Tessa McDermid - Family Stories (26 page)

Hannah grinned. Stubborn wasn't a bad trait to have. At least she came by it honestly in this family.

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Chapter 1 7

Lincoln, Iowa

1950-1955

Alice never knew if a memory was real y hers or a memory chat others had shared with her. Other times, stories were so clear in her mind, she knew she'd experienced the incident herself.

"But, Alice, you were three!" Margaret or Anne would insist.

Alice would shake her head, curls bobbing around her face. "I remember!" she'd insist. Her sisters would sigh and turn away, muttering, "She's so stubborn sometimes."

She had learned to be stubborn. Being the youngest was not easy and if she didn't hold out, she'd be ignored.

She had to establish her place in the family. Anne was the boss as the oldest; Margaret always had her books. As the baby, she'd discovered early on that a grin and a coyly tilted head could charm the hardest of hearts.

For years, she shared a room with Margaret, and then, when she was six, a tiny dressing room off the hal way was converted into her bedroom. She didn't want to move there, but her natural stubbornness won through and she didn't say anything about her reluctance.

"I can final y have some privacy," she said in a haughty voice, Margaret laughed and rumpled her hair. Alice ducked away. She hated when her sisters did that. "Why would a six-year-old need privacy?" Margaret asked.

"Because."

"Wel , I need privacy, too." Margaret grinned. "Now we can both be happy."

But Alice wasn't happy. She waited until late that first night before she started to cry, hiding her face in the pil ows. She'd never tel them how much she hated being alone at night, unable to hear any family sounds.

She'd happily fal en asleep each evening listening to Margaret's breathing. In her new room she could only hear unidentified noises, and huddling under the covers didn't comfort her.

Sleeping in her own room was a clear, distinct memory, one that remained clear and distinct even in adulthood.

But the war years were vague. Her most vivid recol ection was of attending the different committee meetings with her mother. They'd wrap bandages, fix up packages to send to soldiers, write letters. She'd scribbled pictures and given them to her mother, knowing they'd go to the soldiers but not sure what that meant.

Frank's absence and the early trips to the lake were memories she had because of stories she'd heard.

Margaret and Anne would argue about details, and sometimes Alice wished she could add to the discussion but her images of that time were too dim.

"She's too little to remember anything," Margaret said one night. She was working on a school report about their experiences during the war and asked Anne for assistance.

"I remember Dad being in the navy, "Alice offered. "And Mom went after him and we stayed alone for a few days."

Her sisters looked at each other. "I do remember!" She couldn't help stamping her foot. They might both be teenagers now but she wasn't a baby anymore.

"Of course you do, dear." Anne gave her an indulgent smile. "You just have different memories than us. We al do. No one remembers things exactly the same."

"Twins do." She was very interested in twins. A pair had started at school, and al the children were fascinated by the two girls who resembled each other so closely.

"Not even twins can have identical memories." Anne picked up her schoolbooks and headed down the hal to her room. "It's okay, Alice. We're supposed to have our own experiences."

One experience Alice had that she'd never shared with her sisters happened the summer she was eleven.

They had revived their lake visits, their stays shorter because her sisters had to be at school when the academic year started in early September. Anne lifeguarded at the lake and Margaret was usual y hidden somewhere with her books and her writing. Alice wandered around, visiting with nearby families, becoming the neighborhood sweetheart.

"Why don't you invite any of your friends to the house?" Marian asked one evening.

"They're busy," Alice said. She didn't want to explain that she'd rather her friends didn't see the smal , cluttered cottage, strewn with books and clothes.

"We like to play outside," she added. "That's why we came here, isn't it? To enjoy the weather?"

Marian lit another cigarette. Her smoking always increased when they were at the lake. "Don't be smart with me, young lady. If you're ashamed to bring your friends here, I won't ask you again." She opened her book, pointedly ignoring Alice.

Alice knelt at her mother's knee. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to be rude. But we live in such a tiny cottage and they have big houses."

Marian ran her fingers through Alice's curls. "Then we'l plan a picnic."

Alice agreed and happily issued her invitations. Her friends -chattered and laughed about the outing. Alice beamed at being able to reciprocate their hospitality.

She agonized over the menu, final y selecting chicken salad sandwiches, cookies and fruit. She baked the cookies with Anne the night before. Marian promised to make the sandwiches the next morning.

Alice woke early. She'd laid out her clothes the previous night and now she pul ed on the yellow-and-white striped blouse, the yellow skirt, her favorite sandals. Running downstairs, she stopped in the kitchen doorway, expecting to see Marian making the sandwiches.

The kitchen was empty. She whirled around, looking for her sandwiches. Bare counters. Angry, she darted down the hal to her parents' bedroom.

The door was ajar. She pushed it wider. There was no one in the room, but from outside the open window, she heard her mother's laugh and then the deeper laugh of a man.

Creeping across the wooden floor, careful not to step on the creaking boards too hard, she peeked over the windowsill. Her mother sat on the back porch railing, a cigarette in one hand. The man, a stranger, sat on a rusty metal chair, his long legs inches from Marian's bare feet.

Alice was rooted to the floor. She couldn't move, she couldn't speak, she could hardly breathe. What was that man doing with her mother? He lazily rose to his feet.

With a rush, al feeling came back to her and she gasped, racing down the hal and out the back door. Her sandals slipped and slid on the dewy grass, the moisture soaking her feet, her heart pounding as she ran and ran until she couldn't move another step.

She col apsed under a tree, her eyes squeezed shut against the sight of her mother and a strange man, alone in the backyard.

She must have fal en asleep. Anne was cal ing her name and she sat up, rubbing her hands over her face. Her skirt and blouse were rumpled and her cheeks were wet with tears. She jumped to her feet, trying to repair the damage.

"We've been hunting everywhere for you!"

She saw the question in Anne's eyes but she couldn't tel her what she'd seen. "What happened with the picnic?" she whispered. Her lips were dry, and her mouth felt as if she'd swallowed a packet of cotton bal s.

"Margaret went to everyone's house and told them you were sick. We're going to reschedule it."

Alice shook her head. "No. No picnic." She couldn't stand the idea of eating a chicken salad sandwich ever again.

"What's the matter with you?" Anne's voice was curious. She couldn't know what Alice had seen.

She swallowed. "I thought I was... wel , um..."What would Anne believe? Her older sister was too smart to accept just any excuse. "I thought I was, wel ..." She lowered her eyes and scuffed her sandal along the dirt. A strap had come loose from her mad run. "I thought I was, um, becoming a woman."

Margaret wasn't the only one who could make up stories. "I didn't want anyone around today. Except I'm not, that is—"

Anne hugged her close. "You sil y thing. That's no reason to cancel your picnic. We'l have a talk later. Now we need to get you home. Mother's worried sick."

She let Anne walk her back to the house, her legs moving stiffly because of their cramped position al morning.

Marian grabbed her in a fierce hug. "Where did you go?" Her voice was tight with worry.

Alice bowed her head, unable to meet her mother's eyes.

"Alice had a misunderstanding about her body today," Anne said, a hint of humor in her voice. "She'll probably be hearing from Mother Nature in the near future."

"Is that what this was al about, Alice?" Marian asked.

Alice remained silent. When Anne excused herself to start supper, she began to fol ow but her mother cal ed her back.

"Alice, please come here."

She kept walking to the kitchen.

"Alice, now."

She couldn't ignore the command. She stumbled to the davenport, perching on the end farthest from her mother.

She thought of her wonderful picnic, her friends, her father. Rage boiled inside and spil ed out of her mouth.

"I saw him, Mama. I saw that man."

Her mother lit a cigarette. "He's a friend of your father's, Alice. He visits whenever he's in town." She took a long drag on her cigarette. The smoke bil owed out from her lips and rose to the ceiling.

"Daddy knows him?"

Her mother nodded. "They met when your father was first traveling around here. Rob always stops by to say hel o if he's in the area."

"I've never seen him before."

Marian stubbed out her cigarette. "I'm not surprised. You're usual y out roaming. And Rob never stays very long. Your father and I do have our own friends, Alice."

"But it was so early..." Her voice trailed off.

"He was leaving town. He had appointments al day yesterday and didn't think it was proper to visit last night, since your father's in Lincoln, at the shop. He came out for a quick cup of coffee before his train left."

Her mother kissed the top of her head. "Trust is a very important commodity in a marriage, Miss Alice. Your father trusts me, which is why we can enjoy our summers here at the lake. Even if our cottage is dinky and messy."

Her expression was stern, but Alice caught the twinkle in her mother's blue eyes. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"You should be." Her mother tapped another cigarette out of the pack. "And I'm sorry about your picnic. I intended to make the sandwiches after Rob left. I wasn't neglecting you, Alice. And I love your father too much, honey, to ever look at another man."

Which is probably why she smokes so much, Alice realized in .1 burst of grown-up clarity. To fil the empty space when her dad wasn't around.

She gave her mother a heartfelt hug. "I love you, Mom."

"And I love you. Now go change your clothes. You're filthy."

She moved back into Margaret's room when they returned to Lincoln. She told her mother that her room was too smal for a bedroom and her mother agreed it would be handy as a sewing room. Margaret's objections were ignored, and Alice was soon safely back with her sister.

She moved again when Anne went off to col ege. "It's foolish for us to share a room when Anne's room is available," Margaret argued.

Frank sided with Margaret. "You need to be more independent, Alice. We have this nice house, room for al of us. Take advantage of it."

Alice carted her few belongings into the room that was stil Anne's. She didn't put away anything Anne had left: the stuffed dog from childhood, the books, the magazines. As long as they fil ed the shelves, she could imagine Anne in the room.

She slept with the stuffed dog in her arms the night of Anne's wedding. Richard was nice and she wanted Anne to be happy. If only she wasn't leaving Lincoln!

After Margaret left for England, her parents acted as if they were on a second honeymoon, going to dinner and movies, holding hands. Alice suspected they didn't mean to leave her out, but she began to spend more and more time in the room that used to be Anne's and was now officially hers. She sewed bright curtains for the window, embroidered a colorful covering for the bed, bought cheerful pictures for the wall. The room took on a pleasant atmosphere that belied the fear of loneliness in Alice's heart.

Loneliness was the reason for her short-lived marriage.

Running off to marry her best friend in the middle of their senior year in high school had seemed a good idea at the time. No man lonely nights. They would talk about their day, sleep together at night. They'd been so young and foolish.

She didn't completely regret the few months they'd spend together. Her daughter, Marcia, was the most precious gift in her life. The little girl reveled in bright colors, happy stories, the world around her. No matter what else happened, she would never wish her daughter away.

Chapter 18

Lincoln, Iowa

1959

"Why are you moving?" Marian asked the question again.

"Marcia and I need our own space, Mom. And you and Dad should have time together." She checked around the room that had been hers for most of her growing-up years—and then Marcia's.

"But your father and I like having you here. You can't take our granddaughter away! I never see Anna's children at al ."

"You saw them at Christmas." Alice added the last of Marcia's clothes to the pile in her arms and headed for the car.

"For four days." Marian struggled with a box of Marcia's toys.

"We're not leaving town, Mom. But Marcia's getting spoiled, having four adults fawning over her." And her four-year-old daughter was learning how to manipulate her grandparents. Alice wanted to break the pattern before it became impossible to do so.

"You'll come by for supper every night?"

Alice dumped the clothes on the back seat and reached for the box, cramming it into the already ful trunk.

"Not every night. You invite us and we'll come over."

"Just be careful. A single woman in an apartment building... You're asking for trouble, Alice."

She kissed her mother's cheek. "I'll be fine, Mom. I'm going now. I want to unload these things before I have to pick up Marcia."

Her daughter was with her other grandparents. Tom had gone on to university after their divorce and was now in medical school. He saw his daughter on visits home, sent her funny cards and presents, and cal ed the first Sunday of every month. Marcia enjoyed his visits but she never fussed when he left. He was a pleasant man who came to visit her. She accepted the homage as her due.