“Oh, dear,” her mother said again, staring at Ruby’s pregnant belly. Her mother liked to think that there were no drugs or teenage pregnancies or wayward girls. She peered at Ruby and talked in the voice she saved for waitresses and salesclerks, detached and superior. “Which neighbor?” she asked. “In the big house?”
Ruby grinned up at her. “The next one down. Weathered shingles? Blue shutters?”
Olivia was taken aback by the ease of the lie, and by her mother’s acceptance.
“Yes,” her mother said, nodding. “I know the one.”
“They’re in the Berkshires for the long weekend and Olivia was nice enough to look after me,” Ruby said. She narrowed her eyes at something across the room. “God,” she said, getting to her feet—an act that made Olivia hold her breath slightly; it always looked as if Ruby was on the verge of tipping over backward. “Is that shrimp cocktail?” Ruby asked. She must have decided it was, because she was off for the hors d’oeuvres table.
Olivia’s mother watched her go.
“My goodness,” she said. “She can’t be more than seventeen.”
“Fifteen, actually,” Olivia told her.
Her mother gasped. “How awful. Is there a boy involved somehow?”
“Well, of course there is, Mom. That’s how you get pregnant.”
This was like the conversations Olivia had had with her mother her whole life. “How awful,” her mother would say, that some girl’s mother was on welfare, or her brother had gone to jail; that such a nice boy would wear a leather jacket or get a tattoo or waste his life in art school. The implication being, How awful that Olivia is with this dreadful person.
“There’s no need for sarcasm, Olivia,” her mother said. “I just meant, what will this girl do? They don’t have those homes anymore, do they? And I’ve heard”—she lowered her voice, then continued—“that there are girls in New Jersey who actually put their babies in Dumpsters.”
“Well,” Olivia said, “they do kill them first, Mom.”
No sooner had she said it than she wished she hadn’t. She wanted nothing more than to tell her mother the truth. That baby is going to be mine, she wanted to shout to her mother, to everyone, to the world. Then she looked at her, the pink rouge settled in the lines on her face, the lipstick bleeding into the corners of her mouth, the resort wear outfit she had carefully chosen for today—white pants, a red sleeveless turtleneck, a blue cotton blazer with big brass buttons, and all the accessories matching—and Olivia knew she could not tell her mother anything at all.
“Newt Gingrich wants to bring those homes back—homes for unwed mothers. And I think he’s right. Not that anyone listens to common sense anymore,” her mother said, adjusting and readjusting her gold charm bracelet.
“Actually,” Olivia said, “she’s got an adoption all lined up.”
“Well, that’s a relief, isn’t it?” her mother said. She still watched Ruby greedily eating shrimp. “Such a nice home, too,” her mother added.
Amy was slamming bowls and serving spoons around in the kitchen. When she saw Olivia standing in the doorway, she looked relieved.
“Remember the Galapagos Islands?” she said.
“Darwin?”
“No. Edward.”
Olivia did remember then: Amy’s ex-husband, Edward, wanted to take their son, Matthew, there.
“Or should I say Edward and the bimbo?” Amy continued, sloppily dumping salad into a bowl. “Or should I say Edward and the soon-to-be Mrs. Edward. And get this: Matthew wants to go with them. ‘Giant turtles,’ he said. ‘Awesome.’ The little traitor. They’re getting married and going to the Galapagos Islands to look at turtles for their honeymoon. I mean, we went to Maui for our honeymoon.” Amy held up a bowl of Jell-O with bananas and strawberries inside. “And another thing, who brings Jell-O to a party? I mean, it’s the nineties. People do not eat Jell-O anymore.”
Olivia put her arms around her sister’s shoulders. “It’s not that bad.”
“Sure. It only means he loves her, that’s all. It only means that my own son loves them both.”
“I meant the Jell-O,” Olivia said. “The Jell-O isn’t so bad.”
Amy laughed, but she stayed nestled in Olivia’s arms. “It was one thing being left for some kind of crazy affair. It’s another thing when your husband actually loves someone. I mean, I know that since that thing happened to you, it’s hard to imagine that something like this can be so terrible—”
Olivia turned her sister so that they faced each other.
“Amy,” she said, “‘that thing’ is that David died.” She felt less dizzy this time, but her voice dropped to a whisper. “David is dead,” she said.
Amy’s eyes widened as if she were hearing the news for the first time. “Oh my God, Olivia,” she said.