Kate Jacobs (28 page)

* * *

Gran pulled open the coat closet; a place for
everything and everything in its place, she had said more than once over the
past day to Cat and Dakota, who continued to fling their belongings onto the short,
wooden bench by the front door. Georgia, long ago trained, hung her jacket up
promptly and feeling tired and in need of a short rest, left her two charges to
face the scorn of Gran. This time, Cat circled back from the hallway and took
out a hanger, then followed Georgia, still talking about career ideas even as
her friend declared she was no longer listening.
Dakota leaned against the wall next to the bench, kicking off her sneakers;
Gran insisted she untie the laces properly.
"Dakota," she said, lowering herself onto the bench.
"I know. I forgot to hang up my coat and you had to do it for me. And now
the sneakers."
"Well, yes, that's true. You'll do right next time. But there's something
else I want to tell you." Granny, still sitting, gently steered Dakota by
her shoulders until they were looking level at each other.
"After the tearoom, it's just…I want to finish our talk from this
morning."
"Okay," said Dakota, looking down at her socks, pulling at them with
her feet, trying to make a hole. Gran, uncharacteristically, didn't comment
about her squirming.
"I know there's some who were not sure about your arrival, your mother
being on her own and all. And she struggled to make a good life for the two of
you, but she's done it. The proof is in the pudding. The proof is in
you
,"
said Gran, pulling Dakota's hair free of her collar and patting it down.
"Such a good girl. And every day you've been on this earth has been a joy
and a blessing." She then took both of Dakota's hands in hers.
"You know, I raised two sons, and olden days be damned, it was still hard
to be a teenager. Even back then. Your Grandpa Tom was a scallywag. Always
talking back. 'What do you know?' he always used to ask me." Dakota
half-giggled, amused by the idea of her gray-haired grandfather in Pennsylvania
being anything other than an old man, and a little sheepish knowing she had
asked Georgia the very same question not too long ago.
Granny smiled as Dakota laughed, but she didn't stop talking, glancing quickly
in the direction of the rest of the house as if to keep an eye out for
interruption.
"You'll have lots of questions to answer as you get older. Who you are.
Who you want to be. What you think about things. Like politics. And romances.
And whether you'll speak out or keep your mouth shut. It's always a challenge
to work out the best way to live your life, and as much as everyone tells you
what to do, ultimately how you do things is up to you," said Gran. Dakota
nodded earnestly. It felt so good to talk to Granny.
"Was it like this when you were young, Gran?"
"Oh, yes, quite so. My mother was always keeping me from the dances to
stay home and read to my ailing grandfather. I was quite outraged at the time.
But you know? I've had a lifetime of dances and now I treasure that time with
older relatives, and I know that my mother had a little bit of foresight that I
hadn't yet developed. You try to remember that, Dakota."
"Yes, Gran." Was she going to fall into the "listen to your
mother" speech? Like she hadn't heard that one a million times, thought
Dakota.
"But the main question is trying to work out who you are—and the way to
find the answer is to look at where you've come from and to think of where
you'd like to go. Only you know the secrets of your heart."
Dakota frowned a bit as she stared, quizzically, at her granny, her wrinkly
face surrounded by that curly fluff of blue-white hair.
"There's a lot of life in this old face, little one," said Gran.
"You must feel so grown up—almost thirteen—and I see so much ahead of you.
Lots of good times. I hope never bad days like I've known."
Gran's
eyes were shiny wet, but she didn't cry. She wasn't
the type. But her voice had a slight waver. "And I don't know how many
times I'll see you again, what with my old bones and that great big ocean in
between us. But all the lessons I learned and shared with my son and then with
Georgia and now with you, those will keep you going long after I'm gone.
Whether a person is physically in front of you or not, the love remains. Do you
understand, dear child?"
Dakota brought her hand to
Gran's
cheek, caressing
the lines and marveling at how soft and powdery it felt underneath her
fingertips.
"The love remains," she said simply.
"I'm not daft, Dakota," said Gran. "I know there are some who
see you and wonder about your background, asking 'Is she black?' And so you do
have a whole other history to be proud of that I couldn't begin to understand.
I'm just an old Scottish lady, here with my cats and my memories."
Dakota's face was very close to
Gran's
; the older
woman smelled of peppermint and hair spray. It was weird and nice at the same
time.
"But just so you know that we are, each one of us—even poor Cat—held
together by the invisible threads of our histories. And so yours is Scottish
and American and African in some long-ago time and place. But these strings are
all the good and all the bad that our families ever experienced. And when the
world tries to pull you loose—and it will—there may be some stretch. But
someone like you, with so much love holding her together, will never fall
apart."
A draft was coming underneath the front door and they shared a shiver; Gran
tugged at the young girl's sweater to pull it tighter.
"Do you understand what I'm telling you, dear child?"
Deep brown eyes looked directly into old blue ones, a shared communication. The
twelve-year-old didn't fidget or sigh or make a joke; instead, she nodded
slowly. Silently. In that instant, Glenda Walker could see the strong, proud,
intelligent woman the child would become, and she was filled with relief and
pride and hope. She patted the young girl's shoulders.
"Well, then," she said. "Let's go and see what to do about
dinner." Even though they'd just come back from tea.
And, smiling, Dakota skipped off and into the lounge to shoo the cats out from
the knitting bag.

twenty

It was humans-only this morning: the cats had
been un-ceremoniously
kicked out into the yard. The table was set with
Gran's
good china, the leaf pattern with gold trim, and flowers from the garden in her
prized lead-crystal vase. Certainly, Gran had made a show of it every morning,
going out of her way to lay the table with platter after platter of food,
readying them for their day trips to Edinburgh to explore the castle and
Dumfries to retrace the steps of Robbie Burns, or fortifying them for an
afternoon pulling weeds in the garden, enjoying the sunshine and the
invigorating hard work. Just the other day she surprised them with good
Scottish smoked salmon on bagels—grocery-store kind, of course, but still!—and
yesterday she had made a frittata from a cookbook that Dakota brought along.
(Georgia couldn't remember a time when her grandmother would have gone in for
anything quite like that.) And, additionally, there was always porridge and
bacon and black pudding (and Dakota was the only guest who dared to taste
that!) and eggs any style. An old-fashioned kickoff to the morning. Though
Georgia, truth be told, was finding all that heavy food wasn't sitting so well.
Not so her daughter.
"One thing I love about being here is the big breakfast," Dakota was
announcing, in one hand a fork overflowing with eggs and sausages, a slice of
buttered toast in the other. "At home it's just cereal and that's okay,
but I always felt like something was missing. Now I know it's my Scottish side
that needs porridge and bacon and eggs. Every day." She leaned over to get
her mother's attention. "Every day," she mouthed.
"Have you ever heard of cholesterol?" Cat was eating some cutup fruit
and a half-slice of bread with a very thin layer of
Gran's
homemade jam, trying to decide if she ought to add a cup of yogurt to her
simple breakfast.
"I know what cholesterol is," said Dakota, talking with her mouth
full. Gran cleared her throat until she closed her lips and swallowed. Dakota
made a big show of blotting at her lips with her napkin and then continued:
"It doesn't affect nearly thirteen-year-olds. Or Scottish people."
Gran chuckled. "I wish that were so. But I daresay you're right, your
Scottish side needs a good breakfast in the mornings. Georgia, I hope you're
not feeding rubbish foods to this growing girl."
She knew, of course, that Georgia was conscientious when it came to Dakota's
diet. And Georgia was accustomed to her grandmother's sparing use of words and
the way she often spoke in the negative. "I hope you're not doing
such-and-such" was a common way for Gran to make her feelings known, as if
by taking that approach she wasn't outright telling someone what they
should
do. But Georgia still felt hurt. First that Dakota seemed to imply she wasn't
doing enough. Kids complain; it's what they do. But this time, Dakota's comment
hit home. After all, Georgia had been slower in the mornings, sleeping later,
and sometimes leaving her daughter to get breakfast for herself. And then Gran
had to jump in. Always with the advice-giving! Georgia felt so tired and her
back hurt and she just couldn't seem to stop herself from snapping.
"I am not feeding her junk food for breakfast, Granny, and you know that
very well!" She noticed with ire that Gran didn't look the least bit
ruffled.
"Of course you don't, dear," she said, telling Dakota to run out and
pick some fresh berries. "Dawdle for a bit, Dakota. It's time for a big
girls' chat."
Cat stood up and pushed back her chair, ready to leave the table.
"You. Sit right back down."
The blonde took her seat.
Georgia was sputtering.
"Out with it then," commanded Gran. "What's the bee in your
bonnet?"
It was all the opening that the New Yorker needed.
"I have done absolutely everything for my daughter her entire life, fed
her all the right foods and splurged on special clothes and day camps during
the summer, and organized sleepovers and movie nights," she said, her
voice sharp. There was no blubbering. No, Georgia was angry. Really and truly angry.
And not at Gran. She knew that. Sort of.
"I never had a date in all these years and I doled out discipline when all
I wanted to do was give in to her demands and go take a hot bath. Do you know
what I never have? Time to myself. Time to just relax. There's always
something, the shop, or Dakota's father, or my back-stabbing best friend who
can't seem to make a fucking decision and followed me all the way to your
house."
She was in full rant mode, punctuating her speech with jabs of her spoon into
the air, and, at key moments, in the direction of Cat, who was staring at
Georgia with chagrin. "And you know as well as I do, Gran, that my own
mother never fed me a damn piece of sugared anything in my entire life and that
didn't make me a better person," said Georgia. "Quite the contrary.
Bess hardly said one nice thing to me in all my life and frankly, a bowl of
Froot
Loops might have cheered things up a bit now and
then."
"I suppose it might have."
Gran's
voice was
even, her face calm. "What else?"
"My mom never makes an effort, never comes into the city to see Dakota;
she just stays out in Pennsylvania and is the once-a-year relative at
Christmas. It's no wonder Dakota is obsessed with biking to Penn Station and
finding her family! She barely knows them."
"How do you know Bess doesn't make an effort?" Gran was
contemplative.
"Because she never bothers—"
"—to do what you think she ought to." The white-haired woman may have
been old. But her mind was clear. And she didn't mince words. It was her turn
now.
"Your mother has her own story, Georgia. I can guess that if my son is
anything like his father, he's a demanding soul. Charming. Kind. But
particular. Difficult. And what do you know about her secret sorrows? When have
you ever approached her without wanting something from her?"
"You've never liked Bess, Gran, so how can you stand there and defend
her?"
"Because I just listened to you complain about having a daughter who
needed so much from you that you didn't feel as though you had anything left
over." Gran gave Georgia the most gentle smile. "And then I listened
to you complain about having a mother who never gave you enough."
The old woman got up from the table and went to put the milk back into the
fridge. "I suppose when it comes to human nature I know more than my fair
share. Widowed young. Raising children on my own. Feeling as though I was doing
it all alone, even though now I see I wouldn't have made it without the friends
and family all around me."
"I see where you're going with this, Gran, and you just don't know what
it's like to be on your own in New York City. It's not like rural
Scotland."
"No, but I do know what it's like to be on my own with two hungry babies
and a world war on my doorstep, Georgia, so don't you fall into the trap of
thinking you've got the hardest lot." Gran was curt. "Stress is not
about the situation, my dear, it's about the person. There's some who can
handle it and there's some who can't."
"I can't handle it," added Cat sympathetically. "Never
could."
"And that's a load of rubbish right there. You"—she wagged a finger
in Cat's direction—"just haven't tried."
She returned her attention to Georgia. "And you, my dear, have spent a bit
too much time ruminating on the past. Dare I say feeling a bit sorry for
yourself. I can tell you—both you girls—that there's one thing about people
that is constant. All people. You. Me. Bess. Everybody."
"What?" asked Cat breathlessly. Georgia turned her face away,
frustrated.
"Sometimes people just don't get things right." Gran began picking up
the plates from the table and carrying them over to do the washing-up.
"Did you hear me? People sometimes don't do the right thing."
"So then what?" Georgia's tone made it clear that she wasn't
satisfied. Cat, on the other hand, was hanging on
Gran's
every word.
"So then you're left deciding how you are going to react to what they
offer. Because you can't make them change."
"That's it?"
"That's it, then."
Georgia flopped back into her chair. Sighed.
Frowned. And then smiled. A little half-smile on one side of her face. If her
folks weren't going to change, then she could stop spending so much of her
precious energy trying to make them do so. There was just something about
getting a tongue-lashing from her grandmother to put things in perspective. To
give her the get-out-of-jail-free card she'd been searching for.
Her eyes turned to Cat. The little smile grew into a grin, spread from ear to
ear.
"Your turn," she said, her voice challenging. Cat shrugged.
"What are you looking at me for? I'm okay. I just don't know what to do is
all. But I'm going to make it on my own." She folded her hands in her lap
and looked out the window, looking the picture of perfect calm, not meeting
anyone's eyes.
Georgia let out a snort.
"Enough with the Mary Tyler Moore routine," she said. "Let's go
back to the beginning: Brilliant high school student steals best friend's place
at Dartmouth and grows up to become an airhead socialite. Cue life
crisis."
"Airhead? You think I'm an airhead?"
"I think you appear that way, yes."
"Well, I'm not stupid, Georgia, and you know it."
Gran swiveled at the sink and held up her hand, covered with soap bubbles.
"I think that, if I may say so, is precisely her point, my dear," she
said. "You're not stupid. But you flit about as though you were a
child."
Cat's face turned beet red; even she wasn't about to take on an elderly granny.
So she focused her energies on Georgia and gave her a blast.
"I came to you, I looked you up. I paid you to make me a dress so I could
boost your business!"
"Are you saying you did that to help me out? I didn't need your charity.
That gown is a work of art. Or do you think that buying a gown from me makes up
for college?"
"Yes! No! I don't know!"
"Good, get angry, dears," soothed Gran, using a scrub brush on the
saucepan to pick up the bits of egg. "That always gets to the root of
things."
"I saw the article in the magazine and I thought, 'There it is. My chance
to make things right.'" Cat had pushed back her chair, was walking around
the room and making wide gestures with her hands. "And you looked so
confident and capable and just like I remembered. All those curls. I thought
I'd show you how I could afford something really expensive. Or maybe I'd soak
up this great talent you have for being successful."
"Don't confuse success with money," said Georgia dryly. "They
are quite different. And not a month goes by that I don't worry about the
bottom line."
"But that's just it, too, don't you see? You have all these things that
matter. A business. A daughter. A man who's totally into you."
"A man?" Gran now, her curiosity piqued.
"Don't go there," Georgia growled.
The old woman continued to wash the breakfast dishes at the sink, her back to
the table and her eyes scanning through the window to see Dakota, still picking
strawberries, eating two or three for every one she put into her basket. She
listened to the girls go at each other without commenting.
"And I saw all that you'd done and I thought you'd save me." Cat
crossed her arms in front of her body. "I thought you'd save me from
myself."
There was a generous amount of head-shaking going on in the kitchen.
"It's like Gran says: I just didn't do things right," Cat was saying.
"So there. I'm sorry and I've apologized and now I want us to be done with
it."
"Well, I have a few things to say to you first." Georgia spoke
slowly, began to idly play with the salt and pepper shakers. Gran continued
tidying with gusto as though a gleaming countertop was her highest priority,
though of course she was listening keenly.
"I won't deny you hurt my feelings. But there's a mistake I think you
made. I think you gave up on life. You decided that your husband's
accomplishments meant you didn't need any of your own."
Cat tilted her head back as though in deep concentration.
"And now you're just doing a version of the same thing, tagging along with
me to Scotland to see if I can be the person you'll attach yourself to,"
said Georgia. "And it's time for you to stand on your own. It's not about
being the best or the most or the richest, Cat. You just have to be good
enough. Good enough to get by, good enough to sleep at night knowing you made
an effort."
She'd seen her friend get upset with her—annoyed, mostly—but even then Georgia
seemed to be in control. Now, she was so…emotional. And honest. And right.
There was no sarcasm, no teasing. Just plain talk. Laid bare.
So what now? Cat knew she'd been moping around, figured Georgia would fix her.
Somehow. But the problem wasn't merely about too much Botox or filling her days
with pricey shopping sprees to make up for the lack of something worthwhile to
do. Cat had given up responsibility for herself. The only problem was that no
one else had ever wanted to take it on. Then again, there was no reason they
should have.
"It's up to me," Cat whispered. "It's really up to me."
Her voice grew louder, almost triumphant, as she stretched out her arms.
"I can do it! I just have to harness my power and let myself fly."
"Oh, my, I think we've gone all New Age on ourselves." Gran
interrupted Cat's speech with a bit of a face. She was a good one for drama,
that girl. Though the old woman was pleased, having learned through the years
that a true friendship never really ended. It could always come round again.
"Well, I wish I could get back that fifty thousand dollars I spent on
therapy—I should have just come here for wisdom instead." Cat laughed.
"You call it that because I'm old," said Gran, reaching into her
cupboard. "But I'm not wise. All I'm preaching is common sense."
The back door creaked as Dakota barreled in, berry stains around her lips and a
full container of fruit in hand. And so the intensity was broken, lightened,
enriched. Gran returned to the table—Georgia and Cat and Dakota back in their
chairs—and brought over a fresh pot of tea and a bar of good dark chocolate. A
bit of breakfast dessert, she said.