Seeing Things (36 page)
Authors: Patti Hill
“If your in-laws are that enthusiastic about their friends, perhaps they're worth knowing. I should think a trip to Scottsdale would be delightful in February. Spend some time by the pool, play a round or two of golf to keep your game sharp. That sounds like doctor's orders to me.”
He straightened. I'd thrown him a curve, and I loved that he couldn't decide whether to swing or not. He bunted, toddling the ball toward my weakness. “Their cook is amazing. I think he's making lasagna with sausage he made himself.”
The pilot light of my anger ignited to flame. “Let me get this straight. You want to hide me away for someâshall we say?âmild eccentricities, but when your in-laws threaten to occupy your precious time with stories of inconsequential people, you have no compunctions about letting your mother take a bullet on your behalf?”
“You are still angry.”
“Martin and Gloria are your in-laws.”
“You're oversensitive.”
“Perhaps I am.”
Andy waited for my answer, hands on hips, stance at the ready to bolt into action.
Lord, I'm not sure I can hold the rope much longer.
“Do you remember the story of the friends who lowered the paralytic through the roof to see Jesus?”
“A Bible story? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Do you remember the story?”
“I've given up on myths, Ma.”
“Jesus saw the faith of the man's friends and healed him.”
“I'll take that as a no.” He turned sharply to leave.
“You're mistaken. I'll be ready in ten minutes.”
“You won't bring out your flannel graph during the entrée, will you?” A smile lightened his voice.
“I'll save it for dessert.”
He stepped out of the room. I called him back. “There's something very important I need to talk to you about.”
“Can it wait until tomorrow? I could spare a few minutes before I head into the office.”
“It's Saturday.”
“I'm trying to keep ahead of the curve.”
“Just knock on the door when you're up and about.”
“Be ready in ten minutes.”
“Andy, are you still looking into boarding schools for Fletcher?”
“I've been pretty busy.”
“Good.”
“That doesn't meanâ”
“He's a good boy.”
“That's what you keep telling me. Ten minutes.”
MARTIN BOWER YAMMERED ON and on about fishing trips to Mexico with senators and walking tours through Tuscany in the company of New York financiers and their take-no-prisoners wives, whom he both loathed and admired, all the while clearing his throat to the point I started counting. During a profile of one of the real estate wives, he cleared his throat thirty-seven times. I attempted to add an anecdote about my travel experiences, only to be talked over and summarily ignored. I was there to serve as an audience, period. I laid my fork and knife down to plot an early exit from this den of tortures. Being old gave me too many choices. Sour stomach? Muscle spasm? Aching joints? Bloating? Gas? My ankle hadn't given me an ounce of trouble for some time. Just as I'd settled on a sour stomach, a hand touched my shoulder.
It was Gloria, whispering in my ear. “Birdie, dear, I'd love to show you my garden before we lose the light.” She straightened, raised her voice. “Martin, you don't mind, do you?”
Martin paused his narrative long enough to clear his throat. If any other communication passed between husband and wife, I missed it completely.
Gloria pulled at my chair and offered her arm. “Let's go then.”
Under her silk jacket, I held her pulpy arm. As we walked, our hips bumped. Gloria was another pear in the fruit bowl of life, only she camouflaged her shape with sweeps of fabric. The moment she opened the door, the scents of the garden rushed meâlilac, moist earth, mowed grassâlife.
“This is my oasis,” Gloria said, leading me across a brick patio dotted with purple flowers of my imagination. I scowled at the flowers, willing them to dissipate. They only multiplied. “Martin is forbidden to step foot out here. He has the garage for his precious cars, for which I could not care less.”
I sniffed the air. “Which way to the lilacs?”
Gloria hooked a bundle of lilac branches and pulled them to my face. I breathed in and memories flitted in and out, merging and finally sorting themselves for review:
The scent of my Ma, doused with lilac water, bending over my bed to say nighttime prayers.
Playing bride with my school friend Brenda, who lived in town. I was the groom, expected to carry her over the threshold. She was a bossy little thing. She traded me for a more compliant friend the very next day.
My grandmother's funeral where every mourner carried bouquets of the blossoms. The job of cramming the stems into vases and mason jars fell to Evelyn and me, until Evelyn showed Pa the hives that swelled on her neck and arms.
My first and last kiss from Harvey Cornfresher, which happened in a stand of lilacs at the park by the lake.
The nights when the scent of lilacs blew up from the small farms surrounding Great Smoky. I waited until Evelyn fell asleep to inch the window open, then sat, nose to the sill, breathing in the sweetness. I'd known to close the window when Evelyn started scratching her nose in her sleep.
“I only wish they bloomed longer,” Gloria said, releasing the blossoms, broadcasting their fragrance. “Martin wanted to stay in Scottsdale for yet another golf tournament. I told him if we missed the blooming of the lilacs, I would make a garden fence of his clubs. I'd never seen him pack faster.”
“We all have our Achilles' heel.”
“Would you be more comfortable using your cane? I could go get it.”
“You're so kind,” I said, surprised by my own words. I'd spent the better part of nine yearsâand it humbles me terribly to admit thisâhating her. “I went to see the surgeon yesterday. The bones are healing nicely. The cane is only a security blanket. I don't really need it.”
“Glad to hear it.” She hooked my arm. “I have a lovely fountain I'd like to show you.”
We sat on a stone bench, listening to the energetic gurgle of the fountain. Every once in a while, a droplet hit my face. I closed my eyes to imagine Old Powder Horn Creek rushing past, veiling over boulders, rattling pebbles, exciting my heart.
“I've brought you out here for a reason,” Gloria said.
I blinked stupidly. “Your garden is as lovely as you promised.”
“Yes, well, that was just a ruse. We have something much more important to discuss. At least, I hope you'll hear me out.”
“Go on.”
“I'm married to a bombastic, self-important old fool, but you already knew that. You're a sharp woman. I've marveled at your independence since Andrew told us about you. It can't be easy getting by on your own with limited vision. My admiration knows no limits.”
She paused. I knew I should acknowledge her compliment, but her words staggered me.
“In fact, Martin's mother claimed he was born a bombastic, self-important fool. She came to my house the night before the wedding to warn me not to marry him, but I married him for reasons of my own, and he hasn't disappointed. That doesn't mean I haven't regretted my decision, but I'm of the generation, as you well know, that sleeps in the bed we've made.”
I squirmed. “Gloria, I don't seeâ”
“I will never forget the look on your face as we ushered little Fletcher out the front door on the way to the country club. You remember the day? He'd just graduated from kindergarten. Such pomp and circumstance for their mild achievement, but you and Chuck drove all the way from Ouray to attend the ceremony. Clearly, we'd ripped your heart in two.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“You don't have to pretend for my sake. Being left behind hurt you terribly. Martinâand I don't quite know how to say this without being insultingâis too caught up in appearances.”
I'd suspected this all along. Having my suspicions confirmed only soured my mood. “Why bring it up now?”
“Your anger doesn't surprise me. I could have stepped in, insisted that you be included in our plans or that other arrangements be made, but I was too interested in self-preservation to do the right thing. I'm hoping that you're a better woman than I am. I'm hoping you can forgive me.”
I wasn't the woman she'd hoped for, but I wasn't ready to admit that either. “It sounds like your husband should be out here.”
“I believed that, too, for far too long. You see, Martin's behavior has provided a convenient smoke screen for my own selfishness. I'm done with all that.”
My face puckered and my bottom lip quivered. I squeezed my eyes shut to staunch the flow of tears. So forceful did they press, I surrendered to the flow. Gloria held my shaking shoulders.
“Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. Please, please don't cry.”
With no tissues at hand, Gloria offered the hem of her tunic. Even still, her apology seemed frivolous.
She continued. “Although nothing can justify what I failed to do that day, it had been a tough day. We almost didn't go to the ceremony. Martin insisted we attend despite the fact I'd discovered a hotel entry card in the pocket of his trousers when I laid out his clothes. This wasn't the first time. I was a mess. What did I expect? I looked in the mirror every day. I had nothing to offer him. I walked on eggshells for weeks after that, wondering, fearing that one cross word from me and he would turn me out into the streets. And who would want me? My own daughter kept reminding me of that. âDon't you want your eyes done? Your neck adds years to your age, Mother.' I suppose she meant well.”
“What's changed?”
“The most wondrous thing happened at the hospital where I volunteer. I cuddle sick babies. The more cuddling they get, the quicker they gain weight and thrive. And the parents need a break from the constant demands. Looking back on it now, I think I was the one who needed cuddling.
“I'd been cuddling little Marco since he was born. He was just over three pounds. The volunteers and nurses celebrated every ounce he gained with the parents. I almost didn't go to cuddle him that day. Martin had been particularly surly, probably punishing me for putting an end to his latest tryst. I sat in the garage, behind the wheel of the car, for a long time, wondering what I could do to make things better between us. I'd tried everything I could think of. I'd come to the end of my rope. I started the car and drove to the hospital.
“Marco's lids were heavy when I bent over his incubator. Since my last visit, they'd taken the feeding tube out of his nose. Another celebration. Only one small electrode stuck to his chest. He'd be going home soon.
“I said his name. âMarco?' His eyes flew open and he turned to me, flailing his arms and legs. That baby was happy to see me. Me. The person Martin dismissed as too old and too stale. But this fresh, new human being, who only knew me by the sound of my voice and the beating of my heart, loved me. I fulfilled his every dream just by showing up and holding him.
“I found a quiet corner of the NICU. Marco nestled into my chest, as misshapen as sandbags, and fell into a peaceful sleep. You know, Birdie, that's how we should love one another, pendulum breasts and sagging butts included. Are we present? Are we loving? Are we tender? From that day forward, I knew I was indeed lovable, even if I could play dot-to-dot with my moles. Martin had the problem, not me. But that meant no more hiding behind his poor behavior.
“And so, that brings me back to my reason for asking you out here. Will you forgive me for being too self-involved not to respond to your pain?”
Martin's voice boomed across the garden. “Where in blazes are the pamphlets from the boarding schools?”
“What's he talking about?” I asked, standing.
“Since Suzanne told us about the incident with Fletcher, Martin's been on a mission to find the perfect school for the boy.”
I hobbled toward the house. Gloria caught up with me. “What's the rush, Birdie?”
“Tell me what you know about the incident between Suzanne and Fletcher.”
In Gloria's version, Fletcher shoved Suzanne when she asked him to take the dog outside. Either Gloria and I were about to end the shortest friendship in history or forge an alliance for Fletcher's benefit.
“First of all, I forgive you. I admire your commitment and your courage.”
“But?”
“It didn't happen like that.”
I PETTED THE PLACE on the bed where Bee should have been. “I hope you're being a good dog for Emory. We wouldn't want him changing his mind about us.”
Other books
Red Dog: An Evil Dead MC Story (The Evil Dead MC Series Book 6) by Nicole James
Trump and Me by Mark Singer
Bayou Corruption by Robin Caroll
The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown
A Gown of Spanish Lace by Janette Oke
A Night at the Wesley by Vallory Vance
Pegasi and Prefects by Eleanor Beresford
Patricia Falvey by The Yellow House (v5)
Sam the Stolen Puppy by Holly Webb
The Shining Ones by David Eddings
