Thorns of Truth (14 page)

Sylvie smiled knowingly, clearly no stranger to demanding caterers who viewed clients’ kitchens as their own personal fiefdoms. Rachel could hear Henri faintly in the kitchen, beyond the dining room, clanging pots and rattling plates, barking orders in rapid-fire French. He hadn’t come cheap, to be sure, but, judging from what she’d sampled so far, every bite would be worth the fortune they were spending.

Rachel watched her mother set the vase down on a smaller table by the bookcase—
not
where she’d asked—and felt her irritation flare. Never mind that the flowers were perfect where Mama had placed them, spotlit by an overhead track light. Mother knew best. Hadn’t it been that way as far back as Rachel could remember? Mama buying her pretty dresses that hung in her closet, price tags dangling from the sleeves, until she’d outgrown them. On birthdays and Hanukkah, presenting her with fat coffee-table books of Renoir, Sargent, van Gogh, which she leafed through once, then never looked at again. Serving family meals on her good Limoges china, even though Rachel constantly knocked over her glass and chipped the delicate gold rims of those plates.

“A cup of tea
would
be nice,” Mama said wistfully. “In the summer, it never seems the thing, but on a day like this …” She sighed, arching her spine, her hand pressed to the small of her back. “Dear me, I do hope this rain lets up in time for the party. Some of your guests might think twice.”

“I know of at least one who’d jump at any excuse not to come,” Rachel muttered darkly.

“Oh? Who?” Sylvie was instantly alert, the stiffness in her back apparently forgotten. She settled on the sofa, her posture perfectly erect, looking as out of place against the green sailcloth slipcovers as an Easter lily in a field of clover.

Rachel hesitated, then thought.
Oh, hell … why not?
“Rose,” she confided. “When she called to say she was coming, you’d have thought it was a public hanging we’d invited her to.”

Rachel knew how fond her mother was of Rose, and it didn’t seem fair painting her as a spoilsport. Who wouldn’t have doubts? Rose was merely looking out for her son, as any mother would. On the other hand, no one had put a gun to Drew’s head.

The problem wasn’t Drew, she reasoned. It was Rose herself.

Let’s face it. Rose lost a husband … and now she’s afraid she’ll lose a son.
Since his father’s death, Drew had been especially protective toward his mother. Stopping by to see her at least once a week, often staying for dinner. He was spending more time with his little brother, too. But once Drew and Iris were living together, Rachel suspected all that would change. Between his studies and Iris, there wouldn’t be much left over for Rose or Jason.

If only Rose were involved with someone herself! A love affair, Rachel thought, would take her mind off Drew. She
had
heard from Brian that Rose was dating—Eric Sandstrom, of all people—but Rose hadn’t mentioned anything to her. Either she was keeping it under wraps for the time being, or there wasn’t much to tell.

In any event, Rachel couldn’t imagine Rose becoming serious about Eric—a somewhat younger man who’d never been married, and had no kids of his own. Rachel liked him well enough, and Brian seemed to think he was about the only honest voice left in broadcasting. Even so, Rachel found herself wondering if she’d done the right thing inviting Eric to this party. What if it only succeeded in making Rose more uptight?
The last thing she needs is another excuse to be mad at me.

“I know. Rose spoke to me about it. She was quite upset.” Sylvie turned her gaze on Rachel, who noted with alarm, and some bewilderment, that there were tears in her mother’s eyes. “Rachel, I’ve been wondering—you know I’m not one to mix in—but do you think perhaps she’s justified?”

Again, that sharp prick of irritation. Why was Mama sticking up for Rose? Rachel felt an urge to say something mean, but in the end, she merely sighed and said, “I would have been happier if they’d waited, sure. But on the other hand no one can say this engagement was sudden or unexpected. Drew and Iris have been joined at the hip since they were kids.”

“Perhaps they’ve been a little
too
close,” Sylvie suggested with her usual polite conviction. “Some time apart wouldn’t hurt.”

“They were at separate colleges for
four years
,” Rachel argued.

“I don’t mean just distance. Maybe they should see other people.”

Rachel stared at her, absorbing the full meaning of her words. Mama wasn’t just willing to accept the risk that Iris’ world might crumble—she was actually
recommending
it.

“You and Rose seem to be in agreement,” she replied coolly.

Mama shook her head. “This isn’t about Rose.”

Rachel’s annoyance tipped over into anger, and she found herself snapping, “Of course it is! I wouldn’t mind so much if her only concern was for Drew. If she wasn’t doing this to hang on to him. I can’t believe you don’t see it, Mama. Just whose side are you on, anyway?”

Sylvie winced, and seemed to wrestle with herself before going on. “I’m merely suggesting you look at it from Rose’s point of view. She loves her son as much as you love Iris.”

“Loyalty to one’s own family
should
come first.”

Rachel’s sarcasm wasn’t lost on her mother. Mama’s eyes went dark, like something slipping below the surface of cool green water. “I haven’t forgotten my priorities.” She rose, and walked slowly and with the utmost dignity over to where Rachel stood.

The rain was still pouring down in sheets, the wind hurling it against the leaded panes in furious smacks. It reminded Rachel of the jungles of Tien Sung, the relentless tropical monsoons, the ankle-deep mud—a Chicken Little world whose sky really
had
fallen.

“I’m sorry, Mama.” Rachel rubbed one temple, where a pulse throbbed. “I’ve been working so hard I can hardly see straight. And, yes, you’re right—this could all be a gigantic mistake. But what choice do we have? Brian and I have given her everything—unconditional love, and all
this
.” She threw out an arm in a gesture that encompassed not just their home but Iris’ entire upbringing—the best private schools, family vacations and sleepaway camp every summer, even the finest psychiatrists when nothing else seemed to work. “But somehow it’s never enough. Maybe Drew can give her what she needs. Maybe all we can do is hope for the best.”

Mama shook her head, placing a hand on Rachel’s arm. “That’s what I thought when I married your father. Please, don’t misunderstand me—I loved him with all my heart. But, oh, my dear,
no one
can give you what is missing in yourself.”

“Even if I said something, Iris wouldn’t listen to me,” Rachel argued. Mama’s hand against her bare skin felt as worn and soft as old damask, unsettling in some deep way she couldn’t quite figure out. “When Brian tried talking to her, she just got upset, and that only made it worse. She cried for hours.”

“There are worse things than tears,” Mama said.

“We want her to be happy. Is that so terrible?” Rachel, stung nearly to tears herself, drew away and stepped back.

Mama’s cool green gaze rested on Rachel in a way that caused the back of her neck to prickle. “A good marriage takes work,” she said. “And two people to share the burden equally.”

Rachel found herself remembering once again that first rocky year with Brian, how uncertain she’d felt about him—especially his feelings for Rose. There was no doubt in her mind that, had he not been drafted, Brian would have married his childhood sweetheart. But he
had
gone to Nam, and over there … well, things were different. Even so, Rachel was often reminded of how unlike they were, not just their backgrounds, but the way they approached life. Their cataclysmic meeting, her literally bringing him back from the brink of death, the madness of Nam itself—all of it had drawn them together as nothing else could have. But even their shared experience—a history that had bound them tightly while excluding all others—might not be enough, in the end, to survive an enemy even more insidious than the one they’d faced over there: their own inability to close the gap that had sprung up between them.

When Iris moved out for good, what would happen to them?
Will we be able to find our way back to where we started?

“Where
is
Iris, by the way?” Mama wanted to know. “I promised I’d help fix her hair.” She gave a little laugh and said, “Heaven knows why, but she seems to think I’m not too old to know what’s fashionable.”

Rachel cocked her head, listening. But Iris had stopped singing; the only sound was the clattering of Henri in the kitchen. She was probably in her room getting dressed. Rachel looked back at her mother and smiled. “Oh, Mama.” Suddenly struck by the realization that her mother
was
old, and that one day she wouldn’t be around to make a fuss, Rachel felt her irritation dissolve. “She trusts you. It’s as simple as that.”

She wished that she had the same faith—not just in Mama, but in her husband and daughter as well—that she could simply trust that everything would work out somehow.

And what about Rose? There was more at stake here than their children’s happiness. If Rose refused to make peace with this, Rachel could lose more than a daughter—she could also lose a friend.

The thought weighed on her as she watched her mother make her way slowly into the next room, with the elaborate care of an elderly woman too dignified to let on just how frail she’d become.

At half past six, the guests began to arrive. Mason Gold, accompanied by his wife and two grown daughters … tailed by a crew of Iris’ and Drew’s friends spilling boisterously from the elevator. Then several writers from the workshop Brian was giving this summer. And Kay—dear, dependable Kay—with two of the OBs from the clinic, Althea Turnbill and Ruth Jacobs. Others soon followed, appearing at the door in clusters, breathless with delight at finding themselves in a dry place, their umbrellas dripping wet circles onto the mat Rachel had laid in the foyer.

Within half an hour, every window was misted over, and at the bar that had been set up near the entrance to the dining room, the ice bucket was already in need of a refill. But if it was a bit warm with the press of so many damp bodies, no one seemed to mind. They all seemed to be having a good time.

Except Rose. She’d been among the first to show up, but seemed in no hurry to mingle. Rachel kept sneaking glances her way, hoping to catch her eye. But Rose was ignoring her. At the moment, she stood with her two sisters, who looked as if they, too, would rather be anywhere but here. Marie, with her skinny frame and sharp features, who made Rachel think of a twitchy cat poised to pounce. And Clare, in her knee-length nun’s habit, who seemed to cower like a plump little wren afraid of being gobbled up.

Rose looked nothing like either of them. Taller, darker, with her bold features and air of I-want-it-done-yesterday, she shared only the faintest family resemblance with her sisters— most of it in her expression and gestures. Yet it was obvious the three were united about one thing: Drew’s engagement was no cause for celebration.

Rachel suddenly felt like marching over, confronting them.
Why the hell did you even bother to come? If that’s how you feel, you should have stayed home.

Almost in desperation, she turned to her journalist friend, Sue Garcia, queenly in a voluminous caftan and squash-blossom necklace. Several years ago, Sue had written a piece on the East Side Center for
Ms.,
describing Rachel, among other things, as “a brave pioneer in the frontier of inner-city women’s health.” Though somewhat embarrassed by all the praise, Rachel had called to thank her. They’d ended up having lunch, and had been buddies ever since. Okay, Sue was outspoken and opinionated, but at least she wasn’t thumbing her nose at Iris’ engagement.

“I’d marry that young man myself, if he’d have an old lady like me.” Sue flipped her thick gray braid over one shoulder and laughed. “Screw all that feminist crap about single women needing to celebrate their independence. It’s hell climbing into a cold bed at night.”

Rachel’s mind formed a picture of Brian and her, the two of them sleeping spooned against one another. She felt a light chill trickle down her spine. There was so much that she took for granted.…

A few minutes later, chatting with the Golds, she found herself thinking,
What if I’d married Mason instead?
Looking at him now, with his receding hairline and beginnings of a potbelly, it was hard to believe they’d ever been lovers—even if it had only been for one night. Mason, whom she’d known since elementary school, was more like a brother. And luckily, he too seemed to have forgotten that misbegotten fumble at the Pierre, the evening of his twenty-first birthday celebration. Seeing how content he was, standing with an arm around his wife, Shannon, Rachel even felt a tiny bit envious of their happiness, and wondered if maybe Mason knew something she didn’t.

“I checked with my friend in the mayor’s office,” he informed Rachel. “Nobody remembers a petition, but they
do
know Sister Alice. Seems she’s been a thorn in everyone’s side, not just yours.”

“Should I be worried?” Rachel asked.

Mason frowned. She noticed that his lawyerly tortoiseshell glasses were slightly crooked. “Worried? That might be too strong. I’d be on my guard, though, if I were you. Troublemakers like her, they never give up.”

“You ought to know.” His wife poked him affectionately with her elbow before turning to give Rachel a knowing smile. “He’s been consorting with criminals too long.” Shannon, blonde, pert, and perfectly turned out in Yves St. Laurent, was like a different person from the long-haired hippie bride who for a brief time had called herself Cheyenne.

Rachel remembered those days a little wistfully. Mason, working for pennies at Legal Aid, refusing help from his parents. Shannon, teaching Montessori, with her own two girls in tow.

In her mind, Rachel was seeing the snapshot Mason had taken all those years ago of the girl he’d teasingly nicknamed Young Doctor Rosenthal, with her duffel bag and long hair parted down the middle, boarding the flight to Nam. Yet it was as if that fire in her, all those righteous beliefs, had gone up in smoke. She still had her clinic, sure, but what had once seemed a glorious undertaking now seemed a lot more like grueling work.