Wynn in Doubt (20 page)

If anything, I’m more conflicted about who this woman was and why she did what she did. She’s not the monster Franny makes her out to be. She was just a young woman scared of what her life had become and of what it would be if she stayed. I understand that part. I can relate to that fear. And I don’t dispute that she acted selfishly. She hurt Grams, and for that, it’s difficult for me to forgive her.

But she was also brave. She wanted her own life. One that was big and full. Can I blame her for that? I think what I fear most is the unknown, when what I should be afraid of is the undone. Lola risked everything for a life she wasn’t even sure she could have. Could I do the same? Could anyone?

Lola and Oliver saw their paths clearly. They didn’t falter or turn away from the chance at a bigger life. But where did it get them? Lola ended up losing everything a second time. Oliver followed his dream, only to find it wasn’t enough. He wants me to believe anything is possible, but that’s not how life works; it takes as much as it gives.

I press my fingers to my temples and shut my eyes. Leaving Kentucky without knowing what became of Lola wasn’t what I wanted, especially after discovering so much of her story. What am I going to say to my family about all of this? My mother and Franny need to know that their version of Lola is wrong. Whatever poor choices she made, her story deserves to be told. She’s our family. If we don’t remember her, who will?

I open the book. Her words echo softly off the page. I trace the sentences with my fingertip and realize the voice I’m hearing is my own. Am I like her? Some days I want to do what Oliver would have me do. Leave and never look back. Go, seek, find, journey from one experience to another. No fear. No regret. Just freedom to be whoever the hell it is I’m meant to be. Some days it seems like that’s all I’ve ever wanted.

But it’s never that easy. There are so many unknowns. How can I risk the life I’ve built, slight though it may be, for just a chance at something different? Not better or happier or worthier, because I can’t know it’ll be any of those things. Just different. How do you risk everything for that? Right now, I have a job and an apartment and a family, and who knows? Maybe I’ll finally have a career. It’s what people do. Grow up, go to college, get a job, find a spouse, have children. Be content. Don’t
want
all the time. Be happy with what you have. Above all, don’t be selfish.

Maybe I missed my chance at having that other life, and it’s too late for me now. Maybe what
could be
simply—eventually—always becomes less important than what
should be
.

I flip to the last page, where her handwriting is a hurried, messy scrawl. I wonder how much of the diary Cece read and why she didn’t keep it with her, as Lola asked. We should’ve looked into Cecelia Craig as well. She was the closest person to Lola outside of Michael or Kate. I remember Grams talking about her aunts Kate and Goldie sometimes. They were a feisty pair. Goldie never married, and Kate made the best strawberry pie in the world.

The phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it, rolling over and clutching the diary to me. Searching for Lola has left me tired and sad. Finding that article changed things. It’s made me uneasy with questions. Am I living the life I’m meant to lead? How much am I willing to risk to have another one? Would it be worth it? Will I ever be happy with what I have? It’s that last one that bothers me most. When I think of everything I’ve got to be grateful for, I feel ashamed to want so much more.

Someone banging at the door wakes me from my nap. I scramble to my feet, my heart thumping against my chest. Franny’s face looms in the peephole. I hate my neighbors. They’ll clearly let anyone inside the building. I’ve barely turned the lock when she pushes inside.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask.

She hands me a white envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.” Franny takes a seat at the table. She’s got this way of crossing her legs like she’s creating a vacuum seal with her thighs. I’m certain her husband cringes whenever he sees it.

The school district’s name and logo are printed in the top left corner. There’s a jagged tear down the length of the envelope. I remove the letter and unfold it. The words float up, my eyes read them, but the message doesn’t sink in. I frown at my sister.

“Congratulations!” she says in a singsong voice.

“Why do you have this?”

“Ben handled an emergency IT call at the school district yesterday, and your rep asked if he’d give it to you.”

“And you opened it?”

She smiles, eager for me to share in the excitement. “Well, he tried calling, but you didn’t pick up, and I was too excited to wait. You got the job!”

I read the letter again.

Dear Ms. Jeffries,

We are pleased to extend a permanent offer of employment to you for the position of social studies teacher at Downers Grove North High School.

I’ve waited years for this moment. Spent countless hours subbing in classrooms full of loud children who treat my lessons like spring break, kids who make ADHD look like meditation and take the phrase “higher learning” literally. I’ve plucked spitballs from my hair, cleaned up puke, dealt with angry parents, learned math . . . and all while slinging beer between teaching jobs. My stomach churns uncomfortably.

Franny’s smile fades. “What? What’s wrong? You don’t look happy. Why aren’t you happy?”

“I—”

“You got your dream job!”

I lift my eyes to my sister’s. How can she not know anything about me? “Dream job?”

The crease between her eyebrows deepens. “Wynn, what the hell is wrong with you? You’ve been subbing for three years. I don’t understand why you’re not jumping up and down on the table right now?”

I leave the kitchen and walk toward the bed, tapping the offer against my chin. She’s right. I should be excited—or at least happy I don’t have to wipe down sticky tables at the bar anymore if I don’t want to. I’m finally getting a return on a years-long investment. This is good news. This is a good job.

Cards are strewn across my bed. Some are crumpled from my nap. Lola’s diary sticks out from beneath a pillow. I pick up the book, weighing it in one hand against the letter in the other.

“Hey.” Franny’s footsteps clip neatly against the floor. She stops in front of me, snapping her fingers beneath my eyes. “Snap out of it.”

She takes the diary from me, turning the pages without consideration for its age or value. I watch her read it. She’s starting somewhere in the middle. I see on her face the exact moment she realizes what it is and who it belonged to.

“Where did you get this?”

“We found it.”

“Who? You and Mr. Rock Star?”

“Don’t,” I warn her. I collapse on the bed and hold my head in my hands. “It’s a long story.”

The pages rustle as she turns them, reading out of order. “Does Mom know about this?”

“No. I just got back a couple of hours ago.”

The bed dips as she sits next to me. She drops her elbows to her knees. “This is unbelievable.”

“I know.”

“Have you read it all?”

“Yeah.”

“What does it say?” She turns the pages slowly now, squinting to read the faded handwriting.

“It explains pretty much everything. Why she left, where she went. All that.”

“Was she really a bootlegger?”

“No, not really.”

“So she wasn’t a showgirl either?”

“Actually”—I bite my lip, a habit I can’t seem to break, and try to subdue my smile—“she was. For a little while, anyway.”

We sit in silence. Franny, like Tabby, moves her lips as she reads. I let Lola tell her story in her own words, just as Oliver encouraged me to do. I have a feeling we’ll interpret it differently—it’s just who we are—but Franny needs to know, and she needs to understand, in her own way, why Lola did what she did. When she closes the book ten minutes later, it’s with far more care.

“Wow.”

“I know.”

She turns the diary over in her hands, tracing the flowers with her fingers as I did. “It’s insane that you found this.”

I clasp my hands and nod at the wall.

The sound of her laughter startles me. I turn toward it. Her smile is incredulous. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

She shakes a thought from her head. “You think she’s the same as you.”

I open my mouth to refute her, but she talks over me.

“That’s why you’re not excited about the job. You’ve been romanced by our dead ancestor.”

“Romanced by . . . ? You’re crazy.”

“Oh please!” She drags the word out as she gets to her feet. “You’ve been wandering around for months—years—with this ‘poor me’ expression permanently etched onto your face—”

“Hey!”

“—And now you’ve found something to justify your desire not to grow up.”

I jump off the bed, pointing to her. “You’ve got no right to—”

“To tell you the truth? To call you out on your bullshit?” Her arms cross, viselike, against her chest. “You’re twenty-eight years old. You live in a one-room apartment, everything you own is secondhand. You were practically valedictorian, and you’ve never had a real job.” Her eyes are as harsh as her words. “You love being the nobody, because then you never have to feel what it’s like to fail, to go after something you really want, and lose.”

I lean toward her, my skin hot with anger. “Fuck you.”

“Alright, fine. But at least I try. Even she”—she gestures to the book on the bed—“tried. It cost her a daughter, but she went after what she wanted. When have you ever done that?”

Tears well up quickly behind my eyes. What hurts most is how old her anger is. It sounds as though she’s been saving it up for a long time. “I do try. I’ve been trying. But every time I’ve come remotely close to doing something with my life, I’ve had to give it up to help one of you.”

“Oh please.” She shakes her head. “That’s just an excuse. You’re scared because you think your life has to have some big purpose, and you don’t know what the hell it is. You think that makes you different from anyone else?”

I close my mouth, afraid of saying something I can’t take back.

“Everyone wants to do something glamorous and exciting with their life. You don’t think I want that? I’ve got two little kids and a needy husband. You don’t think I want some grand adventure?”

Her words keep me silent. I’ve never thought of Franny as someone who dreams.

“Life is more than happy fun time. We all make sacrifices.”

“I have made sacrifices.”

“Yes, you have. And you always let those sacrifices stop you from moving forward.”

“I—” I can’t finish the sentence. I know she’s right. “What am I supposed to do?”

Franny shoves her hands into her back pockets. The venom is gone from her voice, but she’s not backing down. She never does. “It’s time for you to hop off the cross, little sister.
Do something
.”

“Lola did something, and you hate her for it.”

“I don’t hate Lola. To be honest, I don’t care much about her one way or the other. I get it. She wanted something more, and that’s okay, but she’s a douchebag for the way she went about it.”

I aim my smile toward the floor. Franny’s always had a way with words.

She steps gently on my bare feet with her sandals, tapping my toes until I raise my eyes to meet hers. “Listen, I love you.”

I roll my eyes.

“I do. I know I can be a little abrasive sometimes—”

“A little?”

“—But I have your best interests at heart,” she finishes loudly. “Just . . .” Her shoulders lift as she sighs toward the ceiling. “Just think about this job, okay? I know it’s not a traveling circus in Mumbai, or whatever, but it’s a real opportunity for you to be someone and do something with your life. And for what it’s worth, you’d be really good at it.”

Her arms wrap around me cautiously. When I don’t raise mine immediately to hug her back, she gives me a bone-crushing hug. She can’t stand for me to be mad at her. I slowly return her embrace, and she shimmies on the spot. She always has to win, and I always seem to let her. It’s the nature of our relationship.

I walk her to the door. She stops in the hallway and turns to face me.

“I know being a grown-up sucks.”

“God, don’t say that. I hate when people say that. Why does wanting to do things that make you happy somehow mean you’re not a grown-up?”

Her chin wrinkles as she frowns. “I don’t know. I guess because if you’re always doing things that make you happy, you’re never making the hard decisions.”

“What decisions are those?”

“Oh, you know, contributing to society, settling down, saving for retirement . . .”

“You make it sound so appealing.”

“I never said they’d be fun.”

“But why do they have to be hard?”

She smiles at me. “Because easy decisions are for pussies.”

eighteen

Visions of orange pottery and poorly buttoned shirts urge caution. I ring the bell instead of stepping into my parents’ home unannounced. My father’s outline grows larger the closer he comes to the beveled-glass cutout in the front door. He greets me whistling.

“Hey, there. Look who it is.” He smiles and pulls me in for a hug.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Hey-ya, sweet pea.” He kisses, then releases, me. “How was your big trip?”

“Good. I got back last night.” I follow him down the hall, happy to find the countertops and table have been cleared of the misshapen vases.

“Did you dig up any skeletons down in Kentucky?”

“Sort of. Is Mom here?”

“Your mother’s out in the backyard. She took a couple of plants from your grandmother’s house to put in the garden. We closed on it while you were gone, you know.”

I place a hand on my stomach. I’d forgotten the sale of Grams’s house was finalized this week. The realization that I missed it, that I’ll never walk through her front door again, fills me with grief. “I’m so sorry, I forgot.”

He pats my arm, then sits at the kitchen table. “Yeah, your mother was pretty upset about it, but she’ll be alright. You’re back now.”

Looking through the picture window, I watch Mom, hunched over, wrestling with a glossy-leafed bush. She’s on her knees. Her gardening hat is trimmed with the same red material used to make the gloves she wears.

“Why don’t you go out back and say hello. Try and cheer her up?”

Unlikely. Especially considering what I’ve come to tell her.

Dad stands and plants another kiss on my forehead before leaving the room, whistling again. I slide the glass door open and walk through a wall of heat. I take the dozen steps to the garden and stand behind my mother. There’s dirt on the back pocket of her jeans and a line of sweat down her back. I finger the hem of my blue dress and stub one poorly manicured toe into the ground, my flip-flop bending against the arch of my foot. I’m nervous about showing her the diary, about what she’ll think of the story inside it.

“Mom?”

She looks over her shoulder. Her smile takes away some of my apprehension. “Hey, you. Help me with this plant for a sec’.”

I try not to step on any flowers. She pushes the bush toward me and I hold it upright as she digs a deeper hole. Once she’s satisfied, she drops it in place and packs dirt around the base.

I wait quietly, apprehension stirring within. Her face remains mostly smooth and lovely, but her age shows in her movements as she stands. She wipes her brow with the back of her arm, knocking the gardening hat askew.

“Thanks, babe.”

“Sure.” There’s no ease in my smile. “Thanks for bringing me the box of Grams’s stuff.”

The lines around her mouth help suppress a frown. “I thought you might like to keep a few more of her things.”

“I do, thank you.” I fiddle with my purse. “Dad said you closed on her house?”

She can hardly meet my eyes. “Yep. All signed and delivered.”

“Did you get to meet the people buying it?”

She looks around the backyard. Anywhere but at me. “No, but the realtor said they’re a nice young couple with a toddler and a baby on the way.”

It’s strange, feeling so awkward around her. “Well, that’s good.”

Her eyes meet mine briefly and wrinkle at the corners, a grimace on her lips. I hate that she’s mad at me and hope what Oliver and I found will somehow make her feel better. It’s got to mean something that Lola regretted what she’d done and tried to make amends, doesn’t it? I fumble with my purse, pulling out the diary.

“What’s that?”

I hold it up. “I found it in Kentucky. It’s Lola’s.”

My mother pulls her gloves off slowly. “I’m sorry, Wynn, but I’m just not interested.” She walks past me toward the house and slides the door open, then closed, leaving me outside.

Her disinterest irritates me. I may not have the same resentment she does toward Lola, but ignoring the truth makes no sense. I yank the door open, braver now, and step into the cool house.

“Mom.”

“Wynn, I don’t want to hear about it.” She faces away from me, toward the kitchen sink. Dad’s nowhere to be found.

“It’s her diary. I found it.”

She turns. An argument lingers in her eyes, but instead she asks a question. “You found her diary? How?”

“We found the house she was living in when that article was written.” I pause, not wanting to admit I stole it. “We sort of stumbled across it in the study there.”

She walks toward me, taking the book from my hands. “Are you sure it’s hers?”

“It’s definitely hers. She talks a lot about Grams.”

She runs her fingers across the cover. Just as I think she’s going to open it, she hands it back. I watch her consciously rearrange her features into indifference.

“Well, I’m glad your trip was worth it.”

“Mom, don’t you want to read what it says?”

She crosses her arms and leans against the counter. “Why don’t you just tell me about it?”

I open the book. The pages fan up, so I pat them down. Lola’s careful cursive seems intrusive in the kitchen. Mom’s eyes are focused on the diary. Her expression reveals mild indifference. There’s so much I want her to believe.

I start at the beginning, reading the first couple of pages verbatim, then paraphrasing, turning the pages as I go to stay in sync with the timeline. I recount those first few weeks and her wonder over the city.

I tell my mother how afraid Lola was and how much she ached to be with her daughter. My mother rolls her eyes when I mention the Seelbach and the dance clubs. I tell her about Michael and how he rescued her, protected her, loved her. Occasionally Mom’s mouth moves, usually into a frown or pursed sourness. I hear her intake of breath as I relay Lola’s meeting with Michael. Once, very briefly, I see the beginning of a smile, though it fades quickly. The longer we stand in the kitchen, the faster and more animated a storyteller I become.

In some ways, it’s my duty to tell Lola’s story the right way, from
her
point of view. Whatever else she did or became, she began as a young woman who looked into the future and saw a life she would regret. It doesn’t make what she did right or absolve her from the pain she caused, but it is understandable. It is human. I need my mother to accept that her grandmother did her best with the life she had. I need her to believe in Lola, because so much of how I feel is how she felt. She wanted passion, freedom, a full life. That’s what I want, too.

When I get to the part about the blue glass necklace, Mom jumps and places a hand over her mouth. She turns toward the sink, her back straight and rigid. I knew it would be a revelation for her. It was for me. In fact I’d been waiting for it, but the shock on her face, the way she holds her hand over her heart, are more than I expected.

“Mom?”

There’s true confusion in her eyes when she faces me. She walks toward the hall and I follow her into the bedroom. She stands in front of the armoire, pulling open the mirrored door, and takes a small wooden box from inside. It’s old, made of pine, and there’s a broach-like clasp on the front. She carries it backward until the backs of her knees touch the mattress and she sits, lowering the box to her lap.

“Mom, what is it?”

Her hands tremble as she opens the lid and pulls out a long silver chain. A piece of blue glass shaped like a tear is attached to one end.

“Oh my God.” I reach out and touch the glass, letting it rest against my palm. “Where did you—”

“The movers found the box under the dresser in the guest room.” She drops the chain into my hand, her eyes never leaving it. “I didn’t know it was there.”

The glass is small, only an inch in width, but the color is a deep cobalt blue.
The same blue as Michael’s eyes . . .

“My God.” My mother’s hands skim over the top of the box. Her lips turn up in a smile, but it’s not happiness. It’s disbelief. “Blue glass.” She shakes her head and looks up at me, her stare insistent. “She never said anything. I didn’t know.”

I sit beside her on the bed and place the necklace in her hand. “I can’t believe she kept it.” Grams told her mother she gave the necklace away, but she kept it with her, all those years. And not only did she keep it, she kept the memory of that gift alive her entire life. A house filled with blue glass. “Was that the only thing in the box?” I ask.

Her head jerks in my direction. “There was . . . a picture. I didn’t know who it was, but”—she cracks the box open, barely wide enough for her hand to slip inside, and pulls out a small photograph—“it must be my grandmother.”

The woman in the photo isn’t facing the photographer. She stands sideways, her fingers nearly touching parted lips that are laughing. A light-colored hat curves over shortly cropped dark hair. The coat she wears is thick and woolen, but I make out the softness of a dress beneath. She looks happy and young.

“You think it’s her?”

Her voice shakes. “It must be.”

My fingers follow the curve of the hat, as they did the outline of Lola’s bowed head in the photo that accompanied the newspaper article. “She was beautiful.”

My mother sighs heavily. “Yes, she was.”

“Does it say when it was taken?”

She takes the picture from me and turns it over. Someone’s written in pencil on the back, “1929.”

I read the date several times. “That was after she left. How did Grams get this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe her aunt Goldie or Kate?”

“Lola and Kate wrote to each other.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. I remember Aunt Goldie telling me Lola and Kate had been close.”

“They were.” I offer my mother the diary, which she all but forgot once she pulled the blue teardrop necklace from the wooden box. She takes the book with tentative hands. “She talks about Kate a little in here.”

“Does she? What else does it say?” Much of the ire has left her voice.

I tell her about the initials carved in the oak tree near the abandoned stills and Lola’s unending hope she’d one day have her daughter’s forgiveness. I recount everything Eby told me about the Craig brothers, their moonshining operation, and their brush with a federal agent. Mom turns the pendant over in her hand as I talk about Michael and how much he loved Lola. About how he died, and my sadness at knowing Lola ended up alone again.

We sit on the bed for a long time. My throat feels tight and thick with emotion by the time I’m done. I wish I could finish the story, but I don’t have an ending to give her.

“And you’ve got no idea where she might’ve gone?”

“No. We searched page after page of records, but we couldn’t find her again.”

She seems content not knowing. I wish I could feel the same.

“Did you keep in touch with any of Kate’s kids? I thought they might know something.”

“Her kids are all dead now. Tucker, her youngest son, died about three years ago.”

“Do you think their kids might—”

“No.” My mother shakes her head, sure of herself. “What happened with Lola was obviously a well-kept family secret. When my granddad was alive, we were forbidden from mentioning her name.” She looks imploringly at me. “I know how it sounds to you. A woman unhappy in her marriage and her life strikes out to make it on her own. She falls in love, does exciting things. But what she did was so incredibly selfish. Can’t you see that?”

“I know it seems that way, but—”

She shakes her head, quieting me. “No. She wasn’t the person you’ve made her up to be. She ruined a lot of lives, Wynn.”

My voice pleads. “She just wanted to do something with her life. It wasn’t easy for her to leave, but she knew if she didn’t, she’d never be happy. And it was awful for her. I understand that, can’t you?”

“I know, my darling.” She wraps her arm around my shoulder and hugs me to her, rocking me side to side. “I know how badly you want things, and I want you to have them. I do. But we can’t hurt the people we love to get what we want. It doesn’t work like that.”

I lift my chin. The tightness in my throat is so complete, it’s hard to swallow. “Then how is it supposed to work? I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do, and I’m still not happy.”

Her eyes are filled with hurt I know I’ve put there. “That makes me so sad.”

My shoulders hitch forward and all the air leaves my lungs in a sob I wasn’t expecting. I rest my head against her shoulder and let years of unshed tears fall. “I’m tired, Mom. I want my life to mean something. I’m afraid I’m wasting it. I don’t know what to do.”

Her thumbs wipe the wetness away. “Look at me.” She takes my chin in her hand. “You’re not wasting your life. You think life is measured by experiences, but it’s not. It’s measured by your ability to give and receive love. Your Grams is a great example of that. She didn’t have a fancy life. Her life was quiet, even slow, but it was full of love. Do you think she regretted it?”

The answer is no. My grandmother only ever wanted one thing: a family. And now I know why. When her mother left, pieces of Grams’s life were torn away. Getting them back became her goal.
Her adventure.

I let my mother hold me. I know there’s truth in what she’s saying. But I am not her. Or my Grams. Or my sisters. I want more. I can’t help it. I wish I could. And whatever she says, I believe in those experiences she dismisses so easily. I crave them. Only, I can’t find the words to tell her. How do you describe a need so visceral you can never remember a time when it didn’t consume you? And how do you explain the shame you feel for not meeting that need, because you’re a coward?

She places a series of soft kisses on the top of my head. “You already have a great life. You’ve got a family that loves you and a career to look forward to. I know you think going off to explore will fill some void inside you, but Wynnie, my girl, that has to come from within. You’re the only one who can make
you
happy.”

She hugs me, tight, and it feels comforting and safe. There’ve been times, so many times, when one hug from her or Grams could calm my wanderlust for weeks, months. Their embraces gave me a reason to stay. They made me feel loved and valued. As she releases me, and I stand across from her, I feel that same reassurance struggling to quiet the doubt inside.