Authors: Jackie Lee Miles
I’ve been working on my plan to help my mother, but right now I have to set it aside. We’re having a memorial service at Sunny Meadows for Mr. Sterling. All the nurses set it up. Today is Thursday and the Director of Nursing has called in the minister who comes every Friday. The nurses have chairs set up in rows for the nursing home residents that can still sit in them without falling over. They put the wheel chairs in the back area, but I doubt those that will be sitting there can even see. They probably don’t care. They probably don’t know what this occasion is all about. They’re looking all around like,
what is the deal here?
—and a couple of them that always act pretty strange are swatting at each other, like kids do in a car if you’re on a long trip and they think the other person is too far over on their side.
There’s a podium with a white cloth draped over the top that has a cross on it. Two of the nurses have put construction paper on the windows to make it look like stained glass, which I think is a very nice thing to do. But then I learned the elementary school kids were here yesterday making them for today. Still, they used them, so I have to give the nurses credit for doing that.
Of course the setting is not a real chapel, but it’s nice the nurses tried to make it look like one. They’re being very nice today, which makes me want to ask them why they weren’t so nice to Mr. Sterling while he was still alive. I’m sure he would have appreciated it. But no, they were always telling him to be quiet, or ordering him to eat and standing over him to make sure he shoveled in all the peas on his plate and I know for a fact he hated peas, so he shouldn’t have had to eat them. They could have given him corn. He really liked corn.
Mrs. Sterling is sitting in the first chair in the front row. I think she’s kind of enjoying herself—like it’s her day. All the people that have their faculties start walking up to her after the minister says what a great man Mr. Sterling was—but you tell me how he knows, I never saw him once in their room—and they all pat her on the back and then they lean over and say things to her.
“Our prayers are with you, Mavis.” And Joyce says, “He was a fine man, now, wasn’t he?” That’s the only nice thing she’s ever said about him. It’s a shame that he’s dead and will never hear it. Joyce is the one who always made him eat the peas.
Right now, I’m sort of used to Mr. Sterling being dead. I’ve read to Mavis every day since. It’s much better reading to people when you don’t have to shout. Still, it would be nice if he was still alive. They could die together. I picture them reaching across their beds and holding hands and Mr. Sterling saying, “See you on the other side, Mavey.” That’s what he always called her, Mavey. And Mrs. Sterling would have said, “Beat your ass there, Buddy.” She always called him Buddy, which I thought was really cute. She curses a lot, I’ll give her that. But it always made Mr. Sterling laugh, right out loud. But he never cursed that I know of.
After the service, I concentrate on baby Joshua. He’s home with Amy from the hospital and is doing really good. He’s still not the size he should be for a baby his age. He’s in the twentieth percentile, which Amy says means eighty percent of all babies his age are bigger than him. “But that can change,” she adds. So, we’ll see. He’s two months old now and looks all around, so I think he can see things clearly. Sometimes I think he has a little smile on his face, but my mother insists it’s gas. It looks like a little smile if you ask me.
Beth came home this past weekend and took over the place. She’s getting everything all set for the rehearsal dinner, which they are having at the Ritz-Carlton. I nearly choked when she picked that place. The last time I was there wasn’t so hot with my Dad and Donna sucking each other’s faces. When Beth announced that she and Parker had made the arrangements, I watched my father’s face to see if he had a reaction, but he didn’t.
“That’s good,” he said. He lives this double life, but he can keep it completely off his face.
My mother and I are busy packing for the cruise. She took me shopping and I got some really cool clothes to wear, deck pants and middy tops and plenty of bathing suits. My mother insists you need to wear a different one each day, like anybody cares. So now I have six of them, but I like the blue striped one best of all, so I’ll probably end up wearing that every day. I put everything in the suitcase in the order that my mother instructs. It makes her happy, but if it were left to me, I would just dump them all into the suitcase in a heap and sit on the case to close it.
Bridget and I are excited. We’re hoping that there will be plenty of boys. The ship brochure says they have all these teen things to do, so we’re counting on not only girls being around.
“Just think,” Bridget says. She’s doing my hair in a French braid and it looks totally great. “We could actually be meeting our future husbands. You just never know. And then, years later, people ask how you met and you say, ‘Oh, on this cruise ship I went on.’”
“I don’t know about that,” I tell her. “It’ll be nice just to meet some cute boys. They don’t have to be the ones we’re going to marry.”
At dinner, my mother explains that Rodney is coming over with his mother after dinner. Normally this would have my heart pounding like it was a drum. But I’ve gotten used to the idea that there no longer will be a me-and-Rodney future, so it’s a big letdown.
“His fiancée is coming with him,” my mother adds. She puts a serving of mashed potatoes on my plate, which I really don’t want. I want to make sure my hips stay as skinny as they are right now for the cruise, so I’ve been cutting out starch totally. If I do meet a cute boy I want to look great. “Isn’t that nice?” she says. “Andi, are you listening?”
I nod my head that I am. Actually, I don’t really want to meet her, so I must still have some feelings for Rodney or why would I care?
“You remember,” my mother says. “Her name is Sarah.”
Just rub it in, will you. I nod again, but my lips are twisted up in a smirk. I don’t know why he wants to come over and introduce his fiancée to us anyway. It’s not like we’re family. But it will be nice to see if he has full use of his hands. I’m still sort of mad at him for not loving me back when I loved him. And I still fantasize about him. I picture him seeing me again and then realizing,
Oh my God, I love Andi!
Wouldn’t that be cool? Except for telling Sarah. She’s probably a very nice girl. There is no sense in both of us having a broken heart from Rodney. Besides, I’m sure that’s not going to happen, but I think about it for a while and it’s really romantic. Like something on a soap opera. Where the camera zeroes in on one of the actors and you can hear the words in their head and they’ve just made a major discovery, like Rodney really loving me for instance, and then the music starts playing really loud, and then they cut to a commercial. I always love those parts, even if I haven’t been watching the show on a regular basis and have no way of knowing what’s really going on.
When we’re done with dinner, my mother says not to wander off. “They’ll be here soon,” she says.
I go upstairs and flop on my bed and look through the latest
People
magazine. I like to know what’s going on with my favorite, Tom Cruise, or maybe Meg Ryan. I like her a lot, too. I trust
People
magazine to tell the truth. All those other magazines have a lot of lies in them. I’m fairly sure of this because they get sued a lot.
Ten minutes later I hear the door chimes. It must be them, Rodney and Sarah and Rodney’s mother. I lean over the banister. Rosa goes to answer the door. Then I remember I haven’t even brushed my teeth and what if I have spinach caught in one of them? I run into my bathroom. My French braid still looks perfect. I could kiss Bridget. I didn’t even know Rodney was coming and she does my hair and it looks so great.
I have on a cotton shift and sandals and my legs are very brown. I put some lip gloss on and some blush. I can’t believe how good I look. Something’s been happening to my face lately. It’s looking more and more like Beth’s. It’s a small miracle.
Rodney and Sarah are sitting next to each other on the sofa. Rodney jumps up when I walk into the room.
“Andi,” he says all friendly-like.
Now I’m feeling very self conscious. I don’t know what to say. “Hi!” is all that comes out. I notice his hands. He doesn’t have any bandages on. I’m glad he’s all better, even though he doesn’t love me.
Rosa has a large tray with iced tea and pastries. Sarah takes a glass but nothing else. She takes a sip and sets it down on a coaster on the end table, then turns back to Rodney.
“This is Sarah, Andi. Sarah, meet Andi. She was a great help to me when my grandmother died.”
I really want to hate her or something. She took Rodney away before I even had a chance, but then I remember she met him first. They’ve been engaged since Christmas, so hating her would be totally unfair. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to shake her hand, so I nod and smile and turn to Rodney’s mother.
“Hello, Mrs. Hall,” I say. “It’s nice to see you again.”
I know that will make my mother very happy. I’m doing everything right. I go over and take the chair next to the sofa where Sarah’s sitting. For some reason being around her makes me very nervous, like maybe she can tell I once had a thing for Rodney and in a way I still do. When he said my name when I came into the room I was hoping he’d get that look on his face that I imagined where he realizes he’s in love with me. Of course, he didn’t and I admit to being disappointed even though I knew in my heart it wouldn’t happen.
Rosa holds the tray of iced tea out for me to take a glass, which I do, and then for some stupid reason I reach to pick up a pastry, before I remember I’m not eating any starches or sweets ’til after the cruise. When I pick up the glass, it slips and I lurch forward to try and get a grip on it, which makes it worse. The glass tips sideways and hits the side of my hand and the tea ends up all over me and Sarah. It’s very cold and she nearly jumps a foot. I’m too much in shock to feel it.
Rosa sets the tray down and runs into the kitchen. She’ll bring back enough paper towels to sop up the ocean. Rosa’s good for emergencies. In the interim, my mother jumps up.
“Oh goodness,” she says. “Are you okay, dear?” she asks and gives me a look that says,
what is with you tonight?
I’m so embarrassed. It’s bad enough that Rodney doesn’t love me one bit like I loved him, but now he knows what a big klutz I am. Sarah is dabbing at her clothes with her hands and grinning.
“Andi,” she says, “Do you have anything dry I can put on?” Now she’s laughing. She stands up and loops her arm through mine. “Excuse us, y’all,” she drawls. “We girls get a chance to make a second entrance. Don’t go away!”
And to think that I was so prepared not to like her, that I’d be so unhappy that she was ending up with Rodney. Now I see she’s perfect for him and a really nice person, too. Every once in a while, out of the blue, life just stands up in your face and says,
gotcha
.
My plan to help my mother concerns an idea I had way back when I first found out about my father and Donna. I thought of writing notes to my mother from Donna to let her in on what was going on. I decided against it when I realized I would be ruining the wedding plans, and Amy was in the hospital in danger of having the baby too early, plus I didn’t want to hurt my mother, so I changed my mind. Now, I’m thinking it would be good to have a letter or two of this nature as a back-up plan in case my mother starts drinking again. Really make her hit her bottom. She’s not drinking right now, but one never knows. It’s good to always be prepared, an adult thing to do. I decide to write several letters and take out some stationery Beth has in her desk drawer. The first one I compose is one from Mrs. Decker. She is the one who has a face that looks just like her Doberman’s. A letter from her makes the most sense because she is always walking up and down the street with that dog, sometimes scaring the daylights out of people who happening to be walking, too. I don’t know this Doberman’s name, but he looks like he could swallow your leg with one bite. She got this dog when Mr. Decker died, so the dog is most likely for protection and probably pretty ferocious given the right circumstances. I always stay out of his way.
I start thinking about how to compose the letter and what words Mrs. Decker would choose to use and decide to keep it very simple.
Dear Margaret,
[I’m fairly certain she would use my mother’s first name. I have seen them conversing from time to time when Mrs. Decker was outside without her dog.]
This is not an easy note to write, but I feel you should know what is going on with your husband. He is having sex with the young neighbor next door to you.
[I cross out “having sex” and start over.]
He is having a sexual relationship with the young neighbor next door to you. I am sorry to be the bearer of this news. Sincerely, your concerned neighbor
[I cross out “your concerned neighbor” and write “one of your concerned neighbors”]
.
I decide not to actually put Mrs. Decker’s name on the note in case my mother should take the letter over to Mrs. Decker and confront her. This way it could be a note from any number of neighbors. How my mother will figure they know this information to be factual is the next question. But I don’t have an answer for that and will have to rely on the fact that my mother will be so overcome with grief that she will not question how they know, just that they know. After all, it’s common knowledge on soap operas that the wife is always the last to know, and soap operas are designed after real life. I’m fairly sure of that.
The next one I write is from the viewpoint of Mrs. Anderson, who is in her eighties and is known for being a nosey neighbor if ever there was one. She once reported that she saw Beth smoking a cigarette when Beth was still in high school, and Beth got grounded until she convinced my father she would never smoke again. She hasn’t that I know of. Mrs. Anderson is the neighbor who weighs at least three hundred pounds. She rarely leaves her house so it is possible that she knows everything that goes on in this neighborhood and what time of day any and all events occurs as well. I oftentimes see her peeking out of her plantation shutters. And her backyard is adjacent to Bridget’s pool house, so she could easily have heard all the groaning that goes on in there.
So a note from Mrs. Anderson would not be questioned. Plus I can actually sign her name. She is old enough that she might not remember whether she wrote the note or not if my mother should approach the subject with her. This note is right to the point:
Dear Margaret,
I am sorry to inform you that your husband is having an affair with your neighbor. I’ll let you decide which one.
Helen Anderson
I decide to write one last note from an anonymous neighbor who doesn’t really exist. Since I’ve made this person up I decide the note should be formal.
Dear Mrs. St. James,
Your husband is being unfaithful. You may wish to visit your next-door neighbor’s pool house to confirm this. Wednesday evenings are the best time. Yours truly, A concerned neighbor.
I’m finished. I reread them to make sure that each one sounds different. It’s the best I can do. I put them in my top dresser drawer. They will be there when I need them. Days go by and I see no need to use them. My mother is back on her program in earnest and seems to be doing very well. She amazes me. Eventually I don’t think about those letters anymore, which is a very sorry thing, because I should have burned those letters the minute I wrote them.
***
Rosa is sick and my mother is actually doing the laundry. She’s putting my undies in my top dresser drawer. That’s where I keep the letters stashed along with the one I wrote to Donna. They’re under my panties, except I’m fresh out of panties. That’s why my mother decided to tackle the laundry.
I’m about to walk into my room. The door is partway open and my mother has one of the letters in her hands. I watch as she opens each and every one. I’m not sure what to do. Maybe I could tell her it was an English assignment. We were to make up the biggest lie possible and write all about it. That might work. Before I can decide my mother glances at the door and sees that I’m standing there. She quickly folds up the letter in her hand, places it on top of the others and puts them back in the drawer like she’s never even seen them. And what do I do? I stand there and pretend I haven’t seen a thing, either.
“How’s the laundry going?” I say and walk into my room very casual-like, but my insides are actually doing the tango. I plop down on my bed. My mother turns to me and says, “Fine. That was the last load.” She fluffs the back of her hair. “I certainly hope Rosa gets better soon. I’m completely worn-out.” She puts a pleasant look on her face, but it’s the kind of pleasant one she always uses when she’s trying to make people think she’s fine when she’s not. Fine, the very word reminds me of her program literature which it says stands for Frustrated, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional. She presses her lips together in a closed-mouth smile and her eyebrows go up a little bit and her eyes open wide—that kind of look. I know that look.
“I think I’ll take a nap,” she says. She walks out of my room but leaves the door open and I can easily see she’s not headed down the hall to her bedroom. I watch as she goes downstairs. I lean over the banister. She’s headed toward the kitchen. I sneak down the stairs and slide behind the column that separates the drawing room from the wet-bar. She isn’t headed to the kitchen after all. She stops at the cabinet next to the wet-bar sink and takes out a bottle of wine. It’s only half full, but it’s been sitting there since the day she last stopped drinking. She said it would remind her of how pathetic she can be. My mother takes a glass down from the wine rack above her. She pours a full glass and downs it in three swallows. She pours another. My mother is drinking again and it’s my fault. And it’s Donna’s fault for enticing my father to begin with. This makes it my father’s fault for ever getting involved with her regardless of what she did. We’re all guilty—every one of us.
***
“What are you going to do?” Bridget says.
Telling Bridget was supposed to make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I’m as miserable as ever. I want to stick my head in the washing machine while it’s still on the spin cycle. Have it smack me around good. How could I be so stupid? I should have burned those letters. Instead, I kept them tucked away like I did my prized artwork when I was in the first grade.
“There isn’t anything I can do,” I groan and flop backward onto my bed spread-eagle. “My mother hasn’t said a word. It’s like it never happened. Weird.”
“Maybe not,” Bridget says. “Maybe she’s doing what lots of grown-ups do. They ignore stuff. Like that will make it go away. My father does it all the time.”
“He does?”
“Sure. Like when he took me out of Westwood Academy. He acted like I’d never even been there in the first place. And when my grades were so bad afterwards, he hired a tutor and said, ‘Looks like you’re definitely doing better,’ and my grades didn’t get better for a long time.”
“Double weird.”
“No, denial!” Bridget says and pops up into a sitting position. “She’s having a major case of it.”
“But why?” I say.
“Probably because then it won’t hurt so much.”
I go to the dresser drawer and retrieve the letters. “Here.” I hand Bridget the one from Mrs. Decker. “Help me tear them up.”
We sit over the wastebasket and tear them into pieces the size of confetti. I dump the contents of the wastebasket into a paper sack. We go over to Bridget’s and she tosses the mess into her trash can.
I’m going to be like my mother and pretend they were never there to begin with.