The Perfect Comeback of Caroline Jacobs (23 page)

“No, I say that death is hardest on the dead, because death sucks. It's the reason why we don't step in front of buses or jump off bridges. It's why we're not supposed to go gentle into that good night. Death is the worst. It steals everything. It makes everything important unimportant. It makes hard work meaningless. It steals friendship and love.”

“
Polly,
” her grandmother said. “That's enough.”

“No, it's okay,” George said between sniffles. “Go on.”

“We may all grieve the loss of Tutu—some more than others—but we can all go on with the memory of Tutu in our hearts. For us, there is still stuff ahead. Beauty and love. Laughter and smiles. We can carry Tutu in our hearts wherever we go, and someday the sadness that we feel about her death will be replaced by happy memories and nostalgia. But for Tutu, there will be no more sunny days. No more love or joy. Her book is closed. Never to be opened again. We stand here today to mourn the loss of Tutu. But do not mourn for your loss. Mourn for his. We still have the bright and happy memory of Tutu to carry us forward.She He has nothing.”

Spartacus wiped away tears from his eyes. “I never even knew Tutu.”

Caroline's mother squeezed his arm.

“Oh,” Polly said, the formality of her voice now gone. “Unless of course you believe in heaven, and in this case, a heaven for birds. If that's the case, then Tutu is probably nibbling on a mountain of birdseed right now, happier than all of us. But honestly, who believes in heaven anymore?”

“
Polly!
” Caroline's mother said.

“One more thing, Polly said. “Did you know that President Andrew Jackson's pet parrot had to be removed from his funeral because it wouldn't stop swearing? I think Tutu would've liked that.”

By the time Polly had finished speaking, Caroline was crying.

“Don't worry,” George said, reaching over and squeezing her hand. “Spartacus is right. Tutu was only a bird, and she lived a good, long life.”

But Caroline barely heard George's words. She was thinking about Lucy and that day on the corner of Summer and Federal streets. The little girl a full head shorter than she, always looking up, always squinting into the sunlight, always smiling. The little girl who loved pancakes but despised waffles, who never met a set of stairs that she didn't run up, and who followed her big sister with a ferocity that bordered on obsession.

She was thinking about that girl and the terrible, awful moment that ended it all.

 

 

Fifteen minutes later, Caroline was sitting on the front porch in the rocking chair. She had asked to be left alone for a while, though she wasn't sure why. The floodgates had opened on her memories of the day Lucy had died, but the memories had always been there, pushing and nudging and constantly threatening to creep into her consciousness. Tutu's funeral had given rise to them. She felt foolish and weak sitting in the rocking chair, red faced and teary-eyed. She had wanted to stand beside her daughter at the funeral for a dead bird. She had wanted to dispense with this burden once and for all. Instead, she had fallen apart.

“Caroline?” It was George, stepping out onto the porch. “I have to go, but I just wanted to say thank you.”

Caroline smiled. “For what? Ruining the funeral?”

“Ruining it? I thought I was going to be alone back there. Then Polly showed up, which was amazing, and she guilted Spartacus into joining us. And then you and your husband and your friend and the police officer showed up. I only wish Tutu could've seen how many people were there.” He snickered a little and then added, “Actually, I wish my family could've seen how many people came. They thought the whole thing was ridiculous.”

“Still, I'm sorry for all the tears, “Caroline said. “It was a little over the top.” She didn't have the heart to tell him that the tears she had wept for a long dead sister and not for Tutu.

“It was a funeral,” he said. “Tears are mandatory.”

Caroline rose from the chair and reached out to hug George. “I'm sorry for your loss. I really am.”

“I know. Thanks.”

Caroline stood on the edge of the porch, watching as George climbed into his car and backed out of the driveway. Two days ago she had thought that he was a strange little man. She wasn't entirely wrong, but George Durow had proved to be so much more as well.

Polly seemed to have known it all along.

“I assume you weren't bawling about the bird?” It was Polly. She had sidled alongside Caroline in time to watch as George's car disappeared around the curve on Main Street and into a reddening sky.

“Mind telling me where you were all night?”

“The cop already told me that you found my hideout,” Polly said. “Pretty clever.”

“Then would you mind telling me why you ran away in the first place?”

“I didn't run away. I was just pissed at you and had no place to go. We're sharing a bedroom. Remember?”

“So you figured you'd stay away all night?”

“Sometimes I disappear to my room for days, in case you didn't notice. This was less than twenty-four hours. You should consider yourself lucky.”

“I should consider myself lucky?”

For a second, it appeared as if Polly was going to fire back. Then she stopped. “Fine, I'm sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I froze my butt off last night.”

“It doesn't. You scared the hell out of me. Out of all of us.”

“I said I was sorry. And hey, I like your photos. You got them back. Right?”

“Yeah, I did. You do?”

“They're really good, Mom. I kind of love them. You should put them online. Let people see them.”

“There's a big difference between your family liking your work and the world liking your work.”

“No kidding,” Polly said. “The world can't like anything you do if you never let them see it.”

“Someday. I'm just not ready yet.”

“Are you trying to be the next Grandma Moses?”

“I'm not that old,” Caroline said.

“Not yet,” Polly said. “But if you wait long enough, you might find yourself old and gray before anyone sees your stuff. Seriously, Mom. It's time to stop hiding behind your camera. You're actually talented. It's shocking but true.”

“Don't think this is getting you out of trouble for last night.”

“Hey, I have an idea,” Polly said. She was trying to change the subject, Caroline knew. “Ever hear of J D Wetherspoon?”

“No.”

“It's this chain of British pubs. Like nine hundred of them altogether, owned by this guy named Tim Martin. Guess where he got the name for the pubs.”

“I'm guessing he didn't name them after himself,” Caroline said.

“No, he named them after a teacher who told him that he's never be successful in business. Don't you love that? He named his business out of spite. And revenge.”

“And?” Caroline said, knowing that there was more.

“I think you should open up that photography studio you've always wanted and name it something like Better Than Emily. Or Suck It, Emily Kaplan.”

Caroline smiled.

The two stood on the porch in silence, watching the cars drive by, avoiding eye contact. Last night Caroline had been ready, anxious even, to tell Polly the secret that she had kept hidden for so long—both in her heart and in the closet in the upstairs bedroom of this house. It had felt so right. Almost meant to be. But now it felt as if the barriers between the two of them had been reestablished and to break through them would be impossible. Mother and daughter, opposing forces on the battlefield once again.

“So what were you crying about if it wasn't Tutu or your broken head?” Polly asked. “I was actually worried about you for a minute there.”

And just like that, the door opened once again. Polly had extended her hand, absent of sarcasm and malice, and all Caroline had to do was grab it.

twenty-seven

It was exactly as she had remembered: the pink and yellow bedspread, the misshapen beanbag chair, the enormous stuffed panda slumped in the corner, the heart-shaped mirror above the dresser. All seemed ancient and innocent. Frozen in time. Even the dusty light filtering in through pink curtains felt nostalgic. As far as Caroline knew, nothing had been touched since the day that Lucy had died. She knew that her mother occasionally spent time in this room, sitting on the window seat or the edge of Lucy's bed, and she would dust and vacuum on rare occasions, but otherwise it had been undisturbed, a monument to a sister who had been gone for so long.

“I've never seen the inside of this room before,” Polly said, peering over her mother's shoulder.

The last time Caroline had been in here, she had stuffed a plastic bag in the back of Lucy's closet. She had been panicked and frightened and consumed with guilt. Her hands had trembled as she reached back into the closet as far as she could. Standing here now, on the edge of the past, she understood the enormity of the guilt she'd carried with her through her life. It had become a part of her, as essential as her heart and lungs. It was what made her who she was. Caroline was here to share her most secret of secrets with her daughter, but she now understood that doing so would not alleviate her guilt. That could never happen.

“When was the last time you were in here?” Polly asked.

“I haven't seen this room since I was your age,” Caroline said. “God, it looks exactly the same.”

“Are we going in?”

Three small steps and Caroline reached the purple rug that filled the center of the room. She turned slowly, taking in the entirety of the space as she did. Beside the bed was a small desk and chair. Caroline stepped over to it.
Adventures in Mathematics
, a textbook that she had once used in elementary school, was sitting atop a dictionary and a Nancy Drew mystery. Beside the books was a spiral bound notebook, a small diary with a tiny padlock and a ceramic bowl full of hair elastics, barrettes, and ribbons. Lucy had made the bowl at summer camp. Caroline knew that if she turned it over, she would find Lucy's initials carved roughly in the bottom.

She took a step closer and saw strands of hair wrapped around a couple of elastics. It seemed eerie that parts of Lucy still existed in this room where time had stopped.

“What's this?” Polly asked, speaking in a soft, reverent voice.

She turned. Polly was standing by the bedside table and pointing at a small pile of yellow and black Memorex cassette tapes. “Those are Lucy's tapes,” Caroline said, stepping over for a closer look. “I'd forgotten all about them. She got a tape recorder for Christmas one year, and she would spend hours recording songs off the radio while she sang to them. Kind of like old school karaoke.”

“She'd hold the tape recorder up to the radio?” Polly asked.

“It was a different time,” Caroline said. “Lucy loved to sing to the radio. Madonna. Whitney Houston. The Bangles.”

“Madonna was making music when you were a kid?”

“Are you kidding me? Madonna's been around—”

“I was kidding,” Polly said.

“Ha-ha.”

“Is it okay if I sit?” Polly asked.

“Sure. On the window seat. Okay?”

Caroline remained standing in the center of the room. She stared at the bed and could almost see her sister snuggled under the covers, propped up on a pile of pillows, listening to the radio and reading a book.

Lucy had been the best person that Caroline had ever known. She was kind and unrelentingly happy. And she had died before the temptations of life could pierce her childhood innocence. Lucy never had the chance to take a drag on her first cigarette or steal a pair of cheap earrings from the pharmacy or let a boy slide his hand down her pants in the backseat of a car. She had read her mystery stories and listened to her music and finished her homework before dinner each day. And then one day she took the last bike ride of her life.

Caroline was crying before she realized it, sobbing uncontrollably, and before she could say a word, Polly had taken her by the hand and was pulling her toward the window seat.

“No,” Caroline said. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Just wait.”

Caroline took a deep breath between sobs, trying to bring them under control, and then stepped over to the other side of the room. She opened the closet door. The smell of cedar instantly filled her nostrils, making the past seem even more real than a moment ago.

“What is it, Mom?” Polly asked, and for some reason, hearing Polly say
Mom
was enough to bring the sobbing back. She took another deep breath, wiped the tears from her face and eyes, and then got down on her hands and knees. She crawled into the closet, ducking underneath long forgotten cotton dresses and a yellow terrycloth bathrobe, and reached into the back corner of the closet. She felt around, worried for a moment by the empty space, and then her fingertips felt the plastic. She pulled, careful to grasp the bag by the handles so the contents wouldn't spill. A second later, she was holding the very thing that she had avoided thinking about and yet somehow never stopped thinking about for the last twenty-five years.

“What is it?” Polly asked. Her voice was still soft. Caroline hadn't told her why she had been brought here, but Polly seemed to know that it was something important.

“It's…,” Caroline said, unsure of her next words, not because she was choosing them carefully but because she didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to describe the benign yet life-altering contents of the bag. Instead, she stepped over to the window seat and sat down beside Polly, plastic bag in her lap.

“It's okay, Mom. Seriously.” Polly put her arm around Caroline, and instantly, she dipped her face into her daughter's shoulder and began to weep. She had never wept so hard in her life.

Caroline wasn't sure how long she cried in Polly's arms, but the moment finally came when she was able to breathe without sobs and blink without tears. She gave her daughter a final squeeze and straightened.