Life Without You

by Liesel Schmidt

  Annabelle cackled. “Technically, you’ve already asked me a question, dear.”

  Good old Annabelle, never one to tiptoe.

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm my own roiling guts before I asked what I wanted to ask. Really, it wasn’t that big a deal, but I had the unfortunate habit of making humongous mountains out of molehills, and I seemed to be exceeding even my own natural abilities when it came to this subject.

  Maybe it was a way of avoiding what I was dealing with in my own life.

  Maybe it was a way of keeping myself distracted from the guilt I felt over not having been there for Grammie’s funeral.

  Whatever it was, I needed to figure it out. Soon.

  “Okay, you don’t have to be so literal,” I said, feeling slightly chastised. I knew I was being a bit defensive, but given how upended I already was, she could hardly blame me.

  “Go on, Dellie, ask. Whatever it is, it can hardly be worth all this fuss,” she replied. “Just spit it out. We have places to go and things to do.”

  She was right—we did, indeed, have places to go and things to do. Oddly enough, she seemed to have made it her personal project to intervene and be my fairy godmother. Her observations about my clothing and overall appearance had catapulted her into a full-speed plan of attack; and she was swearing up and down that by the time I left Hampton in a few weeks, I would no longer be the sad sack I was when I came up here. I had yet to be convinced that her mission would be successful, but I found it interesting to watch her try. And I was curious to see just what she might have up her sleeve. Lord knew I could hardly end up looking any worse…right?

  “Did you and Grammie ever really…” I left the question hanging, not knowing quite how to word it.

  “Set things right?” Annabelle finished, looking unflustered. “And by that, I’m guessing you mean did I apologize for running off with her fiancé.”

  It was a statement, rather than a question, coming from her lips. She had no doubt of the intent behind my line of inquiry—I was feeling her out, trying to assess whether she was friend or foe, if I had reason to continue some feud that had begun long before my birth. Whether I could trust her, or if I had reason to watch my back.

  Whether if, by being with her now, I was betraying my grandmother.

  I nodded, chewing my bottom lip and finally looking into her eyes.

  “Not in so many words, Dellie,” she admitted, and I saw a shadow of regret pass over her wrinkled little face. Or was I just imagining things?

  We were sitting in a corner at the cafe in Barnes and Noble, fueling up for a few hours of what Annabelle claimed were going to set me well on my way to being a “presentable young lady.”

  Whatever that meant.

  At first, I’d been reluctant to take her up on her insistence that we go out and shop for a bit; but after giving it some thought, I’d come to the realization that I was never going to be able to really and truly heal, never be able to reclaim my life, if I didn’t keep taking steps forward. I’d made a few small ones, but I needed to keep going.

  Letting Annabelle have a hand in making me over could hardly do me any harm, and it was, after all, one of the things on my list.

  Plus, I saw it as the opportune time to get some more questions in, to see what new details Annabelle might be willing to provide.

  I was taking one for the team.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. I had a feeling I already knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it directly from her, rather than having to go on my own assumptions.

  Annabelle fluffed at her hair and then picked up her coffee cup, looking at me thoughtfully, as though she was weighing her answer. I wondered, not for the first time, what was going through her head. And I wondered what she saw when she looked at me, the granddaughter of the woman whose fiancé she had stolen all those years ago.

  Was there any part of her—even the slightest little fragment—that felt guilty about all of it?

  Was she trying to make some sort of amends, even now, as she took me under her wing?

  Was she trying to fix things by fixing me?

  “Well, the two of us never sat down to talk about everything that happened when we were young. We each led our own lives and really only crossed paths occasionally; and then, of course, whenever I needed a cake,” Annabelle began. “But you already know all that.” Annabelle paused and set her cup back on the table without taking a sip of her drink, brushed at a piece of fuzz on the powder pink cardigan she was wearing today. The rest of her outfit was much more subdued than the last time I’d seen her, when she’d been decked out in Lily Pulitzer. Today’s ensemble consisted of a crisp white cotton button-down, pink cardigan, and light khakis with a pair of pink Chanel loafers. Her quilted pink Chanel handbag was parked on the tabletop next to her, no doubt replete with lipstick; compact mirror; and, of course, an embroidered handkerchief.

  Obviously, Annabelle’s eye for style had been one of the driving factors behind my acceptance of her offer of wardrobe intervention.

  “Merry was a good lady, Dellie. And no one deserves to have their heart broken,” she said, her face more serious than I’d ever seen it. “I know I might sound sometimes like I set out to steal George from her, but that was never my intention. The two of them were engaged, and I knew it—everybody knew it. But George and Merry weren’t really from the same social circles the way he and I were,” she explained. “As we got older and started getting more active in some of the social clubs around town and at school, we ended up spending a lot of time together. We certainly never expected that we would end up running away together to get married. Both of us would have much rather things had been more out in the open, but things don’t always happen the way you envision them, do they?” she murmured, dropping her gaze to her hands, where they now rested in her lap.

  There was a long silence, and I could feel something building, could sense something coming.

  Her eyes snapped up again to meet mine, looking both oddly resolute and oddly vulnerable at the same time. I held my breath as I waited.

  “Let me ask you something, Dellie.” It wasn’t really a question, more like an introduction to whatever would come next. I braced myself for impact.

  “Why is knowing all of this so important to you? What difference could it possibly make now, after Merry is gone?”

  It was a reasonable question, I knew, but it was far from a simple one. Especially in light of the fact that even I, the one who wanted to know all of these things, had no idea of why it seemed to matter so much, why I couldn’t just take the facts as simply as they were presented and move on. Why had I made it my personal mission to find out more, when no one else seemed to be pounding down doors demanding answers?

  Not even Mama was doing that. Sure, she’d been surprised to find out about it, hurt at the fact that her brothers had never shared their own knowledge with her. Heartbroken that her own mother had feared rejection from her. But she was also logical enough to know that things happened for a reason, and that Grammie had led a good life—with a family of her own—even after all of that.

  So why was I hanging on so tightly when no one else was?

  I felt tears pool in my eyes.

  “Because I need to know that she was really okay,” I said, finding my answers unlocked themselves as I spoke. “I need to know that she wasn’t broken forever; that I won’t be broken forever. I need to know that it’s not too late to undo all the damage. I need to know that she’d forgive me for not being here for her funeral because I was too afraid to come, because I’m afraid of everything. I need to know that I won’t always be afraid. I need to know that Grandpa is going to be okay now that she’s gone, and that he’s not angry that I wasn’t here when I should have been.” The words were unfiltered and torrential and unexpected. I had never intended to give Annabelle a confessional, but once the flow of words had begun, I couldn’t seem to stop them.

  And now I had dissolved into a mess of tears.

  A
nnabelle whipped out her handkerchief and offered it to me.

  I took the soft square of pristine cotton and dabbed at my eyes, trying to minimize the damage that had already been done to my makeup.

  “I’m sorry,” I blubbered, trying to keep my voice low so that I didn’t attract any attention in our direction.

  “Hush, don’t apologize,” Annabelle said softly. Soothingly.

  There was a softness to her that I hadn’t anticipated, and it made me want to ask her to hold me in her lap, tiny as she was, and rock me until I was all cried out.

  “No, really, I shouldn’t have spilled my guts like that,” I protested, trying to regain my grip on my emotions as I continued to mop at my face with the hanky, which was by now smudged with makeup and soggy with tears and snot.

  “You hardly ‘spilled your guts,’ Dellie,” Annabelle said evenly, waiting until she could see that she had my full attention. “If you had, I might know what it is that has you so tied up and hurting,” she said, showing a level of understanding that surprised me. “I know you hurt, Dellie. We can all see it. And I may understand more than you think I do.” She took a deep breath, then continued on. “I’m going to tell you something that I’ve not told anyone else in all the years since it happened.”

  I took in a breath and held it there, afraid that if I let it out, she would change her mind and leave me with yet another mystery.

  “I was pregnant when George and I got married,” she said quietly—so quietly I almost thought I’d imagined it. “I was a whole month along by the time we were able to get away, and we knew that we had to make it look impetuous and sudden to keep anyone from suspecting what had really happened,” Annabelle continued. “Up until then, no one knew that George and I were anything more than friendly in social settings. They didn’t know about all the nights we spent out on his sailboat, looking up at the starts and dreaming foolish young dreams. But we fell in love and started an affair, even though he and Merry were engaged. So when we found out that I was pregnant, we thought the best solution—for everyone—would be for us to run away together, on what looked like a silly whim, and get married before anyone found out about the affair and the baby and put two and two together. George would look like the ladies’ man who ran off with the society girl; and your grammie would be the innocent—rather than the truth, which was that George was running off to be with the society girl he’d been having an affair with and gotten pregnant. The truth would have shamed my family and George’s, so we did what we thought would cause the least damage.”

  “But it still did plenty of damage,” I protested, balling my hands into fists around the handkerchief. “Don’t you ever think about what that did to Grammie and how much it made her doubt herself?”

  “You’re right. It did more damage than either of us wanted to admit. But we were young and reckless and in love and afraid of losing favor with our families. So we did what we did and hoped it would all turn out for the best,” Annabelle continued, gazing off without focus. “We thought we’d have the baby and tell everyone it was a premature birth, to keep the charade going, but—” Her voice caught, and she stopped.

  “But,” I repeated, suddenly sick with the words I knew would come next. “You lost the baby, didn’t you?”

  She nodded slowly, looking much older than she had only a moment ago. “I wasn’t very far along—we didn’t even have to tell anyone we were expecting. But when it happened, the doctor told me that it would be my last pregnancy, that I would never be able to carry any children of my own.” There were tears in her green eyes, brightening them to an almost electric shade. “So no one ever knew, and Merry never suspected. We were just the wild, impulsive couple who kept the society pages hopping.”

  “And asking Grammie to make your cakes was a way of paying penance…” I murmured.

  “Dellie, you know as well as I do that a piece of your grandmother’s cake was hardly punishment for anyone. But yes, I suppose it was, in some regards, my way of trying to make amends, to lessen the guilt I felt over everything.”

  “But you still felt like losing the baby had been part of your punishment, didn’t you?” I ventured, though I had little doubt that, if she was being honest with me, the answer would have been an affirmative one. In light of the circumstances, who could blame her for that kind of logic? No matter that it really wasn’t true—that, in all reality, her miscarriage had had nothing to do with her less-than-commendable actions.

  Annabelle sat silently for a moment before offering her reply.

  “Yes, I did,” she said quietly. “I suppose you think me a foolhardy woman, Dellie. But life is never simple, and no matter how much we think we have it all planned, how much we think we have it all controlled, it never turns out the way we think it should.” She smiled sadly. “Sometimes that can be a good thing, and sometimes that can be a bad thing. The important thing to remember, though, is to look for the gifts and the lessons in all of it. They might not be easy to see at first, but they’re there.” She tapped lightly on the pearls I now noticed dangling from her ears. “Do like my mother always told me—never forget the struggle that it takes to make a pearl. They’re a beautiful thing, Dellie, but they don’t come without pain. Remember that, and never give up on finding your pearls.”

  It was an unwitting reminder of what Bette had said to me on the phone, a reminder not to lose sight of what was important. A reminder that I could be strong enough to do this and make it through, even when I felt at my weakest.

  “Savannah, this is amazing!” I said through a bite of flaky crust folded around a puree of carrot laced with pineapple bits and raisins. It was creamy and sweet without being cloying, a delightful little sample of one of Savannah’s mad creations. I swallowed and smiled tentatively at her, trying hard not to allow myself to panic over the fact that eating this bite of food was an unplanned part of my day; and even more than that, that it was something that was not even remotely on my safe list. Eat Somewhere Unsafe, I reminded myself, once again silently amending it to say Eat Something Unsafe.

  “You really like it?” she asked, twisting her apron in her fingers nervously as she searched my face for any sign that I might be humoring her. She looked as though she was afraid I would spit it into my napkin the moment her back was turned.

  I widened my eyes, surprised at how unsure she seemed. “It’s fantastic. No wonder people go nuts for them!”

  She blushed under the praise. “Thanks. That means a lot. I always get worried, watching people eat my food. I always think they’re going to hate it,” she said, her eyes cast down at the floor.

  I shook my head emphatically. “If anyone says they don’t like these, they’ve clearly lost their minds. So what other kinds can you make?” I asked, trying to draw her out.

  “All kinds of things. I have savory ones with fillings that taste like pot pies; some that are kind of geared toward breakfast that I stuff with traditional egg-scramble mixtures; one with marinara, eggplant, parmesan, and ricotta. I’ve got some that have cheesecake fillings, molten chocolate fillings, peanut butter and jelly fillings. Oh, and one full of a baked chocolate pudding with almonds and marshmallows.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Like a twist on Rocky Road ice cream?”

  Savannah nodded.

  “You’re a genius, you know that?”

  “So do you think people would come to a food truck for those?” She watched my expression carefully.

  I thought for a minute before answering, trying to remember what it was like to eat with abandon. “I think they would. It’s fun. And definitely tasty. You obviously know what you’re doing, Savannah.”

  “That’s what Vivi says, too,” she said, looking grave and slumping down into her seat. “She says I should go for it, and I’ll never know if I don’t take a risk and try. I guess I’m afraid of sinking so much time and money into it and having it fail, you know?”

  I nodded. “I do. But I also agree with Vivi.”

  “Of course you do
. I’m never wrong. The question is, about what?” Vivi asked, sidling up next to Savannah.

  It was mid-afternoon, and I’d now been in Hampton for nearly two weeks. Amazingly enough, I’d seen them quite frequently, whether it was here or at a cafe near the house that I had claimed as my daily workspace. Fortunately for me, I’d learned how to use the bus routes to my advantage, so even getting to places as far off as Azalea’s was no longer an issue—and I was beginning to think I really might not have to get a rental car, after all. Between the bus and my bike, I was getting around quite well.

  “That these are fantastic, and that she should really try out the food truck,” I replied, holding up the last half of my hand pie, looking up at Vivi for further support.

  “See?” Vivi said, putting an arm around Savannah, who had finally begun to look relaxed and as though she believed what we were telling her.

  “She makes one that—get this—has smashed potato, cheddar cheese shreds, chives, and bacon crumbles. Everyone went mad for it when I put it on the menu at Azalea’s as a special—it was like this weird little spin on a twice-baked potato,” Vivi supplied helpfully. “But then, I think everything she’s tried out so far has been successful. Certainly has been a nice little boost in business for me, too,” she added with a smile, bumping her hip against Savannah’s.

  A thought skittered through my brain, and I was surprised I hadn’t thought of asking it before. “What do your parents say, Savannah? Or Caleb’s? Are you guys close? I never hear you talk about your family,” I said, silently praying that I wasn’t being too intrusive. “Do they live here?”

  “I guess I never told you I’m originally from North Carolina, did I? We didn’t move here until I was almost out of high school.”

  I shook my head. This was definitely interesting. A girl named Savannah, from North Carolina, who baked like a church lady on an acid trip…

  “I would maybe have expected Georgia, given your name,” I admitted. “Or maybe that you’re from here, but your parents are originally from Georgia.”