The Lovely Bones (12 page)

“A builder” was all Mr. Harvey said when he was young. Then he stopped answering the question of what his father did. How
could he say he worked in the desert, and that he built shacks of broken glass and old wood? He lectured George Harvey on
what made a good building, on how to make sure you were constructing things to last.

So it was his father’s old sketchbooks that Mr. Harvey looked at when the not still dreams came back. He would steep himself
in the images of other places and other worlds, trying to love what he did not. And then he would begin to dream dreams of
his mother the last time he had seen her, running through a field on the side of the road. She had been dressed in white. White
capri pants and a tight white boat-neck shirt, and his father and she had fought for the last time in the hot car outside
of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. He had forced her out of the car. George Harvey sat still as stone in the back seat—eyes
wide, no more afraid than a stone, watching it all as he did everything by then—in slow-mo. She had run without stopping,
her white body thin and fragile and disappearing, while her son clung on to the amber necklace she had torn from her neck
to hand him. His father had watched the road. “She’s gone now, son,” he said. “She won’t be coming back.”

M
y grandmother arrived on the evening before my memorial in her usual style. She liked to hire limousines and drive in from
the airport sipping champagne while wearing what she called her “thick and fabulous animal”—a mink she had gotten secondhand
at the church bazaar. My parents had not so much invited her as included her if she wanted to be there. In late January, Principal
Caden had initiated the idea. “It will be good for your children and all the students at school,” he had said. He took it
upon himself to organize the event at our church. My parents were like sleepwalkers saying yes to his questions, nodding their
heads to flowers or speakers. When my mother mentioned it on the phone to her mother, she was surprised to hear the words “I’m
coming.”

“But you don’t have to, Mother.”

There was a silence on my grandmother’s end. “Abigail,” she said, “this is Susan’s funeral.”

* * *

Grandma Lynn embarrassed my mother by insisting on wearing her used furs on walks around the block and by once attending a
block party in high makeup. She would ask my mother questions until she knew who everyone was, whether or not my mother had
seen the inside of their house, what the husband did for a living, what cars they drove. She made a solid catalog of the neighbors.
It was a way, I now realized, to try to understand her daughter better. A miscalculated circling, a sad, partnerless dance.

“Jack-y,” my grandmother said as she approached my parents on the front porch, “we need some stiff drinks!” She saw Lindsey
then, trying to sneak up the stairs and gain a few more minutes before the required visitation. “Kid hates me,” Grandma Lynn
said. Her smile was frozen, her teeth perfect and white.

“Mother,” my mother said. And I wanted to rush into those ocean eyes of loss. “I’m sure Lindsey is just going to make herself
presentable.”

“An impossibility in this house!” said my grandmother.

“Lynn,” said my father, “this is a different house than last time you were here. I’ll get you a drink, but I ask you to respect
that.”

“Still handsome as hell, Jack,” my grandmother said.

My mother took my grandmother’s coat. Holiday had been closed up in my father’s den as soon as Buckley had yelled from his
post at the upstairs window—“It’s Grandma!” My brother bragged to Nate or anyone who would listen that his grandmother had
the biggest cars in the whole wide world.

“You look lovely, Mother,” my mother said.

“Hmmmm.” While my father was out of earshot, my grandmother said, “How is he?”

“We’re all coping, but it’s hard.”

“Is he still muttering about that man having done it?”

“He still thinks so, yes.”

“You’ll be sued, you know,” she said.

“He hasn’t told anyone but the police.”

What they couldn’t see was that my sister was sitting above them on the top step.

“And he shouldn’t. I realize he has to blame someone, but…”

“Lynn, seven and seven or a martini?” my father said, coming back out into the hallway.

“What are you having?”

“I’m not drinking these days, actually,” my father said.

“Now there’s your problem. I’ll lead the way. No one has to tell me where the liquor is!”

Without her thick and fabulous animal, my grandmother was rail thin. “Starved down” was how she put it when she’d counseled
me at age eleven. “You need to get yourself starved down, honey, before you keep fat on for too long. Baby fat is just another
way to say ugly.” She and my mother had fought about whether I was old enough for benzedrine—her own personal savior, she
called it, as in, “I am offering your daughter my own personal savior and you deny her?”

When I was alive, everything my grandmother did was bad. But an odd thing happened when she arrived in her rented limo that
day, opened up our house, and barged in. She was, in all her obnoxious finery, dragging the light back in.

“You need help, Abigail,” my grandmother said after having eaten the first real meal my mother had cooked since my disappearance.
My mother was stunned. She had donned her blue dishwashing gloves, filled the sink with sudsy water, and was preparing to do
every dish. Lindsey would dry. Her mother, she assumed, would call upon Jack to pour her an after-dinner drink.

“Mother, that is so nice of you.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said. “I’ll just run out to the front hall and get my bag o’ magic.”

“Oh no,” I heard my mother say under her breath.

“Ah, yes, the bag o’ magic,” said Lindsey, who had not spoken the whole meal.

“Please, Mother!” my mother protested when Grandma Lynn came back.

“Okay, kids, clear off the table and get your mother over here. I’m doing a makeover.”

“Mother, that’s crazy. I have all these dishes to do.”

“Abigail,” my father said.

“Oh no. She may get you to drink, but she’s not getting those instruments of torture near me.”

“I’m not drunk,” he said.

“You’re smiling,” my mother said.

“So sue him,” Grandma Lynn said. “Buckley, grab your mother’s hand and drag her over here.” My brother obliged. It was fun
to see his mother be bossed and prodded.

“Grandma Lynn?” Lindsey asked shyly.

My mother was being led by Buckley to a kitchen chair my grandmother had turned to face her.

“What?”

“Could you teach me about makeup?”

“My God in heaven, praise the Lord, yes!”

My mother sat down and Buckley climbed up into her lap. “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

“Are you laughing, Abbie?” My father smiled.

And she was. She was laughing and she was crying too.

“Susie was a good girl, honey,” Grandma Lynn said. “Just like you.” There was no pause. “Now lift up your chin and let me
have a look at those bags under your eyes.”

Buckley got down and moved onto a chair. “This is an eyelash curler, Lindsey,” my grandmother instructed. “I taught your mother
all of these things.”

“Clarissa uses those,” Lindsey said.

My grandmother set the rubber curler pads on either side of my mother’s eyelashes, and my mother, knowing the ropes, looked
upward.

“Have you talked to Clarissa?” my father asked.

“Not really,” said Lindsey. “She’s hanging out a lot with Brian Nelson. They cut class enough times to get a three-day suspension.”

“I don’t expect that of Clarissa,” my father said. “She may not have been the brightest apple in the bunch, but she was never
a troublemaker.”

“When I ran into her she reeked of pot.”

“I hope you’re not getting into that,” Grandma Lynn said. She finished the last of her seven and seven and slammed the highball
glass down on the table. “Now, see this, Lindsey, see how when the lashes are curled it opens up your mother’s eyes?”

Lindsey tried to imagine her own eyelashes, but instead saw the star-clumped lashes of Samuel Heckler as his face neared hers
for a kiss. Her pupils dilated, pulsing in and out like small, ferocious olives.

“I stand amazed,” Grandma Lynn said, and put her hands, one still twisted into the awkward handles of the eyelash curler,
on her hips.

“What?”

“Lindsey Salmon, you have a boyfriend,” my grandmother announced to the room.

My father smiled. He was liking Grandma Lynn suddenly. I was too.

“Do not,” Lindsey said.

My grandmother was about to speak when my mother whispered, “Do too.”

“Bless you, honey,” my grandmother said, “you should have a boyfriend. As soon as I’m done with your mother, I’m giving you
the grand Grandma Lynn treatment. Jack, make me an apéritif.”

“An apéritif is something you…” my mother began.

“Don’t correct me, Abigail.”

My grandmother got sloshed. She made Lindsey look like a clown or, as Grandma Lynn said herself, “a grade-A ’tute.” My father
got what she called “finely drunkened.” The most amazing thing was that my mother went to bed and left the dirty dishes in
the sink.

While everyone else slept, Lindsey stood at the mirror in the bathroom, looking at herself. She wiped off some of the blush,
blotted her lips, and ran her fingers over the swollen, freshly plucked parts of her formerly bushy eyebrows. In the mirror
she saw something different and so did I: an adult who could take care of herself. Under the makeup was the face she’d always
known as her own, until very recently, when it had become the face that reminded people of me. With lip pencil and eyeliner,
she now saw, the edges of her features were delineated, and they sat on her face like gems imported from some far-off place
where the colors were richer than the colors in our house had ever been. It was true what our grandmother said—the makeup
brought out the blue of her eyes. The plucking of the eyebrows changed the shape of her face. The blush highlighted the hollows
beneath her cheekbones (“The hollows that could stand some more hollowing,” our grandmother pointed out). And her lips—she
practiced her facial expressions. She pouted, she kissed, she smiled wide as if she too had had a cocktail, she looked down
and pretended to pray like a good girl but cocked one eye up to see how she looked being good. She went to bed and slept on
her back so as not to mess up her new face.

Mrs. Bethel Utemeyer was the only dead person my sister and I ever saw. She moved in with her son to our development when
I was six and Lindsey five.

My mother said that she had lost part of her brain and that sometimes she left her son’s house and didn’t know where she was.
She would often end up in our front yard, standing under the dogwood tree and looking out at the street as if waiting for
a bus. My mother would sit her down in the kitchen and make tea for the two of them, and after she calmed her she would call
her son’s house to tell them where she was. Sometimes no one was home and Mrs. Utemeyer would sit at our kitchen table and
stare into the centerpiece for hours. She would be there when we came home from school. Sitting. She smiled at us. Often she
called Lindsey “Natalie” and reached out to touch her hair.

When she died, her son encouraged my mother to bring Lindsey and me to the funeral. “My mother seemed to have a special fondness
for your children,” he wrote.

“She didn’t even know my name, Mom,” Lindsey whined, as our mother buttoned up the infinite number of round buttons on Lindsey’s
dress coat.
Another impractical gift from Grandma Lynn,
my mother thought.

“At least she
called
you a name,” I said.

It was after Easter, and a spring heat wave had set in that week. All but the most stubborn of that winter’s snow had seeped
into the earth, and in the graveyard of the Utemeyers’ church snow clung to the base of the headstones, while, nearby, buttercup
shoots were making their way up.

The Utemeyers’ church was fancy. “High Catholic,” my father had said in the car. Lindsey and I thought this was very funny.
My father hadn’t wanted to come but my mother was so pregnant that she couldn’t drive. For the last few months of her pregnancy
with Buckley she was unable to fit behind the wheel. She was so uncomfortable most of the time that we avoided being near her
for fear we’d be thrown into servitude.

But her pregnancy allowed her to get out of what Lindsey and I couldn’t stop talking about for weeks and what I kept dreaming
about for long after that: viewing the body. I could tell my father and mother didn’t want this to happen, but Mr. Utemeyer
made a beeline for the two of us when it was time to file past the casket. “Which one of you is the one she called Natalie?”
he asked. We stared at him. I pointed to Lindsey.

“I’d like you to come say goodbye,” he said. He smelled of a perfume sweeter than what my mother sometimes wore, and the sting
of it in my nose, and my sense of exclusion, made me want to cry. “You can come too,” he said to me, extending his hands so
we would flank him in the aisle.

It wasn’t Mrs. Utemeyer. It was something else. But it
was
Mrs. Utemeyer too. I tried to keep my eyes focused on the gleaming gold rings on her fingers.

“Mother,” Mr. Utemeyer said, “I brought the little girl you called Natalie.”

Lindsey and I both admitted later that we expected Mrs. Utemeyer to speak and that we had decided, individually, that if she
did we were going to grab the other one and run like hell.

An excruciating second or two and it was over and we were released back to our mother and father.

I wasn’t very surprised when I first saw Mrs. Bethel Utemeyer in my heaven, nor was I shocked when Holly and I found her walking
hand in hand with a small blond girl she introduced as her daughter, Natalie.

The morning of my memorial Lindsey stayed in her room for as long as she could. She didn’t want my mother to see the still-applied
makeup until it would be too late to make her wash it off. She had also told herself it would be okay to take a dress from
my closet. That I wouldn’t mind.