Daughters for a Time (12 page)

The night our father left for good was the same day our mother underwent surgery to see if the cancer had spread beyond her ovaries.

The day had started like any other. Mom sat at our avocado-green Formica kitchen table, sipping Sanka, thumbing through the newspaper, and nibbling on an English muffin. “They’re checking the
thing
this afternoon,” Mom said to Claire, who was dressed in a pressed Polo shirt, pleated khakis, and loafers, her hair pulled neatly in a low ponytail.

I remember recoiling at the word “thing.” At the time, it made me angry that Mom couldn’t just say “cancer.” It made me angry that Mom spoke only to Claire, as if, at age thirteen, I was too young to comprehend what was going on.

“I know,” said Claire. “I have a copy of your admittance paperwork in my purse.”

“Can’t we go with you?” I whined, setting my cereal bowl down next to Mom. She pulled me toward her and wrapped her arms around me, my scrawny body swimming in a too-big black T-shirt, kissing the nape of my neck. “There’s no need, pumpkin. I’ll be home after supper. Dad will be with me the whole time.”

“You’ll be fine,” Claire said in her adult way, reassuring everyone involved. “We’ll be fine. Come on, Helen. Finish your breakfast and I’ll drive you to school so you don’t have to take the bus.”

I remember being so angry at Claire’s bossy, know-it-all tone that I had wanted to scream at her, but I also wanted a ride to school, so I kept my mouth shut.

That evening, Claire warmed up a chicken casserole from the night before, and we sat in front of the television with trays, watching a rerun of
Cheers
. I hated casserole is what I remember, the chicken and cashews and pineapple all tasting exactly the same. Dad pulled in around seven o’clock and Claire and I ran to the door. He carried Mom into bed. She was groggy and tired and far from lucid.

“They let her
leave
the hospital like that?” Claire asked.

“No, she was awake when we left, but she started to have some pain on the ride home, so she took a pill. It knocked her out pretty fast.”

I kneeled by her bedside, put my face in front of hers. “Mom, Mom?”

Her eyelids shifted and twitched, but she didn’t open them.

We followed Larry into the kitchen, where he poured himself a tumbler of Scotch.

“So?” Claire asked impatiently.

“The surgery went well,” he said, trudging through his words as if he were stuck in mud. “She should sleep through the night. If she wakes up and needs pills, she has morphine in her bag.” He looked to the window as he spoke, specks of dust dancing in the thin slant of light.

“What did they find out?” Claire asked. “Did the cancer spread?”

“No. It’s contained for now. But your mother will have to talk to her doctor tomorrow.”

Claire and I followed him into the hall. Without turning on the light, he opened a closet and pulled out a duffel bag.

“Where are you going?” Claire asked.

“Listen, girls, you’ll be fine. Your mother will be fine.”

“You’re leaving? Tonight?” Claire spat the words. It was unfathomable.

“Your mother and I talked about it in the car on the way home. This is too hard, me being here.”

“Who is it too hard on?” Claire asked curtly.

“On all of us,” he blurted, pulling at his hair. “It’s hard for me to see her this way, and I’m sure as hell it’s hard on her having me around after all we’ve been through.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’m staying with a friend for a while,” he said, only looking up at me briefly. “Everything will be fine. Your mother will be fine, and she’ll talk to the doctor tomorrow.”

We followed him into the bedroom. We all looked at Mom, who had turned onto her side, her hands gathered at her chin. Larry placed the duffel on the bed, unzipped it. He opened his dresser drawers and tossed in a few essentials: socks, shirts, underwear. Then he went to the closet to get a suit for work, one still covered in plastic from the dry cleaner.

This would mark the second and final time our father had left. The first time followed his affair a few years back. Then he’d come back home. It was then that Mom discovered she was sick.

“Dad,” I pleaded, my voice coming out in a whisper. “Why do you have to go?”

He looked at me, then at the duffel, then at Mom. His face fell. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, shaking his head. “I just need to get away for a while. I’ll call you girls tomorrow, okay? I’ll call Mom tomorrow.”

Lifting the duffel bag, he crossed to the dresser and picked up a framed photo of Mom, another of Claire and me, his silver chain with the charm of St. Christopher, and tucked them into the side of the bag.

Dad walked past us, suitcase in hand, his shoulders slumped. He placed his hand on my shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze.

“Can’t you stay?” I said feebly, too softly for anyone to hear.

“This is just top-notch,” Claire said, standing firmly with her hands on her hips.

“I’m sorry, Claire,” he said. “What do you want from me?”

I want you to stay, I want Mom to wake up and be healthy, I want us to be a family
, I remember thinking.

But Claire had her own answer. “It should have been you.”

He nodded as if he agreed and walked out the door.

The stifling, stagnant heat ended on the last day of August when a slight breeze pierced the oppressive wall of humidity. Soon we were pulling light sweaters from the closet, opening our windows at night. October dropped the first crimson leaves. At the end of the month, we traipsed Maura around the neighborhood, dressed as a jaguar, collecting candy for Halloween. The adoption was drawing near and I tried to temper my wanting and impatience by keeping busy at work. Tim and I worked on a new menu, considered bringing in more organic ingredients. Together, we met with meat, fish, cheese, and mushroom purveyors, sampled their items, and made choices. If my mind was occupied, the days were tolerable, but if there was a moment of pause, a panic would stir, and I’d think,
What is she doing now? Is somebody loving her? Why does it take so long to get the babies into the arms of their parents?

On the first Friday of November, I drove to Claire’s house. We were headed to Harvest to celebrate her and Ross’s anniversary. I opened the double doors to the grand foyer. Gigantic stalks of gladiolus adorned the circular table in the entryway. Maura ambushed me at the door, leaping into my arms.

“Aunt Helen,” Maura huffed. She was naked except for her underwear, and had pigtail knots on top of her head. “Guess what? I’m a puma!”

“Where are your clothes?”

“I have fur.”

“Soft,” I said, rubbing her back. “What else is going on?”

“I found a ladybug on my window and I put it outside to fly away, and Aunt Helen, guess what? It flew back to my window. The same one!” Maura’s eyes grew huge.

“Awesome, munchkin,” I said, kissing her cheek and setting her down.

I found Claire in the gourmet kitchen she’d designed straight out of
Home & Design
: a Viking six-burner range and double oven, a separate brick wood-fired oven in the corner, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, an island covered in butcher’s block, and Italian terra-cotta floor tiles. Her gorgeous kitchen was a thousand times nicer than mine, and I was the one with the diploma from culinary school. Claire was bent over the counter, working on her “things to watch out for” list for her mother-in-law, who would be watching Maura.

Ross and Claire had done well for themselves. Claire made a bundle when she sold her investment practice to her partner. And she still received some sort of compensation for “assets under management,” which I didn’t quite understand. Ross worked in the investment business, too. Municipal bonds, mostly.

Tim and I were different from my sister and brother-in-law in that we never thought about money as a goal. “As long as we’re living our passion,” we used to say, as we traveled from country to country. “As long as we’re doing what we truly love…” Back then, we thought that that was enough: loving each other, traveling with a few bucks stuffed in our backpacks. Now Tim and I carried a double mortgage on our house and a business loan to keep Harvest afloat. So long as the restaurant continued on as it was, booked seven nights a week, we should turn a profit in about three years.

I left Claire to her disaster list and went out onto the veranda, where Martha, Ross’s mother, was watching Maura swing on the playset.

“Ever babysat before?” I asked wryly, giving her shoulders a squeeze. Martha was a good sport who had raised three sons. Not much ruffled her feathers. She tolerated Claire’s “instructions” better than most.

“Here and there,” Martha joked back.

“You might not know this, but you shouldn’t let Maura play in the road or juggle fire.”

“I’ll make a note of that,” Martha laughed, glancing around to make sure Claire wasn’t listening.

“She’s used to me,” I said.

Martha smiled and said, “She can’t help it. She’s a worrier. Fear is a debilitating thing. You can’t rationalize it.”

“She could probably thank me for all that fear,” I said, thinking about the time Claire had to fetch me from a 7-Eleven in a rough part of northeast DC after the guy I was with ditched me, leaving me with no way of getting home.

As we entered Harvest, the warm orange glow of the lighting, the tantalizing fragrance of wood smoke from the kitchen, and the low chatter of the bar crowd enveloped me with a wave of pride, a sense that I had had my hand in something successful. I looked around at the golden frescoed walls, the flicker of candlelight behind the ornate plaster sconces, the Italian tapestries hanging high on the walls. Years ago, I had spent months with an interior designer, discussing and debating paint chips, fabric swatches, lighting options. Rustic, yet elegant was the feel we were going for. Tonight, it seemed spot-on. Our time
spent in the South of France, in Northern Italy, had influenced every decision. We needed to be authentic.

Claire was radiant in her strapless ruby dress, and Ross looked so handsome in his teal merino wool sweater. I was wearing a long, flowing skirt with a peasant blouse and boots, an ensemble that, in my mirror at home, had looked stylish. But compared to this chic crowd, I felt more like an actual gypsy than the unconventional Bohemian I was going after.

The lobby was packed and the bar was overflowing with happy hour patrons.

“Helen! How nice to see you,” Sondra said, kissing the air next to my cheeks, leaving a wake of exotic and spicy perfume. Her eyelids were lined expertly, covered in smoky gray shadow, and her eyebrows were plucked into exaggerated arches. Sondra looped her arm through mine as she walked us through the restaurant to the kitchen. Her masses of chestnut hair cascaded loosely down her back, soft and silky. I reached self-consciously at my hair, which tonight seemed thick and dense, like cauliflower florets.

“The restaurant looks beautiful,” I said, smoothing my blouse.

Nestled in the corner of the kitchen—across from the workstations and next to the fireplace—was an alcove with a corner booth. We called it the chef’s table and built it with the thought that some patrons would relish the idea of watching a kitchen in motion while dining. While it was used occasionally for that purpose, the cozy table was used mostly for private luncheons and dinners for DC high rollers. Before we had opened Harvest’s doors and custom-built this corner banquette, Tim and I had sat in this exact spot, with folding chairs, a card table, and a bottle of pinot. The kitchen was under construction. Blueprints lay strewn about on the countertops.

As we were scooting into the corner booth, Tim exited the walk-in refrigerator with an armful of what looked like lamb chops and rosemary. His face filled with joy at seeing me, which made my heart warm, to think that he still loved me, after everything I had put him through. He kissed me on the mouth and Claire on the cheek, and then poured four glasses of Dom Perignon.

“I propose a toast!” Tim said, holding up his glass. “To my favorite sister-in-law and brother-in-law. My
only
ones, but my favorite, nonetheless. Here, here.”

“Ten years,” said Ross, holding up his champagne flute. The crystal flutes joined for a satisfying clink.

“Ten years,” Claire repeated, with what sounded like false enthusiasm.

“Go call,” Ross told her, swigging at his glass. He looked exasperated. “You’ll feel better.”

“Just let me check in,” Claire said sheepishly. She already had her phone on her lap dialing Martha. “So many things could go wrong.”

“Like what?” Ross said. “She’s with
my
mother in
our
house. In actuality, very little could go wrong.”

Claire opened her mouth to respond but must have decided against arguing. We’d all heard Claire’s litany of what could go wrong before: Maura could fall off the back of the sofa, she could slip off the barstool, she could choke on a pretzel, she could drown, she could feel insecure, left, vulnerable, scared. She could feel like Claire and I had felt so many times after our mother had died.