Dancing on Broken Glass

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Dancing on Broken Glass Page 8

by Ka Hancock


  When Nathan finished, Jan and Harry came over to bestow hello pecks on Priscilla, then Trent Rosenberg snagged my sister. Years ago, my mother and Priss had fought bitterly over Trent, and I knew if Mom were here today, she wouldn’t be any happier. I left the ever-present speculation over their relationship and walked along the path to the big oak that spread its shade over my parents’ headstones.

  The year my father was buried, the Brinley police force—four officers—donated the marble bench engraved with his name. It was perpetually cooled by the shade of the hardwood trees, which were probably centuries old. I sat down and breathed in the crisp air that floated off the cove. It was beautiful; the sky was summer blue and so was the Connecticut River, which lapped onto the shore not ten feet from where I sat. As final resting places go, this one wasn’t bad. On a little hill at the far edge of River’s Peace, just above the shore of the placid Connecticut, my parents were separated from the masses by a gravel path.

  I had only been there a moment when Charlotte rounded the corner. She was wearing a silk suit the color of coffee. It fluttered in the breeze, and her long, gray hair hung in loose waves. She sighed as she looked at the large headstone with my mother’s name on it. “I still miss her every day,” she said, sitting down beside me.

  I nodded. Charlotte and my mother had been friends since before friends were invented, as Mom would say. Certainly before I was born.

  “So, how you holding up?” Charlotte asked me.

  “I’m okay. Thanks for yesterday. After all was said and done, I did just what you told me. And it worked pretty well except that now I keep imagining things I probably shouldn’t.”

  “Like?”

  “Like I just can’t believe how this baby—who I’ve known all of five minutes—has so completely taken over my heart. How can that be?”

  Charlotte smiled. “Have you told Mickey?”

  “Not yet. I’ll do it this weekend when he gets home. For now it’s my little secret.” I shook my head. “I had no idea it would feel like this. I don’t know what to do.”

  Charlotte took off her dark glasses. “I know the decision you and Mickey made and I understand it. And you did your part, Lucy. I don’t know what could have happened after all this time, but it seems you have one very determined little embryo on board.”

  I sighed. “Charlotte, what would my mom tell me?”

  “Oh, please! She’d have it named and already be quilting the bunting.”

  Tears sprang from nowhere. “Are you sure? I don’t know. Not if she knew everything Mickey and I could pass on to this baby.”

  “Or not.” Charlotte patted my hand. “Lucy, for all your predictions and nightmares, you don’t know what the future holds.”

  “I know enough. I mean, look at me. I may never get sick again. I know that. But what about her? And don’t forget Mickey up there in a locked psych unit.”

  “It is a dilemma, Lucy. I don’t argue that.”

  “But?”

  “But what, darlin’? Do you honestly think your mom would have done things any differently? If she’d known she would lose her husband the way she did, or that she would die when she was so young, do you really think she would have done one thing different?”

  “It’s not the same, Charlotte. She didn’t know. I do.”

  “If you say so.”

  I coughed over the lump in my throat. “This was never supposed to happen. And now, I . . .” I stared at my mother’s headstone and thought of the strange space I occupied: caught between parents who were gone and a child that I simply should not have. The breeze caused Charlotte’s earrings to chime, and when I turned, I found her watching me. She was serenely beautiful, her sun-touched face lined with wisdom and understanding.

  “So it’s a her, huh?”

  I shook my head. “That’s another terrible thing! I can’t tell you how I know, but I know it’s a girl. And with these genes to pass along, a boy would be so much better. But she’s a girl. I just know it.” I dropped my head and palmed my forehead. “Charlotte, what am I doing?”

  “Worrying about things you have no control over.”

  “I have some control.”

  “Do you? If we’re talking abortion, I can’t quite see it.”

  “Me neither,” I sighed. “But nothing has changed. Every reason we were never going to do this is still relevant.”

  Charlotte took my hand and patted it. “I know. So how do you think Mickey will feel about a daughter?”

  “Oh, Charlotte, I don’t think anything could make him happier.” I stared out over the river and let Mickey’s likely reaction play itself out in my mind.

  This was how Priscilla found us, and when she came around the corner, she looked a little alarmed. “What’s happening?”

  I shook my head, grateful she couldn’t have overheard us. “Nothing.”

  Priss walked over to us, clearly unconvinced, and I realized what she was seeing: me holding my doctor’s hand, looking somber the day after my physical.

  Charlotte stood up and put her arms around my sister. “We were just chatting about your parents.”

  “Really?” Priss looked over at me and I nodded.

  “Well, I’m off,” Charlotte said. “It’s always lovely to see you girls. Hopefully next time we’ll meet up under happier circumstances.”

  We watched her leave, then Priss sat down and took my hand. “Don’t scare me like that.”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You couldn’t call me back?”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot to, and then by the time I remembered, I realized I’d be seeing you today so I figured I’d catch you up in person.”

  “You did not. I didn’t even know until this morning that I’d be able to come. Work’s been brutal lately.”

  “Well, I’m glad you made it. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. And I know Nathan was happy to see you.”

  Priscilla shook her head, a deep furrow between her brows. “I wish we had fewer occasions to meet up here.”

  “I know.”

  We were quiet for a few minutes, lost in our own memories. Finally Priss sighed. “So, how is he?”

  “Doing better. He’ll be home Friday.”

  She nodded. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Yes, you do,” I said, squeezing her hand.

  My sister kissed my cheek. “Call me when you get your blood work back.” Then she stood up and walked down the path. She was a good person, my sister, but only if you could penetrate the walls of the panic room that was her personality. Few things left Priscilla vulnerable, but my health was one of them. Her health was one. Once it was it her health and a man.

  It was the night Mickey and I had talked away the hours in the hospital cafeteria. After I left him, I went back to Priscilla’s room, where I found my sister crying.

  “What is it, Priss?” I’d asked. “Are you in pain?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No! I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “What? What do you need?”

  “I just need not to be alone, is that all right?” she snapped.

  I sat down and listened to her sniff back emotion, knowing if I turned on the light, I would see her tears. “It’s not the cancer, is it, Priss? Charlotte said we got the best possible news.”

  “It’s not the cancer. But that is such a relief.”

  She didn’t say anything else for a long time, but she was still crying. Finally I ventured, “Talk to me, Priss. What’s happened?”

  It took her a minute, but she was able eke out, “He’s married.”

  “Who?” For a selfish second I thought she was talking about Mickey, that she’d dragged herself downstairs to spy on me and knew something about him I didn’t. “Who’s married?”

  “Does it really matter what his name is? He’s a client, he’s married, and I’m an idiot. I’m a walking, talking cliché.” She groaned. “How could I have been so stupid?�
��

  “Priss, honey, what are you talking about?”

  “I broke my own cardinal rule and fell in love with a client.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Almost a year.”

  “A year? Do you love him?”

  “Oh, Lucy,” she squeaked. “I love him like there’s no me without him, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

  I’d never heard my sister talk like this. She was the last person I could imagine letting herself be wounded by a man. The world knew her as self-contained, ornery, ambitious. She was the youngest-ever female partner at her firm. Her friends knew she loved neoclassical music, and that she believed macrobiotics would keep her young. Lily and I knew she hated the elliptical but still put in forty-five minutes a day. We knew she made cookies just to eat the dough, and that she had a stash of cashmere she would someday knit into scarves on expensive bamboo needles. But men to Priss were kind of like dessert (which she rarely indulged in), and what you had for dessert last week or last month wasn’t usually report-worthy. So how did this one get so special? And a married client, what was she thinking?

  I’d climbed up on the bed and put my arm around her, surprised she didn’t push me away. But she just whimpered against my shoulder until I thought my own heart would break with the sound of it. When she’d quieted, I said, “Start at the beginning. And talk slow.”

  Her married client was Kenneth Boatwright, at the time, forty-one to her twenty-eight. She’d met him when he signed his company on with Priss’s firm. She’d been the team lead on his account, and he was brokenhearted and in the middle of a bad divorce. Sure he was, I thought, but to say it would have been suicide. She described him as mouthwatering, but not one to flaunt it, whatever that meant. Priss said it took four phone dates where they just talked all night, mostly about him—a sure sign that Priss was smitten—before they ever went out. After that, they couldn’t stay away from each other.

  His company had offices all over the place, and he was opening offices everywhere else, so naturally they had to travel together. Their love affair was inevitable. So was the ending, because like so many other upstanding men just like him, Kenneth Boatwright was perpetually going through his divorce, but was never quite able to make it to the other side where Priss was waiting to start her own life with him.

  My sister had crashed into the reality of her situation within that last twenty-four hours when she was being diagnosed with cancer. Scared and vulnerable—two completely foreign states of being for Priss—she had tracked Kenneth down at his vacation house on Maui to tell him what was happening and beg him to come be with her. The charming Mr. Boatwright said he was sorry about everything she was going through, but he couldn’t help her. In fact, he said the timing was bad, but apparently good enough to let Priss know he and the little woman were going to give it another go . . . for the sake of the kids. His boys were fifteen and twelve.

  I would never say it to her, but my sister was right. She was a cliché—brokenhearted, lied to, used up, and traded in for the kids. “I’m so sorry, Priss.”

  “He loves me,” she bawled. “How can he do this to me?”

  “I know,” I said, running my fingers over her hair.

  I’d wanted to kill Kenneth Boatwright that night. He’d devastated my tough and savvy sister. To my knowledge, no one had ever done that.

  I watched her now, saying good-bye to Nathan Nash at the bottom of the hill. She touched his face and kissed his cheek, and he watched her walk away, probably seeing what we all saw: a beautiful, seemingly invulnerable woman. Only Lily and I knew about the scar on her heart.

  We’d never spoken of Kenneth Boatwright again. Not seriously, anyway. I’d tried once, but Priss just gave me a look that made her meaning clear. I think she changed the subject with something rude about my hair.

  seven

  OCTOBER 1, 1999

  Lucy was a package deal, I probably knew that the night I met her. She was part of a trio of sisters who watched over each other—at times like lions at the gate, and I knew I had to win majority approval if I wanted to be part of her life. Lily was the first to put me to the test. It was a couple of months in and I thought I already loved Lucy. One night Lily knocked on my door and I was surprised to see her. She just walked into my house and didn’t even sit down. “Lucy is on her way to falling in love with you, Mickey,” she said. I nodded. Then she laid it on me—she wanted to know what I (meaning I the nutcase) was planning to do about that. Then her bottom lip quivered and I knew my answer would make or break me. I needed Lily. I could do without Priss if I had to, but I needed Lily. I told her she had every right to be worried; on paper, I’m a bit of a nightmare. She said she knew that. I couldn’t think of what else to do but assure her that having bipolar disorder didn’t mean I couldn’t love her sister. Lily’s eyes filled with tears and I worried that I’d said the wrong thing. I told her my disorder didn’t mean I wouldn’t give Lucy everything I had to give, and I told her I would never intentionally hurt her. I told her this, holding my breath and keeping the details to myself. For instance, I didn’t tell Lily about the place in me where I’d buried my dreams; the wadded-up list of things I’d always wanted but was certain someone like me would never have. I didn’t tell her I’d started the day my mother died just filing away wishes, hopes, all things unreachable. But I’d told Lucy.

  One night we were sitting on my porch swing, and we’d talked away half the night and were about to talk away the other half. Her bare feet were in my lap and I was stroking her smooth calf when I told her about my list and how and why it had come to be. When I was finished, she smiled up at me, her eyes glistening in the moonlight. She said, “You realize you have no choice now but to love me, Michael Chandler.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She kissed me then and whispered in my ear, “Because I can answer every single thing on that list.”

  Thinking of the moment she’d made me believe that choked me up, and now Lily was asking how I planned to love that woman. What was there to say? Could I be trusted not to screw up? No, and I was completely sorry for that. But I promised Lily that she could trust my love for Lucy because it was the reason for everything I’d been through to get here, and it was the reason for all I would go through to stay here—right here, in Lucy’s life. I looked at Lily and tried not to bawl, didn’t quite make it. She stepped close to me then with tears brimming in her eyes and just stared at me, hard, as if she was looking for a lie.

  Finally she put her arms around me and said, “No wonder Lucy loves you, Mickey. Just please promise me you’ll be good to her.”

  I hugged Lily tighter. “If I’m lucky enough to win your sister, I promise you I’ll give her my all.”

  Having Lily as a sister is kind of like walking through life next to a mirror that reflects back only my best self. I should be so lucky to actually be the girl my sister sees in me. But that’s Lily’s way. She told me once that when I was born, she thought I was a present that Mom had given her, a new doll she could pour her bottomless love into. And I, apparently, was a willing and obedient toy. Family legend has it that my sister used to gather her stuffed animals and dolls in a circle and place me in the center of them. She would then teach this ragtag “classroom” the alphabet, simple addition, songs, numbers, and poems. Mom told me when I went to first grade and could already read that I could thank Lily, who had sounded out, with great gusto, her words and sentences, insisting I repeat them. I do remember this, though I must give my early-morning phonics practice with my dad some of the credit as well.

  I’ve always thought Lily and I were a little like twins in our synchrony of souls. She knows me in an eerily unexplainable way. She feels my joy, my anguish. She hopes my hopes, cries my tears, laughs my laughs. And I know her the same way. I see Lily’s strength where she insists there is none.

  As sisters we’d shared the death of our parents, my dad’s sudden and tragic, my mom’s drawn out and agoniz
ing. Then Lily had lost the baby she’d poured her life into. And she’d nearly lost me back when cancer almost won the war. Lily hates to talk about any of this, and I know at times she’s afraid to breathe. But there’s more to Lily than fear and loss. At the bottom of everything wrong, there was always right, too. There was Ron, who had been in our lives forever.

  I remember Thanksgiving night just three months after Mom died. We were all in our parents’ bedroom. Lily had just gotten home and had plopped down on the bed where I was reading the ads in the huge sale section of the newspaper. Priss was in Dad’s chair painting her toenails, and Leno had just started his monologue. “How was your date?” I said, circling a Crock-Pot I thought Jan would like for Christmas.

  “I don’t know,” Lily said, preoccupied. “Ron’s been so weird lately. Nervous. I think he’s trying to break up with me.”

  “Ron? Break up with you? Don’t make me laugh,” I said.

  “It wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen,” said Priss. “There are other guys, you know.”

  “I’ve been out with other guys, Priscilla,” Lily snapped.

  “Oh, yes, I forgot your year of trial dating.”

  “Thank goodness that’s over,” Lily muttered. “But now Ron’s so . . .” She looked pained and I was surprised.

  “Lily . . .”

  “Maybe there’s someone at school he wants to get back to.” She blew out a big breath and shook her head. “I don’t want to think about Ron anymore. What were you guys talking about?”

  “Christmas Eve,” I said.

  “I still think it’s time to let the party go.” Priss started up again on her side of the argument we’d been having. “Some things just have to end.”

  “No way,” I said. “Too many things have ended; we can’t let this one go, too. We have to do it . . . for Mom.”

  “I have to side with Lu on this, Priss,” Lily said absently. “It’s tradition.”

  “Big surprise,” Priss said, but she knew we were right.

  When my parents moved to Brinley, Mom was pregnant with Priscilla and Dad had just been hired as the number two man on the two-man police force. They didn’t know anyone so they decided to open their home and introduce themselves, using the holiday as an excuse. The party had happened every Christmas Eve since, and I couldn’t imagine Christmas without it. When it came right down to it, Priscilla didn’t really fight us because whether she would admit it or not, Brinley was where she kept her yesterdays. No matter where she went in life, this was where everything had started, right here in the soul of this community.

 

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