All We Had (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Guardian

D
ays went by. My mother dated Vick tirelessly and my mood worsened. She and I fought all the time. One night she emerged from the bathroom all dressed up for a date. She flung her arms out and flopped down on the couch. Her pocketbook in her outstretched hand hit the cushion with a thump.

“I'll have you know,” she said, sticking her nose in the air all smug, “he's working on another loan for us.”

“Why? Because the first one worked out so well?” I couldn't help myself. It was breathtaking how stupid she could be. We'd gotten caught up in a nationwide scam and she refused to see it. She grabbed her purse and stood up. “At least he's trying to get us out of this mess. What the fuck are you doing about it except hanging out with that tired old queen?” She stormed out and slammed the door behind her.

No matter how she sometimes hurt me or how hard I tried not to, I missed her when she was gone. When she was out, I hardly
slept. I'd wait up and listen for the sound of a car, then her keys in the door. Her purse would hit the counter. She might open the freezer, pull the ice cream out, and eat it standing up. I'd hear the spoon clink against the bottom of the sink when she was done. Sometimes she took a shower. Sometimes she just slipped into bed. And I wouldn't move. I'd wait until I heard her breathing slow and then I'd inch my way onto my elbows to look at her, her mouth at rest, her lips slightly parted. I'd watch her chest rise and fall and listen to the rhythm of her sleeping. It wasn't until I knew for certain that she was home and next to me that I could close my eyes and rest.

I looked around our house. I was desperate not to lose it. But the truth was, it wasn't this house that mattered, it was her. She was the only thing that kept me from slipping through the cracks.

She'd started staying out all night with him, so now I never slept. I paced around the house cleaning things.

That night around ten, I thought I heard a car door slam so I looked out the window, but there was nothing. Miss Frankfurt must have heard the noise too because she was standing in her window peering out with Patti and Roger's binoculars. She now owned them. She'd bought them at their last tag sale. And she used them to follow my mother's every move. She'd watch my mother go, and Miss Frankfurt's lights wouldn't go out until she confirmed my mother was home again.

That night, her binoculars wandered all around. When they landed on me, she lowered them.

Ten minutes later, Pancake started barking his high-pitched frantic yelp, a particular bark that meant one thing: Miss Frankfurt was stepping out. And sure enough when I looked out the window again, she was closing her door. She stood on the top step, adjusted her hat, and took a deep inhale as if summoning the courage to move forward.

It was spring. The days were warm and the nights were perfect for sleeping. My life was falling apart but the weather had been glorious and the contrast irked me to no end.

But that night there wasn't anything else you could see but beauty. The atmosphere was an iridescent regal blue. A million stars shimmered and pulsed in the sky as if it were breathing. Rapture seemed to be upon us and it was impossible not to feel swept up in its embrace.

When Miss Frankfurt reached the end of her walkway, she pointed herself in my direction and started moving again. The full weight of her waddled from one leg to another. She carried an orange beach bag. The moonlight grazed the shoulders of her light-blue coat. Her arms swung at her sides laboriously as if bringing them along strained her. And even though she huffed and puffed and her hat almost fell off twice, there was something about her that fit the splendor of the night. In Miss Frankfurt there was an unquestionable queen, and that queen was heading right toward me. So I did what my instincts told me to: I hid.

She rang the bell, didn't wait a split second, then rang it again. “I know you're in there, I just saw you, so open up.”

When I did, she pushed past me with her beach bag and urgently pulled out a kitchen chair. With a moan of relief, she sat herself down at the table. She caught her breath, took off her
jacket, and settled it onto the back of her chair. She removed a hankie from her sleeve just as I imagined Jane Austen would.

“Well,” she said, dabbing her brow, “don't just stand there, get me a glass of water.”

I moved quickly. “Here.” I set a glass down in front of her, stole my hand away, and stepped back.

“For God's sake, I don't bite,” she said.

She picked up the water and guzzled it. Then she started again, dabbing the back of her neck.

When she caught my eye, she stopped. “Sit, sit,” she insisted, gesturing with her hankie at the chair across from her.

Her straw hat was decorated with fake flowers and twigs. A few bumble bees were sprinkled about. It seemed like an entire patch of earth had just been tossed onto her head. And the whole arrangement looked as if it needed watering, but she unpinned it from her head and placed it on the table with utmost care.

“Now,” she sighed. Her hazel eyes pooled at the bottom of her thick glasses. She tucked the hankie back into her sleeve. “Let me make sure we have everything we need.” She leaned to one side, reached into the beach bag, and without breaking her lopsided pose pulled out a pad of paper and pen. Every move she made took effort. Then, as if it weighed a ton, she hefted out a box, and
—thud!
—dropped it on the table.

Scrabble!
it said in script.

“If you don't know it, I'll teach you,” she said.

According to Miss Frankfurt, she'd never played with anyone who caught on so quickly. Halfway through game one, we put away the dictionary. By game two we were playing without the timer. She was impressed with all my moves. Two hours went by,
but it felt like ten minutes. We used all our brain power, scheming so we barely spoke. I came within points of beating her.

Then she folded up the board and returned it to her bag. “Well,” she said. “I've got to put my feet up. These dogs of mine are howling. But let me tell you something. I had a talk with that teacher of yours. She'd complained about your papers. She's lucky I didn't fire her.”

She pulled her glasses down and the blurry puddles of washed-out color at the bottom of her lenses brightened into light green jewels. She moved forward and looked into me as if she were seeing my soul.

“Any fool can tell by the way you frame your arguments: there is greatness in you. And you should know it.”

Miss Frankfurt made her way home in the same labored fashion, the indelible blue of her coat flickering behind her as she went. A few minutes later her den light went on where I imagined her settling back down with her book.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Persistence

I
came home from school to find my mother spread-eagle on our bed. She had separators in between her newly polished toes. Her face was coated with a teal-colored facial mask. What I thought were cucumber slices covered her eyes, but on closer examination I realized they were zucchinis. (They were on sale, she explained later.) Her lips were the only thing that weren't a shade of green. They were plumped up and red, gleaming with eucalyptus-smelling gloss.

“Mom?”

She didn't move.

It was hard to tell if she was breathing so I leaned in and took a closer look. A reflection of myself towered over her in the sheen of her mask.

“What are you staring at?” she said.

I stood up, startled. Her mouth hadn't even moved! “Aren't you supposed to be at work?” I asked.

She mouthed something that I couldn't understand.

“What?”

She said it again.

“What?” I repeated.

“For Chrissake, Ruthie!” she bolted upright and the zucchinis fell. “Can't you see? I'm resting! Oh, never mind.” She got up and pushed by me.

“I thought you were working today.” I followed her into the bathroom.

“I'm sick of that place. And I'm tired of everyone there.”

She went on, but I stopped listening. She was splashing her face with water. Green goo was flying everywhere and I had just cleaned the bathroom. “And look at this place,” she said. She flung her hands up and a spray of it hit the wall. “It's so dreary and small.”

A glob flew upward. For a moment it held its shape and hovered in the air. Then,
bam!
It dropped and splattered all over the floor.

She picked up a towel, dampened a corner, and started scouring her face. It was going to take me forever to clean up this mess. In an act of total desperation I grabbed her towel, threw myself down, and started mopping.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She gave me a little kick when I didn't respond. “Look at me!” she demanded. I stopped and looked up. Her hair was twisted in a white rag. The front of her bathrobe was open. There was still a thin line of green at the edge of her face so it looked as if she were wearing a mask of herself.

“You gotta stop this, Ruthie. Life moves on and we were fools to think our luck would last.”

We had been here before, teetering on the edge of homelessness. She'd fall into a predictable pattern of drinking and
napping. Any state of consciousness in between would set her on edge. I don't know how she mustered the will to keep going, but she always did. She'd get out of bed, reel in her drinking, touch up her nails, color her hair, and exfoliate her skin. She'd look around to see which man she could blow. Or which one might save us. It filled me with dread and sadness, but it was too painful for her to see.

She raised her head and cinched her robe. “Now get up off the floor.” She clenched her jaw and stepped by me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Reality

P
eter Pam bought me “green” cleaning products and gave me an old upright Hoover she'd found standing in someone's trash. Mel fixed it up. He touched up the paint and polished the chrome. He carried it in his arms up our walkway and presented it to me as if it were a bride. “Isn't she a beaut?” He set her down, unwound the cord from the neck, and demonstrated how she worked. “She's got a high and low beam and her wheels pivot, making it easy to navigate in all directions.” And with one easy tap of a foot control, he showed me how to secure the handle upright and set her into park. It was awesome.

But in mid-May, it poured. The leak broke through our ceiling, the cardboard hinged open like a door. A gush of dirty water spanked my linoleum. Bits of ceiling plaster flew everywhere and a dead squirrel—
thwack, thwack
—bounced off the counter and landed on the floor. Like a volunteer fire department, Peter Pam and Mel showed up without my asking with a piece of plywood and a screw gun, but life was falling down around me and nothing could keep it up.

My mother took me for a drive. She wouldn't tell me where we were going.

“You'll see,” she said. “Besides, you could use some fresh air.”

We were heading in the direction of Walmart, but then she turned. She stepped on the gas and pulled onto the highway.

She and I barely saw each other anymore and when we did, we hardly spoke. When we slept together we didn't spoon, and half the time one of us would end up sleeping on the couch.

But the highway always brought us back again.

My mother turned up the radio and went faster. We opened our windows. The landscape widened and the sky stretched on forever.

On the highway, life's possibilities were easy to imagine. I looked out the window and saw a motorcade escorting us along. A whole new life projected on the road. One that included incredible things. For example, lunch with Hillary Clinton. In the reflection of the windshield, I saw us at a table enjoying Diet Cokes.

My mother sat forward and turned up the volume.

“These boots are made for walking”
—she looked at me and smiled. This was one of her favorite songs. She swayed and snapped her fingers.

The day was warm and long. The trees were full. The sun shined through the leaves and left brushstrokes of yellow on the earth. Wildflowers—purples and saffrons, oranges and blues—stippled the edge of the road. One day the planet might be too hot for anything to blossom, but that day, it was hard to imagine.

My mother was really hamming it up, slapping the steering
wheel.
“One of these days these boots are going to walk all over
you!”
She galloped in her seat and her voice went low. Moments like this were all we had, so I let myself go and the two of us laughed.

An hour later, she shook me awake. “Here we are,” she sang. I had fallen asleep and in that time, her fake, cheerful twin had come back. I could tell by the way she was sitting upright in her seat. She turned left, she turned right. She turned left, she turned right. Each time she was careful to come to a full stop and use her blinker—two things I'd never seen her do before.

“Isn't it beautiful?” she asked.

I looked around. We were driving through the center of a town. The houses lined the streets in even rows.

“And
”
—she rounded the corner onto Center Street—“you're not going to believe this, but”—she pulled to a stop—“there's a Starbucks!”

“Are you high?” I couldn't help but ask. She and I were Dunkin' Donuts girls through and through.

She put the car in park, tapped me on the knee, and said, “Oh,” as in,
Oh, don't be silly.
“I'm going to go grab an iced chai latte, do you want one?” She sprang out of the car.

Across the street, an orchestra was getting ready to give a concert on the green. The audience sat in white folding chairs waiting, I imagined, for something cheerfully baroque. The green was dotted with tender saplings perched on mounds of ochre-colored mulch, as if they'd been dropped neatly into place that morning. The sky above was primary blue. A cute puffy
cloud went by, giving the scene just the right touch of ironic fake realism.

“I knew you'd like it here,” my mother said, ducking back into the car with her latte.

“I have no idea where we are.”

“This is Westland,” she said.

“Wasteland?”

“No, Westland,” she repeated, “as in north and south. You know, Westland, where Vick lives.”

They'd changed the rules, she told me, and the loan Vick was working on for us hadn't gone through. The bank would kick us out soon. So, she said, “We're moving in with him.”

She always did this. If she was afraid to tell me something, she'd just slip it into a conversation and act as if it were a given truth. I could tell by the way she was innocently scratching her cheek that she was hoping she'd gotten away with it. But I shot her one of my most melodramatic looks of disgust. I twisted my features as much as possible and, in case she needed help seeing it, I thrust the expression at her and flew out the door.

Fat River was the only place I ever loved and no one was going to take that away from me.

Ta-da-da-da. Ta-da-da-da.
Suddenly there was music.

The first few notes of Beethoven's Fifth thundered out from the orchestra as I stormed along the shoulder of the road.

Mel had told us we could move back behind the gas station if we lost the house. My mother wouldn't hear of it though. She was sick and tired of living so close to the edge. But I didn't care about her anymore. I decided right then and there, I was going to live in the gas station without her.

My mother pulled the car back onto the street and stepped
lightly on the gas to follow me.

An empty paper cup crossed my path. I stepped on it, delighted by the
crunch
.

Peter Pam and I had already measured the space. She had all sorts of decorating ideas. “A nice braided rug would brighten and warm the place right up,” she'd told me.

“Ruthie!” my mother called. “What are you doing?” She was steering with one hand and shouting at me over the seat through the open passenger-side window.

There was a patch of dirt behind the station where Arlene said there used to be tomatoes so I could have my own garden.

“Get back in the car!” my mother shouted.

The violin section played furiously. They jerked their heads, they snapped their strings. At the end of every riff, in a wild madcap gesture, they flung their bows toward the sky.

I sped up. My mother did too. This time when she caught up with me, she stopped and got out of the car. “I mean it, Ruthie,” she screamed over the roof. “If you don't get back in this instant, I'll leave without you!”

“Pffft!” I sputtered.
See if I care!
Then I flipped my fingers under my chin like I was Italian.

A woman across the street gaped at us and drew her Williams-Sonoma shopping bag closer in. I walked faster. My mother got back in the car, pulled forward, got out again, and assumed the same position at her door.

“What's that supposed to mean?” she yelled, but I didn't answer.

This time when she got back in the car and stepped on the gas, the wheels spun.

This prompted a loud gasp from the two women now watch
ing us.

“You know, you can be a real a-hole!” My mother was out of the car again yelling. “For the first time in, oh, let me think—” I stopped, jabbed my fists on my hips and glared at her like,
This should be good!

She had propped up her elbow with her hand and was tapping her finger to her lips, looking up in a mock thinking pose. “My entire life!” she yelled. “I've cleaned up my act and finally gotten us a decent place to live and this is how you thank me?

“And another thing . . .” She tore her bag off her shoulder, dug out a pack of cigarettes, and pawed at them madly. One after another, cigarettes spilled out and broke. “You think I'm stupid, don't you?” She finally managed to get a whole cigarette out and shoved it into her mouth. “Well, let me tell you something.” The unlit cigarette quaked, then she removed it and yelled, “I'm not!” and put it back again.

Her new haircut indicated otherwise. It was shoulder length on one side, cropped on the other in an asymmetrical look that just screamed
Idiot!
to me.

“I know exactly what you're trying to do. But I am not going to let it happen. Nope!” When she jerked her head only half her hair swayed.

She fished out her lighter from her bag, sparked a flame, lit her cigarette, and, without thinking about what she was doing, she slammed the lighter down on the ground and lurched toward me. “Not this time!” she barked. “There is no fucking way I'm going to let you talk me out of this one.”

A small group of women had gathered across the street gawking at us as if they'd unwittingly been sucked into a bad made-
for-TV movie.

The street behind them was lined with shops that looked as if they'd been pressed in molds like candies and the row of tulips along the sidewalk exuded an unnaturally high wattage of color. God had turned up the contrast on life and dropped me into a badly sculpted play set.

The only thing that looked real was the ash on the tip of my mother's cigarette. She moved the cigarette to her mouth. She inhaled. A line of smoke spiraled up, the ash grew longer, and a sprinkle of it drifted to the ground.

“He not only owns a house with a pool, it has three bathrooms! Count them!” She shoved three fingers in my face and wiggled them. With the cigarette she pointed to the tips of each one. “One, two . . .” She enunciated the words slowly like a nursery school teacher, but her hands shook like a hard-edged old lady's. The ash hung by a thread. An explosion of percussions boomed across the green. “Three!” My mother touched her last fingertip, Beethoven's Fifth crescendoed, and the ash fell. In my head, when it hit the ground a mushroom cloud erupted. A blast of radioactive dust smacked the ground and obliterated the planet.

In the space that followed, a dead silence hushed across the green like snow. For a moment the audience sat awestruck. The women across the street held their breath. My mother inhaled and a brand-new ash sizzled.

I cleared my throat. I blinked. “Mel said he'd put in a new shower stall.”

“Encore!” the audience clapped and shouted.

My mother's shoulders dropped. “Ruthie.” She sighed, as in
Don't be so naïve.

“Delete, delete, delete,” a bird in the sapling nearest us chirped.

“Please,” my mother said. Her tone had softened. The women across the street moved onward. The sun angled downward.

“Please, Ruthie. He has a washing machine and a dryer and a dishwasher that works. The plumbing doesn't clatter and not a single window is broken. And I'm tired.” Her bottom lip began to quiver, but I told myself I didn't care. “I just need a place to rest.”

I took a deep breath. I felt my insides soften.

She was only thirty-two, but the weight of a hundred hard lifetimes was etched across her face. Last winter's cough had never fully gone away. The rattle in her lungs had worsened. And no amount of makeup could cover the heavy darkness that had settled beneath her eyes.

My mother began to weep. She dropped her head and her shoulders shook. I could see the winged bones of her back beneath the thin fabric of her dress. A length of hem hung below her knees, weighted down by the safety pin that had held it up for days.

“Don't cry,” I said. When my mother cried, nothing else existed but her sadness, and her sadness ran so deep that if I didn't stop it, it would drown us both.

She raised her head and looked at me. A well of wounded dreams shimmered at the bottom of her eyes.

“Don't cry,” I said again. I reached out and took her hand. “Everything will be okay, I promise.”