All That's True (11 page)

“Hush,” Mrs. Whitley says, “you don’t help when you have friends over, either.”

Allison and I go to her room which is at the end of the hall. It’s small but nice. The walls are painted a soft rose color and there’s a pink and white striped comforter on her bed and a matching pillow tossed on a rocking chair. I sit in the rocker and hug the pillow. Allison sits down on the bed. Her closet door is open and I can see her clothes lined up—what there is of them. I remember the boutique and my idea to have her come down. I tell her all about me and Bridget’s volunteer work and how we got the idea of the boutique and how well it’s going and how girls that don’t have really cool clothes get to come and pick out two outfits, complete with belts and everything.

“It’s called Sweet ’n’ Sassy Fashionique,” I say proudly. “Would you like to come down and pick out some outfits?” I hold my breath waiting for her eyes to fill with tears and gratitude. But I have it all wrong. Allison looks at me. Her face is a complete puzzle.

“Why would I need to do that?” she says, and holds her hand out toward her closet.

Can you beat that? She’s perfectly happy with her wardrobe, with her life, with everything. It’s pretty amazing. I sit there feeling very stupid and wonder what it would be like to be perfectly content no matter what life handed you. I’m really embarrassed for making the suggestion and wonder what to say to explain myself.

“Oh, just for some variety,” I say. “I get so tired of my clothes. You know how it is.”

Allison doesn’t say a word. She picks up her scrapbook instead. “Look,” she says. “These are the pictures when I went to the YMCA camp last summer. I got to stay an entire week! And I might get to go again, if my father gets his raise.”

It’s a perfect example of being happy with whatever life hands you. I’d give anything to feel that way. I have so much, but right now, sitting here with Allison, I feel like I don’t really have much at all.

I discovered this radio station, WYOU. They play all the hits from the 1960s, which you’d think I’d hate, but I don’t. I’m not sure why I like this music. Maybe because lots of them are filled with the problems of love and I’m having plenty of those with Rodney. To begin with, I’ve only received one letter from him and I’ve sent him five. But I read in the paper that twelve countries have sent naval forces to Iraq. And six aircraft-carrier battle groups have arrived as well, which means a lot of new soldiers. Rodney is probably busy getting acquainted. He’s very friendly. I’m convinced he’s doing his best to make them feel at home. Therefore, one letter is understandable under the circumstances. I’ll write him another one tonight and tell him it’s okay to just send a short one back.

WYOU is playing “I Love How You Love Me,”
by the Paris Sisters. It’s so whispery, it gives me the shivers. And of course it makes me drool for Rodney. Next comes “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” by the Shirelles. It has the best beat. I’m making a list of all of them to see if I can find some copies of them or maybe I can order them off one of those TV advertisements, where you join and they send you one every month, whether you want it or not, but then you can send it back if you don’t, so it’s still a pretty good deal.

Beth is home for the weekend from Vassar and Parker Barrett is here. That’s the guy she’s marrying. They’re going over the guest list. They’re having the reception at the Piedmont Driving Club which my mother considers the only place to have a reception. They have to keep the guest list to five hundred people. Two hundred and fifty people each. I didn’t know my parents had that many friends. When Rodney and I get married I think we’ll just elope and ask my parents to give us the money I’ll be saving them. Watching all that Beth and my mother have been going through over this wedding makes me crazy.

Parker is a pretty cool guy, though. He looks a lot like Pierce Brosnan, the movie actor, only much younger of course. But the point is he’s real good-looking and very nice, too. He’s always sincere when he says hello to me.

“How are you, Andi?” he says, but the way he says it makes me feel that he’s really interested in my answer.

Personally, I think he could do a lot better than Beth. She’s very bossy, even with him. She always insists on having everything her way, like what movie they’re going to see, and where they should go to dinner. And she tells him that he’s wearing the wrong colored belt. It doesn’t match his shoes. Which I think is a dead giveaway she is going to try to run his life. She should just let him alone. And for sure she should let him decide on a movie or what belt to wear. But oh no, Beth has to have her way in everything.

Mr. Porter—Henry—our gardener is driving me over to Sunny Meadows. Even though school’s out I have decided to continue being an Angel through the summer months. During the summer you only come on Saturdays. You can choose to take a rest from it if you want. But when I mentioned to Mrs. Sterling that I might not be coming over the summer months, she started crying. That pretty much settled it. I’m going to be there for the summer. But it’s not so bad. Now I’m used to yelling as I read.

When I get to the Sterlings’ room—it’s at the end of the hall—Mr. Sterling is sick. One of the nurse’s aides is taking his temperature and his blood pressure.

“Should I maybe come back later?” I ask.

The nurse’s aide, whose name is Joyce, makes some notes on her clipboard and then says, “No, I’m sure Mrs. Sterling would enjoy some company. Mr. Sterling’s a bit under the weather.” She pats his hand. “You should be feeling better in no time.”

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask. I know he’s eighty-something and I remember how my grandfather died when he got in his eighties.

“He’s got a bit of a cold, is all,” Joyce says and leaves the room.

I figure I could sit quietly and read to Mrs. Sterling and I won’t have to shout, but she turns to me all teary-eyed—she’s been very weepy lately—and asks if I’d mind putting some lotion on her back.

“I keep telling those jerks, but they’re always in a hurry,” she says.

I open the drawer next to her bed. Sure enough, there’s a blue plastic bottle of hospital lotion and it doesn’t look like any of it’s gone. Mrs. Sterling slips her top off and sits there in her bra. She’s very skinny and the bones on her neck stick right out at you and say hello. She’s so thin I’m not even sure she needs a bra anymore. There’s nothing there to fill it. She sits on the edge of the bed while I warm the lotion in my hands. When I feel it’s just right I smooth some on her back.

“Oh, Andi,” she says, “That’s better than heaven.”

Imagine thinking a little lotion on your back is better than heaven. But then her skin is very dry and cracked. The nurse’s aides who bathe her must have noticed. You’d think they would have written on their clipboard:
Needs lotion ASAP!
I guess they’re too busy to bother.

When I’m finished applying the lotion I help Mrs. Sterling with her blouse. She has trouble with the buttons.

“My daughter gave me this blouse,” she says.

“I didn’t know you had a daughter.” I’ve never seen her visit.

“Oh, yes. We have three of them,” she says proudly. “But they’re very busy, you know. They come visit when they can. One lives too far away. She’s in Maryland.”

I have been coming to read to them every day after school for months and I’ve never seen one of them, not even once. Now my eyes are tearing up.

“Would you like me to read to you?”

Mrs. Sterling glances over at Mr. Sterling. He is sound asleep. His mouth is partly open and some spittle is dripping down his chin. I take a Kleenex from the box on his nightstand and dab at it. Mrs. Sterling smiles at me.

“You are a precious girl, Andi. Did you know that?”

If all it takes for one to be considered precious is to wipe some spittle off a chin, I’m surprised that the entire world isn’t full of precious people. How much work is wiping spittle? Exactly.

Mrs. Sterling says she’s tired and thinks she’d like to take a little nap before lunch. I tuck the sheets around her and place her hands on top. She nods off in no time. I decide it would be nice to visit Nana Louise. My grandmother’s getting very old, too. And you just never know how long old people will be around. I find her out in the dayroom sitting in one of the wicker chairs. It has extra padding in it and nearly swallows her up.

“Hello, Nana Louise,” I say as cheerfully as I can.

She looks at me and smiles, but I can tell she has no idea who I am. I guess those days when she did are over for good, but I keep hoping.

“Hello,” she says. “Is it time for lunch?”

She thinks I’m one of the aides. It must be my Angel badge. I look at my watch. It’s almost noon, which means it is time for lunch. Plus, I can smell it. Cafeteria food here seeps up through the vents and mixes with the all the other odors floating around the corridors, old people sweat, and medicine, and disinfectant. It’s not very appetizing.

I take Nana Louise’s arm and help her up out of the chair.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m here to take you to lunch.”

“What a nice girl you are,” she says.

I gently guide her down the hallway. “Would you like to go for a walk after lunch?” I say.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “I’m expecting Walter, you know.”

I’m not aware of any Walter in her life, past or present. My grandfather’s name was Arthur, like my dad.

“Walter?” I say.

“Yes, dear, I’m sure he’ll be here after lunch,” she says and her eyes light up like stars.

Nana Louise has forgotten every one of us. So, who is this Walter guy? And why does she remember him? I ask the nurses and they say, “That’s our janitor. She’s very fond of him.”

Now I know my grandmother has lost it. She’s gone bonkers over the janitor.

Mrs. Hall is visiting with my mother when I get home from Sunny Meadows. She’s Rodney’s mother. Rodney still hasn’t written lately and I’m sort of mad at him. Still, I’m very anxious to hear any news. I burst into the room right in the middle of their conversation.

“Where did they take him?” my mother says. Take him? Is he hurt? Is it bad? I want to rattle off questions like it’s an inquisition. Did he lose any of his arms or legs? Is he blind? Can he come home for good?

I stop dead in my tracks and nearly knock a vase off the end table. My mouth is open but nothing is coming out of it.

“Well, first they treated him in the field, but then they quickly transferred him to a hospital aboard one of the navy’s hospital ships.” Mrs. Hall dabs at her eyes with a hankie. Her eyes are big blue lakes. Rodney has those eyes. Oh please let his eyes be okay. Please. Please. Please.

“But he’s going to be alright.” My mother is nodding her head like that will make it so.

“They’re not sure about one hand.” Mrs. Hall looks like she’s about to cry.

“How bad is it?” I yell. “Tell me!”

“Andi, where are your manners?” My mother says. She turns to Mrs. Hall. “Please excuse her rudeness, Pamela. Normally, she’s a perfectly lovely child.”

Mrs. Hall nods her head. My mother takes hold of my arm and pulls me down on the sofa next to her.

“Mrs. Hall’s son has been injured.” No kidding.

“He’s at the Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland for now,” Mrs. Hall adds.

“W—w—will he be alright?” My teeth are rattling worse than a rattlesnake’s tail.

“Hot shrapnel penetrated his hands. He has some pretty severe injuries, so they’re not sure if he’ll regain full use of them.” Now she really starts crying.

My mother goes over to comfort her.

“Of course, he will,” she says. “That’s nonsense. They perform miracles nowadays. Why, they keep babies alive that weigh less than a pound.”

What premature babies have to do with the severe injury of one’s hands I have no idea. But it seems to comfort Mrs. Hall. She looks up and nods and smiles. My mother asks Rosa to bring some tea. I sit back deeper into the sofa and rest my head. So that’s why Rodney hasn’t written. He can’t use his hands. I picture him with these huge bandages like boxing gloves covering him up to his elbows and burst out crying.

“Andi,” Mrs. Hall said, “I didn’t realize this would upset you so much. Do you know Rodney?”

I nod my head emphatically that I do. “We—we—were almost—you know sort of going together,” I say softly.

My mother looks at me like I’ve taken leave of my senses.

“Why Andi,” she says. “Where on earth did you get an idea like that?”—like it’s impossible for Rodney to love me. “You’re not even fourteen years old. Don’t be silly.” My mother sits down next to me and puts her arm around my shoulder. Mrs. Hall opens her pocketbook and pulls out one of those little photo albums people carry. She flips through it until she gets to one near the back.

“Here it is,” she says and holds it up for my mother and me to see. “Her name is Sarah. Isn’t she pretty? A beautiful girl. They’ve been engaged since Christmas.”

I want to take that album and toss it in the fireplace. Instead I hold the album closer to get a good look at this Sarah. She has long blonde hair. She has on a sundress with thin straps and white eyelet lace at the bottom. Rodney has his arm around her and is pulling her closer to him. She’s leaning in against him. She’s very pretty. In fact she’s prettier than Beth. I didn’t think anyone could ever be prettier than Beth. It’s not fair. I close the album and hand it back to Mrs. Hall.

“I guess I was wrong,” I whisper. “Excuse me.”

My entire future is over before it’s even begun. I run to the bathroom that’s next to the library. I make it just in time to be major sick. My life is over—absolutely, positively, totally over.

Bridget’s come up with the idea that we should head to the mall and then have a nice dinner out. Just the two of us.

“Let’s go to Lenox. We can check out all the new stores and they have lots of places to eat. Henry can take us, right?”

She’s trying hard to cheer me up.

I watch as she opens her closet door and starts tossing clothes on the bed. “We’ll wear some really cool clothes and fix our hair and—”

“I’m not very hungry,” I say.

“But you will be.” She takes my arm and drags me off her bed. “Come on. It’ll be fun.” When Bridget gets in one of her moods to do something, there’s just no turning her down. She’ll have us out and about if she has to dress me herself.

I decide it’s time for me to start living again. I can’t pine for Rodney forever. I’m too young. Surely there’ll be another love in my life.

“Of course,” Bridget says. “Maybe even two, you never know.”

Bridget—always the optimist. But it gives me hope. I tell her I’m going home to get dressed and for her to come over when she’s ready. “I’ll go find Henry.”

My mother is reading a magazine and Rosa is waddling around in the kitchen, her favorite spot in the entire house. She could cook for an army and be perfectly happy. Henry is in the gazebo hanging flower baskets from the eaves.

“Can you take me and Bridget to the mall?”

He says it’s what he lives for and grins. He hangs the last basket and wipes his hands on his coveralls. I tell him I’ll be ready in an hour give or take. He’ll go in and shower and put some Brut on. It’s his favorite. “It doesn’t take much to please Mr. Porter,” my mother says and picks up a bottle at the drug store whenever she spots it. He lives in an apartment above the garage my father had remodeled especially for him. He’s very happy there. He’s very happy, period. “Life’s too short not to be,” he says. His wife died years ago. He’s been alone ever since, well, except for us. “You’re all the family a body needs,” he says. I think of Henry being perfectly happy over nothing and then realize what a dope I am for being down in the dumps over Rodney. He’s only one part of my life and he wasn’t really even a part of it, after all. I just thought he was.

I hurry and get ready, sort of excited to be going. It’ll be fun. My mother will give me her credit card and tell me to buy something nice, but not too much, she’ll say. “Think of all the children who are wearing rags.” My not buying too much won’t change that, but she thinks it’s somehow related.

“Your friend be here,” Rosa calls up the stairs. I bound down the steps and wave to my mother. She smiles. She’s happy to see me go. I’ve been moping around the house for days.

We climb in the car and Henry heads to Lenox Square. It’s a great place to shop. It has three levels and there’s even a fourth level for a small portion of it. It’s got a Rich’s and a Macy’s and Neiman Marcus. But my favorite stores are those that carry makeup, which includes the department stores as they have every kind of makeup counter possible. Macy’s has a counter for every brand. And most of them will give you a free makeover if you ask. Then you just buy a blush or something as a thank-you.

I tell Henry we’ll meet him back at valet parking at eight. He nods his head and makes the okay signal. Bridget and I are off. It feels good to be out and about. I feel like skipping! It’s amazing how well the human spirit can recover even from a major heartache. It’s probably programmed in our genes. Otherwise everyone would kill themselves and before you know it, no more people. So, it’s got to be in our genes to be happy after being sad. Which is a major relief—that day I puked in the toilet after finding out Rodney was engaged all along was the pits.

After three hours of scouring the stores, Bridget decides she wants to see the inside of the Ritz-Carlton. It’s right across the street. “It’s got to be really nice,” she says. We wait for the “walk” light to change. “Look, they have a man to open the door in a fancy suit. Just like New York.”

Once we’re inside a young woman at the front desk asks if she can help us. I guess they don’t want teenagers milling about doing nothing.

“We’d like to have dinner,” Bridget says out of the blue. This is news to me. The young woman nods and points to the corridor straight ahead. The restaurant has been set up for afternoon tea. Servers are busy resetting the tables for dinner. Bridget walks right up to the maitre d’.

“Table for two, please,” she says. He bows slightly and says, “Follow me.” I guess teenagers aren’t to amble aimlessly about the hotel, but they can have dinner. No problem. I’m anxious to see what’s on the menu. It’s a pretty cool place. The fireplace takes up one long wall and is bigger than a freight train. There are several other couples already seated at tables, but there are so many large plants and giant intricate vases that it’s hard to get a look at them. The maitre d’ tucks us into a little corner near the window and says our waiter will be with us shortly. Sure enough, a guy in a fancy black suit with a bow tie is at our side in no time. He places our napkins on our laps and hands each of us an oversized menu. Everything’s á la carte, which means the bill is going to be more than my mother counted on showing up on her credit card. I’m starting to have second thoughts about staying to eat. I ask the waiter where the restrooms are. Maybe we can sneak out.

“We’ll need some time to make our selections,” I say. He leaves and I motion for Bridget to follow me.

“What?” she says.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say. “He’ll think we’ve gone to the restroom. By the time he realizes we’re taking a long time, we’ll be long gone.”

I get up and grab her arm and head toward the side door that leads to the restrooms. Bridget giggles and follows. We turn the corner and are twenty feet from the door. There’s a small table tucked in an alcove. It’s set with beautiful crystal and china. The couple before us is raising their glasses like in a toast. They’re sitting right next to each other instead of across from one another. They put their heads together and kiss. It’s a long passionate kiss, complete with tongues. Gross! Bridget coughs loudly. I want to smack her.

The couple stops kissing and turns their heads in our direction. I nearly jump out of my clothes. It’s my father. And right next to him—nearly sitting on his lap—is Donna.