Read Miss Me When I'm Gone Online
Authors: Emily Arsenault
Before I got on the highway ramp, I stopped at a little convenience store called SmartMart and bought a Dr Pepper. I’d been avoiding the stuff for months because of the baby, but tonight I felt I needed a little caffeine for the road. Still parked in the store’s lot, I took a few sips and flipped on the overhead light. I was eager to glance through the papers from Gretchen’s desk at Dorothy’s, just to get a sense of what was there.
There were a few notebooks. Among them, though, was a red plastic folder like Gretchen’s green one that had contained the police report and newspaper articles.
I opened it. Seeing three envelopes with the return address
DNA Diagnostics,
I gasped and greedily ripped through their contents.
The dates on the three results reports were January 14, February 10, and March 26. The first one had tested Gretchen Waters and Keith Bergeron and said “Probability of Paternity: 0%.” The next one tested Gretchen against a “Sample A” and a “Sample B.” One said “Indeterminate result/Inadequate sample,” the other “Probability of Paternity: 0%.” The final one—the March one—tested Gretchen against two more samples: a “Sample C” and a “Sample D.” Sample C was 0%. Sample D said “Probability of Paternity: 99.999%.”
“Sweet Jesus,” I whispered. She’d figured it out. After
five
tries. None of her writing—at least what I could find on her computer, or read so far in her notebooks—indicated she’d put in that kind of effort. Nor did anyone around her seem aware of it.
She’d gotten the positive result one week before she died.
I stared into the light of the convenience store. I didn’t want to leave the Emerson area now. I wanted to stay here and figure out who Gretchen’s father was—as Gretchen had.
And then, as if he’d somehow read my mind from a hundred or so miles away, Sam rang me on my cell.
“You on your way, I hope?” he asked.
“Just left Dorothy’s house, actually,” I said.
“
What?
Jamie, do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah. Um. It’s just that Dorothy’s a real sweet lady, and we got to talking about Gretchen . . .”
“I see. Well, I’m worried about you driving so late. It’ll be after one by the time you get here.”
“I’ll be okay,” I said, still staring at the lab reports.
“Are you sure you shouldn’t get a cheap motel room and come in the morning?”
“Really, it’s not a big deal,” I assured him, although I considered this possibility. If I stayed around here I could chat with a few people in Emerson tomorrow, then take off later. Maybe I could make contact with that Kevin guy, for one.
“Either way, though, Madhat . . .” Sam sighed. “You’ve gotta get here by two tomorrow.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m driving you to that little tearoom restaurant at two-thirty. That’s where your mom’s having your shower.”
“Oh,
man
. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it was supposed to be a
surprise
.”
“Crap.”
“It’s not
crap.
This isn’t a bad thing. If you don’t feel up to driving tonight, just stay over. I can book a motel from here online, if you want. As long as you leave by ten-thirty or so, you’ll be fine.”
“I’m driving home tonight, Sam. In fact, I’d better get on the road now. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I chugged my Dr Pepper and started my car.
My mother had reserved a private room for us at the tearoom.
In the middle of the table was a Martha Stewart–style wedding cake fashioned out of diapers, ribbon, receiving blankets, and tightly rolled-up onesies—all hip and cheerful fabrics, alternating stripes and polka dots of dark brown, baby blue, and white. A stuffed monkey emerged from the top, one fist raised. A revolutionary monkey.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” my mother said. “Abby made it. Abby has been amazing with all of the preparation. Wait till you see the favors she’s giving out at the end.”
Abby—my closest high school friend. We hadn’t talked as much as we used to since she’d had twins four years earlier. You’d think my pregnancy would have made us feel more connected, but it really hadn’t. We’d only talked twice since I’d announced it, and she was as busy as ever with her children and her full-time marketing job. Still, she’d insisted on arranging my shower.
My mother led me to her. We hugged while my mother continued to rave about the diaper cake.
“I know it’s not really your thing,” Abby admitted. “But when I looked up baby-shower ideas, I just couldn’t control myself. So many cool little ideas. Gives me a chance to explore my crafty side.”
My mother said something about how cute the invitations were, then wandered off to greet a friend of hers who had just walked in.
The mention of invitations made me think of Gretchen. Had Abby sent her one? Without thinking, I asked Abby if she had. She didn’t seem surprised at the question, however.
“Yeah. I invited her on e-mail, through her author Web site. Since I didn’t know her address.” Abby glanced at the floor. “She RSVP’d. Seemed excited about it.”
I almost asked her when exactly that had happened, but thought better of it.
“I’m so sorry about Gretchen, Jamie,” Abby added softly. “If you need anything, you should call me.”
“You’re already doing so much,” I mumbled.
“This is kind of for your mom, aside from the presents,” Abby said, “which I’m hoping will come in useful. Don’t get me wrong. But I mean, what else can I do for
you
?”
The question overwhelmed me with a wave of emotion so strong it felt like nausea. To prevent myself from bursting into tears, I changed the subject.
“Where are the twins today?” I asked.
“Everything’s ready!” my mother announced before Abby could answer.
Abby showed me to the head of the table, where a large chair was stuffed with polka-dot pillows. A sock monkey was perched on one side of the chair’s high backing, wearing a blue sweater vest.
After that was a blur of tea sandwiches and cupcakes and gifts in Gerber and Graco packages. There were lots of coos and smiles from both me and the guests, accompanied by the general feeling of being someone else. I tried to grin and remark at every sleeper and swaddling blanket that passed through my hands. I believe I even said “Cool!” when I opened a box containing a breast pump, though I couldn’t remember later if the word had actually come out of my mouth. I couldn’t think of what else to say, since cooing didn’t seem appropriate for that item.
Two gifts stood out. One was Abby’s. In addition to a Diaper Genie, she’d wrapped up a copy of
The Little Prince
—which I’d been enamored of in high school.
Some part of my Sparkly Pregnant persona cracked just then. It seemed like I could keep up the act unless someone tried to address the person behind the belly. When that happened, I could feel it all coming apart.
I thanked her and quickly reached for the next gift.
Two gifts later came a framed poem from Aunt Paula, my father’s brother’s imperious second wife. It was a fabric picture frame, covered in light blue polka dots and brown elephants, with a long poem inside.
“It’s for the nursery,” Aunt Paula announced. “Read it, honey.”
I began to read aloud:
A baby boy is a gift
From heaven above
For his mommy to kiss
And to hug and to love.
“Did you write this?” I asked.
“No,” Aunt Paula said, crossing her bony arms. “I found it on the Internet. I thought it was nice.”
It was clear I was supposed to go on. The poem was endless. Eight stanzas.
Soon he’ll be playing
And climbing up trees
And running to Mommy
To kiss his skinned knees.
I looked up self-consciously and noticed an empty chair between Abby and my mother’s friend Irene. Probably that’s where Gretchen would’ve sat if she’d come. She knew Abby from college visits and she would have liked Irene’s quiet and unassuming manner.
But I could just see Gretchen sitting there, staring down at the floor, embarrassed by this poem, embarrassed for me. Maybe she was uncertain if I was ever supposed to have children. She was so unsure for herself—how could I be so presumptuous as to think I was any different? Cold and prickly women like her and me had no business having babies. Who did I think I was? The wounded expression on Aunt Paula’s face confirmed this sentiment—I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t even have a clue how to pretend to be a sweet and grateful pregnant woman, even for an afternoon.
He’ll outgrow his teddies,
Sweet bunnies and ducks
And ask for trains and LEGOs
And baseballs and trucks.
By the time I got to the appropriately capitalized LEGOs, I’d started to giggle through the words. I wondered if Aunt Paula got this poem from a corporate LEGO site.
By the end of the next stanza, my eyes were starting to water with the strain of trying not to laugh. I didn’t know why I was laughing, but I couldn’t stop. I looked up for some kind of assistance. Aunt Paula’s mouth was open now, her eyes wide with disbelief. I glanced at the empty seat again and imagined Gretchen there, rotating her left foot around in a circle, then her right. She’d be wearing her clunky-heeled sexy librarian shoes. Picking at her cuticles. Smiling just a little in spite of herself.
“Aww . . .” someone whispered. Some of the guests seemed to think I was getting weepy.
I struggled through the next stanza, stumbling on the words, still tittering.
When I looked up again, my picture of Gretchen was gone. I glanced up at Abby, who was staring at me sympathetically.
She
knew I wasn’t crying, but laughing. Did she know it wasn’t a gleeful laugh, but a nervous, negative one? She blinked and smiled a little. Then her mouth straightened, as if to say, “Just finish it, Jamie.”
I hurried through the last few stanzas—which had my son growing a foot taller than me and lettering in football—and thanked Aunt Paula, telling her how cute the poem was, that it was just right for the nursery, for which I hadn’t any wall decorations yet. Which was true. Because I hadn’t stepped into that room for weeks.
I glanced gratefully at Abby as I reached for the second-to-last unopened gift.
It was a relief to remember that there had been something of me before this sadness and this baby. To have someone there—someone besides Gretchen’s ghost—who at least remembered it, too.
Loretta Lynn’s Ranch and Museum
Hurricane Mills, Tennessee
Admission to Loretta’s museum is ten bucks. It’s still early and I’ve got the place to myself. It feels like Graceland here, except emptier of guests and yet somehow less sad. I move slowly around the dark maze of glass cases, at first attracted to Loretta’s various sparkly stage outfits, many of which I recognize from my obsessive YouTubing of her performances.
There are two significantly less flashy sets of cases, however, that eventually draw me in much more.
First, there are the cases full of random gifts from other celebrities. There are some expected items: Patsy Cline’s earrings, and the nightie she gave Loretta shortly before she died (just as documented in
Coal Miner’s Daughter
). But then there are the unexpected ones: A note and mug from Ellen DeGeneres, thanking her for being on her show. A Kermit the Frog stuffed animal and
Muppet Show
jacket. An apron that says
DOMESTIC GODDESS
on it, signed by Roseanne Barr. Little things from people arguably less famous than Loretta—the sort of swag someone who understood herself to be a legend might toss into the trash on her way to her next gig. There are also signed books from Jimmy Carter, both George Bushes, and Caroline Kennedy, plus a Bush-Cheney campaign sign and a cheerful pair of yellow pumps that once belonged to Barbara Bush.
I feel humbled by the gratitude exuded by this odd collection. There’s a sense of every opportunity treasured, and little taken for granted.
Even more striking to me is the wall-length display case labeled simply
FAMILY
. Again, there are the expected items: a scrip from the Van Leer Mining Company that belonged to her father, an apron of her mother’s with hands clasped in prayer embroidered onto it, a butter churn from her family’s old home in Butcher Holler—artifacts of her famously humble roots. Her rags-to-riches story is partly what makes Loretta so beloved, so it’s not surprising that it’s documented here in these cases.
More startling to me are the cases a few paces down, which are devoted to her children. Here are her children’s baby books, bowling trophies, prom dresses, sequined gymnastic leotards, baseball mitts, a blue-and-white high school cardigan that says
WAVERLY WILDCATS
, even a crusty old signed cast from a child’s broken arm.
And then my gaze settles on Loretta’s daughters’ report cards. Year after year, arranged into a fan. I bend down to squint at the grades. They’re average.
As I straighten up, I feel myself begin to lose it. So this is what it’s come to: I’m tearing up over Loretta Lynn’s daughters’ mediocre report cards.
I take a few steps back to a bench in front of Loretta’s brother’s leisure suit. I sit down, cover my face, and weep. Good thing it’s too early for other tourists. And my quiet sniffling is drowned out by the video of Loretta highlights that plays on a loop around the corner from this case.
It’s not that I’ve not had enough maternal admiration in my own life. My mom has kept all of my report cards, too. She’d put them in her museum, if she had one. And surely she’d put in my sweaters and my favorite stuffed turtle and my good citizenship award from sixth grade.
It’s that there are two sides to mother love, and I know that I’ll only ever experience one. The decision for me was never about wanting to attend cocktail parties and sleep late on Sundays in my thirties and forties, or traveling to India or maintaining my girlish figure. It’s not a decision that gives me pleasure; it’s simply how I know it has to be—how I simply know it will be. It isn’t about selfishness at all. In this moment I see that clearly. Because certainly there’s part of me that would like to be the warm, nurturing collector of trophies and outgrown toys. There is part of me—as there is part of almost everyone—that wants to love someone in that way. It doesn’t make me happy that I can’t and won’t. There is a difference between happiness and acceptance.
So I sit on the bench before Loretta Lynn’s daughters’ report cards and weep.
I sniffle quietly for a couple of minutes. I wonder if there is a surveillance camera. Probably not. Just as I reassure myself of this, the young woman who took my admission approaches me.
“Sorry, I’m almost done here,” I say. I’ve spent an awful lot of time here, surely more than your average customer. And an obsessive amount of time in the “Family” section, which most people probably pass through quickly, on their way to look at Loretta’s colorful dresses, or the suits of Ernest Tubb, Ray Price, George Jones.
“Take your time,” she says uneasily.
She hesitates, then says, “Did you see that we have Johnny Cash’s black coat? And his Folsom Prison shirt? On the other side?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “I saw that.”
“Where are you from?”
I realize I don’t want to fulfill some stereotype of the sniveling Yankee who comes down here and doesn’t know how to act. I don’t want to say “Massachusetts” of all things.
“Pennsylvania,” I say, since that sounds much more neutral to me.
“Oh. Whereabouts?”
“Pittsburgh area.”
And the lie brings me out of my melancholy, refreshes me. I shove my stringy, sweaty tissue back into my pocket and hope the young woman never saw it. I’m reminded that you can be—or feel—whatever you want to be, if you can get yourself to say it enough times. If you can convince yourself of how convincing you are.
“I’m almost done here,” I say.
—Tammyland