“Lavinia may join us for tea, but I’m glad to have you to myself for a minute or two.”
I gave her my warmest smile. “Where’s Henry? He doesn’t usually let a visitor into the house without an official greeting.” Henry was the Henstock’s pet mongrel, and his enthusiastic barking had given his owners and me more than one bad moment in the past. Fortunately, John Harkness had taken it upon himself to improve Henry’s manners and had made a good job of it.
“Snoozing with Lavinia, I’m happy to say. He’s an old dog now and getting quite deaf, which has turned out to be a blessing in many ways.”
I could well imagine. I looked at my friend more closely. “You look as if you could do with a snooze yourself. Are you feeling all right, Ada?”
“Fine, fine,” she assured me, “but a bit concerned, I confess.” Another glance at the staircase. “It’s Lavinia. She’s not well, I’m afraid.”
My dismay must have shown on my face, because she hastened to elaborate. “It’s not physical, we don’t think. As far as that goes, she’s as healthy as a horse. In a way that makes things more difficult.” She pulled herself together with an effort. “Sorry, my dear, I’m dithering, and that’s not like me. We believe Lavinia has had a small stroke, which would be good news, if it turns out to be true. If not, her symptoms may be the onset of dementia, perhaps Alzheimer’s disease. She’s had a lot of tests, and we have a follow-up appointment with a neurologist next week.”
To cover my shock I stood up and paced to the back window overlooking the sisters’ tidy back lawn and small kitchen garden. The tomatoes were in and staked, I noticed. I cleared my throat as the full import of Ada’s words swept over me.
“Nothing is certain yet, right?” I asked hopefully. Ada was a couple of years older than Lavinia. “But if the news isn’t good, how on earth can you cope with this?”
Her answer, when it came, was straightforward as always. “I can’t,” she said simply. “I’ve been struggling to come up with a solution for days now, some way I can manage to keep things as they are until one of us passes on, but there’s no way I can do it by myself, Kate. I’m going to need help, and I don’t know where to turn for it.”
Then Ada Henstock, whom I’d come to think of as indomitable, put her face into an heirloom silk pillow and full out blubbered. I was horrified. Without a clue in the world of how I could help, I sat beside her, rubbed her back and waited for the storm to pass, my mind racing.
The last time the Henstock sisters had asked for our help, Margo and Strutter and I had been able to use our real estate knowledge to put things right, but none of us was equipped to fix this. No one had nursed an aged parent or lost a husband to illness. My own parents, both lifelong smokers, had each died in the space of an hour of massive coronaries. As a result, my personal experience with care-giving was limited to seeing two elderly pets out of this world. Jasmine, at nearly twenty-two years of age, would soon be the third. As heart-wrenching as that was, how could it compare to losing the sister with whom Ada had shared a close and loving relationship, not to mention a home, for more than eighty years? Plainly, it couldn’t.
Ada needed the advice of an expert on geriatric issues. She had doctors to answer her medical questions, but there was so much more to think about here.
In time Ada lifted her ravaged face and flapped a hand in the direction of a side table, where a box of tissues sat adorned with a crocheted cover. I hastened to fetch it. She blotted her face and honked vigorously into several tissues while shaking her head over the ruined pillow.
“Sister will have my head when she sees this,” she joked feebly, but I was delighted to see her sense of humor reassert itself.
“Turn it over and put it back where it was,” I advised her. “That’s what I used to do when I got a stain on one of my sister’s blouses I’d borrowed without asking. Don’t worry, Ada. Whatever the news is next week, you can count on Margo and Strutter and me. We’ll help you figure something out, you’ll see.”
If only I felt as confident as I sounded, I thought. I let myself out the front door and left Ada to splash cold water on her face.
~
Friday at Vista View was much the same as Wednesday had been, which is to say slow. Ginny took the day off, so instead of our usual lunch I used the time to run a few errands. At three o’clock I closed up shop, checked on things back at the office and drove home to grab a quick shower and feed the cats before Armando and I went to meet the kids for dinner.
Perhaps because I’d had twenty-four hours to get my head around the notion, I was able to confront the probability of my impending grandmother status stoically. And perhaps because Latinos seem to be less hung up on age than their Caucasian counterparts, Armando was merely amused by this development.
“So I am now to find myself married to a sexy abuela, eh? How do you say it, a cougar?” he observed as we got into the car on Friday evening.
“How do you say give it a rest?” I countered testily. “Being compared to a predatory, aging jungle cat doesn’t help, in case you didn’t get that.”
Wisely, he refrained from further comment. When we arrived at Pazzo, Joey, Justine and Emma were already seated in a booth for six. Joey jumped up to envelop me in his customary bear hug, and I was amazed yet again that a nearly premature, six-pound infant had morphed into this strapping fellow.
“Good to see you, man,” he greeted Armando, who shook his hand gravely. The two men in my life were as different as people could be, and they were still awkward in each other’s presence.
I looked over Joey’s shoulder at the young women seated across from one another. Emma’s forced smile and Justine’s soft drink, instead of her usual light beer, told me all I needed to know. Still, we settled into the booth and let the parents-to-be have their moment, pretending to be amazed and overjoyed when Joey announced that a baby girl would arrive with the New Year.
“So soon,” I murmured faintly, “and you already know it’s a girl.”
Justine smiled at me kindly. She, at least, seemed to have a clue about my mixed feelings at this moment.
“How excited is your mom?” Emma asked her, deflecting the conversation into safer territory. “Is she over the moon?”
The two chattered brightly as Joey nursed his beer and glowed with pride. Without even asking, Armando ordered me a glass of Shiraz, which I tried not to gulp.
“So how are you doing with this, old lady?” Joey asked quietly. The question was kindly meant, if impudent, so I let the sass slide.
“If the two of you are happy, then I’m happy for you. Is this the reason for the super secret wedding to which no one was invited?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Partly, I guess. Justine’s folks wouldn’t have been thrilled to know that a baby was on the way before we’d made things legal. Mostly, though, it was because neither one of us wanted all the formal stuff. Well,” he amended, “that and the fact that Justine was throwing up all the time.”
“Kind of a buzzkill,” I agreed, “but you both are really glad about this?”
“Oh, sure. It’s going to be tight financially, but when Justine gets back to work, it’ll be fine.”
In the space of ten seconds, a dozen warnings and caveats, what-ifs and dire scenarios, played out in my head. This was my baby, who had kept me up for years with colic and nightmares and sleepwalking. This was my rotten little kid who had picked the lock to my sewing room to sneak an early look at his Christmas presents. What could he possibly know about being a father, supporting a family on his own? I had to warn him, give him the benefit of my experience, insisted Hysterical Kate.
But then, none of us knows anything about parenting before it happens to us, pointed out Rational Kate. I patted my son’s hand and kept my mouth shut, which I was quickly learning was the mother of grown children’s primary job.
An hour or so later we stood in the parking lot, making our farewells. Justine’s blooming belly was now fully evident. “Got to get to Dad’s to giv
e him and Sheila the news,” Joey said by way of explanation for their early departure. “Have to tell everyone at the same time to keep peace in the family.”
Michael and Sheila might be less surprised than he thinks, Emma and I telegraphed to each other behind his back, but we kept our insights to ourselves.
“Justine looks good,” Emma commented as we watched Joey expertly maneuver their SUV out of a tight parking space and head out of the lot. “Maybe there’s something to be said for this pregnancy thing.”
“What do you mean by that?” I frowned at her, and Armando squeezed my arm in a tacit warning. Emma responded evenly enough, but I didn’t miss the sudden softness in her eyes.
“Just that they seem happy, really happy.”
“It is good to see, is it not, Cara?” Again, the cautionary pressure on my arm.
I tore my eyes from Emma’s face and straightened out my features. “Yes, it is,” I managed finally. “Let’s hope it lasts when they have a screaming baby keeping them up nights.”
Emma burst out laughing. “There’s my real mother. I knew she was in there somewhere. Talk to you tomorrow probably.”
“What was that death grip you put on my arm all about?” I hissed at Armando as I waited for him to unlock the car.
He smiled to himself in a sort of smug, superior way that I found particularly irritating. “Did you not see it, the expression on Emma’s face?”
I thought back for a moment as I climbed in and fastened my seat belt. “She did look a little odd, now that you mention it, sort of soft-eyed and sappy like somebody just showed her a puppy.” I thought some more. “Or a baby.”
“Ah.”
“What, ah?” Trying to get a straight answer out of Armando can be very much like trying to solve a riddle. All you get are hints, no specific information. “Could you please just spit it out?”
“You said it yourself, Cara. She looked as if she had just seen a baby. This one, of course, was in her mind’s eye.”
“Since it hasn’t been born yet, it would pretty much have to be, but I think you’re on the wrong track here. Emma worked in daycare for years while she was getting her paralegal degree. She likes kids and all, but I can’t believe she would go all googly-eyed at the prospect of becoming an auntie.”
“I do not believe she was thinking of her brother’s child.”
Really, could the man be any more annoying? I gritted my teeth. “Whose, then?”
“Hers. Emma was picturing her own baby daughter or son. It was right there in her eyes.”
It was my turn to grab his arm. “Her imaginary baby, right? I mean, she doesn’t even have a boyfriend at the moment. Do you know something I don’t?”
We pulled into the driveway of our unit. He pressed the remote garage door opener and turned to face me. “The maternal longing is infectious among young women, is it not? When one of them is with child, the others in the group wish it for themselves. I have seen it often.”
“To some extent, and in some cultures, that’s probably true, but I doubt very much that Emma is going to get all jealous and broody about this. Even if she did, it would be pretty tough to pull off without a man in the picture, don’t you think?”
He pulled the car smoothly into his side of the garage and turned off the ignition. “These days it is very possible. Women have many options, and single motherhood is one of them. We see it on television all the time. We have two single mothers by choice that I know of at TeleCom. Adoption is now possible for single women, and there are sperm banks. Also something about turkey basters.” He shrugged. “Anyway, she can certainly do it.”
I gathered my things, got out of the car and shook my head to clear it. Becoming a grandmother twice in the same evening was simply not acceptable.
“You’re divining all of this from one fleeting expression in the parking lot? I think you’re delusional. Emma has a great, but demanding, job. She drives an eight-year-old car and lives in a third-floor walk-up, neither of which is baby friendly. She likes to go out with her friends and drink and dance. She can take or leave any man she meets. She’s free as a bird. A baby just doesn’t fit into her life at the moment. Maybe someday.” I hiked up the eight stairs to the kitchen door. As usual of late, I was a little out of breath at the top. When I had to do it with a bag of groceries in each hand or a load of firewood, I practically panted. How much longer can I keep doing this, I wondered?
“I know what I saw, Cara. It may pass. Very likely, it will, but only for the moment. When her brother’s child arrives, I think it may be very difficult for Emma. She is always, how do you say it, the bridesmaid.”
“That’s weddings, not babies,” I snapped. “Don’t forget to close the garage door.”
Three
Saturday passed in the usual blur of domestic chores and errands that had accumulated during the work week. Once a month I treated myself to four hours of hired assistance from Rosalie, an energetic young woman who gave the kitchen and bathrooms a thorough scrubbing and vacuumed every surface she could reach. It was an enormous help to me, and as Rosalie joked, she was the only graduate student at the UConn Law School who didn’t have to pay for a gym membership.
Laundry, groceries, cooking and daily maintenance fell to me, along with the care and feeding of Jasmine and Gracie. Armando did his own laundry and occasionally helped me grocery shop, but that was about it, due to his long workdays and odd schedule, which required frequent travel.
As I dusted and mopped and changed bed linen, my mind replayed the events of the past week relentlessly. Turning fifty was already sticking in my craw. The imminent arrival of a granddaughter was altering my youthful self-image still further. I was nonplussed by Ginny Preston’s announcement of her retirement plans. And in the wee hours of Saturday morning I had been awakened by yet another hot flash, a real doozie.
Late Saturday afternoon the habitually surly clerk at the supermarket deli counter got on my last nerve. I had summoned the last bit of my limited supply of patience to endure two patrons yakking on their cell phones while a third one sampled three different varieties of salami before ordering one-quarter of a pound of the first one she’d tried. When it was finally my turn, and the clerk was compelled to make a trip to the back room for a fresh package of the plain baked chicken Armando preferred in his lunches, his grumbling and eye-rolling as he flounced off pushed my irritation level to the max. I managed not to snarl at him only by imagining myself in his place. Lord knows, if I had to wait on members of the general public all day, I’d be homicidal.
On Sunday Armando decided to put in a few hours of overtime at TeleCom, so I invited Strutter to join me for a leisurely inspection of the annual “Scarecrows along Main Street” display in Old Wethersfield. She was only too happy to hand off Olivia to her husband and join me at the Mack Realty office, where we left our cars and set off on foot.
Charlene “Strutter” Putnam is one of the loveliest women I’ve ever known, inside and out. Her creamy, milk chocolate skin, soft brown curls tumbling to her shoulders, and eyes the color of the Caribbean are only the beginning of the story. Add to that her shapely figure and long, curvy legs, not to mention the dimples framing her warm smile, and the package is breathtaking. As she walked her trademark walk, the one that had inspired her nickname, down Old Main Street in the afternoon sunshine, she turned the usual number of heads. I was used to it.
“So Katie turns fifty at the end of the month and will be an old granny lady by the New Year,” she teased me as we admired an exhibit entitled “Eagle Scouts.” Fairly recognizable bald eagles, fashioned from papier-mâché and dressed in Boy Scout uniforms, were clustered in a huge pile of straw and sticks in front of the travel agency. “Cute but not my favorite so far.” We moved on as the strollers on the sidewalk shifted.
“Yes, and if you and Margo have some ghastly surprise party in the planning stages, you can just forget about it. Armando and I have tickets to a show at the Bushnell that afternoon, and that’s about all the
excitement this old gal can handle. You know what? I’m tired of talking about the damned birthday. It is what it is, and I’ll just have to get over it.”
Strutter shaded her eyes with one hand to study “Broom-Hilda,” a black-caped witch riding a broom suspended on wires between two trees. The witch was listing a little bit to one side, and we had to tilt our heads to see her face.
“Maybe we’ll just get you one of those to ride and call it a day,” Strutter suggested, cutting her eyes at me. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop. What’s going on with the Henstock ladies?”
As I filled her in on my conversation with Ada, her expression became troubled. “Of course I’ll help, we all will. I’ll get on line this afternoon and find out what social services are available. I’m sure we can line up at least part-time day care and some household help for Ada.”
“Whoa, hold on there,” I laughed. Strutter in full Good Samaritan mode was a force of nature. “We don’t even know for certain yet that the diagnosis is dementia. They have an appointment with a neurologist this week to get some test results. I’m going to check in with Ada on Thursday, and then we’ll know better what’s what.” I hugged her briefly. “But thank you.”
We continued our leisurely circuit of the exhibits on both sides of Old Main Street, moving along with the meandering crowd. When we found ourselves in front of the Main Street Creamery and Cafe, we didn’t even consult each other before stopping in to buy an ice cream cone apiece, strawberry for me and mocha chocolate chip for Strutter.
We lapped at them contentedly on our return stroll to the Mack Realty office, and I marveled once again at Strutter’s resiliency. A Jamaican by birth, she had endured an abusive first marriage, which had turned out not even to be legal; separation from her family; a succession of lousy jobs to support her son Charlie; a late second marriage; and a surprise second pregnancy that had produced Olivia, now two years old. Although Strutter had worried that her present husband, a big teddy bear of a man some ten years her senior, would be less than thrilled, both he and Charlie had been overjoyed and welcomed Olivia into their family with open arms and hearts “like a new puppy,” Strutter had chuckled. It was an analogy that reminded me of Armando’s premonition about Emma.
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