The Light Before Us

by Stephanie Vercier

  When I got to college, though, things changed because I knew they had to. I didn’t want to be a princess, just a regular girl who could wash her own clothes and do her own dishes, even if I still bought seven-dollar coffees every morning and went out to eat more than I ever ate at home. I hadn’t had a clue how to go about most of the other things almost everyone else just took for granted, how to boil pasta or run a vacuum properly, and I’m sure the search history on my phone for freshman year would have been full of terms that started with “how to.”

  Once I’ve finished up and readied myself for the day, I leave the front door unlocked, as Jack requested, and head to my car, soaking up the morning sunshine with every step and enjoying the relative quiet. There isn’t a lot to be heard out here other than the sounds of nature. Birds chirp, and water from the lake churns and laps, creating its very own melody, sounds I could really get used to. But I’m also grateful to be close to town as I drive along the two-lane highway, people and civilization close by. And I’m kind of proud of myself in having felt as though I might have made a new friend in Melissa. If Barbara gives me a decent chance, maybe I’ll make a friend out of her as well.

  “Right on time,” Melissa says when I walk into Al’s a couple of minutes before nine.

  “Punctuality is one of my strong suits,” I tell her as she passes me, carrying a couple of plates of food, then setting them down in front of two men in a booth by the door. “Can I help with anything?”

  She shakes her head. “Just helping Camille out.” She looks over her shoulder toward her daughter who is firmly planted in front of a table where three younger men sit. She’s holding a pot of coffee in one hand, but it appears the only reason she’s at the table is to flirt. “Come on,” Melissa says, waving me to follow her toward the counter.

  As I do, Camille glances over and gives me a look, one of those cautious glances women give to one another when you’re still trying to figure each other out. I send a smile back to her, but I don’t get one in return. It’s a little annoying, but it doesn’t really matter in the scheme of things. I’m here to be on Melissa’s good side, not her daughter’s.

  “Here, got you this,” Melissa tells me, pulling a bag out from under the counter.

  “Oh?” I take the bag, thinking it’s a bit early in our friendship to be giving or getting gifts.

  “A girl your age usually has a phone surgically implanted to her hand. Didn’t see you with one, and I took a guess you might have either dumped yours or had to leave it behind for some reason.”

  “Some guess,” I say, impressed as I pull out one of those clamshell packages with a phone in it.

  She lifts her brows. “So, I’m right?”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “It’s just a simple one, one of those month to month plans.”

  “Melissa. Thank you. I’d been planning to pick one up, so this is really nice.” And it is, more than nice.

  “You’ll need it driving these roads on your own. A pretty young woman like you needs to be careful. There was a murder up in Medford a couple months back, a girl just out of college. You can never be too careful.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I tell her, thinking of how many murders and rapes and awful, horrible things happen in Seattle every year, things I’d managed to stay safe from. “But yes, I’ll feel a lot safer with a phone on me.”

  “Well, I’m glad you like it, and I know we haven’t talked pay yet, but if things work out with you and my mom, I was thinking twelve an hour to start? I know it’s not much, but—”

  “It’s fine.” I’m feeling a little guilty that I might only be around for a couple of weeks, so I’m not going to haggle about my hourly wage. If things do work out with Barbara, I’m already dreading having to tell Melissa when it’s time to move on.

  “It’s all they pay the home care workers around here, and since it’s coming out of my own pocket this time—”

  “Melissa, it’s okay, really,” I reiterate, seeing how embarrassed she is about what she’s able to offer me.

  “What’s okay?” It’s Camille who asks.

  She’s come behind the counter from the other side and sets the half empty glass pot of coffee down. She’s pretty, like her mother, but there’s an edge to her I don’t see reflected in Melissa. Maybe it’s the brashness of her blonde hair that is many shades lighter than my own or the heavy makeup that might be hiding a more natural beauty. But, more than likely, it’s the tinge of anger I can’t help but note in her hazel eyes.

  But before either of us can answer her, she’s looking back toward the table she’d been at and having some sort of flirtatious stare down with one of the men sitting at it.

  “Can you focus for once in your life?” Melissa asks her daughter, loud enough that I’m sure the cook in the kitchen behind us as well as half of the diner can hear her.

  Camille is rolling her eyes as she’s turning her head back to her mother. “The guys like it, you know,” she says, tilting her chin up high. “They like someone to pay them a little attention. What’s the harm in that?”

  “Not everyone likes it,” Melissa snaps at her daughter. “That man you were draping yourself over this morning certainly didn’t, and I doubt he’ll be back.”

  Camille shrugs. “He was hot,” she tells me. “Tall, dark hair, dreamy brown eyes and a body to die for. He wasn’t wearing a ring, so why not?”

  Like a hot slice to my gut, her description gives me an immediate, somewhat uncomfortable reminder of Jack. The heat from my gut travels north, and I feel my face flushing with warmth.

  Camille gives me a once over and narrows her eyes at me. “You know him or something?”

  “Umm, I don’t think—”

  “Of course she doesn’t know him,” Melissa says. “She’s new to town, so why would she?”

  “Wow, someone really got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Camille picks the pot of coffee back up and walks off.

  “I should have never agreed to hire her,” Melissa tells me in a hushed tone. “But I shouldn’t be weighing you down with that,” she tacks on before I can say anything at all. “Now, it’s up to you if you’d like to head up to the house on your own and reintroduce yourself to my mom. It might actually be better that way. She thinks anyone I bring around is out to get her or something.”

  “I can do that,” I tell her, though I’m not completely sure of myself.

  “If she starts throwing things, you don’t have to stick around, but it’s really up to you what you can handle.”

  I think back to what I’d handled with Michael, how I’d put up with all of his expectations for our relationship while he’d failed miserably at the one thing I shouldn’t have had to ask him, to at least be faithful to me. If I could put up with that, I can likely deal with an older woman throwing some obscenities or perhaps a decorative pillow my way.

  “I’ll be fine,” I assure Melissa. “And I’ll call if I’m not.” I hold up the phone she’d just given me, and it makes her smile.

  Having activated service and programmed Melissa’s number into my new phone, I’m on my way. I’ve remembered the way to the house, so there isn’t any trouble in finding it, and I use the keys Melissa has given me and let myself in, calling out as soon as I’m through the door.

  “Hello!” I say, walking into the foyer where I won’t be seen by Barbara until I go up the stairs. “It’s Natalie from yesterday,” I add, taking the carpeted stairs and hearing what sounds like a game show playing on TV.

  The pugs meet me at the top of the stairs, and I give them both a tentative pet until one snaps at me. When I turn the corner, Barbara is sitting in the same spot on the couch she’d been glued to yesterday. There is an absorbent pad underneath her in case she has another accident, and the shirt she’s wearing is turned right-side out. I steel myself for a torrent of obscenities, but she doesn’t say a word—she just stares at me.

  “Do you remember me from yesterday?” I ask. When I’d
volunteered at the nursing home, there were people who didn’t remember me from one hour to the next, let alone an entire day.

  “I remember you,” she says in a calm, even tone. “You’re the college girl.”

  I smile. “Yes, I suppose I am. Your daughter has hired me to help out with things.”

  “That’s what she said.” Barbara stiffens and turns away from me. Even from where I’m standing I can see her chin start to wobble and a bit of moisture well in her eyes.

  “If you needed to go to the bathroom, I could—”

  “You could start by cleaning this dump up!” she orders me as one of the pugs jumps up onto the couch and snuggles in next to her. “If you really want to do something, then you can do that.” Her arms are crossed, and even though I stand waiting for something more, she refuses to make further eye contact with me.

  “Okay,” I finally say, not exactly loving her tone but willing to endure it if there’s some hope I’ll be able to change the dynamic between us.

  I look around the living room—it’s tidy, but there is a thin layer of dust on things and perhaps some spots on the carpet where the dogs have shed more than usual or had an accident. Working, taking care of her mother and then trying to take care of this house and the dogs, I can see why Melissa might not have the time or energy to keep things spic and span.

  “Cleaning things are in the kitchen and in that closet,” Barbara says in a calmer, though still grumpy tone, pointing behind her and down the hallway.

  “All right, I’ll see what I can find.”

  I go into the kitchen first, find some dirty dishes, and take care of those. Then I clean the counters, find some dust cloths and make my way through the dining room and living room, dusting while Barbara sits on the couch. She doesn’t say a word, just keeps her eyes focused on the TV as the game show turns into a talk show, the rest of her attention reserved for the two pugs.

  There is only so much dusting you can do, and once I’ve finished that, I go in search of a vacuum cleaner. I find one in the hall closet, an ancient looking contraption with so many hoses and attachments that I wonder if it really isn’t two vacuum cleaners in one. I do at least figure out how to unwrap the cord and plug it in, but when I go to turn it on, I get nothing.

  I look to Barbara who is still focused on anything but me, then unplug the vacuum and try another outlet. Still nothing. I do more investigating, trying to understand just what I’m doing wrong when I hear a giggle. I look up and over to Barbara who has her hand over her mouth and is trying not to laugh.

  “You think this is funny, huh?” I ask her kindly, seeing an opportunity for an ice-breaker.

  She shrugs and then picks up one of the pugs. “Do we think it’s funny, Maxie? Do we think it’s funny? Do we… do we think it’s funny?” Her smile fades into a frown as a look of confusion crosses over her eyes. “I don’t know… is it funny?” She sets the pug, Maxie, down, then looks at me, as if she’s waiting for me to answer her question.

  “Do you remember who I am?” I ask, leaving the vacuum cleaner and taking a few steps toward Barbara. “Your daughter, Melissa, thought I might be able to help out around the house during the day, and you if you need it.”

  “Yes, I remember,” she says with a sharp edge to her voice. “I just get confused once in a while. It’s the damn stroke.”

  “Okay, I just wanted to be sure,” I reply. “Hey, do you happen to know how to operate this thing?” I look over toward the vacuum cleaner.

  “Well, you’ll have to bring it on over to me,” she says, crossing her arms back over her chest. “I can barely walk, if you hadn’t already figured that out.”

  I smile, thankful she hasn’t told me to fuck off, and I do as she says.

  She inches to the edge of the couch and reaches out, pressing one button and then pointing to a lever at the base of the vacuum. “There… see that? You’ve got to push that in with your foot. Then the vacuum will turn on.”

  “Wow, that’s kind of complicated.” I hadn’t used much more than a sweeper vacuum in my dorm at Stanford and had even found that challenging at first.

  “It’s made in Sweden or something. They like complicated.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Without asking if it will interrupt her talk show viewing, I pull the vacuum back a bit, turn it on and begin going over the carpet. It’s loud and powerful and sucks a heck of a lot of dog hair and dirt up. It might be convoluted, but it does at least work. I finish the living room, then move to the dining room and down the hallway. I figure out the attachments and attack the stairs and suck up a few cobwebs at the very top of the long, narrow window near the front door.

  When I’m done with everything I can find to vacuum without going beyond any closed doors, I turn the vacuum off, wrap the cord back up, carry it up the stairs and return it to the hallway closet.

  “Are you hungry or anything?” I ask Barbara whose eyes widen when she sees me.

  Her response is to point at me and laugh, causing Maxie and the other pug to start barking at me.

  “What?” I ask, then turn to the mirror hanging in the living room to see what’s so funny. It’s when I see the dark smear across my upper cheek that I begin to laugh too. If there were a matching one on my other cheek, I’d look like a football player. “And how did this happen?” I ask, turning back to Barbara.

  “I don’t know. Some grease from the vacuum maybe?”

  It must have been when I was going for the cobwebs, when the hose brushed against my cheek. “Maybe it’s not a bad look,” I tell her, turning back to the mirror.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t agree,” she says, picking up a book next to her and opening it up.

  “Is that a word search?” I ask, knowing it is because it says so on the cover, but wanting to keep our communication going.

  “They say it will help me.” She shakes her head, then closes the book and tosses it back onto the cushion. “But it doesn’t. All it does is confuse me and make me mad.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What the hell do you have to be sorry about?”

  I shrug and sit down in a chair across from her. “It must be frustrating is all. I’m sorry this is happening to you.”

  She makes a somewhat dismissive sound, then says, “I’m not one for self-pity.”

  “I don’t pity you,” I clarify. “I’m just sorry you’ve had a stroke.”

  “It’s very possible it will happen to you one day too,” she tells me, like she’s still looking for a fight in my words.

  “I hope not, but if it does, I don’t want to be pitied either, but it’s still going to suck.”

  She falls against the back of the couch and crosses her arms again. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

  “No, I’m from Seattle. But I did come to Meadow Brook during summers when I was a kid, so I’m not completely foreign to it.”

  “And what made you come back?”

  “I needed to get away. Things were kind of tense of up there.”

  “Don’t I know all about that.” She uncrosses her arms, her entire demeanor easing. “Seems like things have been tense for me ever since my Harold died. I used to have my own house, you know? I haven’t always been stuck with Melissa and that whore of a granddaughter.” The space around her eyes crinkles before she raises her eyebrows back up. “Pardon my French.”

  I put my hand up to my mouth to stifle a laugh and decide to ease away from any conversation that might reveal why she’d call her own granddaughter a whore, even in jest.

  “How long ago did Harold die?” I ask instead.

  “I think it’s been ten years,” she tells me, looking unsure of herself. “He was the sweetest man, but he smoked like a chimney. You’d think we wouldn’t have been surprised when he was diagnosed with lung cancer, but we were. I seem to remember him dying fairly quickly, and then Melissa steamrolled in and wanted to take care of everything.”

  “And you didn’t want that, did you?”

  “H
ell no! I’d lost my husband, but I wasn’t an invalid. At least I wasn’t then.” Her eyes rest on her legs and their apparent immobility.

  We go on like this for a while, me continuing to ask questions and her revealing more details about her life, the back and forth peppered with some moments of confusion. I find out that Barbara took care of her mother who had Parkinson’s disease and treated her with the “utmost respect and dignity” before she died. It wasn’t long after that when Harold, the man she was married to for thirty-nine years, died. They’d had three children, but Melissa was the only one that stuck around Meadow Brook. She informs me that Melissa’s husband was “a no good drunk” who left her in the lurch after she’d had Camille.

  “And even then,” Barbara tells me, “Melissa kept her shit together, managing to buy this house and that diner while she worked her fingers to the bone putting that ungrateful daughter of hers through college.”

  “Melissa owns Al’s?” I ask, this bit of info adding a new dimension to Melissa’s accomplishments.

  “She bought it from Al Sacks. He was a real bastard! He gave her a good deal because he didn’t have any other takers, and, if we’re being honest, I think he was sweet on her. He up and died from a coronary a year later, but at least he had that one year where he wasn’t slinging burgers.”

  “You’ve had a very colorful life,” I say, trying to keep from laughing at her assessment of Al.

  One of the things I’d loved most when I’d volunteered at the nursing home was learning about people and the lives they lived, even if the people sharing their stories were often forgetful or had entire chunks of their past erased from their minds after they’d suffered a stroke or some other life-altering event.