserve answers.
I was a vulnerable sophomore when I met you. I used to sit in your Milton class, admiring you. You were so confident and smart! Soon afterward, we began having meaningful office hour conversations. Remember how you clapped after I recited that memorized part of Book One from Paradise Lost? You said you’d never had a student do that before. Never. I was the first and only.
We talked about my family, and you listened and smiled and gave me that extension on my first paper. That was so nice! But then something changed. Something always changes. And it wasn’t because I didn’t have “boundaries,” like you said, or that I needed “real help.” I was okay when you said we couldn’t go out to dinner or coffee. I was! Here’s what I think: You were so interested when I said my brother had come back, unhappy, from Vietnam. I think you were planning on stealing my story about him all along.
But you messed it up. My brother didn’t kill himself. He wasn’t ashamed of what he did over there. He didn’t have mental problems. Nobody in our family has mental problems! He was a hero, even if he never got the medals he deserved. And the Phoebe character you created wasn’t me, either. I wasn’t some weird kid who “listened” and could only talk to adults. I had friends. People liked me. They did. You can ask anyone. And my brother liked me, too. But now he won’t even let me in his house. He won’t let me near his three children! And the reason is because of that book. It’s because of you.
You owe me an explanation. You owe me part of the royalty money, too.
These years have been very hard. Because of this. I can’t work because I have terrible migraines. My roommate is forcing me to leave our apartment. And my family refuses to help me. I’m not asking for much. (I know you’ve made millions. I’ve done research. You’ve sold hundreds and hundreds of thousands of books.) All I’m asking is for $15,000. I don’t think this is too much to ask.
I scanned the rest of the letter, which was more of the same, and left it on the desk as I hurried from the room. I stopped in the kitchen and dropped into a chair. Lucy was emotionally unstable. How had I not seen that? Or maybe I had seen it but ultimately chose to believe her, anyway?
The letter made things clearer. My mother may have gotten the idea for Phoebe and Whit from Lucy, but there hadn’t been an actual story to steal. My mother’s version of the characters, and the suicide, weren’t Lucy’s, either. And yet I’d believed Lucy. For years, I’d been angry with my mother because I thought she’d been in the wrong.
“Hello? Who’s there?” My dad’s voice was shaky, full of confusion.
In the living room, I found him sitting on the couch, hair askew and his face in his hands as if he were crying. I knelt in front of him. “Are you okay?”
He dropped his hands. “I heard something. I didn’t know it was you.”
“I’m sorry. You were sleeping and I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I was having the most vivid dream,” he said. “Your mother and I were walking on Middle Road and we’d stopped to admire a bunch of wildflowers and she’d turned to me, her face lit up and alive. Just like she used to be!”
I sat back on my heels. There it was on his face and in his voice; he’d like nothing more than to have her back with us. He stared at me for confirmation, for agreement, and I nodded even though I wasn’t sure. Despite what I’d just learned, my mother still confused me. And I wasn’t ready to forgive her.
CHAPTER 24
One dish!
That was all Logan brought in from the dining room. And now he leaned against the screen doorframe, arms folded across the front of his button-down, spouting off about politics while Ben and I washed the dishes. Beth, who was in the living room looking through our mother’s books—Ben and I weren’t sure she ever read anything, especially novels—hadn’t even pretended to help.
“Mark my words,” Logan said. “It was a big mistake not to follow Saddam Hussein back to Baghdad and annihilate him and that entire piece of shit country. I don’t know why Bush didn’t do that. It makes us look weak. And we can’t afford to look weak in that part of the world. It’s just too important. Oil is too important. Dad doesn’t get that. He doesn’t understand how oil rules the world.”
“That’s not very nice, Logan, he can hear you.” I glanced out the window above the sink at Dad, who was in the driveway saying goodbye to Oliver.
Logan shrugged and took a long drink from his wine.
I looked at Ben, who was scrubbing a pot, his expression unchanged. That Logan was a Republican was only part of the problem. “The Prince is a pompous ass,” according to Ben, who tried never to engage with him. This drove Logan so crazy that it often made him more belligerent. Sometimes this cycle was too much. That we’d all had many bottles of wine made things even worse.
“I suppose you and Clare vote exactly like our parents,” Logan said.
Ben stopped scrubbing and looked up. He’d begun to sweat, just a thin line running down his temple, and the vein in his neck—the one that pulsed so noticeably when he was stressed or angry—had begun to throb. But his voice was neutral, casual. “Can you check the table to make sure all the dishes are off?”
Logan sighed, turned, and disappeared into the dining room. Ben rolled his eyes at me, and I grinned as I wrapped my arms around his waist and buried my head in his chest. He smelled familiar, like dirt and the wind, and I felt his heart beating slowly, steadily against my cheek. Then I let go, picked up a dishcloth and started drying wineglasses.
Dinner had been a success. The menu I’d finally decided on—grilled salmon with sautéed new potatoes with fresh dill, salad, and apple cobbler with homemade vanilla-maple ice cream—turned out great. We’d sat around the table, Aunt Denise and Uncle Phil, Aunt Diane and Uncle Richard and Oliver, too, until nearly eleven. Now they were on their way back to the inn and I was exhausted. The memorial service was to begin at ten tomorrow morning. It would be a big day.
“What did you think of Oliver?” I asked.
Ben shrugged. “Seemed okay. Smart. Quiet. Nice to finally meet someone from your mom’s side of the family.”
“Did you hear Logan tell him that he has a cook now?” I whispe
red. “What was Oliver supposed to think? Why does Logan need all of that help?”
Logan and Beth’s Manhattan apartment took up an entire floor. A cook, in addition to two maids, now meant that the staff outnumbered my brother and his fiancée. Logan worked hard for his money. But it was his attitude that bothered me.
“It’s the money, Clare,” Ben said. “I’ve seen it make even the most level-headed people crazy.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want it,” I said.
“Really? I wouldn’t mind having that house in the Hamptons.” Ben grinned and nodded toward the door. “Or her.”
I shoved him. “Right. Have you forgotten what you said about her? That she’s drawn so tight the wind could snap her in half?”
Ben laughed.
Logan walked back into the kitchen, set two plates on the counter, and then filled his glass, and Ben’s, with more wine. Ben kept on washing. They were such a contrast; Ben in sneakers, jeans, and his favorite blue polo shirt, faded from so many washings, and Logan in tan chinos, loafers, and white button-down that looked so new and stiff that I imagined it could stand on its own.
I wondered, as I sometimes did, what it would have been like had Logan married Elise (I never did write to her). Maybe nights like tonight would have been more fun. Maybe Logan and I would have been closer.
Our five-year age difference never allowed for an overlap of friends or interests. Still, I remembered a time—I couldn’t have been older than nine or ten—when Logan and I seemed connected. He’d often walk into whatever room I was in, pick me up, spin me around, and dump me on the floor, both of us laughing. Or he’d put me on his bike handlebars and ride into town for ice cream. We’d take the T to meet Dad for lunch, too. We always rode the waves together at Lucy Vincent.
And then everything changed. Seemingly overnight, he turned into an angry, distant grouch. He called our parents socialists and argued with them about everything from politics to the color of his bedroom. He spent most of his time with friends. He cut his hair and dressed in Lacoste polo shirts and argyle sweaters. And once he went off to Dartmouth, he rarely came home again. As I watched him lean against the counter, I thought that there was so much about him that I didn’t know. Did he have a best friend? Had he ever done something he was ashamed of? Did he truly love Beth? Did he miss Elise?
And then Dad was back in the kitchen. His shoulders seemed to swim in his button-down and his face was drawn and tired. Logan had talked my parents into a major renovation of the house just before my mother got sick. Now we had a new kitchen with more counter space, a porcelain sink, and shiny, new appliances. We expanded the dining room and built a guest bedroom and bath around the corner from the living room. We added a new bathroom upstairs and a high-quality outdoor shower. It was lovely and more comfortable, although I couldn’t help but feel that we’d sacrificed charm for resale value.
“Well, Clare, you outdid yourself,” my dad said. “Dinner was delicious. Everyone loved it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “How are you feeling? Are you tired?”
“Yes, I’m quite exhausted. Do you mind if I turn in?”
“No, no, go ahead,” Ben and I said together.
My dad gripped Ben’s arm with one hand and patted him on the back with the other. He kissed my forehead and then stopped in front of Logan. “Well, son, I want you to think about something. You don’t ever want to invade another country unless it’s absolutely necessary. We got the Iraqis out of Kuwait, where they didn’t belong, but we didn’t have the moral authority or the support from allies to follow them back to Baghdad. War is a terrible, terrible thing. You must never enter into it lightly. Now, good night. See you in the morning.”
He patted Logan’s cheek and turned for the living room.
Logan snorted and opened his mouth, no doubt to say something smartass.
“Can we lay off politics and war?” I asked. “I’m sick of both of them.”
Logan shrugged and dropped into a chair. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, less confrontational. “He seems okay, Clare? Yes?”
How irritating. Couldn’t he tell for himself whether Dad was okay or not? Couldn’t he ask him how he was? But I also felt proud that he looked to me for the answer. It was an acknowledgment of who I’d been and what I’d done, especially these last couple of years when I helped our dad and sat by our mother’s bedside while he was off in New York, Hong Kong, and God knows where else.
“It’s day to day,” I said. “He misses her, terribly.”
I almost added that we all missed her terribly, but I knew that wasn’t true. Even before she got sick, Logan had barely been around and I was still very much confused. I hadn’t told anyone, not even Ben, that the first emotion I felt after she passed was relief. How awful did that sound?
But it was true. Sitting with Dad and the visiting nurse as my mother took labored breaths, I kept asking myself questions. How much would her agony increase if she pulled through? How would Dad manage? How would I manage? And yet how would we survive her passing? But when my mother finally stopped breathing and the nurse leaned over her and said to us, she’s gone now, I felt a sudden lightness that made me cringe with guilt. I was relieved because I no longer had to take care of her.
I turned to the counter, picked up a small cutting board and brushed off bread crumbs into the sink. Then I studied the board. The tan wood was stained black and brown from so much use and the edges were chipped and ragged. When I made it during Girl Scouts in grade school, I hadn’t been convinced that this was the project I wanted to pursue. We could choose only one, and I wanted to make a necklace for myself out of pink and white shells.
But I’d wanted confirmation that this wasn’t selfish, that it was okay to think of myself. And so I asked my mother, the cutting board or the necklace for myself?
“Oh! I think a cutting board would be lovely,” she said.
I remembered eyeing the half dozen cutting boards on the counter. Big, small, new, old, round, and rectangular. All I had to do was tell her that I really wanted the necklace. But I couldn’t form the words. I didn’t know why. “The shells are from the Bahamas. It probably won’t be a very good cutting board.”
“But it would be special for me,” she said.
Yes, it’d be special. For her. I turned the cutting board over and saw my name burned into the lower right corner. To Mom, love Clare. Did she consider it special? Why didn’t I tell her that I wanted the necklace? I searched my mind for things I’d asked her for over the years. And that she’d given me. I started to feel a little panicked when I couldn’t come up with anything.
“How are you doing, sis?” he asked. “Holding up okay?”
I could tell by the way both sides of his mouth turned up and how he looked directly into my eyes that this question was sincere. But how could I trust him after his warmongering and obnoxious behavior at dinner?
“I’m okay,” I said, trying to buy time to figure out what to say. “And you?”
“Sure, okay.” He shrugged. “He’s pulling out all of the stops tomorrow, huh? Bringing in heavy hitters to read from her work?”
I nodded. Mom’s friends had promised a few superstars. Maybe even Mailer.
“Well, she’s finally getting her due,” Logan said. “The literary recognition that slipped through her fingers in life!”
“That’s terrible, Logan.” I leaned into the counter, the sharp edge cutting into my hip. I felt distressed, suddenly, that I was still defending her. When Ben handed me a plate, he held on to it a bit longer than necessary, but I wouldn’t look at him. I knew he was trying to tell me to stop engaging with him. But I couldn’t.
“It’s true,” he said. “She was a one-hit wonder. And it did her in.”
“Her one-hit wonder is considered a classic,” I said. “Dad still gets letters about it. And it’s taught in high schools across the country.”
“Good ole Phoebe and Whit,” Logan said. “Our cash cow.”
<
br /> “Could you be a little more cynical?” But I dropped my eyes because my heart was only half in this.
He shrugged again, stood, and shoved the chair up to the table. “I see you’re still the keeper of the flame. It’s okay, little sis. Maybe someday you’ll be able to see our mum more clearly.”
“You see her clearly? You were never around long enough to see anything!”
“Anyone want more ice cream?” Ben pulled the Tupperware container filled with homemade ice cream out of the freezer and put it on the counter. He dug into the pale yellow mound and scooped out a spoonful. Then he shoved it into his mouth, smacked his lips, and smiled. But I saw the message in his eyes: Stop arguing with him!
“I like this guy! He never lets things get too serious.” Logan grinned as he turned for the living room. “Well, we should be going.”
I was so angry that I wanted to stomp out of the room, but Ben grabbed my hand and practically dragged me with him into the living room. Somewhere between here and the kitchen, Logan seemed to have forgotten our discussion because he suddenly pulled me in for a hug and told me that he’d see me tomorrow. Then he added, “Thanks for dinner, sis. You’re a good cook, you know that? And believe me, I know good food. When you’re ready to open a restaurant, I’ll fund it.”
As if nothing had happened in the kitchen. As if he hadn’t just accused me of being the flamethrower or whatever he’d said.
Beth, who towered over me with her long legs and torso, suddenly came alive now that they were leaving. She had a mouth full of shockingly white teeth, giant green eyes, long, silky blond hair, and cheekbones so pronounced that they looked like miniature shelves. When she stretched out her arms for a loose hug, the silver and gold bangles on her wrists slid nearly to her elbows. “Lovely evening. Would you two like to come back with us? Stefan gave us the keys to his wine cellar.”
Stefan was their friend from Manhattan who owned a house in Edgartown, on the water, where they were staying this weekend.