A small, older woman was crossing the street, coming toward the gate. She was dressed
in dark-washed jeans and a white sweatshirt that had been bedazzled to read:
WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA
. Her black hair had a skunklike streak of stark white along the part, and framed
a round, apple-cheeked face with a pointed chin.
“Oh,” the woman said, stopping abruptly. “It’s you.”
Dorothy peeled the gloves off and tucked them into her sagging waistband. Wiping the
sweat from her forehead, she walked to the fence line. She was about to say,
I don’t know you,
when a memory struck.
I’m lying on the sofa, spread-eagled, with a mound of weed on my stomach. I try to
smile at the do-gooder who has just walked into the house, but I am so high all I
can do is laugh and swear. Tallulah is bright red with embarrassment.
“You’re oven-mitt-girl’s mom,” Dorothy said quietly. “From across the street.”
“Margie Mularkey. And yes, to my daughter’s horror, I sent her over here with a hot
casserole in about 1974. You were … indisposed.”
“High. And probably drunk.”
Margie nodded. “I came to see what was going on over here. I didn’t know you’d moved
in. The house has been empty for a long time. I should have noticed, but … we’ve had
a tough year. Been gone a lot.”
“I could keep an eye on the place for you. Collect your mail.” The moment the offer
slipped out, Dorothy felt exposed. A nice woman like Margie Mularkey, who welcomed
neighbors and probably quilted, would never accept help from someone like Dorothy.
“That would be nice. I’d appreciate it. There’s a milk box on the porch. Maybe you
could put the mail in there.”
“I could do that.”
Margie glanced away. She was looking down the empty road, staring right into the sun
through her big tinted glasses. “The girls used to sneak out at night and ride their
bikes on this road. They thought I didn’t know.” At that, her legs seemed to give
out on her and Margie crumpled to the ground.
Dorothy opened the gate and went to the woman, helping her to stand. Holding on to
her elbow, she guided the woman down to the patio area in the backyard, and into a
dirty birchwood chair. “I … uh … haven’t cleaned the outdoor furniture yet.”
Margie laughed dully. “It’s June. Summer just started.” She reached into her pocket
and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
Dorothy sat cross-legged on the weed-choked cement patio, watching a tear slip down
the woman’s round cheek and splash on her veiny hand.
“Don’t mind me,” Margie said. “I’ve been holding this in too long.”
“Oh.”
“Katie, my daughter,” Margie said, “has cancer.”
Dorothy had no idea what people said at a time like this.
I’m sorry
seemed pathetic and obvious, and what else was there?
“Thank you,” Margie said into the silence.
Dorothy breathed in some of the secondhand menthol smoke. “What for?”
“Not saying, ‘She’ll be fine,’ or, worse, ‘I’m sorry.’”
“Bad shit happens,” Dorothy said.
“Yeah. I didn’t used to know that.”
“How’s Tully?”
“She’s with Katie now.” Margie looked up. “I think she’d like it if you went to see
her. She just quit her TV show.”
Dorothy tried to smile but couldn’t. “I’m not ready. I’ve hurt her a few times too
many. Don’t want to do it again.”
“Yes,” Margie said. “She’s always been more fragile than she seems.”
They sat there a little longer, saying nothing. Finally, Margie stood. “Well. I have
to get back.”
Dorothy nodded. She rose slowly and walked Margie off the patio and up to Firefly
Lane. As Margie started across the street, Dorothy said, “Margie?”
Margie turned back. “Yes?”
“I’ll bet she knows how much you love her. Your Katie. That would mean a lot.”
Margie nodded and wiped her eyes. “Thanks, Cloud.”
“I’m Dorothy now.”
Margie smiled tiredly. “Dorothy, I hope you don’t mind me saying this: time passes.
Trust me. Strong girls suddenly get sick. Don’t wait too long to see your daughter.”
Twenty
In October of 2006, rain fell from swollen clouds day after day, turning Dorothy’s
carefully tilled fields into a black and muddy mess full of cloudy puddles. Still,
she went out every day, rain or shine, to care for this ground that had become the
whole of her focus. She planted garlic and a mixture of winter rye and hairy vetch
to cover the wet ground. She prepped the beds for crops she would plant in the spring,
lining them with dolomite and layering compost down. She was busy planting when a
floral delivery van turned into the driveway across the street.
Dorothy sat back on her heels and looked up at the Mularkey house. Rain threaded the
view, fell from the brim of her hat in fat beads that obscured the black ribbon of
Firefly Lane.
The house was empty now, she knew. The Mularkeys were either at the hospital or Kate’s
house every day. Dorothy had picked up their mail and stacked it carefully into piles
and placed it in the silver milk delivery box. Several times she’d found the box empty
and the mail gone, so she knew Bud and Margie were home occasionally, but she’d not
seen either of them or their car in the past month.
She put down her trowel and stood up slowly, peeling off her gloves. Tucking them
into her waistband, she picked her way out of the garden and walked across the patio
and along the side yard toward the driveway.
She was at her mailbox when the delivery truck chugged back down the Mularkeys’ driveway
and turned left onto Firefly Lane.
She walked across the street and up the gravel driveway in her oversized rubber boots.
To her right, the rolling green pasture fell away from the farmhouse and ended at
the split-rail fence that delineated the property. As she approached the white farmhouse’s
welcoming front porch, she couldn’t help thinking that this was the house that came
closest to home for her daughter and Dorothy had never even been inside.
The porch was full of flower arrangements. They were on the floor, on the tables;
one was even on the milk box. Dorothy felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She plucked the envelope from a bouquet near her and opened it.
We are so sorry for your loss.
Kate will be missed.
Love, the Goldstein family
Dorothy had no idea why she felt such loss. She couldn’t even summon a picture of
Kate Ryan in her mind. Nothing came to her but a memory of stringy blond hair and
a quiet smile.
Pot and alcohol. They’d stolen so much from her, and never had she missed her memories
more.
This would break Tully’s heart, pure and simple. Dorothy might not know much about
her daughter, but she knew this: Kate was the ground beneath her daughter’s feet,
the rail that kept her from falling. She was the sister Tully had yearned for and
never had; the family her daughter had wanted so desperately.
Dorothy prayed the Mularkeys didn’t come home to a porch full of dead flowers—how
depressing would
that
be? But what could she do to help?
She could reach out to her daughter at last.
The thought filled her with a tenuous, unexpected hope. Maybe this terrible moment
would be the time to show Tully that she had changed. She hurried back down the driveway
to her house. It took less than thirty minutes on the phone to find out the funeral
plans. It would be held in a few days, at the Catholic church on Bainbridge Island.
In a town as small as Snohomish, the news of a death of one of their own moved quickly.
For the first time in as long as Dorothy could remember, she prepared for an event.
She rode her bike into town on October fifth—in the pouring rain—and had her hair
cut. She could tell by the way the young girl clucked and
tsk
ed that she thought Dorothy’s hair was too long and too gray, but Dorothy had a long
history of being too something and she was okay with that. She didn’t need to come
out looking like Jane Fonda, all impossibly young and fit. She just wanted not to
embarrass Tully, to show her daughter that she’d changed.
So she had her hair cut to shoulder-length and let the blackbird girl in the motorcycle
boots dry it until it fell in pretty waves. Then she went to one of the small local
boutiques on First Street (where she endured more clucking and
tsk
ing) and purchased a pair of simple black pants and a matching turtleneck. She had
the clothes wrapped up in plastic bags and carried them out to her bicycle. By the
time she got there, her hair was ruined again, but she hardly noticed. She was too
consumed with the conversation going on in her head.
It’s good to see you again
.
I’m so sorry for your loss
.
I know what she meant to you
.
I’m sober now. Two hundred and ninety-seven days
.
She bought a book on how to help a loved one through grief. Most of the sentences
would sound ridiculous coming from her:
She’s in a better place. Time will help. Prayer can be a comfort
. But some of it she could try:
I know how much she meant to you. You were lucky to have her.
She underlined some of the sentiments and practiced saying them to a mirror, pretending
all the while not to see how old and broken-down she looked, the toll drugs and alcohol
had taken on her skin.
On the day of the funeral, she woke to a surprisingly bright and sunny morning. She
showered carefully and conditioned her hair, although she was hopeless at styling
it and, really, that cut had made little difference. She still had a vague Albert-Einstein-meets-old-hippie
vibe going on. What could she do about it, though? Her wrinkled face and tired-looking
eyes could not be helped by makeup. With her fading eyesight and unsteady hand, she’d
probably end up looking like Bette Davis in
What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?
Still, she did her best. She brushed her teeth and dressed in her new clothes. She
looked a little—very little—like Blythe Danner after a bad night with tequila, but
her clothes were respectable.
She climbed onto her bike and rode into town, grateful beyond measure for the sunshine,
but it was cold out.
Downtown, she splurged on a soy milk chai tea latte and waited impatiently for the
bus, going through those sentences in her head again. When the bus pulled up, she
got on.
She could do this. She could go to her daughter and help her. At last.
She stared out the window, seeing a ghostly version of her own face. Beyond was the
freeway, and beyond that, an unexpected memory.
A parking lot full of cars. Maple trees providing shade, a city park with kids playing …
I am stoned out of my mind. It’s the only way.
I am here because my mother has died.
“Mom. Thank God you’re here.”
My daughter is so beautiful, and the sight of her makes me impossibly sad. Is she
sixteen? How can I not know for sure? The darkness swells, slops over the edges, and
I feel myself getting smaller, weaker.
“You knew I’d need you.”
Tully is smiling. Smiling.
I think of how often I have tried to be what this girl needed, and how often and how
profoundly I have failed. Tully is talking, saying more, and I feel the start of tears.
I stumble forward, say, “Look at me.”
“I’m looking.”
“No. Look. I can’t help you.”
Tully frowns and steps back. “But I need you.”
Dorothy turned away from the window. What had she said to her daughter on that day
of her own mother’s funeral? She couldn’t remember now. All she remembered was leaving …
and the dark, dark days—months, years—that followed. The men. The drugs.
She’d let her daughter become a ward of the state that day.
The bus pulled up to the ferry terminal and came to a wheezing stop. Dorothy disembarked
and boarded the ferry for Bainbridge.
Had she ever been there before? She didn’t think so; or, if she had, she must have
been drunk or high, because she couldn’t remember it.
The island was pretty in a well-tended way, with quaint shops and quiet streets. Definitely
the kind of place where everybody knew everybody and someone like her would stand
out, even in new, clean clothes.
She knew that if she weren’t on her meds she’d be whack right now. But with her meds
she was okay. Fuzzy-thinking, a little dull in the mind, but steady, and that was
what mattered. For years she’d hated the fuzziness of meds enough to suffer through
the Ferris Wheel highs and subterranean lows. But now she would take steady any day.
Although, honestly, she wanted a drink. Just one.
She put her hand in her coat pocket and clutched the nine-month-clean chip she had
earned at the last meeting. Soon, she’d get the ten-month. One day at a time.
She moved with the steady stream of locals and tourists, off the boat, up the terminal,
and out into the sunshine. Following her directions, she walked through town, which
was quiet on this early October day. The distance to the Catholic church was farther
than she’d thought and so when she arrived, she was late. The service had already
begun. The big double doors were closed. She had crashed a lot of things in her life,
but she wasn’t about to go into that church alone.
She found a bench beneath a pair of maple trees at the edge of the parking lot and
sat beneath their multicolored canopy. Above her, an autumn leaf released its last
tenuous hold on life and fluttered to the ground. Dorothy brushed it from her face
and stared down at her hands, thinking.
When she looked up again, Tully stood alone in front of the church. Dorothy got to
her feet and started to move forward, but then she stopped.
The parking lot was filling up with people. Mourners poured out of the church. Several
of them collected around Tully.