Blessing in Disguise (5 page)

Ben laughed, a rich, warm laugh. “If it’s stolen,” Ben reasoned, “my insurance will cover it. If some hopped-up parking attendant puts a dent in it, I’m stuck with a five-hundred-dollar deductible.”

“For that, I sent you to college?” Jack laughed.

“I remember my first car, when I was seventeen.” Grace smiled. “It was—”

“Speaking of college,” Hannah cut her off, “I’ve been talking to my adviser about it, and he thinks I should definitely consider UC Berkeley. What do you think, Daddy?”

Grace shot a glance at Jack—was he even
aware
that Hannah was once again pre-empting her? She found herself remembering the way Hannah always zipped into the front seat of the Volvo, next to Jack, whenever they were going somewhere, leaving Good Old Grace to sit in back, smiling gamely, like a hitchhiker who ought to consider herself lucky to have snagged a ride at all. Jack never seemed to notice.

“Berkeley’s a fine school,” he was saying now. “So are Columbia and Georgetown, and they’re a hell of a lot closer. You keep writing papers like the one on Dr. Freestone and you’ll be able to take your pick.”

Grace saw Hannah flash her a guilty glance, as if she were waiting for Grace to remind her that
she
was the one who had set up the interview with Laslo Freestone, whom Grace herself had interviewed three years ago for a
New Yorker
profile.

“Hey, Chris, I hope they haven’t started stuffing your head with all this mumbo-jumbo about college at your school yet.” Jack jumped in before Hannah could thank her, if that’s what she’d been about to do.

“I’m only in the eighth grade.” Chris lifted his head from his place to give Jack a look that would have stopped a rhino in mid-charge. Grace was sure he knew Jack had only been trying to draw him into the conversation, and she burned at Chris’s rudeness.

“Daddy, remember that ski trip to Vail when
I
was in the eighth grade?” Hannah piped up. “I was thinking maybe we could all go again this Christmas break. I mean, the three of us. Like the old days ... except for Mom.” She looked about her brightly, as if expecting her suggestion to be met with enthusiasm all around.

Struggling to keep her smile pinned in place, Grace became suddenly absorbed in spearing a particularly slippery chunk of tomato on her plate. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Jack looking at her protectively, and she thought,
Don’t. Don’t say anything. Please. Just let it
g
o.

“What I had in mind was
all
of us going somewhere together over the holiday,” Jack said mildly. “That is, if you don’t have any other plans, Ben. There should be plenty of snow up at the cabin, good for cross-country. How would you feel about that, Grace? Chris?”

What Grace felt at that moment was a sudden chill, as if the room’s temperature had dropped twenty degrees. Silence, thick as frost, settled over the table.

When it became more than she could bear, Grace said lightly, “Actually, I barely know how to ski. Years ago, when Christ was little, I tried learning, but it turns out I’m completely hopeless.”

“Maybe you didn’t have the right teacher,” Ben suggested kindly.

Grace had to lower her eyes so he wouldn’t see the gratitude she was sure was written all over her face.

“God, Daddy,” Hannah said, blowing her lips out in a sigh of disdain. “Sometimes you can be so
dense.
Don’t you get it?”

“Get what?”

“Christmas. It’s
Christmas
we’re talking about. You know, like jingle bells and Santa Claus.” Hannah turned to Grace, and gently, apologetically explained, “We don’t celebrate Christmas, but Daddy sometimes forgets that not
everybody
is Jewish.”

Two can play at this game,
Grace thought, and plunged in. “In my family, Christmas wasn’t really about jingle bells and Santa Claus. My mother headed a church drive to collect food and clothing for the poor.”

Now it was Hannah’s turn to look uncomfortable. Clearly aware that she’d been one-upped, she lowered her eyes.

“Dad wants me to spend Christmas with him in Macon,” Chris blurted. He addressed Grace’s reflection in the darkened window at her back, his expression flat. “So, whatever, you know. Do what you want.”

Et tu, Brute?
Now, when she could have used Chris’s support, he’d chose to spring this on her. And the worst part was, she couldn’t show it. She wouldn’t. Not in front of Hannah.

“Coffee, anyone?” she asked with forced brightness, feeling like an actress in a Folger’s commercial. She rose and began clearing the plates. “I hope you all saved some room, because I have the most decadent chocolate dessert, and I refuse to get stuck with leftovers.”

“I’ll give you a hand.” Jack got up, deftly scooping up plates and silverware and glasses.

A few minutes later, coffee and dessert served, she felt herself relax a bit. Hannah was clearly enjoying the cake, which Grace had picked up at Cafe Bondi. Chris was on his second piece, and had even thought to ask if anyone else wanted more before cutting his. Ben was telling his father about the great reorders they were getting for one of his books. Will Harrigan’s behind-the-screen memoir of his years as a network newscaster.

Grace thought they were nearly out of the woods when Hannah announced suddenly, “Daddy, I don’t feel so good.”

“What is it, pumpkin?” Jack reached across to cover her hand with his, his forehead crinkling with concern. “You do look a little green around the gills.”

Grace saw it, too. Hannah’s normally porcelain complexion had gone a greenish gray, and there was sweat beading on her forehead and upper lip. This had to be just another of Hannah’s ploys, she thought, then felt ashamed of herself.

She rose and went over to where Hannah sat shivering, her arms wrapped tightly across her chest. “Oh, sweetie ... can I get you anything? Aspirin, some water?”

Hannah shook her head so hard her ponytail went flying up to flick the back of Grace’s wrist. “My ... stomach ... Oh, God ... Oh, I think I’m going to be sick.”

Then Jack was helping his daughter to her feet, steering her down the hallway in the direction of the bathroom. He returned a moment later, looking both concerned and vaguely sheepish. She knew how he felt, the way every parent does sometimes, half responsible for things their kids do that nobody could have helped.

“Must’ve been something she ate,” he said. “She’s allergic to practically everything. She’ll be all right once I get her home.”

“Look, Dad, there’s no reason for you to run out on Grace,” Ben said. “I can drop Hannah off on my way home.”

“If you’re sure ...”

“Dad, I said I’d take care of it.” For an instant, Grace caught a glimpse of something tight and barbed behind his Ralph Lauren-model’s face.

Hannah emerged a few minutes later, pale and a bit shaky, but calm. “I’ll walk you two to the car,” he said, hugging her against him while she buried her face briefly in the creamy folds of his sweater.

“You just want to make sure I still have one,” Ben laughed. “Grace, sorry we couldn’t hang around to help with the dishes. Dinner was great, and I love your place,” He rabbit-punched Chris’s shoulder. “Hey, bud, hang in there. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“Uh ... mmmm,” Chris muttered, shifting his stance ever so slightly so as to distance himself from the group gathered near the door.

“Better now?” Grace asked as she was helping Hannah on with her coat. “I can’t help feeling responsible. The torte was probably a mistake, too rich on top of all that other stuff. All those nuts.”

“Did you say
nuts?”
Hannah wheeled around to stare at her, one sleeve hanging empty at her side.

“Well, yes, that’s what a torte—”

“God, I can’t believe it. I’m
allergic
to nuts. I thought you knew.”

Watching as Hannah, looking somehow small and defenseless, was bundled out the door between the tall forms of her father and brother, Grace had a terrible stab of guilt, thinking surely Hannah or Jack
had
told her and she’d forgotten.

She felt suddenly tired, too exhausted to stand. A hot bath, then bed. When he got back from seeing the kids off, she’d send Jack home, too. Leave the dishes until the morning. Leave everything.

Chris, sensing her mood, sidled past her, silent as an undertaker, snagging his jacket from the Victorian hall stand by the door. “I’ll be at Scully’s,” he muttered.

“You were just over there.” She didn’t care if his best friend lived downstairs; it was the principle of the thing. Besides, Petie Scully was only eleven. Why didn’t Chris have any friends his own age?

“You
were the one who said I had to come back for dinner,” he reminded her with an air of strained patience.

Grace watched him go, feeling too depleted to stop him, or even to scold the son who she knew wanted—no,
needed
—some sort of limits drawn.

But it wasn’t until she’d headed into the bathroom for an aspirin to relieve her head, which was suddenly pounding, that Grace discovered how bad things could get just when you think you’ve had all you can take.

On the floor, like an awful metaphor for this whole disastrous evening, was a small puddle of vomit.

She was on her knees cleaning it up, wearing fat rubber gloves, fighting to keep from crying or getting sick herself, when Jack walked in. He stared down at her for a moment, then pulled her to her feet.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he said gently. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” she snapped. “Because she’s your daughter? Because we could never possibly come close to
sharing
responsibility for things that happen with your kids or mine?” Tears stung her eyes.

“No, Grace, that’s not it at all,” he said, his mouth—oddly vulnerable in a face strong and creased with living—turning up in an ironic half-smile. “I was just thinking how tonight you’ve had enough of Hannah as it is.”

“It wasn’t so bad.” Then she caught herself, admitting, “Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a bed of roses.”

“No, but you handled it like a pro.” He put his big hands on her shoulders, his smile fading, giving way to apology, and maybe a touch of regret.

“Jack, is this how it’s going to be with us from now on?” Grace felt herself begin to tremble.

“I love you,” he said, his voice grave. “And I don’t want to let you down.” He looked uncomfortable now, his eyes sliding away from hers.

“But you’re not ready for anything more than this?” she blurted. “Sleeping over at each other’s places? Family get-togethers now and then when we’re feeling especially masochistic?”

He was silent, his eyes troubled. When he did speak, his voice was measured, thoughtful. “I wish I could tell you what you want to hear. But you’re right about its being more complicated than just the two of us. Let’s take it one step at a time.”

Jack yearned to offer her more ... so much more. Would he have,
could
he have, if only she was closer to his age? If their children—Chris and Hannah—weren’t so violently opposed to their union?

Minutes before, waiting downstairs with Hannah while Ben brought his car around. Jack had caught a glimpse, possibly for the first time—or maybe it was just the first time he’d allowed himself to see it—into the dark heart of his daughter’s unhappiness. Yes, she was impossible at times. Yes, she’d been hard on Grace. But underneath her rudeness was a little girl who felt so lonely and abandoned she couldn’t help striking out at the person she saw as the cause of it all.

He closed his eyes for a moment, seeing the scene downstairs with Hannah, as if it were a home video of her that he’d rewound.

“You don’t have to, Daddy. Really, I’m okay.” She shifted her weight subtly but oh so meaningfully, drawing away from him and his clumsy attempt to console her.

She wouldn’t cry, he knew that
—
she was stubborn, like him. But if ever misery wore a face, it was Hannah’s at that moment. He longed for the old days, when he could scoop her up and hold her against his chest, safe from harm. Now she was a tall reed facing into the wind, close to breaking.

“Feel better” he called to her as she stepped off the curb, moving in the direction of Ben’s car.

She just looked at him ... a long over-the-shoulder glance that cut to his heart’s quick. A look that told him that feeling better wasn’t an option for her right now. And he knew that Grace was inevitably tangled in all this. Because his life was not an egg to be easily separated, yolk from white. He’d have to tread carefully now rather than take yet another drastic step. ...

“Oh, Jack, I don’t know if I’m cut out for this.” Grace sighed. “The waiting, the wondering. I’m too old to be chasing after some fantasy.”

“Me, too.” Jack lifted her chin with his fingers to meet his steadfast gaze. All of a sudden he looked every day his age, older, and more weary than she had ever seen him.

Grace saw herself then, as if through Jack’s eyes: a small woman in blue jeans damp at the knees, wearing big yellow rubber gloves and standing in front of a toilet with tears pouring down her face.

A woman madly in love with this big, wonderful man who held out no promises, only his arms spread wide to engulf her. A woman who wondered where this treacherous uncharted road was taking them, if one day she’d be stuck cleaning up a different sort of mess.

Hannah felt sick. Not like she had to throw up again. No, this was different ... in a way, worse. By the time Ben was parking his Beamer in front of her building on Gramercy Park, Hannah was thoroughly disgusted with herself. Why had she carried on like such a jerk at Grace’s? Horrid and nasty, like snotty Corinne Cavanaugh, always making digs at poor, fat Francie Boyle.

Except, she reminded herself, there was nothing fat or pathetic about Grace. Maybe, if Grace were homely, or had bad skin, or even bad
breath,
it wouldn’t be so awful. Then she could at least feel sorry for Grace, maybe even just a little superior. The trouble was, Grace was so damn ... perfect. Not a bad cook, either. Next to her, Hannah felt so awkward—horsy, clumsy, oily. Just looking at Grace’s Dove-commercial complexion, she could almost
feel
the blackheads popping out over her nose and chin.