LimeLight (14 page)

“How did you talk them into that?”

“Money talks.”

“Oh yes. But where will they sleep?”

“I’m putting them up at the Motel 6.”

“How
luxurious.
”

“They didn’t complain.”

When we get home, the moving van is still parked in the driveway, and Michael parks my car in front of the house.

“I don’t like leaving my car on the street. It’s bad enough this house doesn’t have a garage, but—”

“I’ll move it to the driveway after the boys leave.”

Then, as we’re about to go into the house, Michael makes me cover my eyes. “I don’t want you to see anything until it’s all done.”

“How am I supposed to—?”

“I’ll guide you to your bedroom. At least it’s mostly in place. Then you must promise not to peek.”

I’m so tired that I cooperate, allowing Michael to lead me along as if I can’t see. “So now I know how it feels to be old and poor
and
blind,” I say when we finally stop at what I assume is my mother’s old bedroom.

“Open your eyes.”

I open my eyes and, for a moment, can’t remember where I am. “Is this really my mother’s bedroom?”

“It is. See—the pale blue paint is the same.”

I walk around the room, taking in the dark cherry furnishings, the pale blue and cream bedding and window coverings, the elegant lamps on the bedside tables, the art on the walls, the gleaming hardwood floor, and the Oriental carpet. “I cannot believe it.” I run my hand over the silky duvet cover. “This was
from the guest room in the Beverly Hills house. I’d almost forgotten it.”

“It’s like new, darling. And the blue and cream damask is so perfect with the walls. Do you like it?”

“I do, Michael.” I turn and look at him, and to my surprise, tears are in my eyes. “Thank you.”

“I know it’s a comedown from your master suite, but I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

I nod. “Yes, my master suite was bigger than this entire house.”

“But this is cozy. And look.” He opens the closet. “I even unpacked some of your things for you.”

I frown. “There’s not much room in there.”

“No. It’s time to pare down.”

Michael tells me good night, reminding me again not to peek at the rest of the house. “Well, other than the bathroom, of course. I’ve put some of your nice linens in there, but the rest will have to wait until it’s painted tomorrow. We must get rid of that ghastly peach color, darling. That color should be called
dead salmon.
”

“That sounds about right.”

As I get ready for bed, I try to imagine what my life in this house will be like in the days to come, but it’s like looking into a pitch black tunnel…a tunnel with no light at the end. I feel as if I’ve been sent to prison, serving a life sentence with no parole. Or perhaps it’s more of a death sentence. But, not unlike so many murderers living on death row, I don’t know when the
execution will actually take place. Perhaps tonight. Oh, to simply die in my sleep. It sounds so easy.

I pick up my novel as a distraction from these depressing thoughts, and I get into my comfortable bed with its down comforter and pillows, its eight-hundred-count percale sheets—the best bed I’ve been in for weeks. But I’m so exhausted that I set Danielle Steel aside and turn out the light.

And here I lie in the darkness, haunted, it seems, by the past. It is strange and unsettling to realize that this is the room where my parents once slept and fought and occasionally, when my father forced his drunken way, even had sex. I shudder. Naturally, I don’t want to think about such things. What child likes to imagine her parents together like that? Although it was hard not to know what went on in a house so small. And yet I know my anxiety has deep roots, something that lies beneath, buried below layers and years of distraction.

I have been quite adept at pushing unpleasantries away, suppressing those parts of childhood that make me uncomfortable. Over the years, I’ve worked hard to block old things out, putting them behind me.

Haunting memories can slice into one’s soul… They can torture the mind.

I’ve seen it happen to others, seen them broken down, locked up, forlorn and forgotten. It is very sad and terribly unfortunate. But I always made sure it didn’t happen to me. And somehow, without the aid of psychological therapy, which so many of my friends have relied upon, I have managed to keep
my demons at bay. So far, I’ve kept them away for my entire adult life. And I have no intention of losing this battle now.

For no particular reason, I wake up at dawn. No one is pounding on the door, demanding to know who I am or why I’m here. And yet I sit up in bed and wonder why I’m awake. I turn on the bedside lamp to see that the room still looks rather nice. Small, yes, but at least it’s elegant. That is something.

It’s unlike me to be wide awake at this hour, but it’s no use. I might as well get up. I go to use the bathroom and almost venture down the hallway and into the kitchen, but I remember my promise to Michael and stop. I suppose it’s the least I can do, considering all that he’s doing for me. And if his efforts for the rest of the house are even half as nice as my bedroom, I can at least show my appreciation by keeping my word. Besides, I don’t relish the thought of being caught by him as I tiptoe past my old bedroom, where I suspect he is sleeping.

So I return to my room, get dressed, carefully put on makeup, and finally sit in the easy chair in the corner and read about Claudette Colbert. I knew that she’d been born in France, just one more thing I’ve been jealous of. However, I didn’t know that she’d gone to art school or that her career began on Broadway, more envy-worthy facts.

“Good morning, darling.” Michael taps on my door.

“Come in.”

“I thought I heard you up early. Did you sleep well?”

I shrug. “I suppose…”

“I have coffee brewing. Can I bring you a cup?”

“Meaning I still can’t see my house?”

“Of course not. I’m not ready for the unveiling yet.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I close my book with a snap. “Stay in here all day like a prisoner?”

“Let me think about that as I get your coffee.”

Michael returns with a tray that’s set with china dishes that look vaguely familiar. “Is that my Limoges?” I pick up a delicate white cup trimmed in a narrow but sophisticated band of dark green, black, and gold.

“I thought it went well with your mother’s dark green tile in the kitchen, and it sort of lends itself to the style of your home.”

“I haven’t seen this in years,” I say as I admire the cup.

“It may not be replaceable.”

I shrug. “So little in life is…” I take a sip of the coffee. “This tastes better than yesterday’s.”

“It should. It was made in your very own espresso maker.”

“You know how to use that thing?”

He chuckles. “And so shall you before I leave.” He nods to my unmade bed. “You know, darling, you don’t have a housekeeper anymore.”

“Oh…”

“Would you like me to teach you how to properly make a bed?”

“Does one really need lessons for all these mundane chores?”

“It can’t hurt.” And then, as if he thinks I’m an imbecile, he
proceeds to give me a step-by-step lesson on the correct way to properly make a bed. Everything from how you fluff a comforter to arranging the pillows. “I learned this on
Martha Stewart
,” he admits.

“Really,” I say in exasperation. “Do you think I’m completely helpless?” Or just helplessly lazy, I almost add.

“Not completely. Just mostly.”

“And what difference is it if I don’t make my bed every day? Will the Silverton housekeeping police arrest me and throw me in jail?”

“No, but you may create a prison of your own, darling. One that you would not be happy in.” He artistically folds the pale blue chenille throw just so and sets it at the end of the bed. The bed looks so lovely now that it could be a page in a magazine. Funny how my housekeepers back in Beverly Hills didn’t make beds nearly as well as this.

“Did I tell you what I found in here yesterday?”

“What do you mean?”

“When the Goodwill boys were removing your mother’s bed…there was something amusing beneath it.”

“Beneath her bed?”

He chuckles. “Yes, it gave us all a good laugh.”

“What was it? A sex toy?”

He waves his hand. “No, no, nothing like that. It was a cast-iron frying pan.”

I frown. “A cast-iron frying pan?”

“Yes.”

“A bit odd, don’t you think? Do you suppose she kept it there for protection? To arm herself against burglars?”

“I don’t think so, darling. It was neatly wrapped in a raggedy yellow towel, and this was placed in an old department store box and tied with string, almost as if it were a keepsake of sorts.”

“Really? And what became of said frying pan?”

“The Goodwill boys took it. One of them liked it so well that he asked if he could keep it. Of course, I let him. He planned to use it on hunting trips. Do you know these good ol’ boys actually go out in the woods and shoot animals up here?”

I conceal my disgust. “Yes.” But I don’t admit to him that venison stew, made with meat given to us by neighbors, was often a staple in our diet. “So did you come up with anything to get me out of your hair today?” I ask, eager to change the subject. “A nice visit in a day spa, perhaps?”

He laughs. “If there were such a thing in Silverton, I would sign you up right now.”

“Pity.”

“Didn’t you mention that your sister still lives in town?”

“My sister who is not speaking to me.”

“Perhaps you should be speaking to her.”

I roll my eyes as I sip my coffee.

“You and your sister aren’t getting any younger, Claudette. Maybe it’s time to make amends… You know, before it’s too late.”

“Too late for whom?”

“For both of you. Think about it, darling. How would you feel if your sister died while you two were in the midst of this silly disagreement? You’d never get the chance to make things right with her.”

“What about her? She’s the one who should be making things right with me.”

“Does she even know how to reach you?”

I consider this.

“Why not make the first step, Claudette? Extend the olive branch, so to speak? If she refuses, you’ll at least know that you tried.”

“I don’t know…”

“Well, think about it. And keep in mind that you’ll have a very long day cooped up here in your room. The sun is shining out there. You could drive around in your lovely car, which needs to be moved from the driveway before the movers return.”

“Oh, fine,” I snap at him. “I’ll go.”

“How about if we go find some breakfast first? I need to bulk up on carbs. I have a marathon day ahead of me.”

So I finish my coffee and, once again, close my eyes as Michael guides me to the front door. I am not ready to see my sister today. And no one can make me.

I
noticed yesterday that Casey’s Coffee House serves a limited breakfast,” I inform Michael as he drives us to town. “Naturally, I can’t vouch for it.”

“Naturally.” Michael turns down Main Street and parks across from the coffee shop. “You know, Claudette, you could easily walk to town on days when weather permits. It’s such a short ways. And it does seem a bit wasteful to take the car all the time, especially when you consider the cost of gas.”

“Yes, and I suppose I could grow my own vegetables and sew my own clothes. Perhaps I should be like my mother and take in the neighbors’ dirty laundry as well. Would that make you happy?”

Michael laughs. “You are such a delight.”

After breakfast, Michael insists on walking back to the house. “Why?” I demand as we stand out by the car. “Are you showing off or simply trying to make a point?”

“I just want to, Claudette.” He hands me my keys. “You run along now. Have fun. I’ll be fine.”

“Fine,” I snap at him. But once I’m in the car, it’s not fine.
I have no idea of where I should go…what I should do…and I need to use a rest room. I start up the engine and carefully pull out onto the street. I drive clear to the edge of town, where I notice the moving van is just leaving the Motel 6 parking lot, and then I turn right.

I drive very slowly, like the little old lady that I am, but it’s only because I’m trying to decide what to do next. I go past the old high school, where little has changed in the past sixty years. Oh, they’ve got a new sign, one that lights up, as well as an improved football stadium. But the boxlike, two-story brick building still resembles a small prison. As I loop around and go down Main Street again, I realize that I’m driving in circles.

Then, as if my car has taken over, covering for my ineptness, I find myself on the road that crosses the railroad tracks and leads straight to McLachlan Manor. I drive down the long driveway, assuring myself that I don’t have to go in. I can simply drive by and think about it. I’m a grown woman, and no one can make me do what I don’t want to do. Well, besides the IRS. I never did get my way with those stubborn people.

Even from the driveway, I can see that this place has changed. For one thing, the grounds appear to be better kept, and the trees, newly planted when Violet and I were kids, are now big and tall. As I get closer, I see that the original structure has been remodeled and enlarged, with two wings now flanking the entrance. I park in a spot marked Visitor and just sit there. But after a couple of minutes, my bladder gets the best of me, and I decide to simply go inside and use the rest room.