Graceland

by Lynne Hugo

  The bedroom she’d made like a picture of Lisa Marie’s at Graceland because it was so ruffled and pink, and she couldn’t begin to do the one Elvis had shared with Priscilla anyway, held heat like an oven and smelled dank when she opened the door. “Mama,” Ellie complained, stalking out with a withered brown philodendron and an African violet. “Couldn’t you have watered my plants? Do I have to do everything? Look, they’re completely dead. Charles, put these in the trash. I need to get going.” She felt unaccountably better then.

  And now it’s over. She’s off the hook, or probably, anyway. She’s a two-point match, only a forty-percent chance of success, Dr. Douglas says. “Not enough,” she says. “Just not good enough. I’m sorry.” Ellie sits in the same little meeting room alone with the doctor again, the usual fan of papers and files spread on the desk. How does the doctor keep them straight? What if she’s confused two sets of test results and is really reading numbers that belong to some entirely different person? The air-conditioning is cranked way up, and Ellie thinks she feels goose bumps on her arms, but she feels hot, flushed beneath her skin, and wants to lie down.

  “If it’s critical and we have to buy time, that’s when to go ahead with a two-point and hope for the best. For now, though, we’re better off staying with the dialysis and pray for a three-or four-point cadaver match. Just watch her very carefully. We’re still not sure what brought on the peritonitis.”

  It frightens Ellie to hear a doctor talk about praying. Maybe it was just a turn of phrase, but she isn’t looking at Ellie much. She reminds Ellie a little of Lydie with her simple clothes. Dr. Douglas’s shell-pink short-sleeved sweater with pearl necklace and earrings are just what would appeal to Lydia, who tries to look and sound upper class, Ellie thinks. Where has it gotten her? Where has anything gotten any of them? Everything that anyone in her family has ever really wanted has floated elusively out of reach—a feather wafting on a teasing breeze. She thinks of the tatters of Lydie’s life, Maddie’s, even envisions her mother holding her firstborn, her only son, with the wide, flat space between his eyes. She thinks of her love for Elvis and sees herself as pathetic, even ridiculous, as exposed as an aging starlet in a boa and false eyelashes.

  “But…” Ellie falters. “But…it’s not…she won’t…”

  “We’ll do the best we can. The best we can.”

  She has felt suffocated for a good hour, but it still feels to Ellie like she cannot draw an unweighted breath. There’s nothing to do now but stop driving around and go pick Claire up. She passes the Schlicter house, observing the missing red shutter and the height of the Queen Anne’s lace, cornflowers and dandelions that have taken over the front, and puts the turn signal on for her family’s short driveway, once gravel but now mainly weeds. At the last second, though, she corrects the wheel she’s already turned, and passes the little house again.

  Two more times around the block and Ellie makes herself do it. Actually, she’s consulted her secret mental guidebook, the one she dislikes to name even silently, and looked up what Lydie and Maddie would do in this situation.

  Before she’s even out of the car, Claire appears at the screen door. Ellie knows Claire will search her face, and she checks for a memory of how to smile.

  “Aunt Ellie? Ellie, what happened? When will we know?” The slam of the door is muffled by the whooshing in Ellie’s ears that sounds like a white river, or perhaps it’s just the amount of humidity in the unyielding air. Ellie can no longer tell what causes anything, just that there is always another leaden, dimensionless fact that she must watch as it falls from the sky to flatten her.

  “Hi, honey,” Ellie says brightly.

  “Oh, God. You already know, don’t you? You’re not a match, are you?”

  Claire’s eyes glint like pebbles at the bottom of a sunlit stream, before she turns and covers her face with her hands. Ellie is beside her in two or three quick, long strides and from behind, puts her hands on her niece’s shoulders. Claire leans forward, rejecting the gesture it seems at first, but then Ellie sees the girl’s legs are buckling. Ellie catches her around the waist, pulls her back up, and maneuvers to brace the girl against her own body. Once their balance is stabilized, Ellie strokes the waves of Claire’s hair that put her in mind of the smallest ripples on a night beach, like the ones she saw the time Lydia took her with them to Lake Cumberland for a week, when Claire was five or six. The memory shames her. If truth be told, it’s not the only time Lydie was good to her, either.

  Ellie has to try. A night’s sleep hadn’t altered the impulse. She knows from Maddie—not from either Lydia or Wayne—that Lydia begged Wayne to visit Claire. He must have refused because Ellie hasn’t seen a hair of his beard, although the landlord has assured her that the rent is paid a month in advance on their apartment. The point, though, is what Lydia did, going to him for Claire even though Wayne might as well as have spit on her. There is only one more blood relative that Ellie has a shot at. She has to try.

  After Claire has finished her exchange and settled back in with one of the books on her freshman reading list, Ellie says, carefully casual in her tone, “I’m going on in to work early, honey. I’m not supposed to start until eleven, but we’re taking inventory next week, and my department is sort of a mess. Nobody does what they’re supposed to, you know? I need to get into the stock and straighten it out before we start counting. Stuff is all mixed up….” She falters, realizing that she’s saying too much, but Claire’s not really listening, anyway. How guileless the girl is; even after all that’s come into the glare of daylight, it wouldn’t occur to her that Ellie is lying.

  “Whatever,” Claire says, but not unpleasantly. “Will you be home for lunch?”

  “Not today, but you—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll measure every drop.”

  Ellie smiles, waves, blows a kiss, straightens her bow and heads out into the rising heat of the day.

  At Madalaine’s, she can see that no one is up, although it’s past nine. Maddie’s bedroom drapes are drawn. Still, Ellie parks in the driveway and knocks firmly on the door, though she knows Maddie will be ticked off at being awakened. A minute or so later, she repeats the knock and calls, “Maddie? Maddie! It’s me, Ellie. I have to talk to you.”

  It’s Jennifer who opens the door, though, rumpled and thick with unfinished sleep. “Hi, Aunt Ellie. Um…” She looks behind her uncertainly, as if looking for a cue as to what to say or do next.

  “Is your mom up?” Ellie asks rhetorically.

  “No, not yet. She had a bad headache last night, she said to let her sleep.”

  “You don’t usually sleep this late, do you?” Ellie demands, still on the doorstep.

  “Um…I was up late last night. We got pizza and watched a movie in Mom’s bed. Mom fell asleep, but I watched the whole thing. It was rated R, but Mom said it shouldn’t be, it wasn’t that bad.”

  Ellie is suddenly suspicious. “What was the movie?” she asks as she takes a step into the house, letting the screen door press against her back.

  Jennifer catches on, though. “Something about Fear something, I don’t remember.”

  “Not Cape Fear?”

  “I don’t know,” Jennifer says, but Ellie sees the recognition on her face.

  “Well, I have to get your mom up, I have to talk to her about Claire.”

  “That’s not so good, I mean, she won’t like it,” Jennifer says, backing up deeper into the living room and looking anxiously in the direction of the bedroom hall.

  Ellie is all the way in now, and closes the front door behind her. “I know it’s hot outside but this is ridiculous. It’s freezing in here. Where’s the thermostat?”

  “Mom says it’s too hot.”

  “Jen, come here. Come talk to me,” Ellie says, drawing the girl toward her by cupping her hand on the pale fluff on her head. Static electricity makes flyaway strands cling to her palm like a handful of dandelion fluff. “What’s going on? You can tell me. Is your mom sick? Is she drink
ing a lot of beer or something else?”

  Jennifer’s eyes fill with tears. “I tell her not to.” She yields to the pressure of Ellie’s hand, which has slid down to her shoulder, and sits beside Ellie on the couch.

  “I know, honey. It’s not your fault. Are you cold? Let’s get you some clothes and turn down the thermostat. Or turn it up, I mean. I can never get that straight. Maw Maw and Daddy don’t have air-conditioning, you know, and it gets so bad there. Are you hungry?”

  Jennifer nods her head yes. “A little.”

  “Has Uncle Wayne been here?”

  “Sometimes,” she says.

  “Like when?”

  “He comes sometimes after I’m asleep, I think. I see his truck in the morning sometimes. Mom said he’s working shifts, extra shifts I mean.”

  It occurs to Ellie that the apartment money is coming from somewhere. Who’s paying Lydie’s mortgage? Does Lydie make enough? It’s not Ellie’s habit to think of things like this. She has no head for it, really.

  “Run and get yourself into some clothes. We’ll turn the air-conditioning off for a half hour and open some windows. That’ll warm it up quick.”

  “Mom’ll get mad…” Jennifer warns.

  “It’ll be okay. We’ll get you some breakfast and then turn the air-conditioning back on, only higher. I mean lower. You know, so it’s not so cold in here. It’s sweltering outside.”

  “I know, but I get to go to the pool.”

  Ellie had started to stand, but slumps back down against the hard back of the pale green couch. There’s no give to it. She glances around, noticing that several of the plants look desert-parched. “Does Mommy take you?”

  “She drops me off. Emily’s mom is there, usually.”

  “Like on her way to work she drops you off?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Is she going to work?”

  “Sometimes.” Jennifer shifts her slight weight from foot to foot. She’s not sure what the right answer is. “Did you know about my little brother?”

  “Yes, honey. Maw Maw told me. I guess your mommy told her. Are you happy about having him?”

  Jennifer’s voice drops to a whisper. “Yes,” she says. “He’s so cute.”

  Her eyes are wide and blue; she looks so much like Bill that Ellie wonders how Maddie stands it. That hair, too. It needs to be brushed out and plastered in place with some good gel. “He looks like me,” Jennifer adds.

  “Well, then, he’s a very handsome boy,” Ellie says warmly.

  Jennifer looks at her intently and then sidles over on the couch, closer. “I’m glad you came over,” she says, and Ellie knows that Jennifer has never said anything like that to her before.

  “Wake up, Maddie.” Ellie has already sent Jennifer, fed and dressed, over to a friend’s house, and opened the drapes in Maddie’s room. Maddie squints and moans.

  “Go away. How’d you get in here?”

  “Jennifer let me in. What would you do if the house were on fire? You wouldn’t hear a thing. You’re passed out, that’s what.”

  “Am not. Go away.” Maddie covers her eyes with one hand and turns away from the light. The temperature is chilly, but she has only a sheet over her, the blue-and-green leaf-print quilt that coordinates with the drapes rumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  “Here. I’ve made you some coffee. I’m putting it here on the nightstand. Where are your shorts and stuff?”

  “Leave me alone.” Madalaine turns again and pulls the second pillow over toward her so as to partly cover her face.

  “You’re getting up.” Ellie is pulling out bureau drawers one by one. She triumphantly pulls out a bra and a pair of underpants. Next she locates a pair of khaki shorts, limp and wrinkled as the wings of a dead moth. She tosses clothes onto the bed as she finds them. “I’ve got to talk with you and you need to get up. Now come on!” She wonders at herself, yelling at Maddie the way she used to yell at Charles, and Maddie used to yell at her. She hardly recognizes any of them—herself included—anymore. Ellie marches into the master bath and returns with a wet washcloth. “Here,” she orders. “Wash your face with this. Do you need a couple aspirin?”

  “Yeah,” Maddie mutters, surprising Ellie.

  “Okay, then,” she answers and goes back to the bathroom. When she comes back, Maddie is half propped up holding the washcloth over her face like a white bandage. She puts it down to take the aspirin and water that Ellie brings from the bathroom.

  “You’d better have an incredibly good reason for busting in here,” she says, her voice managing anger and great fatigue at once. She yawns.

  “Have some coffee. Get dressed. I’ve got some breakfast made for you.”

  “What do you know about cooking?”

  “I made Jennifer and you some eggs and toast. Yours is on the stove. I’ll fix you a plate. I always could make eggs, but I’ve been cooking for Claire, in case you didn’t know.”

  “More likely Claire’s been cooking for you,” Madalaine shoots back.

  “Excuse me, but what would you know about anything in the family these days?” Ellie’s hands are on her hips now and she’s bossy.

  “Well, excuse me, but I’ve been a little busy burying my son.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” Then, Ellie’s voice softens. “We all loved him, Maddie. But other things are happening, too. I need your help.”

  “What?”

  “You get up, drink coffee, pull yourself together. I’ll get your breakfast on the table.”

  “Ugh. I couldn’t eat anything.”

  “You’ve got to eat something, come on.” With that last command, Ellie leaves the room, knowing she’s shot her wad on giving orders and that if Maddie doesn’t get up now, Ellie’s probably lost already.

  But Madalaine does get up, and appears in the kitchen within five minutes, blinking against the morning sun flooding from the sliding glass door that goes out to the patio, and clutching the mug of coffee that Ellie brought her.

  “So what do you want?”

  “Aren’t you going to even ask where Jennifer is?”

  “She’s in bed.”

  “No, she’s at Jessica Wample’s house. Should she really be watching Cape Fear after midnight?”

  “Well aren’t you just the new sergeant? Who died and made you God?” Madalaine says sarcastically.

  “Brian, I guess.” Ellie says it very softly, with the directness of a simple truth, knowing she’s taking a risk.

  Madalaine’s eyes immediately fill with tears. “Don’t you dare!” she shouts. “Don’t even say it…and don’t you dare try to make me feel guilty about Jennifer. I take good care of her.”

  Ellie’s overshot the mark. She tries to regroup, turning to the fry pan on the stove in which scrambled eggs kept warm too long have turned hard and lumpish. I’m not any good at all this, she thinks. Whatever happened to her old life, when she dreamed of Elvis and knew she had been meant for him? “I’m sorry, Maddie. I didn’t mean to upset you. Do you want these eggs I made you? They got a little overcooked from sitting here. The toast is all ready. I put strawberry jelly on it, Jen said that’s what you like.”

  Madalaine pulls out a kitchen chair and sits with an audible thud. A little coffee sloshes out of the mug when she sets it down too heavily on the table. Ellie picks up the sponge and wipes it up, pours some hot coffee over the liquid cooling in Madalaine’s mug.

  “Just the coffee. No, okay, I’ll try the toast,” she says, but her voice is flat.

  Ellie brings the toast to the table and sits down opposite her sister. “I have to talk to you. I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t a matter of life or death.”

  Madalaine laughs bitterly. “Oh, I think I’ve had my quota of life and death for this year, thanks.”

  “Maddie, listen to me. Claire has to have a kidney. I don’t know, the doctors explained it. She had bad peritonitis. A blood relative is the best chance, otherwise we have to wait for a dead person who’s a match. Lyd
ie’s got antibodies in her blood from when she had her gallbladder out, and John only has one kidney. He was born that way and that’s hereditary, that’s why Claire…are you listening?”

  “What does any of this have to do with me?”

  “I got tested, to see if I could give her one of mine. I’m only a two-point match, and the doctor says there’s too high rejection with a two-point match. She’s looking for a four-point, I don’t get what the points are, but anyway, will you please be tested? You can get along fine with one kidney, you don’t need two, the doctor says. There’s a little risk, I mean, but…” Ellie is breathless now, afraid she’s saying it wrong, but plunging forward like a hula hoop careening on a downhill.

  Madalaine stares at her. “No way. Absolutely no way. This all is Lydia’s fault to begin with….”

  “But it’s not Claire’s fault….” Ellie argues.

  “I don’t care. Lydia will have to deal with it. It’s not your problem, anyway, El.”

  “You don’t know what’s happened. You don’t know it all. Can’t you just try? Wouldn’t you want us to save Brian if we could?”

  “But nobody did, did they? Nobody did. I’m not talking about this anymore.”

  Ellie looks down and smoothes the wrinkles from the lap of her yellow pastel skirt. Her tan flats are exactly side by side, neatly lined up. She feels the back of her head for her bow, to tell whether it’s straight. She has no idea what to do now. “Will you think…” she begins, not knowing where she’ll take it, but it doesn’t matter. Madalaine doesn’t let her get beyond the first three words.

  “No, I will not think.”

  CHAPTER 39

  I’ve been digging around the yard when I come home from work in the afternoon. Dr. Hays lets us go early on afternoons when the patient load has been light and we’re not booked up to and beyond the last appointment, the way we always are during flu season. I tried studying when I came home, but I need a break from mental work and there’s no family I need to fix a supper for.

  I try to rest my mind and concentrate on the soil and the little bits of squirmy life in it while I work. Even though it’s way past planting season, I found some more flats of leggy, anemic flowers for seventy percent off at Thriftway, and bought them out of pity and for the sake of saving something I could save. I’ve stuck marigolds and petunias everywhere, and wished I had another good shady spot for some sad impatiens I didn’t buy for lack of room. The geraniums, ageratum and ivy in containers on my porch shout their bright health, and so does my favorite, the bed of dahlias spilling color in spite of the leaching sun. I’ve mulched them to within an inch of their lives and warned them well. Nothing in my yard would dare die this year. The loamy chocolate smell of the dark mulch is what I give my attention to. I don’t think about how it’s the color of Claire’s eyes, how they’re the replica of her father’s, how one thing leads to another and another past curves in the road that leave you no better than blind. Completely blind. As I weed between the plants, itchy streams run through my scalp while others wind down my back and legs, as though my body is doing the crying while my mind goes briefly numb and blank.