One Week In December

by Holly Chamberlin

  Lily considered for a moment before answering. “Yes,” she said, “I think so.”

  Nora nodded. “Good. Anyway, I made the right decision in saying no to Tim. I have no regrets about not marrying again.”

  “Well, that’s good. Regrets are—I don’t even know what to say about them. Except maybe that they’re horrible.”

  “What do you regret?” Nora asked, and as she did she wondered how early it was in a person’s life that she could identify the feeling of regret in herself. Surely, a little child didn’t experience regret. A person had to be old enough to realize that she was responsible for actions both taken and not taken. Consciousness had to be developed to a certain point, as did conscience.

  “I regret not seeing the truth about Cliff early on,” Lily said promptly.

  “And do you regret falling for him in the first place?”

  Lily thought hard about that. “No,” she said after a few moments, “I guess I don’t. I mean, we did have some good times. And in the end . . . Well, I certainly learned a lesson, even if it was the hard way!”

  “Yes. And more often than not, the hard way is the best way to learn a lesson.”

  Lily thought about that. It was too bad that people had to learn lessons “the hard way.” And she supposed that meant that in general people were reluctant to change old habits, reluctant to listen to the experience of those who’d come before. She supposed it meant that in general people thought they knew best the way to be happy. She supposed it meant that people were simply too stubborn and self-deluded not to bring about their own suffering.

  “It seems to me, Grandma,” she said after a time, “that this family has been defined by deception.”

  “No, Lily,” Nora corrected. “This family has been defined by love.”

  “Maybe. But how did love and deception get all mixed up with each other? I know that’s a rhetorical question.”

  “Good.” Nora got up from the table. “Because I’m far too tired to attempt a coherent answer.”

  Lily looked more closely at her grandmother. Was she a bit pale, a bit drawn? “Are you okay, Grandma?” she asked.

  “Oh, I’m fine. I think I’ll just take a little rest.”

  “All right,” Lily said, hoping that her grandmother wasn’t lying. “Well, let me know if you need anything.”

  Nora patted Lily’s shoulder and went off to her room for a nap.

  Lily made herself another cup of tea and sat back at the kitchen table. Ever since that first conversation with her grandmother, the one in which Nora had told Lily of Thomas’s affair, Lily had been wondering about something. Nora had said that she’d had to face the possibility that she had been in some way responsible for her husband having strayed. The notion of her grandmother accepting some of the blame for her husband’s affair had made Lily angry. But it had also made her think about the dynamics of her own situation.

  Had she been at all responsible for Cliff’s affair? She felt sure she had not done anything to drive him away. But what if—just what if—she’d unknowingly contributed to Cliff’s unhappiness or boredom with the relationship? What then?

  Lily shook her head though there was no one present to witness her conviction. No. Lily was one hundred percent certain that the entire responsibility for the affair lay with Cliff Jones. True, maybe she and Cliff were simply not meant to be a couple. Or maybe Cliff was just a jerk. Maybe the whole answer to what had gone wrong in the relationship was as simple as this: Cliff Jones was a bum. It had to be true that in some breakups, only one person was responsible. Didn’t it?

  Lily’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden and slightly unsteady arrival of Olivia. Lily watched as her oldest sister fumbled for a cup on the drainboard, and then, as she stood staring at an unopened cupboard, as if lost or confused.

  Lily got up from her seat and walked over to her sister. “Liv,” she said gently, “are you okay?”

  Olivia continued to stare at the cupboard. Her expression was unreadable; Lily wondered if she was in some sort of shock.

  “Let me make you a cup of tea,” she said. When Olivia nodded, slightly, Lily did just that. When the tea was ready, Lily carefully handed the cup to her sister.

  “Liv, where’s James?” she asked. “Do you want me to get him?”

  Olivia lowered her eyes and left the kitchen without a word.

  Lily stared after her sister. She was concerned. She wondered if she should tell her mother that Olivia seemed upset, and then remembered that her mother had gone to pay a visit to a distant neighbor who was recovering from surgery. Besides, would setting her mother to look after Olivia be interfering? Lily wasn’t entirely sure, but she strongly suspected her oldest sister wasn’t the type to welcome unasked-for assistance.

  Lily sighed. Maybe she was being overly concerned. Olivia was tough; she’d proved that time and again. Probably she was just angry about the loss or misplacement of another moth-eaten coat or cracked china pitcher. Or maybe she’d taken a muscle relaxer because she’d hurt her back hauling around boxes and wardrobes up in the attic. Lily supposed that might account for her shaking hands.

  Lily put thoughts of her oldest sister aside and went off to find the mystery novel she’d brought with her to read this holiday week, the latest Elizabeth Peters title. That was one of the best things about holidays—the opportunity to read a book that had absolutely nothing to do with curriculum requirements.

  41

  He would try once more. Just one more time. He’d seen the look of—contrition—on Becca’s face at dinner the night before, at the end of that dangerous conversation about adoption. He would bet anything that she regretted her words. Maybe something had changed for her in the past days.

  Maybe. But if his daughter still wouldn’t—couldn’t?—talk to him one to one, well, then, it would have to rest. At least he would know that he had tried. What more could a father do?

  He found Becca emerging from the den. Personally, he still felt bad that she had been ousted from her regular room. “Becca,” he said, “I was wondering if you were ready—I mean, I was wondering if you would like to talk?”

  Becca seized the moment, unaware that she was ready to do so until the words, “Yes, let’s talk,” were out of her mouth. And when she realized what she had agreed to, she felt a thrill of anticipation. Fear was gone. When had it fled?

  Steve smiled, but guardedly. He didn’t want to take too much for granted. Besides, he was as afraid of this interview with his daughter as he was looking forward to it. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go to my studio. We’ll only be interrupted here.”

  Without speaking they put on their coats and other cold-weather gear and left the house. They had gone only a few yards when they both spotted a car halfway to the local road.

  “Who is that?” her father asked, squinting after it.

  Becca recognized the make and color of the car. She could also see that only one person was inside. “It’s James. I wonder where he’s going?” she asked, though silently she knew the answer: any place Olivia wasn’t.

  Henry Le Mew was waiting for them at the studio. He greeted them with a loud and, what sounded to Becca, demanding cry.

  “Let me just give him some food before we talk,” Steve said with a note of apology in his voice. “If he doesn’t have something to eat just before his insulin shot, he could get very sick.”

  Becca nodded. Her father retrieved a small bag of specialty dry food from a locked cabinet under his worktable. (Yes, she remembered hearing something about Henry’s uncanny ability to open doors and drawers.) He poured a bowl for Henry, who immediately set to his meal with gusto. It made Becca smile. Henry Le Mew was one lucky kitty. One very spoiled, very lucky kitty.

  Just like she had been one very spoiled and very lucky little girl. As her father prepared the insulin shot, Becca thought back to her childhood. There hadn’t been one thing she lacked. Really, it had been as close to idyllic as she could imagine. She remembered laughter. There h
ad been lots of laughter. And then, she had grown up.

  Becca looked around her father’s studio. On a large corkboard were posted photographs of the Rowan family, including, of course, Steve’s father, Thomas. There was a photo of Becca riding on her grandfather’s shoulders. In another, she, David, and Olivia waved from their campstools around a fire. She was sitting to David’s right. Above his head she was making devil’s horns. Becca smiled. Oh, boy, she thought, what a spitfire I was! Another photo showed Nora blowing out a forest of candles on an iced cake. Becca remembered the occasion; it was her grandmother’s seventieth birthday. There was a photo of her parents with a newborn Lily. Her father still looked stunned, as if he couldn’t quite understand where this latest, unexpected child had come from. Finally, there was a photo of Rain, Michael, and Malcolm, taken last Halloween. Rain and her brothers, a Goth witch holding the hands of two small, green goblins.

  Suddenly, a child’s voice spoke in her imagination. It was the voice of Michael, or maybe it was the voice of Malcolm. It was saying, with confusion, “So you’re not really my sister? You’re my cousin? I don’t understand.”

  “There.” Her father’s voice startled her back to the moment. “Henry’s taken care of for the moment. Please, have a seat.”

  Steve settled in his own chair as Becca perched on a wooden stool close by.

  “How many rules did you break, Dad?”

  It wasn’t how she had wanted to start the conversation. She hadn’t meant to sound so aggressive or challenging. But the question had been asked. Before she could retrieve it, her father replied.

  “Becca,” he said, “please try to understand. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t—underhanded. People did us favors. Everything—everything was done in a spirit of support for our family. In a spirit of support for you.”

  “I believe you,” she said honestly. “But you’re a lawyer, Dad. And you participated in a deception that could have cost you your practice if you’d been found out. It could have cost other people their jobs, too, their reputations. So much was at stake.”

  Steve smiled ruefully. “I know. What else can I say, Becca? What I did, I did. I can’t undo it. I don’t know that I would if I could. A parent will go to great lengths to protect his or her family.” Here, Steve paused. “But you know that.”

  Becca didn’t take her father’s words as an admonishment. A day or two earlier she would have replied defensively. But not now. “Yes,” she said. “I do know that. And I’m really sorry about what I said at dinner last night. Believe me, I had no intention of—”

  Her father cut her off. “Apology accepted. It was a conversation that should never have been started. Olivia had no call to bring up the subject of adoption, for several reasons.”

  Father and daughter sat quietly for a while. Becca watched Henry, who was on top of the worktable, groom himself in rhythmic strokes of his large pink tongue. The sight was oddly soothing.

  “Family closes ranks when there’s trouble.”

  Becca looked back to her father. He’d spoken quietly, almost as if unaware he had spoken at all. She wasn’t sure that he wanted a response, but she said, “Sometimes it feels more like the family closed ranks and left me outside.”

  Steve leaned forward; his expression was earnest. “I’m sorry for that, Becca. I’m sorry you feel that way. None of us ever intended for you to feel alienated, least of all me.”

  For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, Becca felt the truth of those words.

  Steve went on. “No doubt we made mistakes caring for you after Rain was born. Maybe we should have insisted you see a therapist. Maybe we should have insisted you talk to someone about what you were feeling.”

  “Maybe,” Becca said. But the truth was that at first, all Becca had wanted to do was move on. She hadn’t wanted to dwell on her feelings about being a sixteen-year-old mother/aunt. She’d wanted to finish high school, go to college, make a career. She’d wanted to prove to everyone in her family that she would no longer be a problem.

  “Dad?” she said. “Did you ever, even once, regret what you did for me?” Only days before, Becca would have said “what you did to me.” She was aware of this change. She wondered if her father had heard it.

  “I’m not sure if I’d use the word ‘regret,’ ” he answered. “But I did have second thoughts. I did wonder if what I’d done—what we’d done—had really been the best thing. Of course I wondered. How could I not have doubts? But the adoption was a fait accompli. And for all I could see, things were turning out for the best.”

  “Yes,” she said, almost to herself. “For some.” Becca looked back at Henry Le Mew. He was sitting in a lump, staring fixedly at her. It unnerved her.

  “I’m sorry, Becca, for your unhappiness. I truly am. I only wanted . . .”

  Becca turned back to her father. He looked so terribly sad. Becca felt her heart ache for him. If that was sentimentality, so be it. If it was love . . .

  “What, Dad?” she asked. “What did you want?”

  “I only wanted what was best for my family.”

  Becca nodded. “One more thing, Dad.”

  Her poor father looked justifiably apprehensive.

  “What is it, Becca?” he asked.

  “Well, I was just wondering why Henry doesn’t like me.”

  Steve’s eyes widened with surprise. “What makes you think he doesn’t like you?”

  “Look at him, Dad. Look at that stare! He hasn’t blinked for minutes. He looks like he wants to kill me.”

  Steve laughed. “Oh, that’s nothing. He gives everyone that look. Even me when I give him tuna when he’s in the mood for turkey.”

  “I don’t know,” she said doubtfully.

  “Look, I’ll show you. Henry, come on over and say hello to Becca.”

  Henry stood up on his fistlike paws and stretched to a magnificent arch. When he’d regained his normal, still impressive stature, he yawned, showing, to Becca’s unease, many very pointy teeth. And then, to her utter amazement, he walked, with some dignity, to where she now stood by her father.

  “Let him smell your hand,” Steve directed.

  Hesitatingly, Becca put her fingers under Henry’s large pink nose. Henry sniffed—and before Becca could panic, he was rubbing his face against her fingers.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “I can’t believe this!”

  “I told you he liked you. He just hates crowds. With everyone in the house he prefers to stay on his own.” Steve chuckled. “Can’t say I blame him.”

  Abruptly, Henry Le Mew turned and walked back to where he’d been sitting a few moments before.

  “He’s got some napping to do,” Steve explained.

  “And I’ve got some thinking to do,” Becca said softly. “I’ll see you back at the house later, Dad.”

  She left her father’s studio before she could allow herself to be hugged.

  42

  Becca had told her father the truth; she did have some thinking to do. But first, she had to deal with something that had been nagging at her for the past hour.

  Olivia was one of her least favorite people—and clearly, if their confrontation in the attic had proved anything, it was that Olivia didn’t care much for her younger sister, either—but Becca felt compelled to check on her, to see if she was all right. Seeing James drive away earlier had given Becca a bad feeling. She was afraid that the Rowan family was to see yet another dangerous rift in its once sturdy structure.

  A quick check of the first floor assured Becca that her sister wasn’t to be found there.

  “Have you seen Olivia?” she asked Lily, when the younger girl passed her in the hall, a paperback novel in hand.

  “Yes,” she said. “About ten minutes ago she came into the kitchen for some tea. She was acting strangely. Her hands were shaking. I asked her if she wanted me to get James, but she just went up to her room. I mean, I guess that’s where she was going.”

  “Okay. I’ll go see if she’s all right
. And I know what you’re thinking,” she added. “That I’m the last person Olivia wants to see.”

  Lily smiled ruefully. “Anyway, it’s nice of you to check on her. Thanks, Becca. I was a little worried, but I wasn’t sure what to do.”

  Becca shrugged. She felt embarrassed by Lily’s thanks. “Whatever,” she said, and headed for the stairs.

  She knocked softly on the door of the Queen Anne’s Lace Room. Really, her mother was so silly with these ridiculous names.

  “Liv? You in there?”

  There was no response.

  “Olivia?” she called, knocking again, this time more loudly. “Are you okay?”

  Still there was no response. Becca gently tried the doorknob. The door was locked from the inside.

  “Olivia,” she called, “if you don’t answer me I’m going to get Mom.”

  Finally, a hoarse voice responded to Becca’s knocking and threat. “I’m fine,” it said. “I’m just—resting.”

  Becca didn’t believe for one moment that her older sister was “fine,” but at least she’d proved to be alive. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be downstairs if—if you need anything.”

  Becca walked back down the hallway. It had felt odd to offer help to her older sister. It had felt odd, but also somehow right.

  As she approached the room that Rain was sharing with Lily, Becca noticed that the door was now partway open. She stopped and peeked inside. Naomi was sitting on the edge of the bed. Rain lay there with a wet washcloth over her eyes, probably suffering from a migraine. She had inherited that awful genetic trait from her grandmother, who had been hit by the pain and nausea every month just before her period.

  Becca didn’t mean to spy, but the scene arrested her. She watched surreptitiously as Naomi adjusted the washcloth and murmured what were no doubt consoling words to her daughter.

  Her daughter.