four
I leaned into my small window on the left side of the plane and felt the cold of the plexiglass on my forehead. We were descending into Des Moines on the only daily direct flight from LaGuardia, and I could feel my blood pressure going up even as the plane made its way down. A patchwork of brown fields, too chilled to show the riotous spring green of new corn and soybeans, gave way abruptly to residential neighborhoods, long roofs of shopping centers, and the geometric outline of a modest downtown skyline.
I sighed and closed my eyes against the harsh light reflecting off the clouds. I hadn’t slept well the night before. All my efforts at creative makeup and my best tricks with lip gloss and eyeliner would do nothing to fool Gigi. She would assume it was bruising city life that caused the circles under my eyes to deepen. I wouldn’t tell her that I’d wrestled with sleep and ultimately lost because my body was waging war against Iowa.
The pilot made a bumpy landing onto the tarmac, and a cheery flight attendant welcomed us to Des Moines, the capital of Iowa, home of around four hundred thousand souls, and host to the world-famous Iowa State Fair, where a person could eat both a pork chop and a deep-fried Snickers bar on a stick. The other passengers chuckled appreciatively, which offered a convenient mask to my groan.
It was one thing to come home for Christmas or a long weekend. This time I was coming home on a one-way ticket. The shame of that burned my cheeks as I waited to file off the plane. The woman ahead of me was corralling a passel of young children, each of them tugging his or her own roller bag. I looked around me as I waited, noting again the enduring legacy of yoga pants in my home state. I would have wagered that not one of the women wearing the style had actually ever practiced the sport, but the pants persisted, along with all manner of Iowa Hawkeyes and Cyclones gear, Levi’s that were in no way hipster ironic, and a startling number of running shoes.
By the time I’d reached the top of the short escalator leading me down to arrivals and baggage claim, I had to work on composing my face to meet Gigi. She’d been so excited to hear I was coming for a visit, but I just couldn’t bring myself to disclose the full story of what was bringing me home. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold out long under Gigi’s scrutiny, but I was savoring every minute before I had to come clean.
She saw me before I saw her, and her smile was luminous, even from across the large room. I smiled back, filled instantly with the familiar and deep love I had for Gigi. She stood as close to the bottom of the escalator as possible without hindering progress for other passengers. When I reached the bottom, she pulled me into a hug, and we stood to the side of the traffic, my shoulders slumped and my face turned into her neck. Five minutes on Iowa soil and I was already regressing to the girl I’d been when I’d left.
When Gigi pulled back, her eyes were narrowed. “You look exhausted.”
I shrugged. “City life.”
She shook her head, taking me in from head to toe. “Your clothes are lovely but something’s off.” Again with narrowed gaze and then, “Where is your carry-on?”
I cleared my throat and glanced at a businessman passing, his shoes making a sharp percussion on the polished floor. I tried for nonchalance. “Oh, I checked a bag this time. Thought I’d stay for a bit longer.”
She froze, gauging the look on my face, which I was fighting to keep neutral. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like,” she said, her face resolved and earnest. Taking my face in her hands, she added, “You know that, right, honey? That an invitation like that never runs dry or changes or goes out of style?”
I felt hot tears slide down my cheeks. And I hadn’t even made it to baggage claim.
I held the white bakery box of treats in my lap. I could feel the warmth of a scone just out of the oven seeping through the bottom of the box, the smell of butter and sugar filling Gigi’s minivan. I pushed around the pastries, struggling to show my gratitude for Gigi’s gesture. She’d come to Des Moines early in the day and scoped out a new bakery, navigating through unfamiliar streets and morning traffic. I knew what the effort had cost her, but the thought of eating something rich and delicious under the circumstances turned my empty stomach sour.
“So Goldie showed you how to use Google Maps?”
“Shh.” Gigi frowned at me before inching out onto Fleur Drive and obeying the reminder from her phone to take Interstate 235 east out of town. “I have to hear Nigel if we’re going to get anywhere.”
I raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Nigel?”
Gigi nodded, carefully merging onto the interstate at a speed that would have made her a breakfast snack on the streets of New York. “Nigel is the man who helps me navigate. Goldie showed me how to do that too. She said it’s so much easier taking directions from a British man. And I do believe she’s right.”
I stared at my grandmother’s profile. Who was this woman?
“You are, in fact, the same person who still owns eight-track tapes and a slide projector, correct?”
Gigi snorted. “Of course I do. And my slides from our Mount Rushmore trip of 1979 are available for you to see at any time during your visit.”
I marveled at that—not Gigi’s newfound respect for GPS, but that she could so casually mention the past, a time when my mom, her daughter, was full of life and laughter and probably making teenage, sarcastic comments about South Dakota and the letdown of traveling all that way to look at rocks. I turned to look out my window, watching the city fall away and the empty brown fields blanket the outskirts of Des Moines.
We made our way toward Silver Creek, letting the first few miles unspool like ribbon behind us. I did my best to maintain the flow of conversation, but Gigi kept clearing her throat and taking quick glances at me while she drove. No more than ten minutes into the drive, Gigi signaled and slowed to a sloth’s pace. She put on her flashers and pumped her brakes, looking all the while in her rearview mirror.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice tight. “Do we have a flat? Is something wrong with the car?”
Gigi pulled over to the middle shoulder, cars whizzing by and making the hair on my neck stand at attention. I gripped the car handle hard enough for my fingers to tingle.
“Gigi, what is it? Are you feeling sick? I can drive. I mean, it’s been a while, but—”
She put the car in park, flashers making a rhythmic click as they blinked on and off. She turned to me. “Nothing is wrong with the car,” she said in a relaxed tone more appropriate when not sitting on the edge of a freeway with a seventy-miles-an-hour speed limit.
“What, then?” I was getting snippy, but my body was sitting about twelve inches from a semi that roared past.
“I need some honesty before we keep on toward home. Baby girl, you need to come clean. What’s the story?” She ticked off the items on her list for evidence. “You look rough, all pale and sallow, which probably means no sleep but could mean a grave illness. You have two gigantic suitcases but not one teeny explanation why. And most disturbingly, you have not eaten one bite of the goodies that would normally usher in all sorts of exclamations and detailed descriptions of what’s going on with your taste buds.” She took my hand in both of hers and searched my face. “Gracie, honey, what happened?”
I sighed, keeping my hand in hers. “All right, I’ll spill, but can we please merge back onto the racetrack? I’m too nervous to think, much less tell the truth.”
“Deal,” Gigi said, and did a slow merge back onto the thoroughfare.
When we made it to the north of town, where traffic lightened up and my grip on the door handle relaxed, I came clean. “Gigi, I blew it.” I spoke quickly to get the words out before any rogue tears could catch up. “I outspent my salary, I didn’t save any money, and then I got fired.”
She sneaked a glimpse at my face before returning her eyes to the road. She was quiet for a long time before responding. “First of all, I’m glad you are not gravely ill. I can handle spotty makeup application much better than grave illness.”
She continued. “I suppose I can imagine the money mismanagement. It happens to the best of us, and you always did have a weakness for shopping.” Her tone was wry but gentle. “But there’s some sort of mistake with the firing. Grace Kleren does not get fired.” I saw her frown deepen. “You’re the hardest working girl I know, honey. Is that city run by idiots?” She put out her hand to stop me. “Don’t answer that.”
The smile worked this time. “Not idiots, exactly. They just didn’t like my work. And then, um, I kind of wigged out.” I launched into my sordid tale, letting my misery vent in full to another person for the first time. I didn’t hold back when tears rolled down my cheeks, and I let anger spill out of my voice when I told Gigi how worthless I felt, how betrayed by the company I’d served for so many years. Gigi listened quietly as I spoke about Nancy Strang, the shame of my meltdown, my weeks of cloistered seclusion in my apartment, and my defeat at Second to None. It felt like a release to tell the entire story start to finish, though my heart felt heavier in the telling, not lighter.
In time we exited the highway and turned toward the few remaining miles to Silver Creek. I ran out of words just as we passed the McCullough farm on the west side of town. The century-old oak tree in their front yard still arched over the wooden swing where I’d broken my arm in second grade. Fully deflated, I felt my spine melt farther into the front seat, especially as the houses started to sit more closely together. Gigi said nothing, just covered my hand with hers as we entered town. The Williamses’ split-level, where I saw Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video for the first time, against my parents’ wishes, and launched the start of nightmares for a month. The Grays’, where Jenna Gray and I spilled a bottle of purple nail polish after Mrs. Gray had told us not to paint our nails on the porch, and we’d had to repaint the entire floor as punishment. The Achenbachs’ sprawling ranch, where I’d played spin the bottle for the first and last time and ended up under a fake sprig of mistletoe fending off an overly eager Alex Nichols.
Gigi said nothing as we turned slowly onto the town square. When Nigel barked his disapproval she started punching the phone with such impatience, I took it from her and ended our route.
“Hmph,” she said, a frown on her face. “I do not need some man from England telling me how to get around the middle of my town.”
The courthouse stood as a proud sentry over the square. The long arms of the clock in the high tower pushed steadily into the next hour, and I heard myself sigh out loud. Gigi mistook my sigh for appreciation instead of the restlessness it really was.
“Town council had to raise all sorts of funds, but they finished the restoration of the clock tower last year. Cleaned the exterior too and replaced all the windows. Looks good, doesn’t it?”
I nodded, trying to muster admiration I didn’t feel. You could put a bow on a pig, and you could clean the limestone on the courthouse, but Silver Creek was still the same sleepy, tired, uninspired town it had always been. One restaurant, two bars, four stop signs, a library, and a handful of stores that limped along, year after year. My longing for Manhattan was palpable.
“A real nice family moved in last year, after the Hartsocks moved away.” Gigi’s voice had become a little thick, and I realized she had slowed the car as we moved two blocks off the square. We were passing 14 Azalea Street, the house where I’d grown up. There was a tricycle on the front walk. Big pots of purple hyacinth, still tiny in the new warmth of spring, flanked the front door instead of the hanging baskets of ferns my mother had favored for that spot. The rest, though, looked the same. Achingly, horribly the same. Buttercream-yellow clapboard still looked crisp and clean against bright white trim, the house numbers, a special-order gift for my dad for Father’s Day one year, still gleamed in burnished silver above the front door, and the window above that door still opened to the dormered ceiling of what used to be my bedroom.
As I stared at the house, I saw my dad walking home every day for lunch from his accounting office downtown, his confident gait, taking the porch steps two at a time as he called out that he was home. I saw my mom, standing with hands on hips as she surveyed the row of unruly peony bushes along the property line before setting in to give them all a good haircut. I saw friends, boyfriends, homecoming dates as they ran, walked, inched nervously with corsages in their hands, up the front sidewalk, heard again the call of my mom and dad, telling me that so-and-so was here.
I closed my eyes and tried my pushing-away technique, so effective in the busyness of New York and so absolutely worthless in Silver Creek. I kept my eyes shut until I felt the car come to a stop less than a minute later, and I knew we’d reached Gigi’s house.
“Home,” she said, pulling the key from the ignition and turning to me. “Let’s get you settled.”
Not likely, I thought as I pulled on my door handle and stood. I stretched my legs and the stiffness in my neck while I took in the house before me. Another house with a host of memories. This house had been a harbor from the worst storm I’d endured, and I felt a surge of gratitude for it and for the woman who inhabited it.
I walked to the back of the van, where Gigi was already manhandling my second bulging suitcase from the trunk. I nudged her aside and took over, but I realized I, not she, was panting from the exertion. She chuckled to see me struggling and said, “Well, that is good for an old lady’s ego.”
I dropped the bag. “Gigi—you’re too good to me, even when I haven’t visited as often as I should. How long has it been? Two years already?”
She raised one eyebrow. “Three.”
I winced.
“If you’re counting,” she said. “But I’m not. Love doesn’t count, as I’m sure you remember from all those mornings in Sunday school.” I could hear the teasing in her voice, but I winced for a second time as we each hefted a bag and made for the back door.
“Right,” I said, huffing. “I do remember that. Along with the vanilla wafers and David Beloit’s habit of eating crayons. He did it well into junior high, as I recall.”
Gigi sniffed. “David Beloit sells insurance and is a bit of a weasel. I wouldn’t trust him with my premiums, that’s for sure.”
“So it all started with the Crayola tastings,” I said, inhaling deeply as we entered Gigi’s light-filled kitchen, pleased to find the same mix of lemon cleaner, cinnamon, and coffee greet my nose.
“Oh, it probably started earlier than that,” Gigi said. She coaxed the handle out of the top of the suitcase and rolled it toward the bottom of the staircase by the front door. “The Beloits have a long history of weasels. Especially the men.”
I laughed and followed Gigi up the stairs. The bags thumped on each step until we reached the top. I started toward the guest room, the room that had been mine since I’d moved into the house during my junior year, but Gigi stopped me.
“Honey, I have you in your mom’s old room this time,” she said. Her face looked pained when I turned around. “I have a little project going right now, and I just didn’t have the time between your text and today to clear out all the mess.”
I peeked in the door of the guest room and was greeted with mayhem. The longer I looked, the more I could see some semblance of order to the mayhem, but it was chaos nonetheless. Piles of bright fabric sat on the bed, some sort of fort or something was disassembled and lying on the floor, and empty clothing racks spotted the floor space.
Gigi had slipped past me and was standing next to the brass bed in my mom’s room. She smoothed my mother’s worn white quilt with her hand. I knew it had been a gift to my mom from Gigi’s friends when she’d gotten a scholarship to college. I knew she’d left it at home instead of taking it to the dorm because she loved that quilt and didn’t want to risk it getting worn or spilled on or damaged during her college years. I knew this because my mother had told me herself, many times. I could hear her voice as I set my bag and purse carefully by the chair in the corner.
Gigi sat down easily on the bed and patted the space beside her.
I obeyed but sat more gingerly, feeling as if I were trespassing, though I knew that was ridiculous. My mother was not the kind of woman who withheld. She would have wanted me to crawl right under those covers and take a long, good nap, though she might have forced my teenage self into a pillow fight first.
I leaned my head on Gigi’s shoulder. “It’s still so hard.”
She stroked my hair, and I could feel her nod in agreement. I thought she was going to speak, but she just stayed close, her hand on my head. I felt my body relax as we sat, the only sound our breathing and a robin singing a throaty serenade outside the window.
“It’s definitely hard,” Gigi said after a long silence. Her voice was quiet and sure. “But we can do hard things.”
She kissed me on my hair and nodded toward the pillow at the head of the bed. “Take a nap. I’ll wake you when something important happens.” She fluffed the pillow and pointed to it. I obeyed and let my head sink into its coolness. “Judging by our town’s last hundred years or so, I’d guess you’ll get a good long sleep in before I need to intervene.”
My eyes were drifting shut already, the emotion of the day mixing into a heady and exhausting cocktail of sadness, grief, and nostalgia. I heard Gigi pull the curtains shut, a soft click of the door, and nothing else before falling into a hard, still sleep.