Inheriting Edith, page 2
After she had found Liza, Edith had foregone her morning ritual, instead hiding in the house with the lights dimmed and the shades drawn—an informal Shiva if there ever was one. She was the world’s worst Jew, hadn’t so much as thought about the religion her mother had tried to impress upon her as a child unless she saw a particularly inviting looking loaf of challah at the supermarket, but then, in the aftermath of such awfulness, it suddenly felt like second nature. There was no Rabbi, but the door was open and people who had known and loved Liza had come through, heaping gelatinous looking casseroles and lopsided cakes on the kitchen counters.
Normally, Edith was not one to dwell on her emotions, whatever they were, but this was a sadness that she had never felt before. If only she hadn’t done this or said that to Liza; if only she hadn’t been so judgmental and impatient; if only she’d been a different kind of mother altogether. Her mind raced back and forth, on a hamster wheel of guilt.
The lawyer had called and called, leaving message after message on the machine for the next two weeks, but Edith could not be bothered. He had had Liza cremated, as per the will that he had helped her draw up, and that was all that she needed from him as far as she was concerned. She wasn’t ready to hash out the copious details of her daughter’s life with anyone yet, much less a total stranger.
And then he had shown up, at her doorstep, his suit wrinkled from the ride. Edith wished she hadn’t answered the door, but she was a practical woman, even in her grief, and knew that she couldn’t avoid her daughter’s wishes forever. She had laughed in his face when he told her that the cleaning lady had inherited the house, and that she and her daughter would be moving in to look after her. The cleaning lady!
“Over my dead body,” she had replied.
“I’m sorry, Edith, you don’t really have a choice. Well, you do, but it would involve moving out and relocating to an assisted living facility. Liza has provided the necessary funding for that. It was her house, after all.” He laughed awkwardly—a half laugh that sounded more like a cough. As much as she wanted to wring his skinny little neck, it was true.
“Mom, you can’t live on your own anymore,” Liza had told her matter-of-factly after Edith had taken a tumble in her pink tiled bathroom five years earlier; the same pink tiled bathroom that Liza had grown up using.
And so, Edith had moved in with her daughter, kicking and screaming, until she had realized that living there wasn’t all that bad. It had taken her a while to get used to what Liza had called their tree house because of the open floors and upside down layout, with the kitchen and living room on the second floor, but soon she had fallen in love with its conflux of light and air amongst the green leaves outside their windows. It soothed her.
She and Liza had developed a real friendship, or so Edith had thought. Now it was clear that she had not been her daughter’s friend at all, but instead, a burden to be passed onto someone who had no other options. She felt like a fool.
Edith had wrestled with the lawyer’s news for a day or two, sitting on the couch and thinking as her sadness turned into anger. How dare Liza insinuate that she was incapable? Edith had started over before, had overcome obstacles her daughter didn’t even know about, and she could certainly do it again without unwanted help from a stranger.
There was no way in hell she was leaving. So she had forgotten things a few times. She was eighty-two years old for God’s sake! She hadn’t been sleeping well, that was it. Lack of sleep had always made her forgetful. As far as falling now and again, so what? She would wear one of those MedicAlert bracelets gladly if it meant keeping her independence.
And just who was Liza, thinking that her word was more credible than Edith’s? Liza wasn’t well; hadn’t been well for years—the proof obvious. You didn’t do what she did if you had your senses about you. She would contest the will, she decided. But figuring out how exactly would require time and money, and she certainly didn’t want to leave this house, the house that was rightfully hers, while she did so. She would stay.
So here she was. The evening before, Edith had said hello when Maggie had arrived with her sleeping toddler in her arms. The movers were coming the next day, she had told her. Edith had nodded, showed Maggie Liza’s bedroom, and retreated to her own, where she had holed up with a small glass of whiskey and a plate of cheese and crackers. She’d eaten on her bed and washed the dishes in her bathroom sink, feeling vaguely like a prisoner, but not minding it too terribly much. The alternative—engaging in forced conversation and pretending to not be furious—seemed unnecessarily exhausting.
Now, what if they were awake and wanted to talk to her? Before her coffee? Hopefully Maggie had some common sense. She’d certainly had enough sense to glom onto Liza anyway, and reap her friendship’s rewards: no rent and money to cover whatever utilities and expenses cropped up for a good long while, if not forever. The only wrench in the works, at least from Maggie’s perspective, Edith figured, was of course her. The crotchety old lady who didn’t live in a shoe like the nursery rhyme suggested, but instead, came with the house, like a goddamn appliance or something. Edith was so mad at Liza that she could spit. You could do that, Edith had discovered—miss and despise someone at the same time.
The three bedrooms of the pagoda-style house were on the first level; the kitchen and dining and living rooms were on the second. On the outside, its red wood and white stone exterior peeked out from the dense, green foliage with a porch that wrapped around its second floor, hugging the floor to ceiling windows like a belt. There was a tiny guesthouse—more like a box, really—that Liza had used for her writing, and a pool, too, that she had sometimes swum laps in when she had been in one of her fitness phases.
Edith smoothed the white coverlet of her bed and surveyed her room. She had never been much for fuss: there was her bed, a study in crisp white linen; a bedside table upon which sat a bookmarked paperback mystery and a brass lamp; a blue velvet chair that looked inviting but wasn’t; and a maple bureau, over which hung a small mirror. Attached to her bedroom was her bathroom, which boasted a long stainless steel rail around its perimeter, along with two smaller ones in the shower. Liza had had it updated for Edith, but Edith hated it. She felt like she was taking a shower in a subway station.
She closed the door behind her. This was her territory now, small as it was, and she would protect it. Besides, who knew what a two-year-old would do to her bedspread? She shuddered, imagining tiny strawberry jam handprints all over it.
In the hallway, she paused to listen, grateful for silence. Good, she was the only one awake. She ascended the stairs carefully, leaning on the banister with more weight than she cared to admit as the rising sun cast a purple light through the trees.
In the kitchen, Edith set about making her coffee, frowning slightly at the new snacks that sat at the corner of one of the long marble counters, wedged between the toaster and the wall. Graham crackers and tiny yellow goldfish; bananas and shiny red apples inside a green ceramic bowl. Her green ceramic bowl. She poked it, thinking, Mine.
As the coffee percolated, she willed her own inner child away, knowing that these types of thoughts, about the ownership of bowls, were infantile and useless. She had always been terrible at sharing. Edith startled suddenly, hearing footsteps creak up the stairs behind her.
“Good morning,” a soft, clear voice announced.
Edith took a deep breath and turned to face Maggie, taking in her ragged tank top and ripped pants; the fact that she wore no bra. Liza had always swaddled herself in layers of colorful silk and chiffon, like a plump parrot, so it had been some time since Edith had seen the female form like this—in all of its honey-hued glory.
“Did you sleep well?” asked Maggie.
“Yes, thank you. And you?” The beep of the coffee machine shattered the tension, and Edith, grateful for something to do, held her red coffee mug up in an awkward salute.
“Very well, thanks,” answered Maggie.
“And what about little— Forgive me, what’s your daughter’s name?”
“Lucy. Lucy had a bit of a tough night, what with it being a new place and all. She ended up in my bed. Practically pushed me out of it. She’s a spreader.” Maggie flung her arms over her head in demonstration. Edith knew she should smile, nod in understanding, but she didn’t feel like it.
“You know, I’m happy to make the coffee for you, Edith. I can set it up the night before, no problem. Does it have a timer?” asked Maggie, examining it closely. “Oh yes, there it is. Just let me know when you wake u—”
“Why should you make the coffee for me?” barked Edith, cutting her off. “I’m perfectly capable of making a pot of coffee, Maggie.”
“Suit yourself,” said Maggie.
“I’m not sure what that ridiculous lawyer told you, but I don’t need your help.”
“Message received,” said Maggie. She turned to face the cabinets. “Is the sugar in here?”
“Yes,” answered Edith. “And the milk is in the refrigerator.”
“Thanks,” said Maggie. Edith glared at her back as she prepared her cup.
“So,” she said, turning around.
“So,” repeated Edith.
“If you’re looking for a fight, you’ve got the wrong girl,” said Maggie, before taking her first sip. “I’m just as surprised as you are that Liza chose me.”
Edith raised her mug to her mouth and took a sip of her own, not knowing what to say.
“But she did, and I’m here, so I think we both just have to deal with it, Edith. And being rude isn’t exactly a productive way of dealing with it.”
“Excuse me?” asked Edith.
“Come on, Edith, I know you’re angry about the situation. I would be, too, if I was in your shoes. But I am sincerely here to help you, you know. As best I can, anyway. We can stay out of each other’s way until that kind of opportunity presents itself, if you like. But consider yourself warned—staying out of the way of a two-year-old is tough.”
“Maggie, I don’t appreciate being spoken to like this,” said Edith. “Not at all.”
“I mean no disrespect, believe me. I just thought it would be easier to put our cards on the table.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Edith replied.
“Okay, I get it. I’m not going to bully you into admitting your discomfort.” Maggie walked over to the table and pulled out a chair. “I guess it’ll just happen when it happens. Forget I said anything.”
“Is that supposed to be some kind of a bad joke?” asked Edith.
“What?”
“Forget you said anything? Are you making a joke about my Alzheimer’s?”
“Oh, God no, Edith, please, I would never. I meant it figuratively—”
Edith stormed past Maggie and down the stairs, a furtive smile on her face. Of course she knew that Maggie hadn’t meant anything by saying that, but it felt good to scare her a little. Maggie had surprised her with her forwardness. Edith had been expecting a meek mouse, not a pit bull.
Downstairs, Edith grabbed her keys from the slim wooden table that hugged the wall in the narrow hallway.
“Mommy?” a small voice from Liza’s bedroom called out. Edith froze, glancing at the clock.
Already she was twenty minutes behind schedule. Engaging with a toddler would set her back at least twenty more. Soon her normally deserted beach would be plastered with the yoga mats of those smug, supple people; its sand flying under the hooves of the gazelle-like runners she always made sure to avoid. Not to mention the brighter sun, which would pink up her skin like a boiled shrimp. She turned as quietly as she could towards the door and then, of course, dropped her keys, which landed in a loud, jangled mess at her feet.
“Mommy!” the voice demanded, now outraged by the injustice of being ignored.
Edith retrieved her keys and looked up, willing Maggie to hear her daughter, but knowing that she probably wouldn’t. She could either ascend the stairs again and alert her to the fact that her child was awake or handle it herself. She walked towards the voice instead and gently pushed open the door, which was not entirely shut.
In the middle of a sea of rumpled white sheets was a very small girl swaddled head to toe in pink striped pajamas that zipped up the front. Her curly blond hair pointed north, south, east and west all at once. She regarded Edith coolly, as though a strange old lady appeared in her doorway every day.
“Good morning,” greeted Edith formally. The girl blinked back at her. Edith had forgotten her name again. “Your mother is upstairs, getting breakfast ready,” she continued. “I’m Edith.”
“Edith,” she repeated, tilting her head slightly. And then, “Woommay.”
“Yes, that’s very nice,” replied Edith. “I have to be going now. Do you need help out of bed?” She moved towards her and extended her hand.
“Woommay,” the child said again.
Maybe she’s telling me her name, thought Edith, although it didn’t sound familiar. She’d always had a hard time remembering names, even when she was young. If indeed it was her name, it was a strange one, but all of the names she heard these days were. Whenever she got her hair cut at the salon in town, she would thumb through magazines of celebrities toting children named things like Apple and Moon. It was absurd.
“Hello Woommay,” she said now. “I’m Edith.”
“No! Woommay!” the child yelled, switching from docile lamb to Bengal tiger cub in a matter of seconds, reminding her of Liza as a toddler in the process. Edith backed away slightly as Maggie appeared in the doorway.
“Lucy!” she reprimanded. “That’s not how we speak to people. Apologize to Edith.”
Lucy, thought Edith. Lucy’s face crumpled like a Kleenex.
“Sorry Edith, she’s just a little disoriented, I guess.” Maggie scooped her out of the bed and held her on her hip. Lucy’s lean, striped legs curled around her mother like parentheses.
“Oh no, that’s quite alright. I understand.”
“Woommay,” Lucy whimpered again.
“Yes, this is Edith. Your new roommate.” At the correct translation, Lucy’s face unfolded into a spectacular smile, her brown eyes twinkling.
“Ah, roommate!” said Edith. Roommate. As though the three of them were sharing a dorm room in college.
“That’s an impressive word, Lucy,” she offered. Lucy nuzzled her face into Maggie’s neck, pleased. “Well, I better get going,” Edith continued.
“Of course, go ahead,” said Maggie kindly, as though their kitchen confrontation had never happened.
“Bye woommay,” said Lucy.
“Goodbye Lucy.”
Edith nodded and saw her way out.
CHAPTER 3
Maggie lay in bed the next morning, eyes open as the early morning light dappled the sheets. She had awoken in the middle of the night from a dream about Liza, and hadn’t been able to fall back asleep. They had been walking in Central Park together; Maggie’s breath hanging in front of her in the cold air. Liza had been so real, so there—her infectious laugh ringing in Maggie’s ears. Suddenly, Maggie had lost her balance and fallen forward, her heart in her stomach as the pavement rose up in front of her and then—bam! She had woken up.
In Liza’s bed, of all places. It would have been the kind of thing she would have laughed with Liza about, irony of ironies. A haunted bed. Would have made for a great story to write, too, but Maggie’s former hobby had been wrapped up in resentment for years, so much so that she had abandoned it altogether. She hadn’t tried since Liza had died, though. Maybe it would be different now. Although, in her absence Liza was more present than ever in Maggie’s new life.
She regretted coming at Edith so hard the day before, guns blazing at a harmless old lady, even if she was a curmudgeon. She was hurting, after all. Maggie needed to be more patient; more understanding—the way she was with Lucy. If she had to pretend to be Lucy’s well-compensated nanny just to make it through the day without screaming, so be it.
Outside, birds greeted the day with warbles and trills. Maggie couldn’t remember the last time she had awoken to anything but jackhammers, car horns and the sound of buses wheezing down the street below. It was disconcerting now, to be surrounded by nature, in a room that was as foreign as the new world outside her window. She pushed a pillow against the oak headboard and sat up, reclining against it with a yawn.
To her right was a bank of windows—three across the upper third of the wall and veiled by white wooden shades that Maggie had forgotten to close completely. Below them was a long, squat dresser—the furniture equivalent of a dachshund. Its surface was completely devoid of any mementos of Liza, as was the rest of the room. Maggie wondered who had come in and taken the photos and jewelry; the lotions and hair creams—all of the affectations that made a house a home. A cleaning lady, no doubt.
Maggie had had to do that once, rid an Upper East Side apartment of all traces of its former inhabitant before it went on the market. She’d walked in to find dozens and dozens of empty boxes, ready to be filled and then shipped to a storage unit in Queens, where who knew what would happen to them. She’d taken the job because it paid a boatload, but she’d felt wrong about it, like she was betraying its former inhabitant.
“Just wrap everything up and fill each box to the brim,” the man’s niece had instructed her over the phone. “We don’t want any of that crap.”
But that was his life, she’d wanted to say to her. You shouldn’t call it crap. Instead she just said, “Yes, yes, alright, of course,” and did what she was told.
Maggie sat up. Directly across from the bed was the entrance to the marble sanctuary otherwise known as her personal bathroom. Everything, from the floor to the counter to the glass-encased shower to the freestanding bathtub, gleamed expectantly, accentuated by the kind of lighting that magically erased wrinkles and dark circles. She would have to use the expensive cleaner, the kind that didn’t scratch but practically burned her nose hairs off with its smell, to keep it looking good. Most people didn’t understand Maggie’s compulsion to clean, but it made her feel good; like she had accomplished something.
