My stomach excreted what felt like a gallon of acid. “I hate to think of her up there all alone, coming to grips with whatever poison might be in that letter.”
Gail shrugged. “She’s pretty tough. And she knows she can depend on you two. And me and Diana, even. I am not saying to pretend there’s nothing going on. But just give Bob a bit of time to process. She’ll ask for help when she needs it. And if she doesn’t, then you can step in. Give her a day or so.”
Ella agreed with Gail. “I will tell Charles about this when he calls. He can help her, too. And we don’t even know what’s in the letter.”
After Gail left and I got Ella settled, I went upstairs to check on Bob. Her door was cracked. I peeped in. Bob lay across her bed, still clothed. The quilt was tangled around her as if there had been a tornado. Bob lay in the center, Teddy clutched in her arms, her knees pulled up into her chest. Her eyes were screwed shut, lines etched into her forehead. There was an aura of such vast sadness surrounding her that I wanted to snatch her up and tell her that nothing in the world would threaten her ever again. But I didn’t have that power. So I tiptoed over to her and stroked her forehead lightly until the lines in it smoothed. Then I kissed my finger and touched it to Bob’s cheek.
I couldn’t get to sleep that night. I stood at the window, looking across at the light in my bedroom across the street, where Alex and D were most likely screaming and pacing. I wished like hell I was over there.
▷◁
Two days passed. I was tense. Ella was distracted and taking more Tylenol than usual. Today, Bob was supposed to be playing after school at Hallie’s, but as I stood in front of the open refrigerator, wondering if I should try to make oven-baked chicken for dinner, Bob wandered in.
“Hi, kid! Weren’t you supposed to be playing with Hallie this afternoon?”
Bob dropped into a chair. “Too tired.” She did look pale, and there were purple smudges under her eyes.
“How about a Popsicle?” Bob shook her head. “I just want some water.”
I loaded her cup with lots of ice, and filled it up from the tap. She took it from me and drained it. Instead of setting it upright on the table, she tipped the glass on its side and rolled it across the tabletop, ice cubes clattering out.
“Honey, maybe you should go up and lie down for a while. D and Alex are coming over later, and you could rest until then.” I scooped up the loose ice cubes in a tea towel and dumped them in the sink.
“Beck, I need you to come up with me. I want you to see the letter.”
I gulped. “Are you sure?”
Bob held out her hand. As we climbed the stairs, I stroked her cold little fingers and tried to stop my heart from rupturing.
By this time, Rowena’s letter was gray with soil, fraught with wrinkles, and nearly torn in half. The envelope looked as if it had gone through the wash cycle. Bob held it out to me with two fingers, as if it were poisonous, despite the fact that it looked as if she had read it many times over.
“Are you sure you want me to read this, Bob? It’s private.”
Bob sat on the bedroom floor, cross-legged, Teddy in her lap. I took the letter and sat on the edge of Bob’s bed.
Bob looked up at me with sad eyes. “I want you to.”
I opened the envelope. Inside the letter was a photo. I looked at that first. In it was a young girl standing in front of a brick wall. She looked to be in her late teens, I figured—mostly because of the short, short denim cutoffs, the yellow tank top, and the large hoop earrings. Her face, however, reminded me of the haunting shots of sharecroppers in history books. It was sucked in, gaunt. Her smile was flat, no teeth showing. Her hair was dark and thin, uneven bangs hanging over expressionless eyes. Despite all that, there was a blunt beauty about her. A purity in her stark stare at the photographer. She was holding a fat, bald baby awkwardly, as if someone had just thrust it into her arms.
“Is this your mom?” I knew the answer.
“Yes. When she was young. I don’t really remember her looking that way. She is a lot older now. But I remember she has a tattoo of a heart on her back. She was always skinny. That’s me in the picture.”
My breath was ragged. I put the photo face down on the table beside me and unfolded Rowena’s letter.
Dear Roberta,
I want you to know that I am sorry for hurting you. I never wanted to hurt you. You are a good girl. I should have told you that. I am the one who failed.
I am sending you the only picture I have any more of the two of us. I thought you might want to look at it someday and remember that you had a mother who loved you. I will always love you, even though I don’t deserve to have you love me back.
I am very sorry. I guess I said that. My hope is that you will know I tried.
Your mother, Rowena
I had no words. I handed everything back to Bob. She stared at the photo. “I don’t want to have this.” She dropped them onto the floor.
I wondered why things of such magnitude seemed to happen with such crappy timing. How was this little girl going to deal with an absent father, her convalescing and frail gran, and her ultra-lost mother right this minute, and then mosey on to school and play at recess? What on earth could I do to help her?
I mustered up all of the fragments of good sense that were swirling around in the shambles of my own head. I sorted through my own thoughts about children, motherhood, and mistakes. I put my palm on Bob’s hot, crinkled head and made an attempt at consolation.
“Bob, I think you will want to keep this. You don’t have to look at the picture or read the letter for a long time if you don’t want to. You can give the envelope to your gran to put away somewhere safe for you. Then when you are ready—maybe not even until you are a grown-up yourself—you can look at your mom and read her letter again.”
Bob shoved the letter and photo away with her sneaker. “No. She is bad. She is an addict.”
I nodded. “I know. You have good reasons to feel horrible about that. But your mom is hurting because she knows it. And she wrote this to tell you that she knows it. She isn’t asking you for anything right now. She just wants to tell you how sorry she is. Can you at least see that from the letter?”
The words came out in a torrent. “I get it that she’s sorry. But let her be sorry. I want a mom! And I won’t ever have one. Everybody I know has a mom! You know what the thing is about my mother? She wanted drugs more than a kid. She has that stupid tattoo of a heart on her back. But it didn’t mean she loved me. It was for the drugs. She loves those more than anything!”
There were no tears. Bob’s eyes were hot, red, and dry.
I pulled her up and wrapped my arms around her. “Bob, believe me, your mom loves you. You don’t have to believe that she is good, or smart. You are probably right if you think she is selfish, or weak, or sick. But all you need to hang on to is that she loves you and she always has.”
Bob’s question was muffled. “Do I have to forgive her?”
I hugged this child very hard. “I hope that you can. Do you know what forgiveness is? It is nothing more than just understanding. Maybe you can just try to understand your mom. Understand that she is a broken person. But despite that, she loves you. That’s all.”
Bob pulled away from me. She took a breath, pulled her shirt into place, and leaned down to grab Teddy. She rubbed her eyes hard with her free hand. “I don’t have to love her back, right?”
“No. I don’t think that anybody would expect you to love her back. Not right now.”
Bob lifted her head. “All right. But I don’t want the letter.” She kicked at it again with her foot.
“Bob, I will give it to your gran, and she’ll keep it for you. Okay?”
“Okay. I have to go now. I’m not that tired. Hallie will be waiting for me.” Bob straightened her back—thrust her chest out like a prizefighter. She kissed Tedd
y twice and set him on her bureau. And with a final poke at the letter with her sneaker, she was gone.
I carefully put the photo inside the note, slid them into the envelope, and walked like a zombie down the hall. I pulled open the bottom drawer of Ella’s bureau, and tucked the letter under some of Ella’s sweaters.
Then I sank onto the bed and listened to my heart pound.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I loved D’s new place. It was one-half of a Tudor double. She had hardwood floors, two small but charming bedrooms, one with an actual window seat, a darling eat-in kitchen with scalloped open shelving and blue-and-white checked linoleum, a bathroom with a claw-foot tub perfect for bathing Alex, and a working fireplace. It was absolutely the last place on earth I would picture my sleek and modern sister living. But it was immediately available, the landlord probably had a crush on D, and the rent was reasonable (see landlord, above).
Diana was packing things up at my place before Two Men and a Truck showed up. It is amazing how much paraphernalia is involved with babies. Some of it would have to be left behind, because Mom and I insisted on keeping certain things for Alex. I talked D into letting me keep the Bumbo chair, because Alex was still too little for it, and I would need a place to stow him when he came over to visit in the future. A Bumbo chair, if you don’t know, is the absolutely funniest pot-like seat made out of some sort of gel material. When you plop a baby in it, he sits there like a tiny Buddha, gravely surveying all the activity around him. Mom convinced Diana to let her buy Alex a crib for the new place so that she could keep the porta-crib. I had already decided that whenever the baby slept with me anywhere at all, it would be on the floor.
We were in the chaos that was the bedroom, now looking more like the aftermath of an infantile explosion than ever. There was a baby monitor on the bureau. A bag of nipple shields on the bed. The Diaper Genie, assorted rattles and soft blocks, baby bottles, and educational, age-appropriate toys strewn all over the place. As D stuffed little outfits, tiny socks, and burp cloths into a box, she asked me when I was moving back here.
“I don’t know. Ella still has a hard time getting around, and she still has to go to physical therapy once a week. I don’t see how I can leave and come back here. But I am so sick of not being in my own place.”
D bent down to turn Alex from his back onto his stomach. “Pretty soon, he’s going to be crawling all over the place, and I won’t be able to turn my back on him for one second.” She pretended to smack him on the head. “Beck, have you considered hiring a caregiver? They have agencies for just this kind of thing. And you can interview the candidates. I am sure that Ella can pay for this. You told me she’s financially secure.”
I opened a drawer and handed D three pairs of her leggings (a size way too small for me; dang, I would have liked to keep them) and a couple of her filmy tops. “Ella and Bob would hate that.”
“I know. But they will have to adjust. And you said that Bob is really coming into her own over there. She knows how to do laundry, she can certainly do basic cleaning, and the caregiver would do the rest. You could still go over there for dinner and things. Hell, I’m sure you would be over there a lot, seeing as how you are so attached to them. It would work. You have to get on with your own life.”
It made sense. I missed my job at Starbucks. I missed the socialization, the chatter, and frankly, the muffins. I had sent Bad Boys on the Beach to my agent, and told her it might be the last one for a while. I felt sure that it would go under contract. I was making a decent income from royalties—nothing to shout about, but my rent was small, my needs few, and I was very excited about devoting my full attention to Summer Child. Of course, I had never even discussed literary fiction with my agent, but she was a go-getter, and so I figured that if I managed to write a good novel, she could sell it to somebody.
“How would I even broach the subject of a caregiver to them?”
Diana laughed ruefully. “Of course, you are asking the queen of selfishness this question. If it were me, I would just hire somebody and march over there and tell them that the party was over.” She sat down on the bed, a burp cloth in her hand. “I suppose that you should discuss it with them. Appeal to Ella’s sense of fair play. Tell her that she really has to step up to the plate and recognize that she needs help on a permanent basis. Or at least until her son comes back—when is it, in the winter?”
I nodded bleakly. “He’s over there in the midst of that never-ending shitstorm. They won’t even tell anybody over here where he is. And since things keep escalating, who knows when he’ll be back. But yeah. Supposedly he will come back in February, something like that. I never talk to him. He talks to both of them on the phone, and I get an email from him if he has some kind of question about how things are going. He does seem like a very nice man. But he can’t do anything for them. He’s too busy staying alive.”
Diana got up and resumed gathering up the accouterments of motherhood. “Make a call to an agency. Stat. Get someone started over there ASAP.”
The handwriting was on the wall; I knew that.
▷◁
“Gran! Have you ever heard of a FLUFFERNUTTER?” Bob had a piece of bread in one hand and a table knife in the other.
Ella took a sip of tea and set her cup on the saucer. I wanted a set of dishes like the ones Ella used every day. Havilland china from the 30s, pale cream with a border of violets around the edge. “I have, but I can’t remember. Is it peanut butter and honey?”
Bob brandished her knife like a baton, conducting the luncheon operations like a maestro. “No! But that sounds pretty good. It’s peanut butter and marshmallow fluff. Diana learned how to make them in Girl Scouts. Her Mom was the scout mistress, and they made these to take on a hike one time. Don’t they sound totally delish?”
“Oh, Bobby, the thought of them makes my teeth ache! So, so sweet!”
I took the peanut butter sandwich that Bob had made. She had been very generous with the grape jelly. “I know, Ella. They were. But D and I loved them, especially with a big glass of very cold milk. I think it was a Midwestern delicacy. But I promised to get some fluff so Bob could try one.”
Bob beamed as she buttered toast for Ella. She had pulled the orange marmalade out of the cupboard and set it on the table next to her gran’s cup. Peanut butter was a bit overwhelming for Ella. “I also want to try a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich. Beck says that Elvis loved them.”
Ella chuckled. “At this rate, Bobby, you will need to go to the dentist and maybe start going to Weight Watchers!” We all three burst out laughing; Ella could be a real card.
Between bites of my sandwich, I decided to go for broke. “Diana is moving into her own apartment, you know. Ella nodded. “I hear it is very cozy.”
I dove in. “But you know, once Diana has left, I really need to go back to my own home.”
Ella’s powdery face crumpled. Then she seemed to catch herself. She straightened up in her chair and clapped her hands. “Of course you have to go back home! Bob and I will be all right. We will.”
Bob stopped chewing her sandwich. Her mouth dropped open, revealing a mash up of peanutty grape. She tried to say something, but it came out garbled. “Budickifwecnadatnigh . . .”
I held out my hand to stop both of them. “Ella, you and Bob can’t be alone. It isn’t safe, it’s too much for Bob, and if anything happened, the two of you would be helpless. I called Home Helpers today, and they are sending over some women that we can interview who will be able to live here temporarily, to help. Just the way I have been. They are trained. And we can choose the one we want.”
Ella rubbed the surface of the tabletop with shaky hands. “A nurse’s aid? I have heard horror stories about those people.”
Bob nearly choked. I slapped her on the back, and then hugged her. “No. It won’t be like that. First of all, these are NOT the kind of people you see on 60 Minutes expos
és. And Ella, I will be coming over all the time to check on you.” I pointed to Bob’s horrified face. “And do you think BOB would let anything sinister happen around here? She will be your bodyguard!”
Bob managed to swallow her peanut butter, and she took a sip of milk to wash it down properly. Then her face lit up. “Gran! Right! I will make sure nothing terrible happens! And we can teach her how to make fluffernutters!”
Leave it to an eight-year-old to put things into perspective. I turned to Ella. “I consulted Mr. Roseburg. He says that their prices are high, but that is understandable. You can afford this, don’t worry.”
A look of resignation. “Of course. You are so good to us, Rebecca. I am sure Bobby and I will be just fine.” A wavery smile. “Just fine. So go ahead and send them over. Bobby and I will choose a good one, won’t we, honey?”
Bob nodded trustingly. “And Beck. Tell them she has to like cooking and playing cards. Gran can teach her how to play pinochle. I just don’t get that game.”
Why did I not feel relieved?
▷◁
It only took one day. The second woman that we interviewed seemed to be the caregiver for us. We chose a plump, capable-looking woman named Janey. Janey was forty-seven, divorced, and her son Chip was in high school, had an after school job, and drove his own truck. “He’s a good boy, just fine on his own. He has never touched drugs. He don’t even like beer very much. So I kin be here; ain’t no worries.”
Janey started that Wednesday, the week before D’s move was final. I felt that a few days of trial would be enough time to ascertain whether or not Janey was really the solution, but the way Bob took to her, there didn’t seem to be any doubt.
Janey was a miracle, really. Her hair was the color of pencil lead. She had freckles dappled all over her face and arms, and although her teeth were stained from years of smoking (“I quit cold turkey,” she informed us), she had a dazzling smile. She wore camo pants and white tee shirts, Nike sneakers, and three earrings in her left ear. Bob was enchanted. The first day she was in residence, Janey taught Bob how to make popcorn balls with blue and red food coloring. She could lift Ella as easily as a feather, if need be. Ella was quick to assure her that need would NEVER be.
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