Surviving Valencia

by Holly Tierney-Bedord

  The entrance of the local supermarket usually housed plenty of handwritten advertisements from people needing babysitters, so I walked the two mile journey to it and took a look. As I stood there, perusing the picked over offerings which displayed a few expired garage sales and some kittens for sale, two Jennis and a Kaci came in with their clans of summer kids. They were all decked out in swimsuits and biker shorts, stopping in for a snack on their way to the pool. It was obvious as I stood there, binder in hand, gazing forlornly at the wall in front of me, what I was looking for. My dad’s favorite saying ‘You’re a day late and a dollar short’ truly summarized my existence.

  For a moment it looked as if they would pass on by me and leave me alone. But I was such easy prey that one of the Jennis could not resist. She paused on the mat that made the door automatically open and turned back to me. “Ohhh. Were you trying to be a nanny too?”

  “A nanny?”

  “Oh, pardon moi,” she said, taking a step closer to me and pointing her sparkly purple tipped fingernail at the binder. “I see you’re trying to be a babysitter. Well, you’re a little late.”

  “I see that.”

  “Come on, Jenni,” said Kaci.

  “Your little binder is from 1982?” Jenni continued, annoyed. I wasn’t sure why this was irritating her. I never could understand why the popular girls got so mad about everything. “Let me see it.”

  I handed it to her. Of course.

  “Oh, I get it,” she said, flipping through it, reading Valencia’s handwritten notes. “This was your sister’s book. Hmm. Here’s a good tip: Wait an hour after eating before going swimming. Ha ha. We’re about to load these brats up on Hostess Twinkies. I hope they all cramp up and sink. Well, here’s your stupid book back. Not that you will ever be needing it.” She shoved it back at me and somehow I fumbled and dropped it on the floor. She kicked it and laughed, and then she frowned and rubbed her toe.

  “Are you alright?” I asked.

  “Ouch,” she said, glaring at me. “You know, your sister was so much prettier than you. What the hell?”

  “I know. I don’t know why that happened,” I said, picking up the binder and wiping it off on my shorts.

  “Well, tootaloo,” she said, skipping inside to join her friends.

  “Bye,” I said. I went back outside into the unseasonably sweltering June day, crying. Weeping. Snot pouring out my nose as the sobs escaped me in hiccups. And I promptly walked another half mile to the drugstore, and spent the meager amount of money I had in my purse on a bottle of purple nail polish.

  I did end up finding a job shortly after the binder incident. And even as a nanny, of sorts. I had been out for a walk and had stopped in to a diner to buy some gum from their gumball machine. There in the vestibule, thumbtacked to a small bulletin board, was an index card covered with bluebird stickers. Written in shaky, delicate old lady handwriting, it said Grandma Betty Needs a Friend, followed by a telephone number. I tore down the card and ran home to call.

  “You’re hired, Sweetie,” she told me.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Thanks what?”

  “Thanks a lot?”

  “Thanks, Grandma Betty,” she corrected me, giggling a crackly little giggle.

  The job was to help her with her chores and keep her company. Thankfully, she had a nurse who helped her bathe in the evenings after I went home, so I just had to do things like dust her knickknacks and buy groceries for her. She let me drive her car, insisted actually (how else could I bring groceries back from the store?). I was terrified.

  “I don’t know how to drive. It’s illegal. I am only fourteen!” I told her, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She just put the keys to her Buick in my palm and said, “I’ll watch Days of Our Lives until you get back.”

  The Buick’s wide, cushy front bench seat seemed more like a sofa than part of an automobile. I could barely see over the huge steering wheel or reach the pedal. As people often do, I became attached to the car and wanted to add my mark to it, so I stuck a ladybug sticker on the rearview mirror and stored my Carmex in the ashtray. I think the only reason I never got pulled over was because no one actually saw me driving it.

  Grandma Betty loved Kraft singles, white bread, and liverwurst. We fell into a pleasant routine: Each day at lunch I would grill myself a cheese sandwich and then grill a liverwurst and cheese sandwich for her. We would take them down the wheelchair ramp, to the picnic table in the breezeway, which was a little screened-in porch attaching her house to her garage. She told me stories about her life as a girl and about the job she’d had as a telephone operator, but mainly she wanted to talk about her husband Lloyd, who had passed away five years earlier.

  “Would you believe,” she’d tell me, “that Lloyd thought he wanted to marry my sister Martha? Oh no! I wasn’t having it. I told him that I was the girl for him.” She laughed. “Martha didn’t mind. She always liked Herbie Stanford, the principal’s son. We had a double wedding! That was kind of the fashion back then. Nowadays I don’t think they do that. Oh, that Lloyd... He was trouble… I miss him every day.”

  As she spoke, I munched on potato chips or crackers, anything I had been inclined to add to the grocery cart, thankful for unstale food to eat. Then she and I would share a Mounds bar for dessert.

  Taking care of her was easy. She paid me $10 an hour, which was more than my mother made. Ten dollars to watch soap operas and drink Kool-aid, water plants, help her with her Search-A-Word Puzzles. In comparison, baby-sitting the previous summer had paid $2.00 an hour and I had thought I was raking it in.

  “Who do you think is cuter?” she would ask me, while we watched Days together, “Shane Donovan or Mike Horton?”

  “They’re about a tie,” I would say, munching on Pringles.

  “Should Jennifer be with Emilio or Jack?” she would ask me.

  Well, they were both cute. But I still wanted her to end up with Frankie. I said as much.

  “So do I. Me too,” she’d say nodding.

  “Is he ever coming back to Salem?”

  She flipped through her Soap Opera Digest. “Not a word about him in here.”

  At night after I left, she watched Wheel of Fortune and knitted sweaters, scarves, mittens, and blankets for me. She’d present them to me along with my daily eighty dollars. I often told my mother that these gifts were in lieu of a paycheck, to hide how much money I was making. I feared if she knew, she would hunt down Grandma Betty and convince her that fifty cents an hour and the occasional potholder were plenty of compensation for me.

  For the first few weeks, my mother was oblivious to where I was going and the growing pile of winter accessories on my dresser. Then one day as I sneaked past her to my bedroom she noticed.

  “What are you doing with that Afghan? Is that from Valencia’s hope chest?” I never knew Valencia had had a hope chest. My mother got up from the kitchen table where she had been reading a fitness magazine, and she came over to me.

  I told her the story I’d practiced on my walks home: “It’s from Betty. You know, that old lady I work for. ‘Cause she is poor and couldn’t pay me today.”

  “Oh. She’s paying you in blankets?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well that’s new. How do you think I’d like it if the dentist paid me in fillings?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well think about it. You need to stand up for yourself.”

  “She pays me in money, too,” I said, fearing I had taken it too far.

  “If you’re happy with the situation, I guess there’s nothing to talk about. But I wouldn’t like it and I would say so,” she said smugly. Ironically, I had recently overheard my dad questioning her about her dwindling paychecks, to which she’d responded that she’d gotten some dental work done in place of several days’ pay. I had believed her side of the story, but now I wondered if she might be missing work because she was having another affair.

  “I’m fine with it,” I said. Then
I changed the subject. “How have you been feeling lately? Have you had any headaches?”

  “Nope. I’ve been much better.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Well, you know, I am trying to be healthier. I think eating better and exercising more helps with my overall health.”

  “So, no migraines. That’s really great, Mom.”

  “It sure is. Not to mention, I lost ten pounds.”

  “Oh. Good for you.”

  “Did you notice?”

  “Yes, I thought you looked pretty good,” I lied.

  “It takes work, losing weight,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve been doing leglifts every morning and jumping jacks at night. I just have to stick with it.” I was surprised she was talking to me about this. I was unsure whether I liked that we were having a conversation, or if it was too late to even try.

  “Well, I’m going to put this on my bed,” I said, nodding at the blanket in my arms.

  “She shouldn’t make you walk home carrying that in this heat. You’ll get sick.”

  “It doesn’t bother me.”

  “You probably look a little silly walking down the street with a blanket wrapped around you in the middle of summer.”

  “I didn’t wrap it around me.”

  “Well, good.”

  “Anyway, it’s not that hot. See,” I said, wiggling my fingers through it, “there are holes everywhere.”

  “Ughhh,” she sighed and shook her head, as if the banality of the conversation had just deflated her. Then she turned back to her magazine and perked back up. “Do you know you can use your coffee table as an aerobics step?”

  “Really?” I said, not interested but coming over to take a look out of politeness. She closed the magazine and called out to my father who was watching television in the living room, “Roger, do you want corn or peas with your meatloaf?”

  I realized I had been flattering myself to worry about her intervening. Once I left her property, it was out of sight, out of mind, unless something rare and unfortunate like that newspaper photo happened.

  By the end of the summer, I had almost $4000 hoarded away in a duffle bag in my closet.

  The time came for high school to start and I had to break it to Betty that I wouldn’t be coming to see her anymore. She didn’t take it very well. I gave her only two days’ notice because I hadn’t had the nerve to tell her sooner. The first day she tried to bribe me to stay, offering to double my salary and make me whatever kind of sweater I wanted; I could pick out the yarn! The last day she became a different person entirely. She parked her wheelchair in front of the dining room window, refusing to talk to me. When it was time to leave, I tried to give her a hug. She turned away, handing me my money without even saying goodbye.

  “I can stop by after school sometimes if you want, but I usually have homework to do,” I told her, as I was halfway out the door.

  She just kept looking out the window. So I left.

  Her cupboards were filled with Pringles and Doritos, gummy bears, Skittles. She had half-finished blankets she was making for me. I would never know if Jennifer ended up with Frankie or Jack.

  I walked slowly home, feeling with every step that I needed to go back and fix things. But I didn’t. I just kept walking. I ended up at the park, sitting on a swing. The next day high school would begin. I did not belong there.

  So don’t go.

  It seemed reasonable enough.

  Obvious, even.

  I got up, ready to walk back to her house to tell her the news, that I would take care of her all year long, that nothing had to change. But then I sat back down. I spun in crooked circles, kicking at the worn patch of grass beneath the swing, frustrated and confused.

  Could I really take care of her instead of going to school? I wondered how it would be as summer turned to fall and fall turned to winter. Would Grandma Betty and I still have fun when we couldn’t eat lunch on the breezeway? Would I be able to drive the Buick on slippery, snow covered roads?

  I took my little notebook from my purse and made a list of pros and cons.

  Pros:

  Grandma Betty is nice

  Grandma Betty pays you. She will now pay $20/hour. That is probably more than most grown ups make.

  You get to drive a car

  I’m going to say that again: You Get To Drive A Car!

  You love that car

  You forgot your Carmex in the ashtray

  You get to eat good food at Grandma Betty’s

  Grandma Betty makes you nice stuff:

  Blankets

  Scarves

  Hats

  Mittens

  Sweaters

  Maybe socks?

  You would now get to pick the colors!

  You get to watch Days of our Lives

  Grandma Betty lets you drink coffee

  Grandma Betty’s house is cute

  Grandma Betty is your best friend!

  Grandma Betty likes you!

  Can you imagine how great it would be to never see any of those bitches from school again??

  No homework at Grandma Betty’s!

  Cons:

  It is probably illegal to skip school. But you are too young to go to jail, so if anyone went to jail, it would be Mom and Dad. So this is kind of a ‘Pro.’

  You might get stupid if you stopped going to school. Then again, maybe you would get smarter, considering how lame school is. So this is kind of a ‘Pro’ too.

  Mom and Dad would freak out and ground you forever. Oh well. What’s new?

  Only a weirdo would rather hang out with an old lady than go to high school!

  And I wanted to be normal. So I got off my swing and went home, laying out some jeans and a rugby shirt I had purchased from the Gap. Maybe this would be the year that I stopped being me.

  Chapter 44

  Upon learning I was pregnant, Adrian and I immediately began preparing the nursery. His enthusiasm surprised me. I rode along on the tails of his baby cheer, slipping in and out of experiencing it.

  The small bedroom across the hall from ours was supposed to be my office, but I never used it for anything but a storage place. Adrian hauled everything out while I perused our local hardware store for paint colors. Periwinkle blue would be nice for a boy or a girl, I decided, calling him for his opinion on the matter.

  “I can’t picture what a periwinkle is,” he told me.

  “Adrian, you’re an artist. You’re supposed to know all the colors.”

  “I’m sure it’s great. Bring it home. We can always return it if it doesn’t look like it’s going to work. Don’t forget rollers and a couple of those edgers. Why don’t you grab some treats for the dog while you’re there, if they sell them.”

  Ugh. I had forgotten about Frisky. There was no way Frisky was going to be anywhere near our baby. Hopefully, in nine months everything would be peachy and the foreboding gate would be enough to keep us safe from harm.

  While I drove home I dialed Jeb’s cell phone to see if he had any news for me. He should be in Minneapolis now. I was hoping he’d be giving me daily updates but so far, not a word from him. My call went straight to his voicemail. I closed my phone calmly and replaced it back inside the pocket in my handbag. Through the actions of my body, perhaps my brain could be tricked into believing this was not a big deal.

  But no. My brain was not falling for it. My mind jumped swiftly from the pleasant distraction of paint samples and nursery décor back to the images of my sister.

  You have the fence and the dog. Everything is going to be fine.

  I thought hard about the nursery. I wanted it to be elegant and edgy. Not too cookie cutter. Adrian’s friends expected so much out of us. It’s like, it was up to us to determine the proper way to live.

  Watch them all get fences now.

  Watch them all suddenly announce they’re pregnant too.

  What a bunch of sheep.

  If it was up to me I would just tear a page out of a Pottery Barn catal
og and order everything on it.

  But it wasn’t really up to me.

  Aren’t women usually in charge of decorating the nursery? He really drives me crazy sometimes.

  Adrian had mentioned he thought a black and white themed nursery might be cool, and that the contrast was good for developing minds. I’m not sure about it. I guess my issue is that it doesn’t seem very babyish. But as he pointed out, babies aren’t actually babies for very long.

  Why can’t I stop thinking about that picture? I wish I had never seen it.

  I gave up on planning the nursery and drove aimlessly for a while, listening to music. Even when I pushed her from the forefront of my mind, I was still experiencing life through a Valencia tinted filter that made everything sad, distracting, false. I was going through the motions, waiting for whatever turning point or resolution Jeb could bring.

  For the third time in as many days, I found myself parked in front of the little purple house. This time I was turning off the engine. This time I was serious.

  I spritzed myself with perfume and brushed my hair, and touched up my shiny forehead with some powder. Then I got out and smoothed my skirt. I walked up to the front step of Zemma’s House and rang the bell. I waited, not having heard anything ring, but not sure if I should try it again. A car went past that looked rather familiar; at first I thought it might be some of Adrian’s friends, and I shuddered at how stupid I would look standing on the doorstep of a psychic. Just as I was about to chicken out, and just as I was literally thinking “I am about to chicken out,” the door opened and there stood Zemma.