Fortunately, Aunt Zipporah arrived even before the day had begun, so I didn't have to contend with the heaviness from the night before. By the time I descended to have breakfast, she was in the kitchen with my grandmother, stringing one story after another, summarizing everything that had happened at the cafe. I couldn't help but be jealous of their relationship. Even with my small experience concerning other mothers and daughters, I could see and understand that Aunt Zipporah and my grandmother had a special connection. In fact, they seemed more like sisters at times, laughing and talking, sharing their experiences as if they were contemporaries. Sometimes, I enjoyed just sitting on the sidelines and listening to them talk, imagining what it would have been like for me if I had been brought up by my mother. Would my relationship with her have been this special?
"Alice!" Aunt Zipporah cried as soon as she saw me. She rushed to hug and kiss me. No one greeted me with as much warmth and happiness. There was nothing insincere about that greeting, either. I often wondered if that was because she saw so much of my mother in me and had been so fond of her.
She took me by the hand and pulled me to sit beside her at the kitchen table.
"Tell me everything that's going on in your life. I don't care how small it seems to you."
"Nothing's going on, Aunt Zipporah. Nothing's different," I said, and she turned her face into an exaggerated mask of disappointment.
"Can't be. Not at your age."
I shrugged.
"I'm boring," I said.
"That you can never be," she suggested. I saw my grandmother smirking and shaking her head as she prepared our breakfast. "Really, honey? There's no one on the horizon?" she asked, her eyes turning. I couldn't help but laugh. "C'mon."
"No one. I've been too busy," I offered as an excuse.
"With what?"
"My art," I said.
She looked at my grandmother.
"She's not lying about that. She's up in that attic more than sle is anywhere else."
"Oh, Alice. You have to--"
"What?" I asked, waiting. Her face softened. "Take a chance," she said.
"That's what we're all trying to tell her," my grandmother echoed.
"We're all afraid of being hurt, rejected, but even if that happens, you survive it, Alice. It happened a lot to me, believe me," she said.
"I'm not afraid of being rejected," I told her. "In fact, I'm used to it."
"Oh, Alice."
She stared at me a moment. Aunt Zipporah didn't resemble her mother as much as I apparently resembled mine She had my grandfather's face, with his narrower cheeks and sharper jaw, but her features were small and I always thought she had perfectly shaped ears. She kept her dark-brown hair very long now, a good two inches below her wing bone. Grandfather Michael called her his personal hippie because she always wore a tie-dyed headband and Indian jewelry, the turquoise necklaces and earrings, bracelets and rings, lots of rings. Usually, she didn't have a bare finger.
From what I understood of her life after my mother, what was sometimes referred to as AK, After Karen, Aunt Zipporah went into a deep depression and then gradually emerged with a different attitude about herself and the world. She was more cynical and for a while was a great worry for my
grandparents. Eventually, she found herself, but that discovery was one that led her to lean more toward the rebels--the oddballs, as Grandfather Michael liked to call them. It was as if she had to carry on my mother's legacy and be as outrageous as she could be. I was told that she almost flunked out of college at one point, but then got hold of herself and ended up doing well.
I knew that her not going on to become a teacher was a great disappointment to my
grandparents, but they had come to like Tyler, a hardworking young businessman who ironically proved to be a stabling influence on Aunt Zipporah. The only mystery I had yet to solve was why they never had any children of their own, or hadn't yet. She was still young enough. Her stock answer to me was, "I'm not ready yet." If she and Tyler had arguments about it, they were well hidden. Never during the times I spent with them did I ever see them have any sort of serious fight. Tyler, if he disagreed with her, would just shake his head and smile as if he knew she would eventually come around to his way of thinking. Most of the time, that was just what she did.
What amused me more was the way she treated-- or, I should say, handled--Rachel. Although it was difficult for most people to read Aunt Zipporah, I had no problem. Just as she had a special
relationship with her mother, she had a similarly special relationship with my father, her brother. Whenever they were together, they were always up and happy, laughing and joking. It was nearly impossible to say or do anything serious when they were together. I knew that bothered Rachel. She was jealous, but no matter what Rachel said to her or how she treated her, Aunt Zipporah was always very pleasant. I would smile to myself because I could see she was humoring her, treating her as if she were the one who needed tender loving care and not me, or Jesse, or herself.
When it came to meeting someone head on, Rachel was surely a formidable opponent. She simply wasn't prepared for gentle, nonviolent reactions and would either retreat or sigh with frustration and go on to something else. I knew my father was amused by it as much as I was at times.
Rachel would be aggressive and say something like, "You really look ridiculous in that dress with so much jewelry, Zipporah, especially at your age."
Aunt Zipporah would nod and smile and reply, "Yes, I know, but most people look ridiculous where I am, so no one really notices or cares, but thanks for worrying about me."
How do you fight someone like that? If only I could be the same way, I thought, but what was in me wanted to come out scratching and kicking like a wildcat and not gentle and pleasant like a female Gandhi.
"Hey!" my father said, coming into the kitchen. They immediately hugged and kissed. "What did you do, leave at the crack of dawn?"
"I thought I'd better get started before Tyler came up with something for me to do. Where are the twins?"
"Rachel is getting them dressed. Morning, Mom, Alice. Where's Dad?"
"He went for some fresh bagels."
"He won't let me bring any from New Paltz," Aunt Zipporah said, "just because they come pink, blue and green."
Our laughter drew the twins to the kitchen, and Aunt Zipporah made a big deal over them. She had brought them flutes someone made and sold on the street back in New Paltz.
"I don't want them putting those things in their mouths before they're washed," Rachel said and made a face at my father.
"Hi, Rachel," Aunt Zipporah cried and gave her a big hug.
Rachel shook her head. "You know, Zipporah, if you wear one thing, dress one way forever, it starts to look like a uniform," she said.
"I know. We have our own little army up there. Actually, no one knows this because it's a top secret, but we're part of the National Guard."
Jesse laughed.
Rachel shook her head again and sat the twins at the table, ordering them to behave or she would see to it that they didn't go to the fun park. My grandfather returned with the fresh bagels, and our breakfast reunion began. Aunt Zipporah and my father dominated the conversation, she telling story after story about people, college students and the cafe, and he remembering things they had done together when they were not much older than the twins. Every story brought more laughter. Even the twins were intrigued.
Finally, my grandmother announced we would clean up and get ready to go. I was nervous about the shopping expedition we women were preparing to make. I didn't like being the sole reason for it, but I didn't say a word. Finally, Rachel would be able to speak and take some control, for my grandmother was determined to defer to her advice when it came to my new wardrobe.
"I want her to look fashionable and yet like girls her age," she prescribed.
"I know exactly what you mean," Rachel told her.
"That's what I'm afraid of," Aunt Zipporah whispered, and I smiled. "But cooperate. Mom wants you to look nice, Alice. I promised I'd be on their side."
The conspiracy grows,
I thought and got ready for our trip.
During the ride to the shopping centers, Rachel talked about clothes, but she really talked about herself more than I had heard her. Aunt Zipporah and I sat in the rear and listened as what Rachel began as a lecture gradually turned into the most revealing anecdotes about herself.
"I wanted to be rebellious and dress
outlandishly, too, when I was your age, Alice, and even when I was older. Not as old as Zipporah, however. I had grown out of it by then, but I had this aunt who was a real socialite, Aunt Dorothea. We could never call her Aunt Dorothy, It had to be Dorothea, and God forbid anyone dared call her Dot. For the most part, I thought her stuffy and snobbish, but when I permitted myself to listen to her, I realized she had something to offer."
"And what was that?" Aunt Zipporah asked.
Rachel turned around.
"Something Alice can appreciate, being an artist. Just like a painting can be enhanced by a beautiful frame, so can a woman be enhanced by beautiful, well-fitted clothes. Aunt Dorothea was a very classy woman." She looked at me intently. "You're very pretty, Alice, beautiful, in fact."
It was the first real compliment she had ever given me. It nearly stole my breath away.
"Thank you," I said, glancing at Aunt Zipporah, who was now smiling widely.
"It's almost sinful not to frame yourself properly, however," she added. "You wouldn't detract from a beautiful painting by framing it in something very inferior, would you?" She threw a disapproving look at Aunt Zipporah.
"Well, we're going to correct that today," my grandmother said. I saw her look up at the rearview minor to see my reaction. "We're going to correct a lot of things," she muttered.
Aunt Zipporah reached over the seat to take my hand and squeeze it.
As long as she was at my side, I wasn't afraid. It was the closest thing to having my mother there, I thought.
Later, when I tried on a pair of designer slacks and a matching blouse, Aunt Zipporah dared whisper in my ear, "You are beautiful, Alice, as beautiful as she was. Rachel's right. It's time for you to take center stage."
And do what?
I wondered.
I was having trouble being in the wings, let alone take center stage.
It wasn't going to be much longer before the curtain opened and I would find out.
Despite how much I knew it pleased everyone in my family, I couldn't help feeling like a fraud in my new clothing. The brighter colors, form-fitting, expensive garments and new shoes were a radical change for me. Part of me had to admit that I did look more attractive, but as before, that thought, that possibility, made me nervous, even frightened. I knew what was going to happen the moment the spring break was over and I stepped onto the school bus and then into the building. Everyone's eyes would be drawn to me, and who knew what terrible things they would come up with now? It would be impossible for me not to be very self-conscious.
I did wear my new clothes to every restaurant, and I even wore something new for our dinners at home. As if she had been a bull and I had been wearing red all this time, Rachel did seem to become friendlier and less concerned about me after I dressed in my new, brighter and less baggy clothing. It was more like I had come over to her side, the side where a woman's femininity mattered the most. I was surprised and even a bit shocked one night when she came up to my room with her makeup kit and offered to show me how to highlight my good features.
"Now that you're dressing better, there are other things you should do. It's important that you complement one advantage with another and keep it all well balanced," she said, standing there just inside my doorway.
For a moment I didn't know what to say. Was this the same woman who seemingly couldn't stand my shadow nearby, much less my actual person? Was this the same woman who seemed to ration every look at me, every word spoken to me? Why would anything involving me suddenly become important to her? Of course, my mind flailed about, searching for some ulterior evil motive.
Maybe she wanted to turn me into a
promiscuous young girl so she could say,
"See, I told you so."
Maybe she hoped I would get into trouble like my mother had and be taken away or sent away.
Maybe this was all being done against my father's wishes and my compliance would do more to turn him against me, which was what she always wanted.
Maybe she hoped I would reject her so that she could then say,
"I tried to be decent to her but she's too far gone."
I didn't see that I had much choice.
"Thank you," I told her, and she came in and set up her makeup kit on my vanity table, first clearing away the books. I had never really used the table for anything more than a place to do my homework. Unlike most of the girls at school, I ran a brush through my hair in less than a minute and more than one time started out for school with remnants of breakfast at the corners of my mouth or on my chin.
"Sit here," she told me, pulling out the chair.
I did, and for a few seconds she stared at me in the mirror. From the expression on her face, I thought she might just close the makeup kit and say,
"There's not much we can do."
Instead, she played with my hair, then picked up the brush and changed the way the strands lay. It was mostly haphazard, but she gave it some style with only a few firm strokes.
"You see what I'm doing here?" she asked. "Yes."
"Just let it grow for a while, but keep this style. It suits your shaped face. You look a lot like an actress we know in Los Angeles, a young actress."
No one had ever compared me to an actress or a model, not even my grandfather.
"There are some very basic things about makeup that you should know," she continued and began to show them to me. She demonstrated how I should highlight my eyes. At that point came the most shocking thing of all. "You have Jesse's eyes," she admitted.
She didn't sound upset about it, and it. wasn't said in anger. She was very matter-of-fact.
"He has beautiful eyes," she continued.
I don't think I moved a muscle or took a breath. My heart might have actually paused, every part of me, every organ in my body waiting for some second shoe to drop, some horrid afterthought, but none came.
"That's what attracted me to him first," she added. "Now then," she continued, "because you spend so much time indoors, you're a little pale, so some of this on your cheeks can't hurt."
She showed me how to brush in the makeup, blending it, and then she went on to lipstick. I did have some, but it was dry and she said the color not only didn't do anything for me but it actually detracted from my looks.
"You don't want to turn your lips into a headlight. Subtlety is the key to everything, Alice. All a face like yours needs are some suggestions here and there. Think of everything like a finger pointing out this aspect or that and nothing more. Most girls your age overdo it. Their faces shout, and just like you don't want to be in a room with someone shouting at you, you don't want to be looking at them as if you were looking into a spotlight."
She stepped back to look at me.
"Well?" she asked me. "What do you think of yourself now?"
"I ... it's nice," I offered, and she laughed.
"No, Alice; it's not nice. It's beautiful. Jesse is always looking at this girl or that one in California and saying things like, 'She's so beautiful, she should have to register like someone has to register a firearm.' He's going to say that about you, too."
I stared at her through the mirror. Was this a dream? Or a trap? She was treating me with such kindness and talking to me as if she were my older sister. I really was at a loss for words. My thoughts were spinning on a merry-go-round in my head. I even felt a little dizzy.
"Where did you learn all this?" I finally managed.
She laughed.
"Are you kidding? In my family the women were determined to be on the covers of magazines. I had aunts who went into mental depressions so deeply over a new wrinkle, they were nearly committed. In my family we put aside money for plastic surgery the way other people put aside money for life and fire insurance. Growing old, losing your looks was as horrible a conceit as watching your home burn to the ground. That was the world in which I was raised."
"But you don't seem that way now," I told her, not sure if that was the right thing to tell her. She liked it; she smiled.
"For some stupid reason I can't fathom, most of the women I know think they have to make a choice between brains and looks. I know other female attorneys who deliberately dress as masculinely as they can before they go to court. They think it matters. Maybe it does, but I won't ever give into that. I have to have the judge, the jury and my witnesses not see me only as a woman but as an advocate equal to any other in the courtroom. You should never give into that sort of narrow thinking," she added. "You're a full person. Don't let anyone put you into a comfortable stereotype. I never did."
I just sat there listening. She saw the look of amazement on my face.
"Sorry," she said. "I don't mean to lecture, but it's one of my pet peeves. Do you think you can handle this by yourself from now on?" she asked, nodding at me in the mirror.
"Yes."
"Good. Don't forget. Let your hair fill out and see about using a conditioner from now on as well:" she added, fingering some strands. "You could soften it a bit. How often do you wash your hair?" she asked.
"Not very," I said.
"Change that to very. You know, I have a pair of emerald earrings that will look good on you. I'll leave them for you," she said. They were going back to California in the morning.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome," she said and turned to leave. "Oh, your makeup kit," I called to her when she reached the doorway.
She turned and shook her head.
"No, that's your makeup kit now. I bought it for you the other day when we were all shopping."
My jaw seemed to lock at the hinges. She didn't smile. She nodded and walked out.
I turned and looked at myself in the mirror. It was as if someone else sleeping inside me had been awakened. I could almost hear her say,
"Hello. Let me introduce myself"
Only it was my mother and not me.
"I'm Karen Stoker."
I pushed myself back from the table and seized the sponge to bring it to my face so I could wipe away all the makeup, but something stronger seized my wrist and kept me from doing so. I sat there staring at myself for nearly a full minute before putting down the sponge and closing the makeup kit. Then I rose and went downstairs, walking as if in a trance.
Aunt Zipporah had returned to New Paltz two days after she had come because she was worried about leaving Tyler at the cafe so long. Of course, I promised to call her more often. I didn't know what new headlines she expected, but I could see she was hoping for some.
Rachel was putting the twins to bed, but my grandparents and my father were in the living room, talking softly, when I descended. They paused and looked up with surprise as I entered. I was most interested in my father's reaction. His eyes widened, and then he smiled. If I did look like my mother, it didn't frighten him or put him off.
"Well, who's this?" my grandfather joked. "I didn't know we were having guests tonight."
"You look terrific, Alice," my father said. "Rachel knows her stuff, huh, Mom?"
"Yes, she does. Very nice. It's not too much and it's not too little."
"Maybe you should have Rachel give you a lesson, too, Elaine," my grandfather said. The second he said it, we could all feel what he felt. He had put his foot squarely in his mouth.
I couldn't recall Grandmother Elaine's face that deep a shade of crimson. I was sure I saw two puffs of smoke emerge from each ear. My grandfather threw himself to the floor and pleaded for forgiveness. He started to kiss her feet.
"I was kidding. I was joking."
"Get up, you idiot," she told him.
My father was laughing hysterically. Even I started to laugh, and for a moment, a long and precious moment, we were all truly like a family, enjoying each other for our weaknesses, our foolishness and our love.
I waited until the last possible moment before washing away my makeup that night. I was now afraid that I wouldn't be able to duplicate what Rachel had done for me, but she reassured me that it wasn't hard.
"It's not brain surgery," she said, "although the way most girls your age use their makeup, you'd think they had lobotomies."
Everyone laughed at that as well. For the first time
I could remember, I was actually sorry to see Rachel, my father and the twins leave. I felt as if I had just begun a journey with them and it had come to an end too quickly.
In the morning we all stood outside in the driveway as my father packed the rented car. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the breeze was now riding on a wave of late-spring warmth announcing the oncoming summer. I still had nearly two months of school left for my junior year, but as I had for the past two summers, I would go to New Paltz and work at Aunt Zipporah and Uncle Tyler's cafe. This summer I would be graduated to a waitress.
Before I went down for breakfast, I redid my makeup so Rachel could check me out once before she left. She told me I had done it perfectly.
"You're tine," she said. "You'll be fine."
We had a big breakfast again, delaying the end of it for as long as we could, but finally, their flight schedule dictated that they get started for the airport.
The twins didn't want to leave and whined and pleaded to stay longer. They were somewhat placated by the promise of return and the suggestion that they might even be able to stay without their parents for a while. It was clear they knew they would get away with tons if it were just their grandparents caring for them.
I hugged them both, then my grandfather chased them around the car a few times with the expectation it would wear them out and keep them quiet for the ride to the airport. As usual, he misread their energy compared to his own, and they begged him to keep chasing them.
"Get them out of here before they kill me!" he cried, breathing hard.
He and my father hugged and my father embraced my grandmother and they kissed and held each other a little longer. Rachel hugged and kissed my grandfather and grandmother and then took my hand to pull me a little to the side.
"Think of your life as a courtroom argument," she said. "Be careful about how you lay the foundation, and then argue vigorously for yourself. The rest of the world is the jury, and they have one clear ability. They can see insincerity, of course, but they can see a lack of self-confidence even easier. Good luck, Alice."
She didn't actually hug me. She held my shoulders for a moment, then she turned to get the twins into the car.
"Hey," my father said. He looked at my grandparents, and then he took my hand and we walked down the driveway.
"I hope our coming did some good for you, Alice. I'm glad we had a chance to have that conversation in the attic, and we shared some very personal secrets."
"Me, too."
"I guess you know now that your grandparents put out an SOS on you. No one can blame them for asking for help, least of all me. They paid their parent dues when they brought up me and Zipporah. I guess all anyone wants for you is for you to give yourself a chance. Take a chance on yourself. Go out there and compete. You're too young to go into retreat. You have no reason to hide from anyone or anything
"I know it's easy for me to tell you all this. I have no right to tell you anything. I went into hiding in a sense and left you behind, but I'm trying to make up for it as much as I can. I promise I'll keep trying."
"Why was Rachel so nice to me this time?" I asked, looking back at the car. "I thought she was mad at you for spending time with me in the attic."
"She was at first, but . . . can you keep a secret?" I laughed at that and so did he.
"Your grandmother and I used a little psychology on her. We went to her for help with you, and there's nothing Rachel likes more than
responsibility. She's a bit of a control freak, but another secret is I need her to be. I'm not stupid. I recognize what her strengths are and how that helps us both be successful. Once you became her project, too, it put a new light on everything.
"So," he concluded, "you better not disappoint her. She's tough."
"Okay," I said.
"I have never really told you, Alice," he said, "but I love you and want only happiness for you."
I nodded, now squeezing my eyes to keep the tears imprisoned under the lids. They were determined to break free any moment.
He kissed me on the cheek and then hurried to the car.
My tears escaped.
He waved. They backed out, waved from the windows, and drove off, disappearing the way a dream might, the images of them lingering for a few moments, ghost memories, soon caught in the breeze and carried off, leaving us with empty eyes.
My grandfather put his arm around my grandmother, and she put her head on his shoulder and they started back to the house. In that moment I truly understood how hard it was to be a parent and a grandparent and put another good-bye in your pocket. Even though they had each other, they couldn't fill the emptiness in their hearts. It was at once the curse and the blessing such love brought with it.
Instead of following them into the house, I started a walk toward the village. I hadn't intended to go the whole way, but I was in such deep thought about everything that I wasn't paying attention to time and distance and suddenly realized that I had reached town.
I rarely went to the village alone. There wasn't much for me to do there, and I was especially uncomfortable under the gaze of some of the older residents who knew everything about my story. Some spoke to me, asking me how my grandparents were. Maybe it was all my imagination, but I sensed they were asking how they were holding up, having a granddaughter like me living with them. One of the houses in which I couldn't help but have interest was the one that had been my mother's. The people who lived in it now, the Harrisons, had owned the lumber company for generations. Recently, they had expanded it into a hardware supermarket as well. Now they were one of the wealthiest families not only in the community but in the entire county as well. Of course, even if they hadn't lived here, the Harrisons had to know the history of the house. I understood from my grandfather that the death of Harry Pearson had to be in the disclosure any real estate agent offered to a prospective buyer.
The house was a rich-looking home with brick siding and perfectly manicured hedges. My grandfather said Dan Harrison was obsessive about his lawn and insisted on having the greenest, richest grass in the community. His lawn did stay green longer than anyone else's. They made some changes in the windows, redid the roof and added a flagpole, but other than that, the house, at least on the outside, remained as it had been when my mother and my grandmother Darlene Pearson lived there with Harry. I couldn't help but wonder what it looked like inside and especially what my mother's old room was like. I had this overwhelming need to stand in that room and look out the same windows. That was my obsession.