Tomorrow she’d throw them all out.
Helen, Ira, Eva, and Deb all implored her to accept consolation, to let them come to her, but she refused everyone. They didn’t understand. Their comfort would bring only more pain, reminding her she was alive. They were alive.
If she were brave, she’d have accepted their offers, let herself feel the agony of their love working to fill the space where Noah should be. Instead, she pressed harder on the mesh and tried to feel nothing but the metal grinding against her flesh.
Part 6
* * *
Good-bye, Jake
CHAPTER 38
Phoebe
More than six months passed before Phoebe rose from the metaphorical steel mesh on which she’d leaned since the day of Noah’s funeral.
Until August, her new apartment remained as Spartan as when she’d arrived; the moving day had been so close to Noah’s death that the events merged in her memory. Upon arrival, she’d unpacked some clothes, a few dishes, and essentials such as toothpaste and soap. Decorative items—the very few she’d bought after everything she owned was sold at auction—remained buried in cardboard.
The nights she didn’t have dinner with Kate, Zach, and Amelia, she numbed herself with curated television as she ate a Lean Cuisine with about as much pleasure as she would have received from intravenous feeding. Anything remotely connected to emotion cut straight to muscle. She set her DVR to record Jeopardy!, Wheel of Fortune, and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Nothing with families, happy or troubled—families broke her in half. Reruns of Friends, showing carefree young adults, were impossible.
Documentaries about animals, just animals, no humans, were best.
Now, reunited with Beth, each day she took the train to Manhattan to pick up Noah’s girls from school. Isabelle and Holly unthawed her enough to unpack a few comforts, like the crochet hook and wool she’d bought but never used. Now she worked on creating afghans to give at the holidays.
In September Beth returned to work as a math teacher, traveling up to the Bronx and back by train each day. She needed Phoebe, who picked up the girls from school and stayed with them until Beth got home. She left hot meals for her daughter-in-law and granddaughters, freshly laundered clothes, and a clean house, grateful to be busy. Once a week, they ate dinner together, but no more than that, not wanting to give Beth a reason to tire of her presence.
Phoebe rose to the occasion with her fragile granddaughters, so needy, so reminiscent of Noah, and became stronger.
Today, with unseasonably warm October sun begging first for walking slow and ice cream, and then sand and teeter-totters, they stopped off at the playground on First Avenue. Swings and cones were the only tonic available for Phoebe’s eleven-and seven-year-old granddaughters. She sat on the bench, smiling faintly as the girls pumped their legs, side by side, seeing who could swing higher.
A slice of peace.
A novel waited in her bag, a small paperback copy of Jane Eyre, her current speed these days, but the frenetic activity in the playground made her too nervous to take her eyes off the girls for even a moment. Older children hovered over the little kids, anxious to take over the swings, looking for an opportunity to help a smaller child fall so they could grab the spot.
Within ten minutes, a familiar stare burned her neck. Sensing the eyes drilling into her before she saw them no longer surprised her. There they were: a clutch of women a few benches away, rubbernecking. A quick glance at their pocketbooks told her that these weren’t nannies.
The blondest of them stared openly, her chin tipped up as though to say, “So what?”
Phoebe hoped they’d tire of gaping at her if she ignored them. Don’t engage was her mantra when in Manhattan.
The blonde marched over, purse swinging on her arm. Why would anyone wear heels to a park? Granted, they were wedges, but Blondie swayed on the uneven, springy rubber surface—the wobble detracting from her aura of righteousness. She plopped next to Phoebe and crossed her legs, the leathery tan skin of her calves denying her smooth, injected face.
“You have a hell of a nerve coming here,” Blondie said.
“Are you representing the Park Bench Committee, or is this your singular mission?” Phoebe tipped her head and smiled as though they were in the midst of warm negotiations.
“Grandma! Are you watching?” Isabelle screamed. “Did you see how high I went?”
“Me too!” Holly yelled. “Look at me!”
“Incredible, girls!” Phoebe called and then turned back to Blondie. “Well, which is it?”
Blondie shook her head as though clearing away Phoebe’s words. “You don’t belong here, Mrs. Pierce. Those women over there?” She pointed. “They know people who lost everything with your husband. The two of you are poison and—”
Holly appeared in front of Phoebe, tugging at her arm. “Grandma. Come push us!”
“In less than a minute, honey. I promise. Go, quick, before someone takes your swing! Go.” Phoebe hugged her and then turned back to Blondie, replacing her smile with venom.
“You want to hate me, hate me. You want to believe bullshit about me, it’s your fucking prerogative. But don’t you dare talk to me. I don’t give a damn what you think. And never again make my granddaughters uncomfortable in any way.”
Phoebe gathered the girls’ lunch sacks, stood, and flung her purse over her right shoulder. “Pray you always know exactly what your husband is doing, honey. And then prepare for the worst.”
She rushed to the swings and wedged in next to two doughy women wearing uniforms: nannies pushing their small charges with strong arms as they spoke to each other in what sounded like Russian. Not seeming to recognize her was enough for them to seem like merciful angels.
Stretching her muscles eased Phoebe’s tension as she moved from Holly to Isabelle and back again. Sun warmed her shoulders. Gratitude for these lovely girls, for being needed, and for being able to offer help overcame her.
Phoebe said a silent prayer of thanks to her mother, who, she swore, had sent the right words to her from heaven at just the right moment.
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