Authors: Ashley H. Farley
Saving Ben (16 page)
I drifted off to sleep not long afterward, and when I woke again, light was creeping in through the blinds, casting vertical shadows on the ceiling. It took me a minute to remember where I was and to realize Ben was no longer sleeping next to me.
I found him on the porch wrapped in a blanket on the love seat. He was staring, through swollen eyes, across the creek at Abby’s house, as if willing her to appear on the hill and wave for him to come over for a visit. I moved one of the wicker lounge chairs close to him and tucked my feet up underneath his blanket.
The pink sky of daybreak gave way to the sun, and to my utter amazement, the wildlife came alive around us. Many years ago, our grandfather had an osprey platform built on our property line up close to the beach. Every spring the same male and female osprey returned to their nest, and every summer we could see the little heads of their offspring bobbing up and down. I watched the male osprey circle overhead with his wings spread wide. He carried a stick in his beak, dipping it in the water before flying it back up and tucking it amongst the others in his nest. Unfazed by all this activity, the blue heron on the beach below stuck out his long neck toward the water in search of food while the sparrows dove in and around the eaves of the porch.
Moved by the beauty of my surroundings, my thoughts turned to my grandfather. I prayed to Dock to give me guidance, to show me how I could help my brother.
If you are strong for Ben, he will be strong too.
Beneath the blanket, I pinched Ben’s leg with my toes. “I’m honored George asked us to sit with his family today, but it’s gonna make things that much harder for you and me. We have to be strong for him, Ben. We can’t let him down.”
Ben nodded. He understood that I was telling him in a polite way to pull himself together.
As the sun continued to rise, we watched the sky change from pink to orange to yellow.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” I asked Ben. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see the sun rise, or watch a school of porpoises swim, or witness any other wonder of nature without thinking about Abigail.”
He laid his head on the arm of the sofa. “Yabba was a child of the earth. Her parents should have named her Summer, because that’s when she came to life, when freckles appeared across her nose and the bottoms of her feet grew hard and black from running around barefoot.”
I was moved by his eloquence in describing Abby. “Ben, I’ve given it a lot of thought,” I said, even though I’d only just that moment made up my mind. “I’ve decided to lend you the money,”
He bolted upright. “Really?” he asked, his hair sticking up on top of his head like he’d been riding around in the boat all day.
I nodded. “But you have to pay me back. I’m gonna take it out of my savings.”
“No worries. I already have two jobs lined up for the summer.”
“The weight room and . . .”
“Bartending. Actually, I’m starting out as an assistant to the bartender at City Limits.”
I was more than a little worried about him being in the bar scene environment, but I didn’t want to discount his efforts. “You should make nice to the chef. Maybe you could show him how to add a little zing to a hamburger.”
A twinkle appeared in his bloodshot eyes. “I hadn’t thought of that, but maybe.”
“How many classes did you say you are behind in?”
He lay his head back down. “Just two, really. Why?”
“Like I said earlier, it’s not too late for you to change your major. You might have to go an extra semester or two, but wouldn’t it be worth it? To major in something that interests you.”
“Whatever, Kitty. I really don’t want to think about this right now.” He pulled the blanket all the way up over his head, hiding from me.
“Fine, I’ll shut up—after I say this one last thing. You have a week left before exams. If you study, I mean really study, do you think you can pass your classes?”
The blanket moved up and down as he nodded his head underneath.
“Then do it! Because you might be able to apply those business credits to a new major, if you decide to change. Especially if it was something like restaurant management.”
He pulled the blanket off his head. “Seriously, Kitty? I hate to tell you this, but I don’t think they have restaurant management at UVA.”
“Okay then, after you get your business degree from UVA, you can go to cooking school. Combined, you’ll have all the skills you need to open your own restaurant.”
He sat up and untangled himself from the blanket. “Come on. We need to get some sleep. The only thing you’ve said since you came out here that makes any sense, other than the part about you loaning me money, is that we have to be strong for George today.”
Fifteen
I’d spoken to my father on the phone a couple of times, but I hadn’t talked to my mother at all since our fallout over the sorority ordeal back in January. Instead of “How are your classes going?” or “I’ve missed seeing you,” the first thing she said to me was, “You’re planning to wear
that
to the funeral?” about the gray knit dress I’d chosen in my haste to leave Charlottesville.
“What’s wrong with it?” I peered at her over the rim of my coffee mug. “You’re the one who bought if for me, remember?”
“And I liked it then, before it was washed a few thousand times. Here,” she said, handing me a garment bag. “I picked this up for you yesterday.”
I didn’t have the strength to argue with her, so I took the bag and headed upstairs to change. Naturally, the dress was perfect: a tailored black-linen sheath. A big-girl dress for a grown-up occasion. I dumped the contents of my jewelry pouch onto my bed and searched through the pile until I found my grandmother’s diamond studs and the single strand of pearls my father had given me for my sixteenth birthday. I wanted to look nice for Yabba. To say good-bye.
The only funeral I’d ever attended was my grandfather’s, which in no way prepared me for the scene inside the Irvington Presbyterian Church. Then again, he died of a massive stroke at age eighty, not anorexia at age seventeen. His friends had come to celebrate his life’s accomplishments, but these people were here in grief, to mourn the tragic loss of life. As I walked with the usher toward the front, I noticed the families gathered together on either side of the aisle. Passing tissues and clucking tongues, the mothers whispered words of pity across the pews while their husbands bowed their heads and thanked the Lord their own daughters were healthy and alive. Teenage boys wiggled in their seats like kindergartners while their girlfriends and sisters, sitting next to them, cried openly. The pain on these girls’ faces was so raw, so intense, I found it hard to believe any of them were the bitches George had mentioned the night before. But if not them, then who?
My mother often described Mrs. Turner as homely, a term most people consider derogatory. The British, however, define homely as “simple and pleasant in a way that makes you feel comfortable and at home.” In my opinion it was a flattering, fitting description for Abigail’s mother. Over the years, she’d doctored my many scrapes and stings, but as much as I wanted to pay her back, a Band-Aid or an ice pack was no cure for a broken heart. Mr. Turner was a patient man, having developed most of that patience teaching me to water-ski. I was six, maybe seven, when he spent an entire weekend driving the boat around in circles, encouraging me to try again every time I wanted to quit. Abigail’s parents did everything together. They liked to garden and to fish and to spend their weekends immersed in some sort of home improvement project. Today, together, they would bury their daughter.
I hugged Mrs. Turner first and then her husband. Knowing there was nothing I could say to ease their pain, I told them what was in my heart. “Abigail was not only my first friend, she was my truest friend.” I choked back a sob. “I already miss her terribly.”
Ben didn’t manage as well in paying his condolences, but Abigail’s father handled him gently, patting him on the back and ushering him further down the pew toward George.
As George made his way to the pulpit to offer the eulogy, I tried to grasp why his parents would have requested something so unimaginable of their son. But he delivered it flawlessly. When he finished, there was not a dry eye in the church nor a doubt in anyone’s mind about how much he loved his sister. He made his way back to our pew, bowed his head, and proceeded to fall apart. I moved closer to him and grabbed his hand. He sobbed so hard, he rocked the pew, and his father and I had to rub and pat and whisper to him until he eventually calmed down.
After the brief service, the family, which included Ben and me, followed the pallbearers out of the church and waited while they loaded Abigail’s mahogany casket into the long black hearse. Ben and I declined George’s offer to ride to the cemetery with his family by explaining we needed to spend some time with our own parents.
I regretted the decision as soon as I slid into the backseat of my father’s Mercedes.
“Such a shame,” my mother said, clucking her tongue. “Poor darling didn’t stand a chance.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked her.
Mom turned around in her seat so she could see me. “Abigail was always so . . . well . . . she was just so shy and weak, pitiful really. I can still remember her plump little legs trying to keep up. She was never a match for you.”
“I’ll tell you what’s pitiful,” I hissed, sending particles of spit through the air toward my mother’s face. “It’s pitiful that you didn’t know her any better than to call her weak when she was one of the strongest people I know—.”
“Especially considering all the time she spent in our house,” Ben said, his face flushed with anger.
“Ben’s right. What does that say about you as a person, Mother? That you never knew how determined and intelligent and resourceful Abby was.”
My mother cocked an eyebrow at me. “If that’s so, then explain to me why she died the way she did. Even with the best doctors in the country, all that determination and resourcefulness couldn’t help her overcome an eating disorder?”
My brick wall of resolve began to crumble, and like a wave over a dam, all the pent-up anger came rushing over the top. I’d been holding it in for too long. Five years too long.
I waited until Dad drove into the parking lot of the cemetery before I said, “Anorexia is not a choice, Mom. It’s a disease. Abby died because of people like you, people who had so little faith in her. Shame on you. She looked up to you and you didn’t even know it. She admired you.” When I saw the surprised look on my mother’s face, I added, “That’s right. She thought you were the coolest, hippest mom ever, and you couldn’t even be bothered to offer her a little support.”
“What do you mean? I supported her,” my mother said, straightening her shoulders.
“Oh really? How? Did you send her a card or some flowers? Did you call her mother or her father periodically to check up on her?” My mother’s silence spoke for her. “Abby was a sensitive girl. I’m sure she knew how you really felt about her.”
“That’s enough, Katherine,” my father said.
I stared at the back of his head. As much as I wanted to unleash on him, I knew it wouldn’t change anything. He would always take her side. “No it’s not, Dad. It’s not nearly enough.” I returned my attention to my mother, realizing I was crossing a line but forging ahead anyway. “What would you know about pain and suffering? You do whatever you want, whenever you want, without giving any consideration for how your actions affect other people. Well here’s a news flash for you, Mom. Someone or something caused Abigail so much pain she starved herself to death, as much pain as you’ve caused Ben and me over the years with your nasty indiscretion and subsequent drunkenness.”
The Rose Garden Affair was a ubiquitous presence in our lives, like the invisible dust particles in the air, and even though Ben and I had talked about it all the time, neither of us had ever dared to speak of it to our parents.
I jumped from the car, slamming the door behind me, and made my way to the front row of folding chairs where George was saving a seat for Ben and me, two feet away from Yabba’s beautiful wooden box. My head was throbbing with unshed tears, but I couldn’t cry. For George’s sake, I wouldn’t cry. I made it through the short ceremony by reminding myself over and over that Abby’s soul was not in the coffin with her body. She was off somewhere, enjoying her day, either soaring with the eagles or swimming with the dolphins. She was a part of nature now—the petals on the flowers, the leaves in the trees, the waves in the rivers and oceans. She was the beating of my heart. She was free. And as I caught sight of my mother and father in the crowd, I wanted nothing more than to fly off into forever with her.
Sixteen
I apologized to my mother. Although truthfully, my apology had more to do with alleviating my own guilt than any real feelings of remorse or regret. I wasn’t sorry for unburdening myself, for saying what I’d wanted to say to her for so many years. I was only sorry that nothing had changed. I’d hoped that broaching the issue of my mother’s affair would have led our family to talk things out like in a good old-fashioned therapy session. But my parents continued to dance around the issue like they’d always done.
My apology did little to lessen her anger toward me. Never mind that she’d been way out of line in the things she’d said about Abby. In my mother’s eyes, I was the one at fault. And she loved to play the role of victim. Every comment out of her mouth carried a poor-pitiful-me tone.
I signed on for another summer in the emergency room at the New Community Hospital, not only because the experience would be invaluable for nursing school but because the twelve-hour rotating shifts would get me out of the house as much as possible.
Sensing the urgency to separate my mother and me, my father surprised her with an eight-week trip to Europe, which included a ten-day cruise on the Mediterranean.
Typical of my parents to flee from crisis.
They departed from the Richmond International Airport on the second Sunday in June, leaving Blessy in charge, although she wasn’t actually staying in the house with us. We didn’t need a babysitter. My dad insisted she was there to keep the refrigerator stocked and to cook a healthy meal for us every few days. But Ben and I knew the real reason my parents wanted Blessy on standby was to prevent us from having any wild parties or to straighten us out if we got in trouble.
Because of our work schedules, Ben and I rarely saw one another except in passing, in the kitchen for a glass of milk before bedtime or on our way to the bathroom during the night. He appeared tan and fit on the surface, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes and his voice carried a bitter undertone. And although I knew his surly moods had a lot to do with his grief over losing Abigail, I suspected his funk also had something to do with Emma, who was nannying her eight and ten-year-old cousins in Texas for the summer.
***
I’d seldom known a Fourth of July that didn’t include a ride in the Irvington Parade in Abigail’s father’s 1966 Mustang convertible or a trip to the Tides Inn to watch the fireworks display from the deck of the
Miss Anne
—the 127-foot vintage yacht whose cruises were as much a tradition on Carter’s Creek as the boat parade was at Christmas. But, instead of being at the river, surrounded by all the things that reminded me of the friend I’d lost, I was stuck in Richmond. Even though I was looking forward to the party Archer’s parents were hosting that night, I still missed Abigail, more than all the other days since she’d died.