CHAPTER 17
Before Gincy made lunch for her mother and daughter, she checked in with her assistant by phone. E-mail and texting were all well and good, but Gincy felt you could only get a really true sense of things via the human voice.
“Everything’s fine here,” Matt assured her in his usual brisk way. “Running like clockwork, your instructions being followed, deadlines being met. I’ll send you Tim’s draft of the feature story for the arts section later. In the meantime, you just enjoy your time with your mom.”
Gincy resisted the urge to say, “Yes, sir!”, thanked Matt for his efforts, and ended the call. She realized she had been half hoping for a crisis that would require her immediate presence back in Boston and felt a bit ashamed. Would she really have run off? No, she thought, of course not. Of course not.
Tamsin and Ellen came into the kitchen together.
“Hi, Mom. What are we having for lunch?” Tamsin asked.
“Ham and cheese sandwiches and chicken noodle soup. How does that sound, Mom?”
Ellen took her seat and unfolded her napkin before replying. “I’m sure it will be fine, Virginia. Though I saw you told Tommy to buy Progresso. I prefer Campbell’s.”
Gincy let the comment pass. “Mom,” she said, “I was thinking. Why don’t you come with me while I run a few errands after lunch? You really should take advantage of the weather before the big snows start. Fresh air is good for you. It will put apples in your cheeks.”
“That’s a funny expression,” Tamsin said.
Ellen shook her head. “I think I’ll stay home.”
“We could stop at the library,” Gincy suggested, undeterred. “Maybe they have a new title in that mystery series you like, what’s it called? The Bran Muffin Detectives or something?”
Tamsin rolled her eyes. “The Soufflé Sleuths, Mom.”
“Well, I knew it had something to do with food.”
“I haven’t read one of those books since . . .” Ellen shook her head. “Well, it’s been a long time.”
“All the more reason we should go to the library, then. Maybe they’ll have another mystery series you’d like. I’m sure the librarian can recommend something.”
Ellen took a spoonful of soup before answering. “If you say so, Virginia. Tamsin, would you please pass the salt?”
Gincy hesitated, and then ventured on. “And if it’s not too tiring for you, maybe we could take a stroll around that pond out by Margery Road. I doubt it’s thoroughly frozen yet. There might still be some ducks. We could bring some bread for them.”
Carefully, Ellen took her napkin from her lap and put it next to her plate and bowl. “On second thought,” she said, “I think I’ll stay home. I feel a little tired.” Without another word she got up from the table and left the room. She had barely touched her lunch.
Gincy put her hand to her forehead and sighed. She had gone too far. What had she hoped for? That miraculously she and her mother would walk arm in arm around the pond in happy harmony, her mother confessing openly to her sadness and despair? And what would happen then? Gincy would be free to go back to Boston without guilt....
“I’ll wrap up the sandwich and put it in the fridge,” Tamsin said.
Gincy gave her daughter a weak smile. “Thanks.”
“You could stop by the library anyway, Mom, and get a few books for her. Maybe reading would help take her mind off things.”
“I will. Would you mind staying here with Grandma?” Gincy asked. “Just to keep an eye on her. I’m sure she’ll be fine but . . .”
Tamsin smiled. “Sure. And if she’s hungry later I’ll try to get her to eat the rest of her sandwich, and not just dessert.”
“You’re a good granddaughter, Tamsin.”
“And you’re a good daughter, Mom.”
Gincy wished she could believe that.
CHAPTER 18
It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon. Tamsin, in her usual seemingly effortless way, had convinced her grandmother not only to finish her abandoned lunch but also to accept an offer of tea at Adele Brown’s house. For all Gincy knew, it was the first time her mother had left the house in weeks. And given the fact that Ellen was not happy with Gincy’s “poking around,” as she put it, it was better she not be at home while her daughter got on with the cleaning, which is what Gincy was now doing.
She started in her parents’ bedroom, vacuuming the small area rugs, one on either side of the bed, chasing months’ worth of dust from the furniture, and washing the inside of the windows and the windowsills. She felt uncomfortable in the room, as if she were intruding upon, even violating, a private space. She wondered if all adult children felt that way about being in their parents’ bedroom, that inner sanctum where parents once again became their private selves. She made a mental note to ask Danielle and Clare for their thoughts about that. Someday, when she had less pressing matters to deal with.
Gincy moved over to her mother’s low dresser. Carefully she wiped clean the old mirror that had once belonged to her great-grandmother. The frame was indeed badly cracked, and Gincy thought it odd that the glass hadn’t broken, too. The frame was plain, unlike the intricately carved one her father had been crafting when he died. She wondered if her mother would have complained that the new frame wasn’t exactly like the old one. She wondered if she would have appreciated the time and effort and skill her husband had put into creating the new frame.
Dresser dusted and polished, next she moved over to the bed and picked up the photo of her father from her mother’s nightstand. It must have been taken when her father was in his early or midthirties. He was smiling, his hands on his hips. He was wearing a hat set at a jaunty angle. He looked, Gincy thought, very happy.
For the life of her she couldn’t recall having seen this photo before. She wondered if her mother had put it out only after her father died. She remembered what Tommy had told her about her mother waiting eagerly for her father to come home from his visits to Boston. About Dad being the stronger of the two. How much of the truth of her parents’ relationship had she ever really known? What had she wanted to see and what had she needed to believe? What, if anything, did her stubbornly held opinion of the union between Ellen and Ed Gannon have to do with reality?
It was then that Gincy noticed a thick book bound in black leather sitting on the lower shelf of the nightstand. It had the unmistakable look of a Bible. Several bookmarks protruded from the pages. She had no recollection of ever seeing a Bible in the house when she was growing up. In fact, it was only in college that she had ever done any serious reading from it, and that was more for historical and literary interest than for spiritual assistance. She knew that her mother had been a member of a local church for some time; the assistant pastor had conducted her father’s funeral. Maybe someone at the Church of the Risen Lord had suggested she own a copy of what was arguably one of the most famous books in the world. And she wondered if her mother was able to take comfort in its words of wisdom.
Well, she wasn’t going to ask her mother about her prayer habits. Not after she had been so ham-fisted by suggesting a walk around the pond, the scene of romantic strolls with her husband. But she was curious about the pages her mother had earmarked. She wondered if it would be wrong to open the book to those pages. After all, whatever she found might help her in some way to help her mother.
Putting all scruples about privacy aside, Gincy picked up the book and opened it to the first bookmarked page.
Psalm 23. No great surprise there, Gincy thought. The words of the psalm had probably helped millions of people through the centuries survive periods of sorrow and distress.
The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
She read on to the end.
Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
She turned to another bookmarked page. And there, written in tiny careful letters next to a
few lines of Psalm 34, Ellen had written: Ed’s favorite.
Who among you loves life
and desires to enjoy prosperity?
Keep your tongue from evil-speaking
and your lips from lying words.
Turn from evil and do good;
seek peace and pursue it.
“Above all, be kind.”
Gincy realized she had spoken those words aloud.
Did her mother read that psalm, her husband’s favorite, every night before she turned off the lights? And when she did read the psalm, how much did she take its message to heart? Did she remember all of the good her husband had done in this world, before he had been called away? Well, if what Tommy had told her about their mother’s devotion to their father was true, and why wouldn’t it be, Ellen Gannon did remember all the good her husband had done.
Gincy closed the book and put it back on the lower shelf of the nightstand. Her throat was tight. She had seen enough.
CHAPTER 19
Ellen picked up the plastic bottle of milk and sniffed it warily. “One more day,” she announced.
“But Mom,” Gincy said, “we just opened the bottle yesterday.”
“I know my milk. And in this house we fold the napkins in half, like a rectangle. Not into a triangle. You should know that, Virginia.”
“Yes, Mom. How was tea at Mrs. Brown’s?”
The three women were gathered in the kitchen about to settle down to dinner.
“She made these awesome cinnamon and sugar thingies,” Tamsin said. “Like little spirals. I asked her for the recipe.”
“Mom?” Gincy prodded.
“The tea was too strong. She lets it brew for too long. And speaking of too strong, I don’t know how you drink that coffee you do.”
“What coffee, Mom?”
“That leftover coffee from breakfast. It’s going to rot your stomach.”
Seek peace and pursue it, Gincy thought. Her father’s favorite psalm.
“Still, it was nice of Mrs. Brown to have you over, wasn’t it, Mom?” Gincy said.
Ellen nodded. “Yes, Virginia. The Browns have always been considerate neighbors.”
“Our neighbors in Boston are weird,” Tamsin said. Hurriedly, she added, “I mean in a good way. The people upstairs are performance artists. And the people downstairs, they’re new, they moved in just last year, they’re just regular artists. One’s a painter and one does weaving. I have one of his scarves.”
Ellen frowned. “What is a performance artist?”
While Tamsin struggled to explain this concept to her grandmother, Gincy thought again of the lovely oak frame her father had been working on when he died, and of Tommy’s admitting that he wished he could finish his father’s work. Poor Tommy. He had sounded almost wistful that morning, talking about their father. Tommy must miss him almost as much as their mother did. It was true she still hadn’t come out and said, “I miss my husband,” but maybe, Gincy thought, that was because she was afraid that the minute she did admit to missing him, the floodgates would open and she would fall totally apart and not be able to go on and . . .
No, Gincy thought, glancing at her mother’s stern and frowning face. Not Mom. No matter what Tommy thinks, Mom is tough.
Except for when she wasn’t. Except for when she needed support or guidance and looked to her Bible and to the words of her late husband’s favorite psalm. Except for when she neglected to clean the bathroom and forgot to pay the electric bill. Except for when she couldn’t find the emotional strength to go through her husband’s belongings.
“Mom?” Gincy said when Tamsin had finished trying to explain the inexplicable to her grandmother. “If it’s okay with you, I thought I’d go through those clothes of Dad’s you said you wanted to give to the charity shop. Some might need airing out or washing before I bring them in.”
Ellen took a sip from her glass before answering, and when she did, she looked not at her daughter but down at the remains of her meal. “The clothes are fine where they are, Virginia,” she said.
“Are you sure? I could–”
“No.” Ellen said firmly. “I said no. You never listen to me, Virginia.”
Gincy winced. “Okay, Mom. Sorry.”
The three women continued to eat in silence until Ellen suddenly asked how long Gincy and Tamsin were planning to stay.
Gincy didn’t know how to answer that question. She had lied to her mother when she had told her she had come home for a Christmas visit when she had really come home to offer what help she could to a grieving woman. But now she wondered if she had been doing more harm than good, causing her mother pain instead of offering succor, forcing her to face things she simply wasn’t yet ready to face. Was it really a good idea for her to linger on?
“Virginia, I asked you a question.”
“Sorry,” Gincy said, and she was. “My mind wandered. Not too long, Mom. Don’t worry.”
She had no idea if that had been the right thing to say.
“Grandma,” Tamsin asked. “Would you like more stew?”
“Just a small spoonful, thank you. I’ll help myself.”
Gincy watched her mother lift the serving spoon from the bowl. Ellen’s plain gold wedding ring was virtually embedded in her finger. Well, it would be. Gincy couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother without it. She wondered if her father had been buried with his wedding ring. There had been an open coffin—Dad in his one good suit with his one good tie, a tie that Gincy had given him many Christmases ago—but for the life of her she couldn’t remember noticing his wedding ring. Would her mother have asked the funeral director to remove it before the casket was closed so that she could take it home with her and keep it close? It was certainly not something Gincy felt she could ask her mother, not without sounding morbid. If Rick died before she did, she certainly would want—
“Virginia,” Ellen said. “You’re frowning. You’ll get unbecoming wrinkles.”
“I’m fifty. I already have unbecoming wrinkles.”
“You should use face cream.”
“We call it moisturizer these days, Mom,” Gincy said, “and I do use it. And sunblock. I’m glad you liked the stew.”
“Yes,” Ellen said. “It was fine. Is there any of the chocolate cake left?”
Well, Gincy thought, at least I made up for ruining her lunch earlier. “Yes, Mom,” she said. “There is.”
When the stew had been consumed, Tamsin cleared away the plates and Gincy brought the cake to the table.
“Aren’t you worried about Justin,” Ellen asked suddenly, when she had finished the slice of cake Gincy had given her. “Living all alone in Connecticut?”
I wonder what brought that on, Gincy thought. Maybe her mother was wondering about the whereabouts of her own son.
“He’s not alone, Grandma,” Tamsin said. “He has a roommate. And he lives in a nice part of Greenwich. Well, I think all parts of Greenwich are nice. It’s really pretty.”
“But he’s so far away from his family. Aren’t you concerned, Virginia?”
“Of course Rick and I are concerned, Mom,” Gincy said. “We’re concerned that he be happy and safe and that he enjoy what he’s doing.”
“But so far away from his family,” her mother repeated. “How can you keep track of him?”
“He’s twenty-five, Grandma,” Tamsin said. Then she laughed. “I’m not so sure he wants us to be keeping track of him!”
“And I was alone in Boston all those years,” Gincy pointed out. “From the age of seventeen. And I was fine.”
And I was never lonely, she thought. I never missed home, ever. I was fine being without them, Mom and Dad and Tommy. But maybe, just maybe, they weren’t fine without me.
“Have another piece of cake, Mom,” she said abruptly, dismissing the painful thought.
But instead of replying to this suggestion, Ellen moved her plate aside and poked at the tablecloth with her forefinger. “This cloth is sticky,” she said.
�
�I know. I was thinking that maybe I—I mean, that you might want to replace it,” Gincy said. “I’ve tried to clean it but . . .”
“You’re not trying hard enough, Virginia. What it needs is some serious elbow grease.”
“Yes, Mom,” Gincy said.
“Your father always believed in elbow grease. He always said, when you think you can’t get a job done properly, just apply some elbow grease.”
Tamsin looked from her mother to her grandmother. “What’s elbow grease?” she asked warily. “It’s not really made of elbows, is it?”
For the first time since she had been home, Gincy saw her mother smile.
CHAPTER 20
Gincy and Tamsin were cleaning up after dinner. Ellen, sated from second helpings of stew and cake, was in the living room dozing in front of the television.
“Grandma seems better,” Tamsin said, stacking dry plates into the cupboard. “Not as sad as when we first got here.”
“Do you think so?” Gincy asked. “I’m of two minds about that. She’s grieving, she must be, but she either can’t or won’t admit it. She’s hardly mentioned Grandpa, but she must be thinking of nothing else but him. I worry that if she continues to keep her feelings all bottled up, she’ll never really heal.”
Tamsin shrugged. “When we had that grief counseling at school—remember, after that senior committed suicide right before graduation last year?—the guy said that grief takes as many forms as there are people. Some people scream and cry and some people retreat into themselves. And some people pretend the bad thing never happened. He said you have to let people grieve in their own way.”
“I know. He was right. Hey, you know what my old classmate Chrissy Smith told me the other day? That Grandma and Grandpa used to walk by the pond out by Margery Road every Saturday afternoon. And that they held hands.”
Tamsin put her hand to her heart. “How sweet! Wow.”
“That’s why I suggested Grandma and I go there this afternoon,” Gincy confessed. “I had some silly notion that if I took her to the pond she might open up.”
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