Chapter 8
Nan
Monica’s normal speaking voice lies somewhere between bass drum and fog horn. But with Nelson asleep on Monica’s lap, I had to turn the water down so I could hear what she said when she leaned forward, searching Grace’s face.
“So? Did you sleep with him?”
“Of course not!” Grace snapped. “What a thing to ask!”
“Then what’s the big deal?” Monica looked disappointed. “The way you were acting, I thought you were getting ready to tell us all the sordid details. Sheesh.”
“The point is that I wanted to sleep with him,” Grace said, her expression as pained as her voice. “Or at least that I thought about it. For a minute.”
“Who wouldn’t? You’re not made of stone, are you? Luke is gorgeous. Not my type, of course,” Monica said with a shrug. “As we all know, I prefer my men short, dark, and serially unfaithful. But, aside from him being too good for me, what woman with a pulse wouldn’t want to sleep with Luke Pascal?”
“That’s fine for them,” Grace countered. “Or for you. But I can’t. I’m married.”
Monica’s smile faded. She dropped her teasing tone.
“Are you?”
“Stop it, Monica.”
“Grace, it’s a fair question. Are you?”
I shut the sink water off completely, cocking an ear for Grace’s response.
“Well, I think you should sleep with him,” Monica said breezily when Grace failed to answer. “Somebody should. He’s too good to waste.”
“Go right ahead. Be my guest.”
Monica spooned a bite of baked apple into her mouth and shook her head.
“Uh-uh. He’s too young for me. The whole cougar thing sounds good, but it almost never works out. Also, not Italian.” She shook her head again. “Can’t be me. Has to be you.”
“Won’t be,” Grace said. “Not with Luke, not with anybody. For better or worse, Monica. Till death do us part. That’s what married means.”
“Sure. I get it,” Monica said, spreading her hands. “And I admire your loyalty. And, yes, technically and legally, you’re married. But isn’t marriage more than a promise and a piece of paper? It’s supposed to be a relationship, right? Thus the phrase ‘marital relations.’ You haven’t had either of those, a relationship or relations, for close to two years. Over all this time, you’ve been there for Jamie, which is great. But he hasn’t been there for you—”
“Because he can’t!”
Grace is normally the quiet one of the group and not given to emotional outbursts. But she shoved her chair back from the table so hard that the sound of the legs scraping on the floor woke Blixen, who had been sleeping by the back door. Picking up on her distress, Blix got to her feet, crossed the room, and laid her head on Grace’s knee. It didn’t seem to help.
“What is wrong with you, Monica? Why would you say something like that? Don’t you think that he wants to—”
Monica raised her hands. “Okay, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not saying Jamie did anything wrong or abandoned you. He didn’t plan or deserve this. But neither did you. Think about it, Grace. Think about what you just said—for better or worse, till death do you part.
“Jamie hasn’t looked at you, or talked to you, or engaged with anyone in any way since the accident. At this point, his life is like your marriage—a technicality.”
Monica leaned even closer, trying to lock eyes with Grace.
“Don’t say that to me, Monica. I mean it. Do it again and I’ll leave.”
Grace, who wouldn’t look at Monica, started stroking Blixen’s head, but hard, as if she were pressing out a layer of stiff dough. Monica fiddled with her fork, then looked at me.
“What do you think?”
I took the copper kettle off the stove, carried it to the table, and filled the cups.
“I think it’s time to talk about something else.”
Apart from the gurgling sound coming from the kettle spout, the room was silent. I sat down, sipped my tea, and waited. You can’t force these things. Nobody in the world wants to be instructed or lectured. Even when you have something to offer, it’s better to wait to be asked—at least if you actually want to help someone.
Grace, who had eaten no more than a third of her dessert, pushed her bowl to Monica’s side of the table. A peace offering.
“Fine,” Monica muttered, picking up her spoon. “What should we talk about?”
Monica looked at me and I looked at Grace. We could talk, really talk, or we could change the subject and chat. It was up to her.
After a moment, she said, “I just don’t understand what happened. All we were doing was dancing. Why should I suddenly be flooded with feelings for a man I hardly know? It felt so strange and out of control.”
She looked toward me, inviting my answer.
“Could it be pointing to something that’s missing in your life?” I asked. “Grace, when we talked on the phone yesterday, you were so excited about dressing up and going out. I’ve never heard you sound so happy. Between work and worries about Jamie’s care, you’re under constant stress. How long has it been since Jamie’s accident?”
“Twenty months. He fell in June. It was three weeks before he woke up. Two weeks after that, he was admitted to Landsdowne.”
“Almost two years. Are you really surprised that a little attention from a nice-looking man left you so vulnerable? You’re only human. And, Monica, this daily battle to run the restaurant and deal with the kids is wearing on you too,” I said.
“Look, I think you’ve both been doing an amazing job of coping in terrible circumstances. But if you’re going to keep coping, you need a bit of joy in your lives.”
“But we’ve got this,” Grace said, spreading her hands. “We’ve got one another, and our Monday nights. I don’t know what I’d do without them.”
I smiled. “I know. I feel the same. But one night a week isn’t quite enough to hang a whole life on, is it? When you were young, before you got married, what did you do for fun?”
“Jamie and I got married at nineteen,” Grace said, “so we’re talking about high school. Back then, my main hobbies were watching reruns of The Andy Griffith Show and eating entire cheesecakes, preferably at the same time. I’m not sure it made me happy—just kind of damped down the depression.”
“Cooking used to make me happy,” Monica said. “As a mostly ignored child descended from a long line of stoic Lutherans from cold climates, I had fantasies about growing up and having the big, happy, vaguely Italian family.”
She smiled to herself. “I’d dream of an overcrowded dinner table, people laughing and arguing and yelling, and talking with their hands, devouring huge platters of pasta and veal and sausage, sauces made with tomatoes, and cream, and red wine, all prepared by me, the mother of this big, boisterous brood. When I met Vince, it seemed like a dream come true. Here was this handsome, passionate Italian man with two kids—a good start on a ready-made family.
“But, look,” she said in a practical tone, “I didn’t kid myself. I knew that Vince and I weren’t exactly star-crossed lovers, but we liked each other. I was actually excited about being a stepmother. At my age, I knew it wasn’t likely, but I kind of hoped there’d be time for Vince and me to pop out a bambino of our own, maybe even two, before my biological clock struck midnight.
“Well, Vince was passionate all right,” she said, bitterly. “Just not about me. While I took care of his restaurant, house, and kids, he was out bedding every blonde in Portland. What a chump I was.
“Anyway,” she muttered before taking another swallow of tea, “that kind of spoiled cooking for me. Now it’s just a job, an exhausting grind. As far as the kids, if we could manage to sit down at the table without a fight breaking out, I’d still enjoy cooking for them. But I’ve given up.”
“Let’s put cooking aside for now,” I said. “When you were a kid, what else did you like to do?”
“Anything they told me not to.”
She grinned wickedly and I couldn’t help but laugh. Monica’s sarcasm can be a little hard to take sometimes, but there is something truly lovable about her.
“Hey,” Grace said. “I hate to break up the party, but I have to get going. I need to be at the office early tomorrow.”
“I should get going too,” Monica said, then scooped Nelson gently from her lap and set him down on the floor.
While I got coats from the closet, Grace and Monica put the cups into the dishwasher and tidied up the kitchen. When they were getting ready to leave, Monica turned to me and said, “I totally forgot, you called the restaurant last night. What did you need?”
“Oh, nothing that urgent,” I said, and opened the front door. “I’m just worried about the rescue. End-of-the-year contributions were down and medical expenses are up. We need to come up with a way to raise some money and I thought you might have some ideas. We can talk about it next week.”
“Come by the restaurant tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll do a little brainstorming.”
“Thanks. I have to take Nelson to the vet in the morning. We’ll drop by after.”
Grace zipped up her jacket and looked at Monica. “I almost forgot—what did the doctor say about your headaches?”
“She told me to take some aspirin. Hey! Just because it wasn’t serious doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been,” she protested. “Come on, Grace. Quit laughing. I had to put up with enough of that from Hazel.”
“Hazel?”
“The Urgent Care doctor. She works the four to midnight shift.”
“Wait. You’re not only on a first-name basis with the Urgent Care doctor, but you know her work schedule?”
Grace, still chuckling, gave me a squeeze and headed toward her car with Monica on her heels.
“You know,” Monica said, “you’re going to feel really terrible if something bad ever does happen to me.”
“You’re right. I will,” Grace said. “If.”
* * *
After waving them off, I went back inside, turning out the lights on my way back to the kitchen. The grandfather clock was ticking steadily, the dogs were snoring, and the house felt too big. It always does after visitors leave. It would pass. It was easier when the kids were still at home. Now I have to work at it, be more intentional. That’s what I was trying to explain to Monica and Grace.
I poured the lukewarm tea water down the drain and noticed that the kettle looked dull. I hadn’t planned on polishing the copper for another week, but now was as good a time as any and I didn’t feel tired. In fact, I was still a little restless, like I had been at dinner. Maybe I ought to stick to herbal tea, eliminate the caffeine entirely? I’d been feeling restless so often of late.
I took my collection of copper down from the pot rack—three pots, two saucepans, and seven gelatin molds that rarely saw use anymore, which was a shame. Gelatin salads are such fun to eat and so refreshing. Unfortunately they’d fallen out of fashion. But fashions come and go, so I held on to my copper molds and polished them every other month. When the gelatin renaissance arrives, I’ll be ready.
I mixed up some lemon juice with baking soda, putting the mixture on a clean cloth, and got to work, rubbing the surface of a saucepan in little circles, smiling as the color began showing beneath the layer of tarnish. It’s a very satisfying thing, polishing copper.
The phone rang. It was awfully late for someone to be calling. Had Grace or Monica left something behind?
“Hello.” There was coughing on the other end of the line, a loose, wet, ragged sound. I knew right away who was making it. “Dani?”
“Mom? I’m sick. I need money for a place to stay.”
“Where are you?”
“Under a bridge. It’s freezing. You have to give me some money.”
I closed my eyes and pressed a fist to my lips.
“Dani, I can’t do that.”
“But I’m sick! I have a fever! Don’t you care? What kind of mother are you?”
She started coughing again. I felt my heart clutch and my resolve begin to crack. But I couldn’t crack. I’d been down this road before.
“Dani, I’m not going to give you money for drugs.”
“It’s not for drugs! Why don’t you ever listen? I told you, I’m sick and need money for a place to stay.” Her tone went from demanding to wheedling. “I’m freezing, Mom. It’s starting to snow. Bring me some money. Please?”
I looked out the window. It was cold, very cold. But it wasn’t snowing. In former days, I would have believed her. Now I knew better. Everything that Dani said required confirmation. She was a habitual liar.
Though, I reminded myself, it wasn’t really Dani who was lying to me. It was the drugs. Dani was sick. The absence of heroin in her system resulted in sweating, shaking, weakness, nausea, and even hallucinations. In this state, she was a hostage to her addiction. In some ways, so was I.
“Honey, listen to me. You need help. I’ve talked to counselors at a very good rehab, a nice place. Tell me where to find you. I’ll take you—”
I didn’t get to finish. She cut me off, spitting out curses and accusations with the same kind of fury and fear that grips a wild animal caught in a trap. I tried to talk over her, to make her see reason, but it was no use. There was more cursing, then a strangled cry of frustration before the phone went dead.
I stood there, heart pounding, listening to the dull buzz of the dial tone.
I wiped away tears and went back to my copper, rubbing so hard that my arms burned, refusing to stop until every shadow and stain was gone and each piece glowed like the embers of a fading fire.