The Other Sister, page 20
Suddenly I’m remembering the dough under my hands, the smell of sugar and my hands sticky with juice. Fear comes with it. Fear that I will get it wrong. That I won’t be able to get everything done in time to do my homework, in time to open up, because Mom is out cold in the bedroom.
“What’s in there now?” Tyler’s voice cuts through the memories.
“No idea. I haven’t looked yet.”
Tyler plucks a baby carrot out of the nearest snack tray and pops it into his mouth. As he chews, he leans his butt against the counter and stares thoughtfully out the kitchen window.
“Did you always do this to me?” I ask, and he just grins.
“How soon they forget.”
“I’m not ready.” For him or the store? Both. Neither. I don’t know.
He points another baby carrot at me. “But what if it’s Bluebeard?” he asks.
It takes me a minute to get the reference, but when I do, I stare at him. “You think there’s a room full of dead women in there?”
He shrugs and crunches down on the carrot. “We’re a long way out. Anything could happen. You should check.”
I plan to tell him that I know what he’s doing and I won’t be goaded. The store is as empty as the house was. I don’t need to look. But right then, my phone rings.
Saved by the bell.
“Hello?”
“Geraldine? Hello! It’s me!”
I didn’t recognize the number, but I certainly know the voice. “Aunt June! Hi.”
Tyler has wandered over to the front door, chewing on yet another carrot. He squats down to get eye-to-eye with its recalcitrant lock. I can all but see thoughts of adjusted screws and WD-40 flitting through his head.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Aunt June is saying. “But I got your number from Marie. You are coming to dinner next week, Geraldine, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Surprise yanks honesty from me. “Oh, Aunt June, not yet, okay? But soon. I promise.”
“Oh, no. You are not leaving us dangling. How about Tuesday? Give us all time to recover from Martin’s graduation party.” Aunt June seems to have forgotten we’re supposed to pretend it’s Robbie’s day.
“Okay, okay. Fine. I’ll be there.”
“Wonderful. I’ll tell Mother. So looking forward to a catch up!”
Oh, I’ll bet. Aunt June thrives on gossip. If our family drama was the French Revolution, she’d be in the front row with her knitting. We say good-bye and I stuff the phone back in my purse.
Tyler’s opened the screwdriver blade on his knife and is scraping a layer of paint off something.
“Important?” Tyler blows away some paint fragments.
“My aunt. I’ve got a command performance at dinner with my grandmother.”
Tyler straightens up. He folds the blades back down and clips the knife back onto his belt. “Am I invited?”
No. No you are not. You are leaving long before then. You are not getting anywhere near that house, those women, this family, and…
I can’t possibly say that.
“Ty…you don’t want to do this. It’s going to be an emeritus faculty wives’ lunch on steroids. All the good china and lace-edged napkins and mini quiches on a silver tray and a maid in uniform.”
“Should I wear a sport coat?”
“Did you bring one?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t know what I was going to run into. Be prepared.” He raises three fingers in the Boy Scout salute.
I take a deep breath, inhaling sweat and the evening breeze. My skin is prickling, my nerves are all singing. I have only felt this way once before, the moment David dragged me out of the lake and I realized that I was going to live, whether I wanted to or not. “Tyler?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
He closes his hand around mine, wraps his warmth around my chill.
And that’s all it takes.
His mouth is hot against mine. His beard rasps against my cuts. He drags me to him, digging his hands under my shirt and up my sides, kissing every part of me he can reach.
I missed you.
That’s what I tell him with every touch. My hands are hard and heavy against his skin. I am clumsy. Starvation has made me that way.
We’re up against the wall, I’m not entirely sure how. Now, we’re forcing each other toward the bedroom.
The new roll-away is impossible, so we drag my sleeping bag down onto the floor. His jeans slide off just as easily. He is magnificent. I yank my shirt off over my head and we wrestle with my sports bra and my breasts slap down a split second before he takes them both in his hands. And I throw back my head and groan in welcome for his touch, his mouth, his raw sound of delight.
He is laughing. Vindicated. Delighted. He rolls me over, kissing me deep and hot, ready to give me everything I want. For him it is celebration. For me…I don’t know, and I don’t care. I want him. I want this—heat and scent and friction. This filling of my straining, empty body.
I want him to absorb the understanding of me through his skin, slick with our sweat. He needs to know all I have done and all I am about to do. I want this act to serve as my confession.
I want to never leave him.
I swear someone is watching us—some ghost, some fear—just out of sight. And I do. Not. Care. I’m screaming—I love you!—and I hear all the crows cawing in outrage outside the window. It makes me laugh and press him harder against me, and he’s laughing too and shouting because he’s never been able to keep quiet and that only makes it better.
We are together. Nothing else is needed.
If only for now.
There are not many stories in the Grimm canon featuring sisters who love each other. In fact, there are just two. The lesser known is “Snow-White and Rose-Red.” Snow White and Rose Red are full siblings. They have a stable home and a loving relationship not only with each other but with their mother, and they watch each other’s backs. They also invite a bear into their home and it all comes out okay. No mutilations, no death, and the only transformation is of the bear into a charming prince.
That is the power of sisterhood.
—Out of the Woods: Musings on Fairy Tales in the Real World,
Dr. Geraldine Monroe
GERALDINE, FIFTEEN YEARS OLD
A QUARTER MILE FROM STACEY B’S
1.
This is stupid.
The wind blew hard, driving the snow into Geraldine’s watering eyes as she trudged along the side of the road. These weren’t any fluffy feathery flakes drifting on the gentle breeze. These were tiny, stinging needles that felt like they were tearing her cheeks where the skin was exposed above her scarf.
I’m stupid.
But she’d promised Becca Mayor she could bring some primo shit to the party. The fact that Ken had offered to buy some off her didn’t hurt, either. But it didn’t make wading through a blizzard at twenty-fucking-below any easier.
It wasn’t as dark as it could have been. The gray clouds and the white snow gave the night an ice-cold sheen. The pale shadows stretched across the silver ground.
Geraldine hit the drainpipe where M-131 crossed the gully and she stepped off the shoulder into the woods. She stumbled through the drifts, slipping on the hidden leaves. She shouldn’t have promised. She shouldn’t have bragged. What the hell did she need to go sharing her stash with Becca Mayor for? It wasn’t like Becca didn’t have her own fucking weed. She’d moved her stash to the old root cellar about a month ago. Keeping it in the house was starting to feel dangerous. Her sister had been acting weird lately. Marie said everything was fine, but Marie always said that. Maybe there was just a problem with David. Probably they wouldn’t last much longer. Marie couldn’t bring herself to tell Dad she had a boyfriend, and if Dad found out on his own, he’d totally and completely lose his shit and then they’d all pay for it.
Geraldine shuddered and kept moving.
The root cellar wasn’t really a cellar. It was a hut kind of thing built from fieldstone, a leftover from when somebody’d tried to farm up here. There was a real cellar hole, and Geraldine hoped like hell she didn’t miss her footing in the dark and fall into it.
Shit. Geraldine wiped her mittened hand across her stinging eyes, gritted her teeth, and slogged forward.
The cold was sinking deeper in, despite her parka and scarf and two layers of socks.
Just grab the stuff and go.
She could see the cellar now, a solid lump of black in the middle of the gray and silver world. But as Geraldine pulled herself from tree to tree, she saw a deeper black inside. An extra shadow.
It moved.
Her heart blocked her throat shut.
Cool it, G. Don’t be such a freakin’ baby.
Because it was just a stray dog, or maybe a coyote, or some big-ass raccoon. Could be a bear.
Shit, I hope it’s not a bear.
“Shoo!” she shouted. “Go on! Get away from my shit!”
The thing shifted again. Whatever it was, it wasn’t moving like an animal. What if it was somebody who was lost?
“Hey? Hello?” Geraldine stumped up to the doorway, shivering and squinting, and peered inside.
The shadow moaned and huddled closer to the filthy stones.
Oh my God.
Oh, no, no, NO!
It was Marie.
The poor child was now all alone in the great forest, and she was so afraid that she just looked at all the leaves on the trees and did not know what to do. Then she began to run.
—“Little Snow-White” from Kinder und Hausmärchen Vol. 1, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, 1812
MARIE, PRESENT DAY
M-131
1.
It is dark on the road. I have been driving for a very long time.
I must calm down. I must think. It’s a test. A test. When doing something as momentous as remaking family, one must expect to be tested to the absolute limit.
I have done so many things wrong today. I handled Walt entirely the wrong way. I did the same with Robbie.
Then I went to see Geraldine. I should have gone back to talk to Walt. I know that. But I was weak. I didn’t think I could be who I needed to with Walt. Instead, I wanted to try to take comfort in the fact that I had done one thing right so far. I had brought my sister home.
And I saw…and I heard…
I love you!
I cannot be angry. If I am angry, Geraldine will leave again. She might not even stay long enough to finish what we’ve begun.
I love you!
I am sick. I am filthy. I am a stranger in my own skin driving through the dark, heading back to the Rose House.
A blur crosses the dark road. I swerve and slam on the brakes and I’m in the ditch. The car stalls and I’m staring at the dark slope of the tree-covered hill, hearing the deer crash away through the underbrush.
I bow my head and slam my bandaged hand on the steering wheel, and slowly, for the first time in years, I start to cry.
Shame crawls through every inch of me. The mask that is my best self is shattered. This is what it hides. This scarred, filthy, useless, creature wailing alone in the dark. I thought she was gone. I thought I burned her up and scattered the ashes.
But, there is one thing left in that useless, discarded soul.
Hate.
That hatred burns inside me now—hotter than anger, stronger than fear. Hate is the last resort, but it did not fail me years ago, and it does not fail me now. Love would be better. I love so much. But love hurts and it’s slow. I do not have time to wait for love to do its work.
But then, I lift my head. Because I realize what this is. It’s obvious. This is Geraldine’s rebellion. She’s picked up a man somewhere—at Charlie’s Roadhouse, at the marina, in a parking lot.
This is her way of taking control. And really, it’s a good sign.
It means Geraldine feels home—me, us—pulling on her. That frightens her, so she’s lashing out. Doing something naughty. Saying (screaming) to some stranger the one thing she has never said to me.
I love you! Tears threaten again, but this time I am able to push them easily away. I smooth my hair back with both hands. I am above the chaos and thinking clearly.
I have to do better for her. I will soothe her fears, ease her worries, draw her in. I will hold her here until she can hold herself.
I start the car and work the gears to rock it back and forth until I’m level on the shoulder, and then on the road. I am myself again. My storm is passed. The test is passed. All is right again.
At least for now.
2.
I’ve had a bad morning.
It’s nothing to worry about. We all wake up on the wrong side of the bed on occasion, and that’s what’s happened to me. Just a little distracted. After that little bit of bad timing with Geraldine yesterday, it would be surprising if I wasn’t a bit rattled.
After the little incident last night, I have done my best to maintain my routine. I came home and changed and lay down in my bed. I dressed with all my usual care. My makeup is as flawless as my clumsy, bandaged hand can manage. As I take care of the rest of my routine, I feel no movement beneath the chill. I sense no shift in the air or the walls.
I make a big breakfast. This is for Robbie. I feel a need to make up a little for dragging him away from his friends yesterday. I know he feels the house is on edge and it’s getting to him. Robbie has always been very sensitive, and events are moving very quickly. I need to find a way to slow them down again. To keep the hardest of the truths from revealing themselves until after he has left for college.
By the time my son clumps down the stairs, I have a stack of French toast on the kitchen island beside a platter of bacon. There’s milk and orange juice as well, along with coffee for me, of course, and for Dad when he comes down.
“What’s this?” Robbie blinks at the platters of food.
“Breakfast. I’m not going to have many more opportunities to spoil you, so I didn’t want to miss the chance.”
I expect at least a show of gratitude. What I get is a flicker of suspicion. But, he does plop himself down on the high stool and fork over three slices of toast in one swift motion. I do not chastise. I pour myself a cup of coffee.
“I’m finalizing party plans today. I’m probably going to need you to run some errands, so I want you to stick close to home.”
My son pauses in mid-chew. “I was gonna…”
“This is your party, Robbie. You need to take some responsibility.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize I have made a mistake. Robbie swallows his mouthful in a single lump.
“How is this my party? It wasn’t even my idea.” He is shouting in a whisper. Robbie is an expert in this. He learned, as we all learned, that whatever the crisis, we cannot disturb my father. Geraldine and I used to do the same thing. “I told you I don’t want this, like, a hundred times. Did you even listen?”
“And I understand it’s hard for you to see why you have to make room for your grandfather’s business associates on your big day…”
“It is not my big day! Can’t you stop pretending for even one second?”
He’s saying something else. I sense it under the words. He’s desperate for me to hear and understand. But I can’t. I want to. I mean to.
I can’t.
Before I can summon some kind of appropriate answer, we are interrupted by the sound of footfalls on the main stairs.
“Good morning, everybody!” Dad cruises into the kitchen. He’s in his jacket and tie. There are several important meetings today. It’s giving him extra energy. “Have you got my coffee, Marie?”
“Yes, of course.” I reach for the pot, but Robbie beats me to it.
“Hey, Grandad, let me get that for you,” he says and pours out a fresh cup.
Dad stares at him. His eyes slide to me.
Robbie pushes the cup across the counter, right up to the edge.
“Anything else you need, Granddad? You should try some of Mom’s French toast. It’s terrific!”
Dad presses the lid onto his travel mug. He is watching me the whole time. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Rob. But I’m already running late.”
“Gee. Can’t have that. I’m not blocking you in or anything am I?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well then, you’d better get going. See you tonight, Granddad!”
Robbie stands there, beaming. I can see all his teeth. Dad nods at us both and takes himself, his cup, and his briefcase out through the door to the garage.
As soon as the door closes, I round on my son.
“Robin James Pendarves, I don’t know what you think you’re doing…”
But Robin just blinks and the scold dries up inside me. “Just making sure Granddad’s got everything his way. Isn’t that what we’re all here for?”
“It’s not like that, Robbie, I promise…”
But I cannot finish. Because he’s facing me fully, and for the very first time, I see how much my son looks like his grandfather.
The floor heaves violently beneath my feet. I clutch the counter so I don’t fall.
“Please,” I whisper. “Just be home tonight. That’s all I’m asking.”
He does not hear my panic. Instead, he scowls at his plate. I am relieved, because at least he looks like himself again.
“Please,” I say again. I am begging my child. I should not. I am his mother. I am the one who shields him. It is what I have always done. It is what every sacrifice has been for. Just like I sacrificed for Geraldine.
Please hear me. I just need a little more time. That’s all. It will all be over soon.
Robbie pushes back from the counter and our eyes meet once more. There it is. His grandfather inside him.
Robbie turns and walks away. I stay where I am until I hear the garage door, and the car engine. Then—slowly, deliberately—I turn and walk to the sink, lean over, and vomit.
3.
“Oh, Ms. Monroe!” Bethany looks up startled and shoves her phone into her drawer as soon as I walk in. “I wasn’t sure you’d be in today!”
“What’s in there now?” Tyler’s voice cuts through the memories.
“No idea. I haven’t looked yet.”
Tyler plucks a baby carrot out of the nearest snack tray and pops it into his mouth. As he chews, he leans his butt against the counter and stares thoughtfully out the kitchen window.
“Did you always do this to me?” I ask, and he just grins.
“How soon they forget.”
“I’m not ready.” For him or the store? Both. Neither. I don’t know.
He points another baby carrot at me. “But what if it’s Bluebeard?” he asks.
It takes me a minute to get the reference, but when I do, I stare at him. “You think there’s a room full of dead women in there?”
He shrugs and crunches down on the carrot. “We’re a long way out. Anything could happen. You should check.”
I plan to tell him that I know what he’s doing and I won’t be goaded. The store is as empty as the house was. I don’t need to look. But right then, my phone rings.
Saved by the bell.
“Hello?”
“Geraldine? Hello! It’s me!”
I didn’t recognize the number, but I certainly know the voice. “Aunt June! Hi.”
Tyler has wandered over to the front door, chewing on yet another carrot. He squats down to get eye-to-eye with its recalcitrant lock. I can all but see thoughts of adjusted screws and WD-40 flitting through his head.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Aunt June is saying. “But I got your number from Marie. You are coming to dinner next week, Geraldine, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Surprise yanks honesty from me. “Oh, Aunt June, not yet, okay? But soon. I promise.”
“Oh, no. You are not leaving us dangling. How about Tuesday? Give us all time to recover from Martin’s graduation party.” Aunt June seems to have forgotten we’re supposed to pretend it’s Robbie’s day.
“Okay, okay. Fine. I’ll be there.”
“Wonderful. I’ll tell Mother. So looking forward to a catch up!”
Oh, I’ll bet. Aunt June thrives on gossip. If our family drama was the French Revolution, she’d be in the front row with her knitting. We say good-bye and I stuff the phone back in my purse.
Tyler’s opened the screwdriver blade on his knife and is scraping a layer of paint off something.
“Important?” Tyler blows away some paint fragments.
“My aunt. I’ve got a command performance at dinner with my grandmother.”
Tyler straightens up. He folds the blades back down and clips the knife back onto his belt. “Am I invited?”
No. No you are not. You are leaving long before then. You are not getting anywhere near that house, those women, this family, and…
I can’t possibly say that.
“Ty…you don’t want to do this. It’s going to be an emeritus faculty wives’ lunch on steroids. All the good china and lace-edged napkins and mini quiches on a silver tray and a maid in uniform.”
“Should I wear a sport coat?”
“Did you bring one?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t know what I was going to run into. Be prepared.” He raises three fingers in the Boy Scout salute.
I take a deep breath, inhaling sweat and the evening breeze. My skin is prickling, my nerves are all singing. I have only felt this way once before, the moment David dragged me out of the lake and I realized that I was going to live, whether I wanted to or not. “Tyler?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
He closes his hand around mine, wraps his warmth around my chill.
And that’s all it takes.
His mouth is hot against mine. His beard rasps against my cuts. He drags me to him, digging his hands under my shirt and up my sides, kissing every part of me he can reach.
I missed you.
That’s what I tell him with every touch. My hands are hard and heavy against his skin. I am clumsy. Starvation has made me that way.
We’re up against the wall, I’m not entirely sure how. Now, we’re forcing each other toward the bedroom.
The new roll-away is impossible, so we drag my sleeping bag down onto the floor. His jeans slide off just as easily. He is magnificent. I yank my shirt off over my head and we wrestle with my sports bra and my breasts slap down a split second before he takes them both in his hands. And I throw back my head and groan in welcome for his touch, his mouth, his raw sound of delight.
He is laughing. Vindicated. Delighted. He rolls me over, kissing me deep and hot, ready to give me everything I want. For him it is celebration. For me…I don’t know, and I don’t care. I want him. I want this—heat and scent and friction. This filling of my straining, empty body.
I want him to absorb the understanding of me through his skin, slick with our sweat. He needs to know all I have done and all I am about to do. I want this act to serve as my confession.
I want to never leave him.
I swear someone is watching us—some ghost, some fear—just out of sight. And I do. Not. Care. I’m screaming—I love you!—and I hear all the crows cawing in outrage outside the window. It makes me laugh and press him harder against me, and he’s laughing too and shouting because he’s never been able to keep quiet and that only makes it better.
We are together. Nothing else is needed.
If only for now.
There are not many stories in the Grimm canon featuring sisters who love each other. In fact, there are just two. The lesser known is “Snow-White and Rose-Red.” Snow White and Rose Red are full siblings. They have a stable home and a loving relationship not only with each other but with their mother, and they watch each other’s backs. They also invite a bear into their home and it all comes out okay. No mutilations, no death, and the only transformation is of the bear into a charming prince.
That is the power of sisterhood.
—Out of the Woods: Musings on Fairy Tales in the Real World,
Dr. Geraldine Monroe
GERALDINE, FIFTEEN YEARS OLD
A QUARTER MILE FROM STACEY B’S
1.
This is stupid.
The wind blew hard, driving the snow into Geraldine’s watering eyes as she trudged along the side of the road. These weren’t any fluffy feathery flakes drifting on the gentle breeze. These were tiny, stinging needles that felt like they were tearing her cheeks where the skin was exposed above her scarf.
I’m stupid.
But she’d promised Becca Mayor she could bring some primo shit to the party. The fact that Ken had offered to buy some off her didn’t hurt, either. But it didn’t make wading through a blizzard at twenty-fucking-below any easier.
It wasn’t as dark as it could have been. The gray clouds and the white snow gave the night an ice-cold sheen. The pale shadows stretched across the silver ground.
Geraldine hit the drainpipe where M-131 crossed the gully and she stepped off the shoulder into the woods. She stumbled through the drifts, slipping on the hidden leaves. She shouldn’t have promised. She shouldn’t have bragged. What the hell did she need to go sharing her stash with Becca Mayor for? It wasn’t like Becca didn’t have her own fucking weed. She’d moved her stash to the old root cellar about a month ago. Keeping it in the house was starting to feel dangerous. Her sister had been acting weird lately. Marie said everything was fine, but Marie always said that. Maybe there was just a problem with David. Probably they wouldn’t last much longer. Marie couldn’t bring herself to tell Dad she had a boyfriend, and if Dad found out on his own, he’d totally and completely lose his shit and then they’d all pay for it.
Geraldine shuddered and kept moving.
The root cellar wasn’t really a cellar. It was a hut kind of thing built from fieldstone, a leftover from when somebody’d tried to farm up here. There was a real cellar hole, and Geraldine hoped like hell she didn’t miss her footing in the dark and fall into it.
Shit. Geraldine wiped her mittened hand across her stinging eyes, gritted her teeth, and slogged forward.
The cold was sinking deeper in, despite her parka and scarf and two layers of socks.
Just grab the stuff and go.
She could see the cellar now, a solid lump of black in the middle of the gray and silver world. But as Geraldine pulled herself from tree to tree, she saw a deeper black inside. An extra shadow.
It moved.
Her heart blocked her throat shut.
Cool it, G. Don’t be such a freakin’ baby.
Because it was just a stray dog, or maybe a coyote, or some big-ass raccoon. Could be a bear.
Shit, I hope it’s not a bear.
“Shoo!” she shouted. “Go on! Get away from my shit!”
The thing shifted again. Whatever it was, it wasn’t moving like an animal. What if it was somebody who was lost?
“Hey? Hello?” Geraldine stumped up to the doorway, shivering and squinting, and peered inside.
The shadow moaned and huddled closer to the filthy stones.
Oh my God.
Oh, no, no, NO!
It was Marie.
The poor child was now all alone in the great forest, and she was so afraid that she just looked at all the leaves on the trees and did not know what to do. Then she began to run.
—“Little Snow-White” from Kinder und Hausmärchen Vol. 1, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, 1812
MARIE, PRESENT DAY
M-131
1.
It is dark on the road. I have been driving for a very long time.
I must calm down. I must think. It’s a test. A test. When doing something as momentous as remaking family, one must expect to be tested to the absolute limit.
I have done so many things wrong today. I handled Walt entirely the wrong way. I did the same with Robbie.
Then I went to see Geraldine. I should have gone back to talk to Walt. I know that. But I was weak. I didn’t think I could be who I needed to with Walt. Instead, I wanted to try to take comfort in the fact that I had done one thing right so far. I had brought my sister home.
And I saw…and I heard…
I love you!
I cannot be angry. If I am angry, Geraldine will leave again. She might not even stay long enough to finish what we’ve begun.
I love you!
I am sick. I am filthy. I am a stranger in my own skin driving through the dark, heading back to the Rose House.
A blur crosses the dark road. I swerve and slam on the brakes and I’m in the ditch. The car stalls and I’m staring at the dark slope of the tree-covered hill, hearing the deer crash away through the underbrush.
I bow my head and slam my bandaged hand on the steering wheel, and slowly, for the first time in years, I start to cry.
Shame crawls through every inch of me. The mask that is my best self is shattered. This is what it hides. This scarred, filthy, useless, creature wailing alone in the dark. I thought she was gone. I thought I burned her up and scattered the ashes.
But, there is one thing left in that useless, discarded soul.
Hate.
That hatred burns inside me now—hotter than anger, stronger than fear. Hate is the last resort, but it did not fail me years ago, and it does not fail me now. Love would be better. I love so much. But love hurts and it’s slow. I do not have time to wait for love to do its work.
But then, I lift my head. Because I realize what this is. It’s obvious. This is Geraldine’s rebellion. She’s picked up a man somewhere—at Charlie’s Roadhouse, at the marina, in a parking lot.
This is her way of taking control. And really, it’s a good sign.
It means Geraldine feels home—me, us—pulling on her. That frightens her, so she’s lashing out. Doing something naughty. Saying (screaming) to some stranger the one thing she has never said to me.
I love you! Tears threaten again, but this time I am able to push them easily away. I smooth my hair back with both hands. I am above the chaos and thinking clearly.
I have to do better for her. I will soothe her fears, ease her worries, draw her in. I will hold her here until she can hold herself.
I start the car and work the gears to rock it back and forth until I’m level on the shoulder, and then on the road. I am myself again. My storm is passed. The test is passed. All is right again.
At least for now.
2.
I’ve had a bad morning.
It’s nothing to worry about. We all wake up on the wrong side of the bed on occasion, and that’s what’s happened to me. Just a little distracted. After that little bit of bad timing with Geraldine yesterday, it would be surprising if I wasn’t a bit rattled.
After the little incident last night, I have done my best to maintain my routine. I came home and changed and lay down in my bed. I dressed with all my usual care. My makeup is as flawless as my clumsy, bandaged hand can manage. As I take care of the rest of my routine, I feel no movement beneath the chill. I sense no shift in the air or the walls.
I make a big breakfast. This is for Robbie. I feel a need to make up a little for dragging him away from his friends yesterday. I know he feels the house is on edge and it’s getting to him. Robbie has always been very sensitive, and events are moving very quickly. I need to find a way to slow them down again. To keep the hardest of the truths from revealing themselves until after he has left for college.
By the time my son clumps down the stairs, I have a stack of French toast on the kitchen island beside a platter of bacon. There’s milk and orange juice as well, along with coffee for me, of course, and for Dad when he comes down.
“What’s this?” Robbie blinks at the platters of food.
“Breakfast. I’m not going to have many more opportunities to spoil you, so I didn’t want to miss the chance.”
I expect at least a show of gratitude. What I get is a flicker of suspicion. But, he does plop himself down on the high stool and fork over three slices of toast in one swift motion. I do not chastise. I pour myself a cup of coffee.
“I’m finalizing party plans today. I’m probably going to need you to run some errands, so I want you to stick close to home.”
My son pauses in mid-chew. “I was gonna…”
“This is your party, Robbie. You need to take some responsibility.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize I have made a mistake. Robbie swallows his mouthful in a single lump.
“How is this my party? It wasn’t even my idea.” He is shouting in a whisper. Robbie is an expert in this. He learned, as we all learned, that whatever the crisis, we cannot disturb my father. Geraldine and I used to do the same thing. “I told you I don’t want this, like, a hundred times. Did you even listen?”
“And I understand it’s hard for you to see why you have to make room for your grandfather’s business associates on your big day…”
“It is not my big day! Can’t you stop pretending for even one second?”
He’s saying something else. I sense it under the words. He’s desperate for me to hear and understand. But I can’t. I want to. I mean to.
I can’t.
Before I can summon some kind of appropriate answer, we are interrupted by the sound of footfalls on the main stairs.
“Good morning, everybody!” Dad cruises into the kitchen. He’s in his jacket and tie. There are several important meetings today. It’s giving him extra energy. “Have you got my coffee, Marie?”
“Yes, of course.” I reach for the pot, but Robbie beats me to it.
“Hey, Grandad, let me get that for you,” he says and pours out a fresh cup.
Dad stares at him. His eyes slide to me.
Robbie pushes the cup across the counter, right up to the edge.
“Anything else you need, Granddad? You should try some of Mom’s French toast. It’s terrific!”
Dad presses the lid onto his travel mug. He is watching me the whole time. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Rob. But I’m already running late.”
“Gee. Can’t have that. I’m not blocking you in or anything am I?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well then, you’d better get going. See you tonight, Granddad!”
Robbie stands there, beaming. I can see all his teeth. Dad nods at us both and takes himself, his cup, and his briefcase out through the door to the garage.
As soon as the door closes, I round on my son.
“Robin James Pendarves, I don’t know what you think you’re doing…”
But Robin just blinks and the scold dries up inside me. “Just making sure Granddad’s got everything his way. Isn’t that what we’re all here for?”
“It’s not like that, Robbie, I promise…”
But I cannot finish. Because he’s facing me fully, and for the very first time, I see how much my son looks like his grandfather.
The floor heaves violently beneath my feet. I clutch the counter so I don’t fall.
“Please,” I whisper. “Just be home tonight. That’s all I’m asking.”
He does not hear my panic. Instead, he scowls at his plate. I am relieved, because at least he looks like himself again.
“Please,” I say again. I am begging my child. I should not. I am his mother. I am the one who shields him. It is what I have always done. It is what every sacrifice has been for. Just like I sacrificed for Geraldine.
Please hear me. I just need a little more time. That’s all. It will all be over soon.
Robbie pushes back from the counter and our eyes meet once more. There it is. His grandfather inside him.
Robbie turns and walks away. I stay where I am until I hear the garage door, and the car engine. Then—slowly, deliberately—I turn and walk to the sink, lean over, and vomit.
3.
“Oh, Ms. Monroe!” Bethany looks up startled and shoves her phone into her drawer as soon as I walk in. “I wasn’t sure you’d be in today!”
