The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (26 page)

And then he was pressing against her, crushing her against the wall, his hands wrapped around her wrists, the tips of their noses touching. He was going to kiss her, she was certain of it, and he wouldn’t stop there. Every worst-case scenario flashed through her mind. Ava was terrified, wanted to scream, but who would hear her?

And then she thought of the baby.

That’s all it took. Ava found her strength, her anger. She did the only thing she could think of.

She bit him.

He had hollered and reeled back, his hands cupping his nose. Ava had been too busy grabbing her purse to know what had really happened, and then she was pushing open the door of the emergency exit, the alarm shrieking. She ran to her car, her hands shaking so bad that she could barely get the keys into the ignition, but she did.

She didn’t tell Bill what had happened. She meant to, but she didn’t know what he would do, didn’t trust him not to confront Dr. Strombauer and possibly hurt him, destroying his chances for his own business. She only said that they’d had a disagreement, that she ended up leaving her box at the office. Bill brought it home the next day and Ava noticed a few things were broken or missing, but none of that mattered. She was just glad she’d never have to go back to that office, relieved she’d never see him again.

Now, however, things are different. Bill is dead. She has Max.
Randall Strombauer owns Bill’s share of the practice. If anything he owes her this one simple thing.

A long honk from an annoyed parent in the car behind her shakes her from her reverie. Ava manages a wave and edges up a car length, sighing as she puts the car back in park. She can see Max standing in line by the door, lunchbox in hand, waiting for his turn, too. She tries to smile, but she suddenly feels sad. The memory of that long ago time, or maybe it’s this moment, where she and her son have to wait for someone to tell them when they can be together.

Connie sits on a bale of hay in Serena’s pen, watching the goat doze in the shade of her dog house. Connie doodles in her journal, finally drafting the sign that she’d promised Madeline she would make.

“Goat Found,”
she writes.
“Female. Friendly. Playful. Masterful escape artist. Please inquire at Madeline’s Tea Salon.”

Connie adds a few colorful flowers around the border, draws teacups nestled inside of roses. She sketches Serena’s face peeking out from behind the Lassiters’ hydrangea bush. She’ll make it nicer on the computer later, and include an actual photo of Serena as well, but at least now she can tell Madeline that she’s working on it and that might buy her a few more days.

Her new scrapbook album sits on the desk in her room, still void of pictures. Connie doesn’t know where to begin, doesn’t know what to put inside. She took the photographs from her suitcase and started to lay them out on the page, and then got nervous about gluing them in, making it permanent. She’s not sure what the album is about anymore. Is her past more important than her future?

Her thoughts drift to her parents, to her mother especially. Connie already finds that she’s forgetting things, that she can’t quite picture her mother as clearly as before. Maybe because no photo albums exist, those memories are now lost forever.

What does Connie remember? Her mother being impetuous, the way her spur-of-the-moment ideas would become infectious, the way she could cajole Connie and her father into agreeing to just about
anything. “A road trip!” she’d suggest, even though Connie’s father had to work the next day. Or the time they’d chased down an ice cream truck for three blocks to get a Cherry Bomb they could share.

After Connie’s father died, Mary Beth Colls seemed to sink into herself. If they were out, Mary Beth put her best face forward and like magic, it seemed to work. They’d laugh, they’d have a good time, and Connie would think that maybe her mother would be okay after all. But then they’d come home and she would deflate, shrinking into herself, becoming silent and morose. Connie watched her take the pills that helped her sleep.

“Oh, Connie,” she murmured one night as they lay on the couch together, watching TV. “You’re so much like your father. You’re both so strong. Fearless. You can do anything.” There was a shakiness in her voice.

“You too, Mom.” Connie was thirteen.

Mary Beth had shaken her head, pulled Connie closer to her. Her lips brushed the top of her daughter’s head. “No, Constance. I’m not.” Then she’d pushed Connie away and told her it was time for bed.

In the morning Mary Beth was still asleep when Connie went to school. Connie had tiptoed out quietly, leaving a plate of toast and scrambled eggs warming in the oven for her mother when she woke up.

But she never did.

Connie feels Serena bump up against her. She puts her nose up to Serena’s, who is looking at her unabashedly. “You love me, don’t you Serena?” Connie asks.

Serena lets out a happy bleat, then nudges Connie toward the gate. She was planning on putting pictures of Serena in the album, too, but now that she has to look for Serena’s original owner, Connie’s not so sure that’s a good idea. An album full of loss. Talk about depressing.

Another bump. Connie leans forward and buries her face in Serena’s neck. “Stay with me,” she whispers. “Okay?”

Serena gives her a nuzzle, a sure
yes
if Connie ever knew one. Encouraged, Connie puts down her journal and reaches for Serena’s leash. “All right, let’s go for that walk.”

Adele Christensen, 75
Homemaker
 

Any immigrant will tell you that memories are more important than things. When Adele Christensen and her husband came to America, there was much they had to leave behind. They did it all for the dream of America, for a new life, a better life.

When they came from Denmark in 1965, they had two suitcases and less than $500. Adele was pregnant with not one child but two, a boy and a girl who were later born in Philadelphia.

Adele’s husband worked two jobs and went to night school while she raised the children. It was hard, but they did it, and after six years her husband graduated from the university. Adele admired his dedication—he was up every morning at 3:00 a.m. and home just before midnight—and then he went on for his master’s degree. It took him another five years and then he was offered a very good job with a company in Rockford, Illinois. A year later they were able to buy their house in Avalon.

They were careful with their money. Adele did what she could to stretch their budget, to be practical yet creative. She saved what she could, not only money but paper bags, tinfoil, plastic wrap, rubber bands—anything that could be used again. She didn’t believe in waste and she didn’t believe in extravagance. The children were always
complaining that their clothes were too old or not fashionable, but Adele was unwavering about these things.

Once they had a huge fight about school lunches. The kids wanted to eat lunch from the cafeteria like their friends instead of bringing the frozen cheese sandwiches Adele made every Sunday for the week. Her husband sat them down and told them they had a choice: take it or leave it. End of discussion.

They paid off the house early and when her husband retired their bank account had grown multifold. They had plenty for their retirement and enough to take the whole family on a nice trip once a year.

When her husband passed, Adele’s children wanted her to come and live with them. She refused. Her friends thought she was crazy—their children didn’t invite them to live with them, she was lucky to have such generous children. And she was grateful for them. But Adele was still perfectly capable of taking care of herself and this was her home. Everything Adele had was in these four walls. All she had to do was look around and see her husband, see what they had accomplished, see what their children and grandchildren had accomplished. Adele feels more joy than sorrow walking in and out of her simple home—why would she leave this?

Then, last year, her son and daughter came home for Thanksgiving with their families. They were wearing jeans and sweatshirts and heavy jackets, an uncomfortable look on their faces. Adele didn’t worry about it, just fussed over the grandchildren and took out the pastries she had bought on sale at the Pick and Save.

Then, an hour later a big truck put a Dumpster onto her driveway.

Adele watched as everyone—except her—started to go through the things in the garage, the closets, the attic, under the sinks. Everything was put out on the lawn in the bitter cold, and occasionally they would ask her about this and that but then deciding with their spouses what to keep and what to throw out. They said they were trying to make things easier for Adele.

“Mom, you have four ice buckets,” her son said. “Nobody even uses ice buckets anymore.”

She’d forgotten completely about those ice buckets but brightened at the sight of them.

“One was a gift from the Andersens on our thirtieth anniversary,” she told him. “One we won in a raffle, another was a Christmas present from your godmother. The fourth … well, I don’t remember where the fourth one was from but I like it. I want to keep it.”

Her son told her she was too sentimental and put them in the donation pile despite Adele’s protests. “You won’t even know they’re gone,” his wife, Jane, promised. “You didn’t even know you had them, remember?” They shooed Adele into the living room and planted her in front of the TV even though there was nothing she wanted to watch.

The hours ticked by. Adele was worried they wouldn’t finish before it got dark and she could tell they were worried, too.
Was one Dumpster enough?
they murmured among themselves. Soon they were no longer including Adele, their actions brisk and efficient, mumbling and laughing as if she couldn’t hear them.

“They’re antiques,” she heard her daughter say when they came into the kitchen for a break. “And they’re in pretty good condition. Maybe take them to an antiques store?”

“What about auctioning them online?” her husband suggested. “You can set a reserve to make sure it at least sells for a minimum price.”

“What are you talking about?” Adele asked anxiously.

“Nothing,” her son said. “Does anyone want to order a pizza?”

When everyone else was eating dinner, Adele managed to sneak into the garage from which she’d been banned. It was cold but that’s not what made a shiver run through her. There were piles of things everywhere, her whole garage turned inside out. Then she felt her heart seize—in the middle of the chaos were the two suitcases that brought them to America. The leather was worn and the latches were rusty. There was a layer of dust and she wiped it away with a wrinkled hand, remembering how carefully she had packed their bags on the day they left Esbjerg to begin the journey to a new land. Adele picked up one suitcase by the handle and then the other—they were
both empty but still a bit heavy—and walked back into the house and into her room. She locked the door behind her.

Her children knocked and knocked. Was she all right? Why had she locked the door? They tried to explain that the waste management company would be coming first thing in the morning. They said they didn’t tell her because they knew she wouldn’t agree, that because she wasn’t going to live with them they wanted to make sure the house was clean and safe.

It wasn’t an apology exactly, but Adele softened, knew in her heart that this was true. They had gone about it all wrong, but they meant well. She unlocked the bedroom door and told them she was keeping the suitcases.

They finished throwing things away and reorganizing, then they left two days later. When Adele looked around, she saw that her house was no longer her home.

There were new towels, new racks, new containers. Everything labeled and stacked neatly, like a store. The familiar musty smell was gone, and a pungent scent of artificial oranges wafted through the rooms. Adele couldn’t find her can opener and then saw they had bought her an electric one and placed it on the counter, all shiny and new. She went into the garage and saw nothing but her car.

Back in the living room, she tried to turn on the TV for the first time since they’d left and found two new remotes. Her son-in-law had thrown away the old videocassette recorder and videotapes and replaced it with something fancy. They had to return to the city for work so he didn’t have time to show her but said Adele could go online or he would help her at Christmas. A month away.

Outside it started to snow. Adele stared out the window and watched the fat flakes drift lazily to the ground. She knew that by nightfall the ground would be covered, and she was filled with a desire to cover everything, to hide all of this newness from view so she could remember her house like before. She went and opened the front door then returned to the living room, wrapped herself in a blanket, and sat down.

She was like that for a long time, welcoming the numbing cold.

Then, the crunch of footsteps. The shadow of a woman standing in the doorway. Adele couldn’t see who it was but the light from the street shone from behind her and she thought, for a second, that the woman was an angel.

“Adele,” she said, and Adele jumped, thinking that maybe it was her time to join her husband in heaven. She stared at the figure in the doorway, and then it stepped forward and Adele saw that it was Bettie Shelton, the woman who lived on the next block.