The Art of Mending (15 page)

“Do you think we should go over and talk to Jim?” I asked Pete.

“Wait till tomorrow,” he said. “I think that will be better. I’ll go with you first thing in the morning.”

“What was he like?” I asked my mother. “Was he really upset?”

“Well, of course he was! Wouldn’t you be?”

“Well,
yes,
but . . . what did he say?”

“Not much, really. Just listened to what happened and made sure his son was all right. I told him it was all Hannah’s fault and apologized for her.”

For a moment, I sat very still. Then I said, “What?”

She cocked her head brightly. A woman at a bridge table, her hand in the peanut bowl. Charms on her bracelet tinkling.

“What did you say?” I asked, my voice rising.

Confused, she looked over at Pete, who said, “Laura—”

“No!” I told him. And then, to my mother, “You told him it was all Hannah’s fault?”

“It was!” She was angry now; twin patches of color appeared in her cheeks.

“It was an accident, Mom! She didn’t mean to do it!”

“Well, I know that. But it was her
faul
t
!”

“Did you tell her that?”

She opened her mouth, closed it.

“Did you, Mom?”

“I may have said something like that. I mean, it was very confusing at first. I got a call; I went over there; the child was bleeding badly.”

I stood, started to say something, but went instead upstairs to Hannah’s room. I turned on her bedside light and saw her lying there, her eyes wide. “Honey? Listen. I know you feel so, so bad.”

“Grandma’s right; it’s all my fault.”

So she’d heard everything. “It was an accident, Hannah. You never anticipated such a thing would happen.”

“I made her get a scar!”

“How do you know? They do things now that—”

“Grandma said. She said she’ll have a big scar on her face her whole life!”

“Hannah, Grandma—she didn’t really know what she was saying. She just said the first thing that came into her head. She was frightened, and she—”

“No, Mom! She’s right! Don’t you think I know that?”

Again, she began to sob, and I lay beside her and wrapped my arms around her. I was remembering the time she was four years old and I took her to a Kmart, telling her she could have any toy she wanted. She’d decided she wanted a doll, and we looked for a long time at all the options available: the long-haired high-breasted Barbies; the fancy baby dolls that talked and ate and wet; the ones that came with high chairs and playpens and dishes and toys; the delicate porcelain dolls with dresses made of lace and velvet, with prim, painted lips. And then Hannah found a doll lying along the bottom of a bin. She was not in a box, and she had a rip in her cloth body. “This is not a good one,” I’d told Hannah. “This one is damaged.” The doll was cheaply made; her eyes did not open and close, the fabric used to cover her body was thin and shiny, her plastic toes were more grotesque than endearing, and she came with not so much as a diaper. But Hannah pulled the doll to her breast. “I will call her Baby Annie,” she’d said.

I remembered, too, a time when she was about the same age and Anthony had a play date, so Hannah and I decided to have a play date of our own. We were walking to the bus stop, on our way downtown, when we passed a tiny turquoise-colored egg on the sidewalk, not far from a tree. “What’s that?” Hannah asked, squatting down to inspect it, and I told her it was a robin’s egg. I did not say that it appeared that a cat had gotten at the nest or that perhaps the wind had knocked it down. I did not point out the fine crack running along its side. “Where’s its mother?” Hannah asked, and I said, Oh, the mother would be back soon. We went downtown and bought new clothes at Hannah’s favorite store. We had lunch and ice-cream floats at the dime-store lunch counter. We went to the library and spent over an hour selecting just the right books to bring home.

That evening, I’d sat her on a high stool to help me wash potatoes for dinner. The sun was setting; I remember admiring the red highlights it brought out in her still baby-fine hair. “Now, you scrub all the dirt off the potatoes,” I’d said. “And then we will bake them.” “Okay,” she said. And then, “Mommy? Did the mother come yet?” It took me a moment to remember what she was talking about. But then I kissed the top of her head and said, “Yes, she did. She’s putting the egg to bed now.” “How do you know?” Hannah asked, and I took a breath in, and then, with all the nonchalant authority I could muster, I said, “Well, because it’s
sunset,
silly.” “Oh,” she said, and began scrubbing the potato, which was twice the length of her hand. It must have felt heavy for her to hold but she scrubbed it uncomplainingly.

I saw Hannah as made of bamboo, light in the wind. She was still just a child, unformed and questioning, guileless and gullible, her psyche wet clay. She was taking in what was around her and it would help make her what she would be. I realized what I needed to do. I would stay here until Hannah fell asleep, and then I would tell my mother that I wanted her out of here. That I knew who she was. That I knew everything.

AFTER I HEARD THE DEEP AND REGULAR SOUNDS
of Hannah breathing, I crawled into bed beside Pete. “Are you awake?” I whispered.

“Yeah. How’s Hannah?” He didn’t open his eyes, but he turned onto his side, facing me.

“She feels terrible, but she finally fell asleep. Pete, tomorrow I’m telling my mother she has to leave.”

Now his eyes opened. “Laura—”

“She ruined one of her own children. She’s not going to ruin ours.”

“She didn’t ruin Hannah. She said something at the time that—”

“She’s diabolical, Pete!”

“Shhhhhhhh!” He turned on the light.

“I don’t care if she hears!” But I did lower my voice to say, “Why do you defend her? Why are you so easy on her when you know what she did to my sister?”

“I
don’t
know everything that happened between your sister and your mother. I don’t know yet! And neither do you. We might never know.”

“Well, I know this. If she can make a kid who already feels terrible feel worse, if she can
on purpose
do such a thing, she’s capable of more.”

“But Laura, think of what else she’s done. Think of how the kids feel about her, how Hannah loves her!”

“So did Caroline, Pete. Caroline adored her. Until she woke up. I’m telling you, I am throwing her out. She cannot be around my children.”

“Maybe you need to just . . . sleep on it.”

“Nothing will change my mind, Pete. If you don’t want to see, don’t see. But nothing will change my mind.”

“Laura, if Hannah can forgive your mother for overreacting one time, can’t you?”

“Hannah forgives her because she doesn’t know what’s coming next.”

“Neither do you! Laura, people make mistakes, sometimes they make terrible mistakes. Forgive us our trespasses, you know?”

“Yeah, right. Directed at Our Father, who art in heaven. On earth is not like heaven.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Well, here’s what I believe. Sometimes it is. I guess it’s up to us to try to make it so. At any rate, at least make sure your mother was the one at fault before you blame her entirely for the way Caroline is.”

“How?”
But then I knew how. I would do what Caroline had been asking me to do. I would sit with the two of them while Caroline opened that big black bag.

It is by itself, barely adhering to the center of the page with Scotch tape turned butterscotch yellow and brittle to the touch. The photo is small in size and the image is blurred, evidence of the imperfect skills of the photographer. But there is a loveliness about it, a kind of peace. In the center is a large tree, leaves in the barely budding phase. There are a few high clouds in the sky, the cirrus variety that look like stretched cotton candy. There is an oblique slant to them; they look as though a giant hand has brushed over them, urging them ever upward. The land is empty-looking; in early spring, not much would have been growing yet. But there are low hills in the background, and a far-off line of evergreens lends the picture a softness, a kind of promise. Beneath the picture, in labored child’s writing, is this:
BY: CAROLINE. THIS IS NUMBER ONE
!
There are no more.

23

IN THE MORNING, I DRESSED AND CAME INTO THE
kitchen to find Pete at the table, eating breakfast. “I’m going to call Jim Pearson,” he said.

“Why don’t we just go over there? He’ll be up—he’s an early riser.”

“Okay. All right.” He got up, shoved his hands in his pockets, cleared his throat. “Ready?”

Together we crossed the street to go to the Pearsons’ door. I rang the bell, then looked over at Pete. I was as nervous as he. Anything could happen. A lawsuit.

The door opened, and Jim said, “Oh, hey, I was just going to call you two. Come on in.”

We entered the hallway and followed Jim into the living room. “Have a seat,” he told us, and we moved to the sofa, sitting close to each other. On the floor, I saw a pile of books I remembered reading to Hannah when she was a little girl; she must have brought them over. I looked away from them.

“I just want you to know we’re so sorry about what happened,” Pete said. “How is Nicki?”

“She’s
fine.
She’ll have a tiny little scar that will all but disappear when she gets older. She’s being released this morning. I’m getting ready to go and get her and my wife. How about Hannah? Is she okay?”

I had an impulse to turn triumphantly to Pete and say,
See?
Instead, I said, “She feels pretty terrible.”

“I was afraid of that,” Jim said. “When I was in fifth grade, I accidentally hit a kid in the head with a baseball bat. It ended up that he was all right, but man! I had some sleepless nights.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his billfold. “I never paid her.”

“It’s all right,” I said, and felt Pete lightly touch my arm. He thought I should take it for her.

“I’d like her to have it,” Jim said. “And I’d like you to tell her that almost the first thing Nicki said when I saw her is that she’d like to have Hannah sit again. Up until the time of the accident, they were having a great time. Hannah helped Nicki make a coat for her doll, and she and Tyler made a picture using popcorn kernels. He’s got it on his wall.”

“I’ll tell her,” I said.

“If we don’t call her right away, it’s because we do have a regular sitter—”

“I understand.”

Pete rose and offered his hand to Jim. “I know you must be eager to go. Thanks so much for understanding. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s fine, Pete. Let’s go out for a beer soon.”

When we walked back home, I said, “That’s the kind of compassion I would have hoped for from my mother.”

“He’s had a day to get used to it, Laura. And he had a doctor tell him his daughter was going to be fine. He didn’t see her standing there screaming with blood all over her.”

I said nothing until we arrived home. When we came into the kitchen, my mother was at the stove, fussing with something in a frying pan. “I’m serving Hannah breakfast in bed,” she said.

Pete looked at me. “I’m going to the store and catch up on some paperwork,” he said. Meaning,
It’s all yours.

I sat at the table, watching my mother. It was still familiar to me, the movement of her back in a robe, fixing breakfast at a stove. I knew precisely how high she would hold the spatula, how briskly she would scramble the eggs. “Hannah’s up already?” I asked.

“She is. I heard her calling for you, and I—”

“I’ll be right back.” I went up into Hannah’s room and found her leaning back against her pillows, reading a book.

“Hey.” I sat beside her.

She marked her place, put the book down. “Where were you?”

“Dad and I went to talk to Mr. Pearson.” Her expression changed, and I said, “Don’t worry, he’s fine. And Nicki’s fine too—she’s coming home today, and she’ll have a very, very small scar that will end up disappearing completely. And you know what she wants?”

“What?” She wouldn’t look at me.

“She wants you to babysit again. She really liked you. And Mr. Pearson did too. He sent over the money you earned.”

She looked up, her eyes full of tears. “I don’t want it. And I don’t ever want to babysit again.”

“Oh, Hannah. I know how bad you feel, honey. I really do. But if you never babysit again, you’ll deprive a lot of kids of some really wonderful experiences. It was an accident. Nobody blames you. In fact, Jim told us about a kid he once hit accidentally with a baseball bat!”

Half a smile. “Really?”

“Yes!”

“Was he okay?”

“Yes! He was!”

“Well, I think I’ll wait awhile. But I’ll tell Mr. and Mrs. Pearson I’m sorry. I’ll write them a note.”

“Okay.” I kissed her forehead. “So you’re having breakfast in bed, are you?”

“Yeah, I woke Grandma up but she was really nice. She said she’d make me breakfast. And she said she was sorry for yelling at me.”

“Did she? Well, I’m glad she did.” I waited for a moment, then said, “Hannah? I’m going to take Grandma home today.”

“You are?”

“Uh-huh. I think I’ll drive her back.”

“Does she want to go home?”

I stood and straightened Hannah’s covers. “Yeah, I think she’s probably ready to go back. It’s hard to be away from home for too long. You know.”

“But . . . she said she wished she could live here.”

“When? When did she say that?”

Hannah tilted her head, looked deeply into my eyes. “Are you
mad
?”

“No! When did she say that?”

Hannah shrugged. “A lot of times. To me, and to Anthony too. Didn’t she tell you?”

“Here we are,” my mother said, and walked into the room with a tray. Hannah and I exchanged glances, and I said, “You go ahead and eat, honey. I’ll talk to you later.” Then to my mother, “Mom? Can we go downstairs and talk for a minute?”

“Wait!” Hannah said.

I turned around, and Hannah said to my mother, “Could I . . . I need to talk to my mom alone, Grandma. Okay?”

“That’s fine,” my mother said lightly. “My goodness, I don’t mind. A person has to have privacy sometimes. You enjoy your breakfast.”

She closed the door in as pointed a way as it was possible to do. I sat down again, at the foot of Hannah’s bed.

“Don’t make her leave, Mom.”

“It’s time for her to go home.”

“Why?”

“Hannah, I can’t explain everything right now. But”—I lowered my voice—“there are some things I need to find out. I don’t feel I can really trust her. She’s capable of bad things. I think she—”

Hannah dropped her fork and covered her ears. “She’s my
grandma
!”

I wanted to say,
Yes, and you are my daughter.
Instead, I uncovered her ears and said, “Okay. Okay. Don’t worry. Eat your breakfast, okay? Don’t worry.”

Downstairs, my mother sat at the kitchen table with a toasted English muffin covered with her usual slathering of butter. She loved butter, and she used to put it on my sandwiches when she made my school lunches. I would tell her every day not to, and the next day she would put it on again, because that was the way she liked
her
sandwiches. She had just begun to take a bite, but when she saw me she stopped and put the muffin back on her plate.

“Eat,” I said, and surprised myself by the nasty tone of my voice. I moved to sit across from her, reached out to touch her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just meant, don’t stop eating on my account.”

She said nothing. I could see her heart beating in her throat, saw sleep in the corner of one of her eyes, something I was sure I’d never seen before. I didn’t know if my mother was becoming less meticulous or simply couldn’t see well anymore. Whatever the reason, I could feel my resolve weakening. Should I really ask her to leave my house, insist that she do so, when everyone else in the family seemed so much against it, or at least deeply ambivalent? Was I making too much out of what she said to Hannah because it was the only way I could think of to support my sister? Was I now going to start cataloging my own slights, punishing my mother for putting butter on sandwiches forty years ago?

My mother is the one who took us kids out one hot summer afternoon to pick up pizza at a parlor where the temperature was truly unbearable. It wasn’t the temperature outside or the blasting ovens on the inside; the air-conditioning had gone out in the place. The woman who waited on us had sweat pouring off her; yet she smiled pleasantly and wished us a happy picnic—we were going to a park across the street. After we ate lunch, my mother took us into the florist next to the pizza parlor, bought the woman a lovely bouquet, and then asked me to give it to her. “But what should I tell her?” I asked my mother, a little angry that she wouldn’t deliver it herself. “You don’t have to tell her anything,” my mother said. “She’ll know we just appreciate her being so pleasant under the circumstances.” I think she wanted me to do it so I could enjoy the reaction, so I could see it was possible to bring joy to a stranger and take away more for yourself.

And once, when I whimsically suggested that I wanted my teddy bears to get married, my mother immediately manufactured a wedding between two stuffed animals. She made a paper-towel runner in the upstairs hall, put a white cake in the oven, and, while it baked, ran to a nearby party store for supplies. She bought napkins with a wedding motif, and silver and white crepe paper, and a plastic bride and groom to put atop the cake. She made Steve, then eight, be the minister; she made me the matron of honor, and she made herself the “guests.” Caroline was supposed to be the soloist, but at the last minute she refused to sing. “There’s no music,” she said petulantly, and she sat off to the side, watching the ridiculous but tender ceremony and picking at one of her toes. You could look up her faded red shorts and see her underwear, which to my mind ruined the ceremony entirely.

But. There was also everything Caroline had told me. There were the brief flashes of memory and understanding that I was beginning to have. If one’s life was about anything, it was about making choices, taking risks, deciding what was worthwhile and what was not. I could not have my mother with my children when so much was still in doubt.

My mother pushed her plate away and sat up straighter. “What do you want to talk about, Laura?”

“This is hard for me to say, Mom, so bear with me. But things are kind of . . . well, I need a little time to be alone with my family. I think it might be best if I drive you home.”

“When?”

“Today.”

She drew in a sharp breath, started to say something, and then rose abruptly to carry her dishes to the sink. “You can take me to the airport right now.” She turned on the water hard to rinse out her cup and ended up splattering herself. She jumped back and dropped the cup, shattering it, then put her hands to her face and began to weep. I walked slowly over to her, stepped past the shards of china, and put my arms around her. She hugged me back abruptly, tightly, and then whispered into my ear, “You know, don’t you?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Caroline told you everything?”

“Yes. And I know it was you who came after Caroline with the knife that day, Mom.”

Inside myself, a frayed string on which hung a last hope:
Say no. Say you never did that, it never happened.
But what she said was, “Yes.”

I closed my eyes, swallowed. “And . . . I know about Claire. Aunt Fran told me.”

She stepped away from me, sighed deeply. There passed a long moment during which she would not look at me. Then she said, “I’ll go and pack. And then I would like to be driven to the airport.”

I wanted to say, You know what? Your days of dictating are over. Your needs coming first? That’s over. But all I said was, “I’m going to pack too, Mom. I’ll drive you home.”

IT TOOK TWO HOURS OF DRIVING
before either of us said anything. While my mother packed, I rather abruptly told my children what I was going to do, then called Pete at the store to tell him the same. When we left, I looked away when my mother hugged Anthony and Hannah and tried not to mind their stiffness when I hugged them too. When I spoke privately to Anthony, telling him I was taking Grandma home because I wasn’t comfortable with her behavior during the babysitting incident, he said, “God, Mom, you’re pretty hard on people.” I wanted to argue my case, but I remembered Hannah’s reaction when I tried to tell her more. In the end, I just told him I’d see him in a few days and left. At the right time, I hoped I’d find the words.

It was odd, having my mother beside me in front. I couldn’t remember a time when I drove her for any length of time. It didn’t compute, somehow, to see her knee in my peripheral vision, to feel the small moves she made adjusting herself on the seat.

I was still full of such a mix of conflicting emotions. Not the least of these was still a kind of anger at Caroline, for bringing all this on. I recognized it was unfair, this lack of love and support one should have for a sister. But I didn’t have it. We grew up virtual strangers to each other. It was hard, at this age, to try to create a natural bond I never had, to feel for someone who so often made me impatient. If I were to meet Caroline as someone other than my sister, could I feel sympathy for her? If what she was saying was true, I could. And it was true.

So here beside me, in the form of my mother, was the woman who did all those terrible things to her child. How did one begin a dialogue with such a person? Especially when she was such a different mother to Steve and me. Did she deserve a last chance to defend herself? Did the fact that she was such a recent widow entitle her to more consideration? Should I begin by telling her that things would be different between us from now on, I wondered, and that for one thing she would not be left alone with my children? Or should I not worry about it at the moment and instead start figuring out how I was going to get her and Caroline and me together, thus putting Caroline’s concerns first? Wasn’t it time Caroline came first?

I turned off the radio. “Mom?”

“Don’t let’s talk now,” she said. “Let me just get home first.” I thought I understood her need for the anchoring influence of one’s own things.

“Okay. But I want to tell you, we’re going to meet with Caroline as soon as we get there, you and I. It’s something she asked for, and we’re going to give it to her.”