“We have to go see her,” Elle says. “We can listen to the band. And then you can talk to her after.”
My lips are numb, and my voice sounds foreign to my own ears. “We can’t go anywhere right now, Elle Belle. We have Grandma’s funeral to plan. And we have to figure out what to do about Grandpa.”
“We don’t have to go anywhere. They’ll be here. Well, almost here. Kettle Falls at the Northern Ales on, let’s see, Friday night. Family friendly, it says, so don’t even think about not taking me with you.”
“Elle. We can’t go.”
I say it with conviction, but I’m torn. Marley. After all these years. The possibility of seeing her, of connecting, of doing something about those ragged threads of incomplete memories that keep snagging my current reality and tugging me backward is deeply alluring.
“Why can’t we go?” Elle demands.
“Because Grandma. People don’t go to concerts right after somebody dies.”
“I don’t see why not.” Her face retreats out of my field of vision, leaving me alone with the ceiling. There is a tiny spider up there, moving around on spider business. I let my gaze fixate on him, one small black speck in an expanse of white, or almost white. It comes to me that if Dad goes into a nursing home, I’ll need to sell this house to pay for it. And then I get sucked into wondering how I can possibly navigate everything that needs doing here while still maintaining my apartment in Kansas City. I can’t afford to fly back and forth. I’ve already maxed out my credit card to pay for this trip. I can’t afford to take more time off.
The truth is, the time I’ve already taken is going to make it pretty near impossible to cover my bills this month. I live way too close to my margins. The temp agency I’m currently working for doesn’t provide benefits, so I’m not getting vacation pay. My only savings resides in the account where Greg deposits child support, a fund that I dip into only when Elle needs something I can’t otherwise provide. A familiar web of worry and indecision grounds me in my accustomed reality. The worry points are different, but the feeling is the same. I’m still me, even if my mother is not who I always thought she was. This is strangely comforting. My breath eases, my heart slows. My eyelids grow heavy, and I am sorely tempted to drift off into sleep. Elle, oblivious, keeps up a running commentary, her fingers still moving.
“What’s the father’s name? On the birth certificate?”
“Alexander Garrison.”
“Hmmm. There are a bunch of Alexander Garrisons. Who knows which one it is? But maybe Marley could tell you about him. We are going, right? To the concert?”
I need to tell her no. No, we are not going. But I’m so sleepy now that it’s hard to form words. Her chatter is familiar and comforting. I let it circle around me, just the cadence and the music of it, taking pleasure in her enthusiasm without latching on to the meaning. I’ll worry about Marley and the concert later.
The next thing I’m aware of is Elle shaking my shoulder. I mumble something and try to roll over. My tongue feels hot and dry, stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“There are people here. You have to wake up!”
“What people?” At least that’s what I meant to say, but I hear it come out as “Mmm?”
“You’ve been sleeping for hours. And I’m hungry, and we’re out of pizza. Mom!”
This time, the shake of my shoulder is energetic enough to hurt. My eyes blink open and then squint against the light directly overhead. I bring up my forearm to shield my eyes. In my entire history I’ve been hungover exactly once, and it’s manifestly unfair that I feel that same way now but haven’t had the benefit of a single drink. Inventory of my body isn’t promising.
Mouth: fuzzy.
Stomach: rebellious.
Brain: sluggish.
Head: pounding.
“Mom. Seriously. You have to get up. There are church ladies in the living room. They are asking an awful lot of questions.”
Rolling over onto my side, I push up into a sitting position and sit there, blinking at Elle. She goes in and out of focus, but it’s impossible to miss the exasperation. Hands thrown up in the air and that toss of the head are pretty much a universal language.
When she stalks out of the room, I let my throbbing head drop into my hands, rest my elbows on my knees, and try to engage my wayward brain.
Much as I would like to escape out the bedroom window, I need to deal with this.
Elle, still stiff with disapproval, returns with my hairbrush and a dripping washcloth. She holds the cloth out to me, and while I scrub it over my face, she starts brushing out my tangled hair.
“You’re a good kid,” I mumble, and it’s true. She’s a great kid, in fact. I don’t deserve a kid like this. “Okay. I guess I should go face the music.”
“Clothes.”
“Elle. It will be fine. What makes you think they’re church ladies?”
“They said. They have casseroles. They asked for coffee.”
“Oh God.” I change into a clean pair of jeans and a nice shirt. It’s wrinkled from the suitcase, but there’s nothing to be done about that. In the living room, the two armchairs are occupied by Elle’s church ladies. One of them is thin, perfectly coiffed, and dressed in a tailored jacket and a pair of gray pants. The other wears a ball cap over shoulder-length hair, a T-shirt, and grass-stained jeans.
Safe-deposit-box Bethany perches on the edge of the couch. The instant she sees me, she’s up onto her feet, clacking across the floor on high heels to envelop me in a hug. “You won’t tell anybody, will you?” she whispers in my ear. “That I broke the rules about the box?”
“Our little secret,” I whisper back, thanking the goddess of silence. I don’t need anybody speculating about Mom’s advance directive or anything else that might have been stashed in that box.
The woman in the ball cap is waiting for her turn at the hugging. I can’t place her at first, and it takes me a minute to peel back the layers of memory and see her as younger, slimmer, and dressed for church. Alison Baldwin. She used to play the piano for church services. Taught a Sunday school class.
Alison’s hug is bony but heartfelt. She smells of sweat and fresh-cut grass and gasoline.
“You poor dear. So tragic. Were you able to say good-bye? You got here in time?”
“Yes, I was with her when she died.”
Talk about evasions. I was with her, all right. Saying good-bye wasn’t exactly what I was doing.
“I apologize for my appearance,” Alison says. “I was out working on the lawn when Nancy came by for me. I’d completely lost track of time.”
Nancy must be the name of the other woman. I still can’t summon up a memory of her. She’s got a timeless face and style and was probably wearing a skirt and jacket when she was twelve.
“Your mother was an admirable woman,” Nancy says, getting up much more slowly from her chair and not attempting the hug. “A fine Christian and such a strong and giving person. We won’t know what to do without her. She will be irreplaceable.”
“Truth,” Alison says. “Head of the clothing drive. Church board member. She’d recently begun playing piano for the choir. Which reminds me—what are we going to do? There’s the July Fourth concert coming up, and we’ll have to find someone to fill in.” Her gaze swings round to me and lights up. “What about you? You had piano lessons.”
I had piano lessons, all right, but even my mother recognized the futility of that endeavor and they were short-lived.
I snort. I don’t mean to, but it just happens. It’s an unladylike pig snort, and all eyes in the room land on me at once. There’s a little dampness on my upper lip on the side of my left nostril, and I hope to the God I don’t quite believe in that I haven’t ejected a spray of snot. I cross the room for a tissue, which gives me the opportunity to hide my face.
“Not a musical bone in my body. I’m sorry. What about Bethany? You were always much better at piano than me.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly! It’s been years and—”