Good Grief (24 page)

“Crystal,” I say mechanically. “Unlock the door.”

She heads to the front of the bakery, spinning back toward me when she sees Drew. Her mouth drops open and she stops in protest.

I glare at her. “Go.”

She backs toward the entrance, eyes on me the whole way. She snaps the lock open but lets Drew struggle with the sticky door. The bell rings cheerfully.

“Hi,” he says, extending a hand to Crystal. “Drew Ellis.”

“I
know.
” She folds her arms over her chest. “Whatcha want?”

“Here to see Sophie.”

“About what?” She forms a blockade in the doorway to the kitchen, her feet spread wide.

Drew looks over her shoulder at me. Turning away, I dunk the cookie sheets into the sink.

“I want to tell her I’m sorry and ask her if she’ll have dinner with me.”

“I don’t
think
so, jackass,” Crystal snaps.

“Hi,” I hear him say, stepping past Crystal into the kitchen, exuding his same old Drew exuberance, as if he hadn’t dumped me for a red-haired harpy. I turn from the sink. He looks sexy in black jeans and a white T-shirt. “Too Dudley Do-Right,” Ruth said of his square, cleft chin. But I like it. I shudder, turn back to the sink, grip the faucet.

“We’re closed,” Crystal says, following behind him.

He kneads his New York Mets cap with both hands and looks at the floor.

“Crystal . . .” I untie my apron, wad it up, and toss it on the table. “Why don’t you go home and I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Uh!” She stomps her foot on the floor.

“Now.”

She turns on her heels, grabs her jacket and science book, and hurries out the back door, slamming it behind her.

“She doesn’t like me,” Drew says.

I shrug, moving the cookie sheets to a rack to dry.

“I don’t blame her,” he says, gesturing toward one of the chairs at the table. “May I?”

“Sure. Whatever.” I’ve learned the value of this word during my time with Crystal. How it can provide a shell of indifference that prevents your feelings from getting hurt.

“Listen, I want to apologize.” Drew rubs his face with his hands. “I know it sounds stupid. But I’ve been through a very difficult time these past two weeks.”

“And now you want to go out for coffee?” I wipe down the ovens.

He looks at me quizzically; I don’t think he realizes this is the last thing he said to me.

“I was confused.”

“I remember. About Ginger.”

He nods. “I fell for her two years ago. Before you even moved here.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Drew holds up a hand to stop me. “She had a fiancé in New York, as I told you. Still, she and I spent a lot of time together as friends. I always hoped it would be more. Until I met you.”

“Great, so I was the booby prize?”

“No! As soon as I met you, I wasn’t attracted to Ginger in the same way anymore. We still spent time together, but I didn’t pine for her. And she
missed
that. She missed the buzz she got from me wanting her. I realize now that’s what fueled our friendship. She got high on my attraction to her. Actors can be
very
narcissistic.”

Drew’s face is pale, eyes sunken. I want to sit at the table with him. Instead, I grab my jacket and purse off the hook by the back door.

“As soon as I told her how much I liked you, how happy I was, she wanted me. She couldn’t stand to see me happy with someone else. Suddenly I was confused and had a choice to make.”

Maybe I don’t need to hear this story. I don’t feel up to the details of Ginger’s seduction tactics.

I turn off the lights in the front room and switch the fan off over the oven.

“So I thought I’d better not see you for a while.” Drew looks up, his face pleading. “But it was terrible not seeing you.”

I back up against the double sink, rooting in my purse for my car keys.

He sighs and drops his hands at his sides. “I won’t be seeing her anymore, not even as a friend. She’s meddlesome and controlling, and I don’t want you to worry about her. It’s over. It never even started.” He adds quietly, “I didn’t sleep with her.”

I find my keys and jab them in the air at Drew. “You
work
with her,” I say, as though this is worse than sex. In a way, it is. Seeing a woman every day whom he
wants
to sleep with might be worse than actually sleeping with her and getting the fantasy over with. Finding the bumps and lumps of her imperfections, rather than leaving everything to his imagination. Assuming Ginger
has
any bumps and lumps. I hate to even theorize.

“I do. I work with her. She’s joining another company next season, though. So it’s only six more months.”

“Six months is a long time.”

“It is. But please, give me another chance.”

“We’ll see,” I say.
Dangerous rebound guy,
Ruth insisted months ago.

“We’ll have to take it slowly,” I finally tell him.

Drew gets up from the table and steps toward me, reaching out a hand. “I understand.”

I’m afraid he’s going to touch me or hug me or dump me again. I shuffle backward, bumping against the sink.

“Very slowly.” I flip off the kitchen lights.

Drew drops his hand, bows his head. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I—”

I unlock the back door and hold it open for him, nodding at the parking lot. “So slowly that you have to leave now.”

26

The next morning Marion’s sister, Jolene, who’s ten years younger than Marion and lives in Sacramento, calls.

After commenting on what a nice young man Ethan was and expressing shock over the fact that her neighbor’s cat recently snuck into her house and fell asleep in a basket of freshly laundered towels, Jolene finally cuts to the chase.

“It’s Marion,” she says, sighing wearily.

“Is she all right?”

“Yes and no. She’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.”

I can’t imagine this. Marion never forgets anything. She always remembers where she parked her car, never misses anyone’s birthday, and commits casserole recipes to memory: one can of mushroom soup, one can of tuna, a half teaspoon of cayenne, a cup of potato sticks. She knows all the words to the old songs she and Charlie used to dance to, singing along to
Big Sal’s Swing Show
on the car radio.

“Really? I’m so sorry.”

“She wants to come and see you.”

“Me?”
I consider the controlled disdain Marion always had for me, as though I were a failing houseplant she kept watering and fertilizing but it just wouldn’t bloom.

“Okay,” I answer tentatively. “When?” I try to sound brighter, hospitable.

“This week.”

My stomach cramps with panic. I recall the brusque efficiency with which Marion whisked Ethan’s belongings into my garage in San Jose. Now I’ve moved his boxes from storage into Colonel Cranson’s garage, to save on the storage fees. Will Marion repossess them?

“She won’t be able to travel alone much longer,” Jolene explains. “This will be her last trip.”

“Is it that bad?”

“She has some good days.”

When Marion shows up, it’s apparent she’s not having one of her good days. I can’t believe Jolene let her travel alone.

In the car on the way to my house from the airport in Medford, she wraps her arms tightly around her hard, toaster-size cosmetics case as though someone might steal it. Worry wrinkles her powdery brow as she tries to tell me about how Jolene is forcing her to move to a new place. (A very lovely assisted living facility, Jolene insisted on the phone.) But nouns confound Marion. She’ll struggle to think of a word, rapping her forehead with her knuckles in frustration. The word will always be a simple noun, such as house or sky.

I think of how busy Marion has always been—an activity for every day of the week. Church and bowling and bridge and her hospital auxiliary group.

We head toward the grocery store to buy Marion a new romance novel, since she finished hers on the plane. I remember how she devours the books intently, snapping through the pages while clucking her tongue with disapproval. She favors the raciest titles with oil paintings on the covers of men with coppery skin and glistening biceps embracing women with sweaty cleavage, heads thrown back with abandon.

Seeing me obviously makes Marion’s brain hurt as she struggles for context. She wants to know where Ethan and his father, Charlie are, assuming they must be in Oregon, too. She’s suspicious, as though I’m hiding them from her.

“They died,” I remind her.

It’s ironic that Marion has shown up six days before the first anniversary of Ethan’s death, apparently unaware of the fact that he’s no longer with us. Equally ironic is the fact that I’ve scheduled the grand opening for the bakery to take place a day before the anniversary. I’ve managed to surround this grief sinkhole with a to-do list that would make a speed freak blanch. And Ethan’s death looms larger now than it did when he was terminally ill, which certainly isn’t helping me finish the party preparations. “Is there any way to postpone it?” Sandy asked when I confessed to my odd scheduling. Not unless I want to call the two hundred people I’ve invited—from local bed-and-breakfast owners to festival employees to city officials. So I’m soldiering on with the preparations, stacks of plastic champagne glasses towering on my kitchen counters.

When Ethan died, Marion shot straight to the acceptance stage of grief. Now she’s regressed into a haven’t-heard-the-news-yet fog that I kind of envy. Meanwhile, I’m in a manic, perfect-the-lemon-cream-frosting phase. But this is all I can conceive of doing. When I consider July 19—the day of Ethan’s death—I can imagine screaming, sobbing, and clawing the carpet or filling two hundred little paper cups with cashews. I cannot imagine sitting calmly with my grief journal and photo albums.

“Ethan and Charlie are gone,” I tell her, reaching across the seat and patting the slippery knee of her polyester slacks. “You’re stuck with me.”

“I never wanted a daughter,” Marion replies primly. “I wanted three sons.” She hugs the powder blue case tighter and looks out the window. Her eyes dart back and forth at the passing scenery, and her head trembles slightly, like a cat watching a bird.

“You want your money back?” I ask her.

She nods, purses her lips.

“If you find out where to submit a claim, let me know,” I tell her. “I’d like a refund, too.”

The next morning I awaken to a loud clatter coming from the kitchen: ba-
bang,
ba-
bang
! I hurry downstairs to find that the racket’s coming from the laundry room. Inside the dryer I find a frying pan.

“Better get our chores done, dear!” Marion chirps from behind me, scrubbing the kitchen counters with an SOS pad. “Can’t sleep all day!” Blue foam bubbles up between her fingers.

It’s only six-thirty, barely light outside. She’s already dressed in bright green slacks and a lemon yellow cotton sweater. She always wears bold, country club colors and thick-soled white shoes that make a squishing sound when she walks. Despite her child-of-the-Depression frugality, she buys a new pair of the shoes every six months so they’re always spotless, never a scuff or scrape.

I decide to harness Marion’s energy. If she wants to work, she can help me get ready for the bakery opening, which is only four days away.

When Crystal shows up at the bakery midmorning to help, she’s quickly irritated by Marion’s confusion.

“Quit it!” Crystal whines, slapping at Marion’s hands as Marion tries to load blackberry muffins into the dishwasher.

“Be patient,” I tell Crystal. I figured the more helpers I had, the faster the preparations would go, but now I wonder if I’d be better off without these two.

I steer Marion away from the dishwasher, pulling out the muffins and arranging them on a plate. “The guests are going to sample these,” I tell Marion. “Don’t they look good?” The muffins are golden brown and sprinkled with clumps of white sugar.

“Who
is
this young lady?” Marion asks haughtily, glaring at Crystal and biting into a muffin.

“Hand it over, grandma,” Crystal says, reaching for the muffin. “Those are for the party.”

Marion holds the muffin behind her back, narrowing her topaz blue eyes.

“Let her have one,” I tell Crystal.

“Why? You make me eat the broken ones.”

“Ethan won’t care for this behavior,” Marion tells Crystal, wagging a crooked finger at her. “Where
is
he?”

Crystal rolls her eyes and shoves a clump of frosting into her mouth. “He died,” she says through the mouthful of frosting. “Of cancer. Hello! Like, almost a
year
ago.”

Marion sets down her muffin. She looks at Crystal, looks at me. Then her gnarled little hand flies up and she slaps Crystal sharply on the face.

Crystal rears backward, her tongue exploring the inside of her cheek. “You’re a fruitcake!” she shrieks, looking to me for help.

“Marion doesn’t feel good,” I tell Crystal.

I pour Marion some milk. She wraps her knobby fingers around the glass and stares vacantly at the wall, as though she’s already forgotten what just happened.

“She
hit
me,” Crystal says with disbelief, still running her fingers over her cheek.

“She didn’t mean it,” I tell her. “You’re okay.”

“What
ever,
” Crystal says. “Who does she think she is?”

“She’s confused,” I try to explain.

“I’m confused,” Marion says. She begins to weep. “I am.” Jolene said that Marion knows she has Alzheimer’s, but she’s too embarrassed to talk about it. Her shoulders shake as she emits little ladylike sobs. Crying and succumbing to confusion is probably her worst fear. Marion has always loathed weakness, dreaded the thought of becoming a sloppy, wallowing widow like me. This is the first time I’ve seen her cry since Ethan’s memorial service. That day, tears streaked her cheeks as she stood on the beach. But they dried quickly in the wind, and we were back at her house in no time, arranging daffodils in vases and setting out trays of deviled eggs.

“I don’t want to live in a home,” she moans.

“Then you can’t
hit
people,” Crystal says.

“It’s not a home,” I tell Marion. “It’s assisted living. Jolene says there’s a yard with a garden and a nice communal dining room. I’ll help you pack and move. I’ll sleep over with you for the first few nights.”

I’m not sure how I’ll manage to go down to San Jose to participate in the move and keep the bakery open. But I want to help. Marion’s even more alone in the world than I am. At least I have Dad and Jill, Ruth and Crystal. I wish Ethan were here to console her. “Try not to worry so much, Mom,” he used to say, squeezing her small pink hand until she stopped fretting.

Marion looks up at me. She wipes her eyes with her sleeve, sips the milk. “That would be nice, dear,” she says.

As I wash a stack of dirty bowls, my party anxiety builds. What if no one shows? Maybe no one cares about a bakery opening. Or worse, what if
everyone
comes and there’s not enough food?

“We’re falling behind here,” Crystal says, clapping her hands. “Let’s frost these.” She sets a plate of banana cupcakes and a bowl of icing in front of Marion.

“Hellooooo!” a voice calls out from the front of the store. Drew. Great. All I need right now is His Coffeeness messing with my mind.

“Hi,” I call out tentatively.

Loser!
Crystal mouths.

“Who is it?” Marion whispers.

“It’s her
boyfriend,
” Crystal says, licking icing off the edge of her palm.

Marion draws in a sharp breath. “But she’s
married.
” She says this with the same disdain she uses to describe the lascivious women in her romance novels.

Drew stands in the doorway to the kitchen. Deep dimples, smoky blue-gray eyes. My hand wanders up to my curls, patting them into place. This is the first time I’ve seen him since his apology. After that day he sent a big bouquet of lobbying-for-a-second-chance roses, but I didn’t call him.

“Hi,” he says brightly. Marion melts, splaying a hand across her chest. Her mouth forms a little coral-colored O, and her eyebrows arch with delight.

“This is my mother-in-law, Marion Stanton,” I tell Drew.

“My pleasure,” Drew says, tipping his head and taking her hand in his. “How do you like Oregon so far?”

“It’s
lovely,
” Marion purrs. Just yesterday she said it looked like a dreary watercolor.

“Have you been to the theater yet?”

Marion looks at me forlornly, as though I’ve cheated her.

“We’ve been working on the party,” I tell him.

“Well, you must come. I’ll get you front row center seats.”

Marion tips her head and looks at him demurely through lowered lashes.

“We’re, like,
working
here,” Crystal snaps.

“And you’re doing a great job,” Drew tells her.

She huffs a sigh, pretending not to be flattered, and keeps frosting. “Were you ever in, like, a
real
movie or TV show?” she asks suspiciously.

“I was on a soap opera,” Drew says, shuddering at the memory. “I was Anthony, the brother from Albany who had a tumor.”

I find myself grateful for Crystal’s innate ability to tap into Drew’s worst fear—being a B-grade actor. Somehow I want to hurt Drew back, even if in a small way.

“What kinda tumor?” Crystal asks.

“Brain. I had amnesia and couldn’t remember Rachel.”

“My goodness,” Marion says. “Is your tumor
growing
?”

“On TV, stupid,” Crystal tells her.

“I am not stupid,” Marion says, pride burning in her eyes.

“Who was Rachel?” Crystal asks Drew.

“Old girlfriend.”

“Did you have sex on TV?” Crystal asks eagerly.

The thought of Drew lip-locked with a soap opera starlet wearing gobs of greasy lip gloss makes me bristle. I’m irritated by my jealousy, by Drew’s ability to distract me.

“Nah.” He turns to me. “I’ve got something for you,” he says.

I look at his empty hands, peer behind his back.

“It’s outside.”

I don’t have time for a second-chance sales pitch right now.

I’ve got something for you,
Crystal mouths, standing behind Drew, mocking him. He’s working hard to win Crystal over and win me back, but we’re both tough nuts.

“Come on.” He leads me by the elbow through the back door. In the parking lot, something large and rectangular is hidden under a green tarp.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

I close my eyes and cup a hand over my face, listening to the snap of the tarp as he yanks it off.

“Ta-da!”

I open my eyes, squinting. It’s an oven. Not just any oven, but a circa 1937 Westinghouse automatic painted cherry red with chrome trim and four gas burners with white oversize knobs. It’s the oven that Drew and I found in an antique shop in Jackson when we first started dating. I spent half an hour running my hands over the smooth paint on its swollen belly of a door and opening the bun warmer underneath and wishing the oven were mine.

“This would look so great in my bakery,” I told Drew.

“What bakery?” he asked.

“The bakery I’m going to open one day.”

The store owner said that the old woman who sold it to him claimed that when her brother was born prematurely he was put in a shoebox and kept alive in the bun warmer. I know for a fact that the oven cost around $2,300. I know for a fact that Drew doesn’t make a lot of money, that this probably put a hefty dent in his savings. I know for a fact that this is a perfectly thought-out gift.