LimeLight (10 page)

I frown. “I never realized my mother was such a fan of pastels.”

“A common and unfortunate decorating mistake of the eighties.”

“What will I do with all these things?” I pick a dusty cobweb off the lampshade.

“First we’ll call Goodwill. I noticed a store on the way into town. We’ll see if they pick up. I instructed the movers not to deliver your things until tomorrow.”

“My things will be here tomorrow?”

He nods. “I made them promise not to show up until later in the day. I wanted some time to get a plan in order.” He clears his throat. “And I can see that won’t be easy.”

Despite the dust, I sit on the couch and let out a sigh of deep despair. “I cannot do this, Michael. I just cannot do this. I am too old. I would rather be dead.”

“Nonsense, Claudette. You’re just a bit worn out. I am too. And I’m hungry. Do you suppose there’s anyplace in town that delivers?”

“Delivers?”

“You know, darling, a restaurant that delivers food. Is there such a thing in Silverton?”

“I seriously doubt it.”

“Well, I will find out.” And he takes out his magical little cell phone, which reminds me that I need to find the charging device for mine, and begins to dial.

While he is preoccupied with this, I use the bathroom, which is almost exactly as I remember it from childhood, and turn on the heat. Everything in here feels damp and cold. Will it ever feel the slightest bit habitable? Or perhaps I will simply develop a serious case of pneumonia, which will bring on my hasty demise. One can only hope.

I go to what used to be my old bedroom. Mine and Violet’s, that is. It’s interesting how so many of my childhood memories don’t even include my younger sister. Why is that? Where was she hiding herself all those years? Probably tucked into a corner behind a book somewhere. She was always very bookish and quiet and self-conscious and insecure.

Surely our home life must’ve troubled her as much as it did me, but somehow it seemed as if she escaped it better. Or it just didn’t affect her to the degree it impacted me. I felt that I would literally suffocate if I didn’t leave this place when I did, and I truly believed that she would follow my example and do the same. But then our father died, and I suppose that changed things some. Who can say?

Violet did leave for a while, to get her teaching degree. But like spawning salmon, she and Clarence came straight back to Silverton. I thought perhaps it was only a temporary form of
insanity, but then they got married, settled in, bought their home, had their three daughters, and stuck around.

Violet always acted as if she was happy to live here, as if she liked her job, liked being close to our mother and the smalltown setting. But I felt that she, like me, was simply acting. Over time, I began to accept that we were just different. I always wanted more and more and more… Violet always settled for less.

I look at our old bedroom, which is exactly the same, with its pale peach walls and the original dark wood floor. The same two narrow twin beds on either side of a window with a painted dresser beneath it. I always used the top two drawers; Violet’s were on the bottom. Violet’s bed was near the door, which made her space a bit more cramped. Mine was near the closet, which I dominated, and I had a whole wall to myself and enough space to squeeze in a straight-back chair and bedside table, both of which are still there. Why didn’t Violet rearrange things after I left? Perhaps she liked it the way it was.

I suppose I might be partially responsible for my sister’s shortcomings. I may have trained her early on—I took more, so she had less. She got hand-me-downs and leftovers and settled for it. Really, I can’t recall her complaining. She never seemed to expect anything more. So maybe I shouldn’t blame myself after all; maybe Violet was just born that way.

It’s strange to think that my sister still lives here in town. Even stranger that she resides in McLachlan Manor. I shudder
at the very thought. I know for a fact that I would much rather be dead. I’m sure I would leap headfirst from the tallest building in town, even if it is only three stories, before I would let anyone put me in that place. Or if they did put me there, I would escape first thing and throw myself under a train.

I vaguely wonder if I should let bygones be bygones and go visit my poor sister at McLachlan Manor. Perhaps seeing her in such a depressing place would make me feel better about my own sorry state of affairs.

W
hen Michael finds me, I am standing in my mother’s bedroom. And while it’s certainly not my style, I am relieved to see that everything in this room has changed. It feels as if my mother erased all traces of my father, and for her sake, I’m glad. The walls are an improvement. Instead of that dreadful peach color that seems to be everywhere, these have been transformed to a soothing shade of pale blue.

“More pink and blue?” Michael asks from behind me.

I nod. “And more ugly pink carpeting.”

“Well, I have good news.”

I turn and look at him hopefully. Perhaps he’s received a call from the IRS, telling him that they’ve made a grievous mistake and they are returning my home in Beverly Hills to me. “Yes?”

“First of all, Goodwill is happy to send a truck by in the morning. They will take whatever you’d like to donate and even give you a receipt for a tax deduction.”

I roll my eyes. “Excuse me for not cheering.”

“But that’s not all. I asked the woman at Goodwill if she happened to know of anyone who could remove your pink
carpeting and—bingo—her brother-in-law is in the flooring business, and she was going to give him a call for me.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” I say in what I hope is a slightly droll voice.

“I thought you’d be happy.”

“Deliriously.”

“Unfortunately I struck out on takeout. The only place that delivers is pizza.”

I make a face.

“But the Goodwill lady did recommend an Italian restaurant.”

“Coming from the Goodwill lady, I’m sure it must be simply divine.”

Michael frowns. “You can be such a spoilsport, Claudette.”

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I know you’re being a dear, Michael. And I know I should appreciate your help. And I do. It’s just that this is all so disheartening. I feel as if I’m stuck in a very bad dream, and I’d just like to wake up.”

He nods and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I know, darling. And I am so sorry for all you’re going through. But try to think of this as an adventure.” He walks over to the bed and shakes some dust off the pillow. “Goodness, we’ll have to do some cleaning before bedtime, won’t we?”

“Are we really going to sleep here?” I ask helplessly.

“Would you prefer that Motel 6 on the edge of town?”

I cringe at the thought. “No, I see your point.”

“Tell you what,” he says suddenly. “Let’s pop some linens
into the washing machine. She does have a washing machine, doesn’t she?”

“Goodness. The last machine I saw Mother using was her old wringer washer. You don’t suppose…”

But when we go out to the back porch, which is now completely enclosed, we find not only a proper washing machine but a dryer as well. There’s even a partially full jug of laundry soap. Before long, Michael and I have stripped the beds, he’s figured out the settings on the washing machine, and a load of sheets is churning away in sudsy hot water.

“I’m surprised you know how to do such domesticated things,” I tell him as he proudly closes the lid.

“Because Richard still works, I try to keep things running nicely in the home.”

“Such a good little housewife.”

“I do my best.”

“Well, you’re ahead of me in that game,” I admit. “I don’t know how I can possibly learn to do those things.”

“You’ll learn. If I can do it, so can you.”

We freshen up a bit and then drive the short distance to town, where Michael parks in front of what used to be Chuck’s Diner but is now called Marco’s. The décor is a bit campy, with its red gingham tablecloths and wine bottles with drippy candles. But at least it smells good, and I realize that I’m really quite hungry.

“We’re new in town,” Michael tells the maître d’. “And we’re a bit worn out from the road. Are you serving dinner yet?”

The man smiles. “Certainly. Right this way.”

The service is unexpectedly good, but then we’re the only ones here at this hour, since it’s not even five yet, and the food is, well, acceptable. Oh, I’m sure if I were in a better mood, or if I were in Beverly Hills with some of my old friends, I might go as far as to admit the food is slightly exceptional. But I am not in that frame of mind. Besides, Michael makes up for my lack of enthusiasm. He gushes about every single thing—the bread, the wine, the salad, the pasta… Goodness, you’d think the man never had a fine Italian dinner before in his life. And I know that’s not true.

But once we’re finished, I do feel a tiny bit better. Oh, I’m not happy about my life, not by any means, but I’m not quite ready to jump off the top of the Silverton Bank Building just yet. It’s dusky as we go to the car, and although it’s barely six, I am exhausted.

“Shall we stop by the grocery store?” Michael starts the car.

“What for?”

He laughs. “Oh, you know, the basics. Things like coffee, toilet paper, dryer sheets.”

“Dryer sheets?” I imagine something draped over a clothes dryer.

“You know, like Cling Free, those little sheets you toss into the dryer to make your clothes and linens smell nice. They come in all sorts of different scents. I recently found lavender, and it’s really delightful.”

“Oh…you really are a domestic goddess, aren’t you?”

“Are you saying you don’t want a nice cup of coffee in the morning?”

“I’m saying I don’t know if my mother even has a coffee machine.”

“I noticed an old Mr. Coffee on her countertop.”

“You are so observant, Michael.” I sigh and lean back. “And energetic. How do you do it?”

“It’s all an attitude, darling. You just need to think more positively.”

“I’m positively exhausted.”

“Well, you stay in the car then. I’ll do a little shopping.”

I put my seat back and fall asleep even before he gets to the store. In fact, I don’t wake up until he’s nudging me and telling me that we’re home.

“Home…in Beverly Hills?”

“No, darling. In your
new
home. Come now, dear, it’s time to play house with Michael.”

He helps me out of the car and hands me a bag, which thankfully is not very heavy. Then he gets two other bags, and we go into the house, where he unloads his groceries with plume and pride.

“And see,” he produces a box of Kleenex, “something to wipe your nose.” Then he removes a package of toilet tissue. “And something to wipe something else.” He chuckles as he sets out a bag of what smells like freshly ground coffee. “I would’ve
gotten whole beans, but I wasn’t sure if your mother had a coffee grinder.”

“I seriously doubt it.” I glance around the old tiled counter-top, which is a nice shade of green. I’m glad she didn’t have that changed to pink or blue.

Michael opens the fridge to set a bag of oranges inside then stops. “Oh my.” He quickly closes it and turns to me with a ghastly expression.

“What?”

“Apparently no one cleaned out your mother’s fridge when she died.” He sets his oranges by the sink.

“Is there a dead body in there or something?”

“No, it just
smells
like it.” He frowns. “I wonder if you can afford to replace it on your new budget.”

Well, this is just more than I can take. I turn around and go down the narrow hallway to what used to be my old bedroom. I throw myself onto what used to be my old mattress and just cry myself to sleep.

When I wake up, I’m surprised to see Michael standing over me with a laundry basket of what appear to be clean linens. “Feeling better, darling?”

I slowly sit up and blink into the bright overhead light. “What time is it, anyway?”

“It’s almost nine. The sheets are clean and dry, and I, for one, am ready to call it a night.” He sighs as he sets the basket down. “Is this where you’re sleeping tonight?”

I look around and shrug. “It makes no difference to me.”

Michael begins to put sheets on what used to be Violet’s bed.

“Not
that
bed.”

He turns and stares at me. “I thought you said it made no difference.”

“Well, it does.” I stand up, go over, and snatch the sheets from him. “I can do this myself, thank you very much.”

He shakes his head and leaves. “Good night, Claudette,” he calls from the hallway.

I am surprised that I still remember how to make a bed, but then I’ve made this same bed hundreds of times before. It’s only natural that it would come back to me. But for some reason, this gives me the slightest sliver of hope. Perhaps I won’t be as helpless as I’d imagined.

“Here are the blankets,” Michael says as he returns. “I gave them a good shake outside.”

“Thank you.” I suddenly feel guilty. “For everything, Michael.”

He smiles. “So you do appreciate me?”

“I think you are my fairy godmother…or godfather…or my knight in shining armor. Yes, I do appreciate you.”