The Other Side

by J. D. Robb

  She smiled her gratitude. “It was a different time, dear. Perhaps it was for the best. It wouldn’t have been easy, you know.”

  “Nothing worth having ever is. But with his encouragement and some of his money and all your talent and a little luck, there’s no telling what might have happened.”

  They stared at one another for a long moment, the truth about hope hanging in the air between them like a bright string of sparkling Christmas lights. In the end it was Odelia who sighed softly and lowered her gaze to the piecrust in front of her. She took up her rolling pin.

  Sitting at the table, her chin in her hand, M.J. said, “I wish there was a way to taste your prizewinning pie, Odelia. It looks amazing, and it smells even better.”

  She just laughed at the compliment and gave her niece a thrilled little grin, then sobered. “But there is a way for you to taste it.”

  “There is?”

  “Yes. The recipe is right over there in that drawer.”

  M.J. followed the direction in which the rolling pin was pointed, below a set of glass-front cupboards containing dust-covered dishes, bowls, and platters, and opened the middle drawer. It was stuffed to the brim with notebooks and journals, not a page left unfilled. And pressed below were hundreds and hundreds of loose sheets.

  “Pesto-Turkey Manicotti.” She began to read from the loose sheets. “Cheesy Mashed Potato Casserole. Devil’s Favorite White Chocolate Frosting. Crock Pot Pork with Root Beer Sauce?”

  “Oh. I’d forgotten that one. Fabulous. And so easy.” Odelia shook her head and began to trim her crust. “I was always going to write two cookbooks. One with simple, fun, easy recipes and another more serious cookbook for real connoisseurs.”

  Standing with enough evidence for several serious cookbooks in her hands, she asked, “Are these all your own original recipes?”

  “Mostly, plus a few classics that I improved on . . . if I do say so myself. Although I’ll have you know I wasn’t the only one to say so. Everyone I knew thought I was an excellent cook.”

  “I believe you.” She pulled on a red ribbon that marked a page in a royal blue journal. Odelia’s Delight it read, and below in parentheses, A Prizewinning Apple Pie. “So why didn’t you? You know, organize these a little and write your cookbook?”

  Her aunt looked up, surprised. “I died.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it was always one of those things I was going to get around to doing one day, but then I died.” Carefully, she walked her newest creation to the counter nearest the stove to await its turn in the oven. She turned back to M.J. “It’s not like the world was going to miss another cookbook, dear.”

  “But—” She was flabbergasted. “Did your father object to the cookbook?”

  “Goodness, no. He was dead before the idea even occurred to me. It’s how Julia started, you know.” Odelia was looking at something on the floor on the other side of the counter.

  M.J. stood watching her, her chest tight with a sadness that came from several directions. She didn’t for a second believe that the world would miss another cookbook, but one lousy cookbook could have been Odelia’s mark on the world, her declaration of having been present. Unmarried, childless, career-less . . . one stinking little cookbook with her name on it—with her pride and pleasure in it—could have made all the difference in the world to her life.

  “Land sakes alive, where do all my apples go?” She stooped to pick up her basket, then headed for the back door. “I’d swear those girls are eating them”—she stopped to give her niece an arched brow and a pointed nod—“but we know that can’t be.”

  “Hey. Where are you going? It’s daylight. You haven’t been gathering apples during the day all week, have you? What about Jimmy? You promised—”

  “Jimmy’s grandparents came to fetch him for the weekend last night. They frequently do; they’re a very tight-knit family.” She paused in front of the door. “These are Jimmy’s father’s people, you understand, and they were very pleased to hear that he has a date tonight.”

  M.J. was alarmed to feel the heat rising up her neck and into her cheeks. And looking blasé didn’t fool Odelia. She giggled. “We were very pleased to hear it, too.”

  Seven

  Did one knock on a ghost’s door or simply let oneself in? How much privacy did a ghost expect? M.J. pondered, as she knocked softly on Imogene’s door before entering. Not Imogene’s bedroom but the room at the end of the hall where she clearly felt the most comfortable—a child’s room when M.J. had been growing up, later a guest room during her mother’s influence. To Imogene, as she stood calmly among the surreal furnishings superimposed on those more tangible, it was a nursery.

  “Come in, Maribelle, and please don’t give me any grief about using your proper name.” She took the sting out of the command by smiling fondly at her. “We Hedbos take naming our offspring very seriously. For instance, did you know that Imogene comes from the Latin for ‘likeness’ and that it became my cross to bear because I looked exactly like my father’s grandmother . . . when I was born!?” She laughed. “Can you imagine what a sad little wizened-up thing one of us was?”

  M.J. chuckled. She did indeed like her aunt Imogene. The more she knew her, the more she liked about her . . . and, of course, the more she realized how little she knew her.

  “Fair enough.” She sat on the end of the bed, which to her aunt was a cedar hope chest that sat at the bottom of an ornately carved crib. “I see now it could have been a lot worse.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I quite agree with you about the nonsensicality of our names in relation to the times we live in.” She sat gracefully in a lovely tall-backed wooden rocking chair that had a knit afghan in muted colors draped over the arms, sagging in the middle to pad the seat and folded in such a way as to allow whoever sat in the chair the ease of pulling it about them if they got cold. “My husband, Andrew, and I had every intention of breaking from the tradition and had planned to name our baby Albert if it was a boy—Teutonic for noble and bright—something he would grow into, you understand.”

  Maribelle nodded.

  “But when he was finally born he . . . my dear, he was born with a whole head of thick red hair. What was I to do? It was clearly an omen, so we named him Rufus Albert, still quite intent on calling him Albert but, well, what can I say? He was Rufus with the bright red roof of hair on his head. Ruffie caught on the first night I breast-fed him, just him and me in the silence, the lights low. . . . ” Her voice faded away as she recalled the memory. “Little Ruffie.”

  After a moment or two she looked up and seemed almost surprised to see M.J. sitting there. “Andrew was so proud to have a son. Delighted. He couldn’t wait for him to start walking and talking . . . swinging bats and chasing balls, all those things that fathers look forward to sharing with their sons. Andrew loved to sail, you know.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Imogene smiled. “He was a Southampton boy growing up, but when we met and married, he was settled in Charleston . . . South Carolina? A beautiful city. I enjoyed living there, but I have to admit, I did get homesick from time to time. The first time I brought Ruffie home I was thrilled to see that my papa had had this room completely redecorated for him . . . his first grandchild, you understand.

  “Did you know that when the house was built this was actually two more bedrooms? Apparently, your great-grandfather Horatio didn’t want to get caught in a small house with a large family.” She laughed softly. “Instead, the opposite happened, and it was our papa who had three healthy, noisy daughters and a nervous, sickly wife on his hands. We each had our own room, of course, but he very cleverly had the wall removed in this space and turned it into our playroom for the sake of our mother’s sanity.”

  M.J. laughed. “At least we know that worked. We haven’t seen her wandering around looking for the mind she lost.”

  Imogene’s expression was droll. “It’s your date. It’s affecting your concentration, isn’t it?”

&nbs
p; Maribelle grinned and bobbed her head. “A little, but I can handle it. I think. Go on. Please. You brought Ruffie home, and grandfather had redecorated the playroom for him. . . . ”

  “It was the first time I felt like I’d actually done something to please him. I gave him a grandson, a male heir. But now don’t get me wrong, I know Papa loved me. He loved all his girls, we were his world. He just . . . well, he had certain notions about women . . . he even thought his notions were fairly progressive. He wanted all of us to be well-educated but only in certain fields and only about certain things. There were only a few specific things he felt women did well, and being a wife and mother was at the top of the list, no matter how well-educated she was.”

  “And you?”

  “I met Andrew when I was in graduate school. I was in Charleston working on my thesis in history. I wanted to teach at the college level, hoping older students would make my teaching feel more consequential, I suppose. Teaching students who wanted to be in my class as opposed to those who had to be when I taught high school.”

  “I get that. So what was your thesis about?”

  “The contribution of slaves to our early development as a nation. At the time I met Andrew I was investigating a man by the name of Robert Smalls who was born into slavery, escaped, and helped write the South Carolina Constitution at the constitutional convention in Charleston in 1868. Later he served in the state legislature in both the House of Representatives and the Senate, and after that he was elected to the United States House of Representatives. A brave, fascinating man.” She became thoughtful, glanced away then back at Maribelle. “Naturally, I lost all interest in my thesis the instant I met Andrew. All I wanted then was to marry him, settle down, and have baby after baby after baby.

  “The ultimate woman, in my father’s eyes. And I must say I felt like the ultimate woman when I brought my son here for Papa to see. I’d given birth to the healthiest, most beautiful baby. . . . I felt like the only woman to ever give life.” She laughed a little. “Looking back, my attitude was appalling. And don’t for a second think I didn’t rub Odelia’s and your mother’s noses in it. I was insufferable. In fact I—”

  She stopped abruptly, looking down at her hands.

  “What?”

  She shrugged and looked up. “Later . . . after . . . when I was trying to figure out why, I thought maybe it was my pride. Maybe I’d been too proud. Too happy. Too . . . something, and God or Karma or however it works took Ruffie away to teach me a lesson. Humility, or perhaps I wasn’t grateful enough. I kept looking for some way to make sense of it, some way to come to terms with the death of my precious baby.”

  “What happened to him? I don’t want to make you sad again, but losing Ruffie is too obvious to be what you’re looking for. You’d have figured that one out years ago, but maybe it’s something related to it.” She paused. “Or maybe it’s not. But if you can talk about it, I’ll listen.”

  Imogene shook her head slowly. “I’ve seen it in my mind’s eye a million times, gone over it and over it, and it’s never more than a simple accident. A stupid, simple accident that could have happened anywhere, at any time, to anyone. What I don’t know is why it happened to me . . . to us.

  “It was a beautiful morning in August. Midmorning and they were forecasting a hot afternoon, so we planned to sail all day. I packed a big lunch basket for us. Ruffie was three, and he loved to sail. He was so excited that morning. And . . . and it wasn’t his first time on the dock. He knew he couldn’t set foot on the boat without his life preserver; he knew there were rules. Andrew was aft working on the rigging. I let go of Ruffie’s hand and told him not to move, that I was going to get his life jacket. I set the basket on the deck and opened the bench where we stored the vests. I looked away long enough to pick his out and when I looked up again, he was gone. I immediately panicked and screamed . . . and Andrew, from his angle looked up in time to see him walk off the end of the dock.”

  I looked away. . . . It wasn’t hard to imagine her aunt’s horrendous guilt at that moment. I looked away. . . . Not a mother, and with basically no understanding of children, she was sure her aunt’s burden was massive. I looked away. . . .

  “Andrew was a hero that day. He was off the boat and into the water before I realized what had happened. He passed my baby’s cold, blue little body up to me when I got to the end of the dock. I was useless. I was . . . numb. I . . . ” She closed her eyes and put a hand to her throat in an attempt to control herself. She drew in a deep breath. “Andrew screamed at me to go for help. He picked the baby up by his feet and whacked him on the back a couple times before he started blowing in his mouth and doing CPR. I ran for the pay phone at the gate. They . . . they told me to wait for the ambulance so they wouldn’t waste time looking for us, so I did. By the time I got back, Andrew was holding our baby in his arms, and they were both crying.”

  “So he didn’t drown?” She was amazed at how relieved she was.

  “No, dear, but he did swallow and inhale a great deal of water that day. He had trouble breathing, so of course we took him to the hospital immediately. They treated him with oxygen and gave him antibiotics to ward off pneumonia, and after several days we brought him home good as new. Almost. I mean, we thought he was good as new, but the water had damaged his lungs. He developed severe asthmalike symptoms, and every time he caught a cold, it went straight to his lungs. The year he started school he was hospitalized three times with pneumonia. They wanted him to repeat kindergarten. I wanted to keep him home and get him a tutor, or homeschool him myself, but Andrew said I couldn’t keep him in a bubble; I needed to let him live as normal a life as he could. I . . . I believed that was my penance, you see . . . for looking away that day . . . the waiting for the next runny nose, the next sore throat, the next cough; watching him gasp for air during his next brush with death.

  “And when it finally happened, I was as relieved for him as I was devastated. He suffered so. My poor, sweet, precious boy.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Just eight. Two weeks after his birthday.” She smiled. “He had so much fun at his party. All his friends came. We had a Superman theme. He could hardly sleep the night before.”

  “And was it because Ruffie was so sick all the time that you didn’t have more children, the way you’d planned?”

  “Oh no. The miracle of him only increased my desire to have more.” She got to her feet, as if suddenly agitated and restless. “Unfortunately, the loss of him gradually drove a wedge between Andrew and me. It was a difficult time for us both.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “No need. I’ve come to believe that we create our own fate. I don’t think that one day you can have all the luck in the world and the next you haven’t any. Once, I admit, I thought God just wanted to see me suffer, but truly, with all the pain in the world, did he really need my pain, too? If he existed at all, which I now doubt, as how could I possibly believe in a God who didn’t believe in me? . . . who also refused to give me a second chance to be happy? That’s not the kind and loving God I was brought up on.” She turned to one of the two large windows that overlooked the overgrown gardens at the rear of the house . . . and Jimmy’s backyard. She held her elbows and stood straight and tall and beautiful. “Don’t be sorry for me, Maribelle. I didn’t realize it at the time, but dying alone was the destiny I chose for myself by taking my son and husband for granted, by assuming I’d always be happy and making so little effort, taking so few steps to ensure it.”

  “But, Imogene, no one’s happiness is guaranteed, no matter how hard you try. It’s crazy to blame yourself.”

  “Who else is there?” she asked, her tone flat and certain.

  It was a good question—one philosophers and scholars and people a lot more . . . intellectually profound than she had struggled with since the beginning of time. And somehow she didn’t think her own mind-set of Shit happens . . . deal with it would be of any comfort to her aunt.

  Besides, who
was she to judge Imogene? M.J. must have loved her father, but she could barely remember him and couldn’t recall feeling the bone-deep pain her mother spoke of when he passed away. She had missed Larry Biderman when her mother divorced him, resented her for it and vowed never to become attached to her mother’s husbands again. Even then she’d felt her mother’s capacity to love anyone beyond the walls she’d built around herself diminishing. And so, in self-defense, she’d fashioned her own shields to deflect what had seemed like her mother’s constant disappointment in her.

  But she’d never lost a child. She’d never been abandoned by someone she loved. Her mother’s death had been a blow, and something inside her missed her like she might miss a limb . . . but she wondered now how much greater that grief might be if they’d been closer—friends even. She had nothing in her life to compare to Imogene’s great love . . . or her great despair.

  “We’ll figure it out, Imogene. I promise you. We’ll figure out what it is you’ve lost so you can leave all the heartache and regret behind. That is what happens, right? You won’t feel this way on the Other Side, will you?”

  At first she didn’t answer, but just as M.J. was about to repeat the question, she murmured, “I don’t know.” She turned from the window. “All we’re convinced of is that we no longer belong here. And we can’t move on because our spirit or soul or essence or whatever it is that made us who we were is no longer whole. We each lost a part of ourselves in this house, and until we know what it is, whatever happens to us next will remain a mystery.”

  “You don’t think the Other Side is a good place to go.” She could tell by her aunt’s voice.

  Imogene shrugged elegantly and turned back to stare out the window. “I don’t think it’s a place at all. I think it’s just the other side of life.”

  Eight

  “Now don’t let talking to Imogene set the mood for your date, darling,” Adeline told M.J. as she changed from jeans and a sweatshirt to a sweater and slacks for her date a few hours later. M.J. brushed her hair in her mother’s dusty mirror as the older woman watched from the middle of the bed. “She got very cynical and morose after little Ruffie died. That and her desperation to have another child finally drove Andrew away for good, so you mustn’t judge him too harshly. He did love her, you know.”