The Book of Someday (20 page)

“You didn’t give me shit.”

“—and all I ever expected in return was that you would love me in the way I’d always imagined—that you would appreciate me and want to make me happy. I gave so much and asked for something so simple—a child who cared enough to reward me with her devotion. I was an extraordinary mother while you, Micah, were a disaster of a daughter who has never done a single thing to make me proud.”

Micah’s rage—her hurt—is volcanic.

She’s lunging at her mother, dragging her to her feet: the smoke-colored cat shrieking and darting away while Micah is screaming: “What was my favorite bedtime story? How old was I when I got my first period? Who did I go to my senior prom with? How much of your coke did I snort when I was twelve? Where do I live? What do I do for a living? Come on, Mother, pick one! Take your best shot!”

Micah is shaking her mother with such force that she can hear her mother’s teeth chattering—it’s spurring a fleeting desire in Micah to reach in and pull them out by their roots. Shove them down her mother’s throat. And kill her.

Her mother is defiantly observing Micah through narrowed eyes, as if reading her mind—warning Micah: “It won’t do you any good. You’re not in the will.”

Micah’s laugh is spontaneous and bitter. “Fuck you,” she tells her mother. “I’m rich.”

Her mother has pulled away and dropped back into the wing chair near the window. There’s a feisty combativeness in the tilt of her chin. “I haven’t seen or heard from you since you were in your twenties, Micah. Other than to badger me into leaving you my money…what reason could you possibly have for being here? Tell me.”

And now it’s Micah who’s the one being shaken—the one experiencing the sensation of having her teeth rattled.

“Well,” her mother says, “what do you want? Whatever it is must be something big—you once swore you’d go to your grave without ever setting foot in this house again.”

Her mother’s words are draining all the fight, and fury, out of Micah. She’s dropping into a sitting position beside the wing chair—and letting her head come to rest against her mother’s thigh.

It has been more than two decades since Micah has touched her mother’s body. Touching it now is like unexpectedly touching heaven, while brushing against hell.

Micah is picturing the future. What it will hold if she decides to fight her cancer. She’s picturing the surgery and the things that will come with it. Chemo. Nausea. Hot putrid vomit. Skull-splitting headaches. The drying-out of her skin and eyes. The steady loosening and falling-away of every hair, every eyelash, every trace of her eyebrows, until her face, which has always been so lovely, is bald and waxy. Nothing but a skull pushing against lard-colored flesh. And there will be searing pain in her legs and arms and feet that will leave her weak. She’ll be robbed of her strength, her beauty. Her breasts. And in the end, there’ll be no guarantee that the cancer won’t win. The toll seems incomprehensible.

And Micah says: “There’s a fight I’m supposed to take on—and I’m not even sure I have a right to be in it. The price of walking away is death, but the end result of staying and fighting might simply be death postponed. I have no idea what to do.

“I need you,” Micah tells her mother. “I’m very, very sick. They might not be able to make me better. I have breast cancer.”

Her mother’s hands flutter up like startled birds. Then slowly come to rest on the crown of Micah’s head.

For the briefest of moments it’s as if Micah is being bathed in the warmth of a fragrant, healing oil.

She is infinitely grateful.

And, for a while, she is where she has always dreamed of being.

Then when her mother moves her hands away, gathering the smoke-colored cat into her lap, she tells Micah: “You didn’t get it from me. I’ve never grown any sort of cancer. No one in my family has.”

And Micah feels as if she is already dead.

After a long beat of emptiness, nothingness, Micah gets up from the floor, goes to the table where the shards of broken crystal are, retrieves the remote for the sound system, and hands it to her mother.

Her mother fidgets with the remote. Sets it aside. Picks it up again and says: “Your father is at the house in Maine.”

“Thank you,” Micah tells her. “That’s good to know.”

“Well. If you’re interested…”

“Right. Okay.”

“Okay then.” Her mother gives Micah a bright, celebrity smile. Holds it for the length of a camera-flash. Then turns her interest to the remote, and to turning up the volume on the music.

***

Micah—in the midst of her desolation—is understanding how ridiculous it was to make this trip to Newport. She should have known, even before getting on the plane, that to seek comfort from her mother would be as foolish as licking battery acid hoping for a taste of honey.

While she’s descending the stairs of her mother’s house the rooms above are filling with the sounds of lush orchestration. With her mother’s seductively powerful voice singing, “There’s a somebody I’m longing to see…hope they’ll turn out to be…someone to watch over me.”

Through the tears welling in her eyes, Micah is seeing the face of the only person who has ever, truly, watched over her. The one person who loved her in the way she’d always wanted to be loved. The woman in the silver dress and pearl-button shoes. The best and kindest human being Micah has ever known.

AnnaLee

Glen Cove, Long Island ~ 1986

Innocence,
AnnaLee is thinking.
It’s something I never dreamed I’d associate with Persephone, but unbelievably here it is. Innocent is the only way to describe how she looks right now.

Persephone is in the garden, sitting beside AnnaLee. In the old wooden swing. On a late August afternoon. Her head is bent low over a piece of copper wire that she’s shaping and reshaping as easily as if it were embroidery silk. The slant of the sun is washing the copper with a fiery glow, turning it into a trail of liquid light.

Bella is hovering at Persephone’s knee, watching with fascination.

While AnnaLee is asking: “What’s it going to be?”

“I don’t know yet, but isn’t this wire cool?” Persephone says. “I found a bunch of it when I was with Rebecca Wang, helping get everything ready for the party at Mrs. Jahn’s estate. Rebecca came up with the idea that the dance floor should be inside a really pretty gazebo and the carpenter that’s working on it—or maybe it was the electrician—left pieces of this stuff all over the place. You should see the gorgeous decorations Rebecca has come up with. Mrs. Wang was right, her granddaughter really is a genius.”

Persephone is glowing with enthusiasm. “The party’s going to be incredible. And Rebecca is like out-of-this-world nice. I’m not just one of the people helping her anymore—she made me her assistant. And guess what? She said I’m the most creative visual thinker she’s ever met. Can you believe that?”

“Yes,” AnnaLee says. “I believed it the first time I saw one of your sketches.”

“Really, that’s what you think? You really think I’m good at being creative?”

“Yes. You’re tremendously talented.”

Persephone returns to working with the copper wire. “I used to really like doing sketches and I still do, but—”

Bella, fascinated by the sunlit wire, is doing her best to tug it out of Persephone’s hand.

AnnaLee lifts Bella’s rag doll from the seat of the swing and Bella immediately loses interest in the copper wire, happily taking the Raggedy Ann instead.

Persephone is now sitting cross-legged in the swing, facing AnnaLee, leaning toward her, confiding: “I’m really good at sketching, but after working with Rebecca on Mrs. Jahn’s gala, I’m starting to think there might be other things I could be even better at. AnnaLee, it’s like for the past few weeks I’ve been finding out I’m good at all kinds of different stuff. Like sewing. I mean, who knew? I never really sewed anything before Rebecca taught me how.”

She seems both bashful and proud as she’s explaining to AnnaLee: “There’re going to be these mannequins around the pool dressed like characters from the Gatsby book. Rebecca let me design some of the costumes and she showed me how to sew them. I had to work like a maniac to get it right, but they turned out great.” Persephone’s voice drops into an amazed whisper. “Rebecca said the geometry of the designs was outstanding, so did Mrs. Jahn. They said the way I see shape and pattern is unique.”

AnnaLee is seeing the darkness that has been in Persephone since her arrival in Glen Cove being eclipsed by the elation of self-discovery. In celebration, AnnaLee is drawing Persephone into a warm hug.

When they move apart, AnnaLee brushes Persephone’s forehead with a kiss; Persephone seems startled. “You do that with Bella sometimes,” she says. Then with poignant uncertainty, she asks: “Why do you do it with me?”

AnnaLee sighs and smiles. “Believe that I love you…won’t you please?”

Persephone ducks her head—delighted and tongue-tied. She picks up the copper wire again, giving it her full concentration, braiding it into a series of intricate loops and knots.

“I heard Mrs. Jahn wants you and Rebecca to come to the party as invited guests,” AnnaLee says. “Have you decided what to wear?”

“Rebecca and I are making our costumes from fabric remnants, stuff from Mrs. Wang’s shop.” Persephone’s expression changes; she’s worried. “But, AnnaLee, what about you? The stuff the adults will be wearing is really expensive. A lot of the women are having their outfits custom-made by big-time designers who do Broadway shows.”

It’s as if AnnaLee is being doused with ice water. She never guessed that Persephone, in the short time she’s been here, has already noticed the money problems.

“I’m planning to dress up as a Ziegfeld girl,” Persephone is saying. “Have you ever seen how cool their costumes were? I found some fabric in the back room at Mrs. Wang’s that’s perfect. It’s sort of the same shade as those flowers over there.” Persephone is pointing toward a bank of coral-colored day-lilies at the edge of the lawn.

“A Ziegfeld girl?” AnnaLee asks. “Are you sure? Some of the things they wore were pretty skimpy.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like I’m going to be in real clothes. It’ll be a costume, from like a million years ago, in the 1920s. And anyway since the sixties everybody and their granny walks around in miniskirts. So basically it doesn’t make any difference if I’m in something skimpy.”

Bella, clutching her Raggedy Ann, is climbing into Persephone’s lap as Persephone adds: “It’s the eighties, AnnaLee—skimpy isn’t what it used to be.”

There’s a chuckle of laughter from the terrace. AnnaLee looks up. She sees Jack walking down the steps, coming toward the swing, carrying two brown grocery bags. She reflexively checks her watch.

“It’s five-thirty,” he says. In spite of its lightness, his tone has a hint of irritation. “I thought I’d put in a little overtime.”

Then Jack smiles and holds up the grocery bags. “Lobsters, fresh corn, and two quarts of handmade peach ice cream. No kitchen duty for you tonight, Lee. I’m taking care of dinner.”

“Wow, Uncle Jack. It’s really easy to tell that you and my dad are only half-brothers. You two are like totally opposite. For my dad, midnight is knocking off early. It’s cool how different you are from him.” Persephone, with Bella at her side, is taking the grocery bags from Jack and heading toward the house.

“See?” Jack says, as he’s kissing AnnaLee. “I’m cool.”

And AnnaLee smiles. Because, in many ways, he is very cool.

Jack loosens his tie, stretches out on the grass in front of the swing, and begins to gently massage AnnaLee’s bare feet. Then he asks: “So what’s this about skimpy not being what it used to be?”

“It’s nothing really. We were just talking about outfits for Mrs. Jahn’s party.”

AnnaLee is tense—the party is an issue she and Jack have been tap-dancing around for days. “You’ll need to figure out a costume,” she tells him. “So will I.”

He grins and says: “We won’t need to come up with costumes if we don’t go.”

“We have to go,” she snaps.

“Why?”

“Because—” AnnaLee is frustrated by how difficult Jack is making this. “We have to go because working on this party has transformed Persephone, made her happy. Changed her whole world. She’s looking forward to going. We can’t disappoint her.”

“Then I think she should go. We’ll drive her there, come back and pick her up, and let her tell us all about it on the way home.”

AnnaLee is desperate for Mrs. Jahn to meet Jack as soon as possible; she’s sounding more strident than she intends to as she says: “We were invited, Jack. We don’t have a choice. We need to be there.”

He’s quietly observing her, mystified by her intensity.

AnnaLee hasn’t told Jack that their attendance at the party is a setup and that she’s hoping it will be a first step toward finding him a job that he’ll work at for eight hours a day—a job where he might finally make a dependable living.

She’s attempting to keep things light by suggesting: “Maybe all you’ll need is to slick your hair down and wear your old tuxedo. Nothing says ‘Gatsby at a Gala’ better than a side-part and a tux, right?”

AnnaLee had hoped to sound breezy and carefree—she knows she wasn’t even close.

Jack is sitting up now. On guard. And watchful. As if it’s occurring to him that they’re talking about something much bigger, more significant, than a party, and he’s trying to come to a decision about what he wants to say—about how much blame he wants to accept.

A complicated series of emotions is playing across his face. “I’m no good at parties, Lee. I’m no good at a lot of things. Too many things. And I know I make you unhappy.”

“You don’t make me unhappy, Jack. It’s—”

“I know, I know. It’s the money thing.”

If
you
understand
the
problem, why don’t you ever do anything to fix it?
AnnaLee wonders.

And Jack is saying: “Lee, I’m trying my best to give you what you want. That’s why I’ve been putting in more hours at work lately. For you. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy.”