The Rules of Love & Grammar (28 page)

He removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Do you remember the summer you wanted to visit your cousin Jenny in Boston, and you went up there for a week?”

I have a fleeting memory of the town house on Beacon Hill, Jenny's flaxen hair, my aunt Cordelia and uncle Henry, and their border collie, who slept on the bed with me. That was the summer I turned fourteen. “Yes, why?”

“We never told you this, but while you were away, your sister tried to commit suicide.”

I turn and look into my father's eyes, and I feel the world falling away from me. I'm sliding down the side of a mountain, trying to hold on to crags and tree roots, unable to grip anything. “What happened?”

He takes a deep breath. “Mom found her. On the floor of her bathroom, barely conscious. We got her to the hospital, and they pumped her stomach. She'd been drinking vodka, and then she took Percocet. It would have killed her.” He closes his eyes, and his chin trembles. Mom puts her hand on his arm.

“Why didn't you tell me about this? Even the police station—you never told me.”

“We'd always planned to tell you,” my mother says. “After the accident.” She looks down and runs her hand over the bedspread. “But then, a year would go by and another year and another, and after a while we didn't really know how to bring it up. I mean, what do you do? Mention it over breakfast one morning? We didn't want you to have to deal with it. You were a kid.”

“I wasn't a kid. I was fourteen. And I was her sister.” I try to understand their reasoning, but I can't. I feel as though I've been denied something all these years, something I should have had. It's as though I were studying for a final exam and found out right before the test that I'd been given only half the textbook. “She tried to kill herself, and you never told me. I think I had a right to know.” I look toward the window again. The light is growing weaker, the sun less intense. The afternoon is waning. What an odd turn of events. Here I assume I'm depositing the ugly truth on my parents' doorstep, bursting the bright bubble in which my sister has floated, and it turns out I'm the one who gets a dose of the truth.

“Renny didn't want you to know,” Dad says. “She didn't want anyone to know. For a long time she wouldn't admit it was a suicide attempt.”

“What do you mean?”

“She told us it was a mistake,” he says. “That she got confused and forgot she'd taken the pills for a headache. And then she had a couple of drinks. But your mother and I…we never believed that. And one night Renny finally confessed.”

Mom clasps her hands. “She was depressed. And maybe she had an anxiety disorder. I don't know. I'm not a psychiatrist. And, God knows, she wouldn't see one. But you know how she struggled to be perfect at everything.” She looks away, tears in her eyes. “I don't know, Grace. I don't know.”

“I'm sorry we didn't tell you,” Dad says. “But we're telling you now, because you've got to let this go.” He looks toward the window, the lace curtains fluttering. “You're right,” he says. “We did lavish praise on Renny. We did give her a lot of attention and encouragement. But we had to, with all of her emotional ups and downs. We knew she was heading for trouble, and we thought keeping her focused on sports and things that were good for her would keep her safe. She needed the attention and the encouragement. And it worked. At least for a while.”

He places the bottle of shampoo back in the bag. “But you…” When he looks at me again, there's a weary smile on his face. “We never had to worry about you. You were the easy one. You did what you needed to do without any fuss or fanfare from us, and you never got into trouble. You just quietly went about your business.”

I'd like to believe him, but I know what I saw in the spiral notebook. I know what I saw on the back of the envelope.

“But you're still writing about her,” I say. “
She leaves them in her wake.
I saw that line on the back of an envelope. And there's a poem in one of your notebooks, about seeds that get scattered to the wind and blow away. Those things are all about Renny. About Renny leaving us. She'll always be first in your mind, in your heart.”

My father's mouth falls open. His eyes widen. “Grace,
She leaves them in her wake
is not about Renny. It has nothing to do with her. It's a line about a sailboat. It's literally about a boat's wake; it's not a metaphor for anything. And the one about the seeds…” He pauses, and I see such tenderness in his eyes. “That's actually about you.”

Everything is suddenly still. I see dust motes descend in front of the window; I hear the clock in the hallway tick. “It's about me?”

He glances at Mom. “Sometimes your mother and I feel as though…well, we think you've pulled away from us. You hardly ever come home.”

“And you never stay long when you do,” Mom says. “You're in and out in a day.” She winces. “I hate to admit this, honey, but we were secretly happy about the problem with your ceiling. At least we knew you'd be staying here for a while.”

Dad nods.

Oh my God. I've been that bad?

“Sometimes it's almost as though we've lost you, too,” he says.

Lost me?

I'm watching a movie in slow motion, frame by frame. It's a movie I've seen so many times, I thought I knew the beginning, the middle, and the end by heart. But now I realize maybe I didn't. I gaze around the room, at the mirror, framed in seashells; the bookshelves, cluttered with old novels and poetry books; the jar of sea glass on the bureau; and my mother and father, sitting next to me, looking so tired.

“No, you haven't lost me.” I stretch my arms toward them, and they lean in. We huddle and hold one another as tightly as we can.

T
hat night I lie awake for hours, replaying events from my life, looking at everything through a new filter, feeling as though the pieces of the puzzle have come together. When I get up the next morning, the sun is streaming into the room. I push aside the lace curtains and stare at the blue of Long Island Sound. I can see the place where the float used to be. I could draw a straight line from the middle of the backyard into the water and find that spot any day.

I see the float, too. It's bobbing in the water, the gray paint peeling and flaking, sun glinting off the metal ladder. And Renny is there. She's in her pink bikini, standing on the diving board, her wet hair dripping. She laughs and bounces a couple of times on the end of the board. Then she springs off, makes a high arc, and swan dives into the sound. The water closes around her, and there's a long moment when she's gone and all that's left is a line of blue. But then she comes to the surface, swims a few strokes, and grabs hold of the ladder. She looks toward my window and sees me. And then she smiles and waves.

Everything is red, white, and blue when Cluny and I drive her Jeep down Main Street on our way to the Dorset Challenge. American flags unfurl in the breeze outside stores, and planters on the sidewalks dazzle with multicolored impatiens.

“Wow, look at that.” I point to Bagatelle's window, where two mannequins show off sparkly red cocktail dresses and blue and white streamers dangle from the ceiling.

“Pretty,” Cluny says. “Everything looks so festive.”

My stomach growls as we pass the Sugar Bowl, giant blue stars on the windows advertising their star-shaped Fourth of July pancakes, served with strawberries, blueberries, and homemade whipped cream.

It's seven thirty, and in just a little over three hours, the Fourth of July parade will be coming down this street, and Cluny and I will be on the side of the road with Greg and the girls, cheering and waving flags as fire trucks and antique cars, town officials, marching bands, and schoolkids go by. But between now and then, we've got a bike ride to conquer.

Cluny parks the Jeep, and we pull the two bikes from the back—Greg's blue Giant, which she's riding, and Cluny's yellow Cannondale, which I'm riding.

We walk the bikes to the village green. “They've really got a good turnout,” I say as I survey the riders gathered on the lawn.

“There must be a hundred and fifty people here,” Cluny says.

I scan the crowd, punctuated with riders dressed in red, white, and blue clothing, and I'm glad I decided to wear white shorts and a blue shirt. The gazebo is draped in banners of stars and stripes, and American flags planted around the perimeter of the lawn flap in the breeze.

As we cross the green, I spot Luann, the waitress from the Sugar Bowl. She and a man are walking their bikes to the registration table. We wave to Poppy Norwich, and I wonder if she's working on another book. I still haven't picked up
What You've Been Doing Wrong All Along,
but maybe it's worth a read. I mean, it was a bestseller. She's in cycling gear, and she's got a fancy-looking Cervélo next to her.

A man I don't know keeps staring at me, and I wonder if he recognizes me from the TV interview. God, I hope he doesn't want me to organize his closets. I hurry ahead, Cluny following me. And then I see someone I do know, and I stop.

“Cluny, look to the right,” I whisper. “It's Porcine Thighs!” Cluny follows my gaze toward the woman in black cycling shorts and a bright-orange jersey.

“Oh my God,” she says. “Her thighs
are
huge.”

I'm about to say
I told you
when I catch Porcine glancing at me. She turns away, and I think I'm home free. But then her head swivels back, our eyes lock, and I can see the wheels turning. Recognition sparks on her face, and my stomach jumps. I could take off—just make a run for it. I'm probably faster than she is. But I don't do that. I can't keep running from everything. I can't try to escape my demons forever. So I stand there, prepared to meet the enemy, a couple of muscles in my face twitching. But Porcine doesn't come after me. She just raises a hand and flicks me a tepid wave. I flick a wave back, and then I start to breathe again.

Riders are walking around the snack table, picking up coffee and Gatorade, grabbing slices of bagels, bananas, and oranges. Most people are dressed in shorts and T-shirts, like Cluny and me, but a number of riders are in cycling shorts and jerseys and biking shoes that clip onto their pedals. Some are wearing identical jerseys and helmets and even have the name of their team on their shirts.

Cluny and I grab some banana slices, and I spot A.J. working at one of the registration tables. I don't know if he's still angry with me about the interview, but, in the spirit of facing my demons head-on, I tell Cluny I'm going to talk to him, and I walk up and lean the Cannondale against the table.

“Hey, A.J.”

His little hoop earring sparkles when he glances up at me. “Grace,” he says, a cautious note in his voice.

“It's good to see you,” I tell him. “I'm glad you're here, because I'd like to apologize for that TV interview. I didn't mean to say anything bad about the store. I love the place and I'd never want to hurt anyone there…or the business. So, I'm sorry, and I hope we can still be friends.” I give a tentative smile.

There's a moment of silence. Then he smiles, too. “Yeah, sure.”

A feeling of relief washes over me, and I begin to wonder if Mitch is here. Maybe I could straighten things out with him as well. It's too small a town to have enemies. “Is Mitch working here, too? Or is he riding in this?” I ask.

“No, he's at the store today,” A.J. says, and he hands a plastic bag to me and one to Cluny, who has pulled her bike up alongside me.

I feel a little disappointed. This seems to be a good place for détente.

Cluny and I open our bags. Inside I find a rider number to pin on my shirt, a wristband to prove I've paid, coupons from local merchants, a water bottle with Paradise Day Spa's name and phone number on it, and a piece of paper that lists roads and mileage.

“Those are your cue sheets.” A.J. points to my paper. “They've got the directions and the distances you'll be traveling on each road. Plus rest and refreshment stops.”

Cluny and I glance at the sheets. Twenty-four and seven-tenths miles. It's spelled out right there. I look at the list of roads and turns—3.2 miles, 4.7 miles, 2.9 miles, 7.6 miles, and on and on. And it's got to be eighty degrees out already. “Is it too late to back out?” I whisper to her.

Her eyes widen. “Back out? You can't do that. You're the one who got me into this. And I have a big deadline tomorrow. If I can do this, you can. You're staying.”

“Don't forget,” A.J. says as he hands a bag to another cyclist, “there's going to be a big breakfast here after the ride. Tulip's is bringing the food.”

“I'm not sure I'll make it back alive for breakfast,” I tell him.

“Thanks,” Cluny says. “We'll be there.” She gives me a stern look.

I study the cue sheet again. For the first several miles, we're on the same route as the fifty-mile riders. That can't be good. “Maybe we should just do the five-mile route.”

“That one's super easy,” A.J. says. “It's for the kids and the old people.”

Cluny laughs. “Well, we're definitely not kids.”

I look at A.J., who must be a decade younger than us. “And we're not old people.” He doesn't say a word. Oh my God. “Are we?”

“I don't
think
so,” he says, which fails to make me feel any better. “Anyway, you can always turn around and come back early if you get tired. Or call me, and I'll pick you up. I'll be driving the broom wagon.”

“The what?” Cluny asks.

“The van. You know, to help people with flats and things.”

“I think we'll be fine,” Cluny says, wheeling her bike away from the table. I take down A.J.'s cell number just in case.

“Okay, then,” I say as I glance at the toned and muscled riders around us. “I guess we'd better get started.”

The crowd is thinning as riders finish their snacks and get on the road. We fill our extra Paradise Day Spa bottles with water, stash our stuff in our saddlebags, and walk the bikes toward the edge of the green. A group of kids pass us, American flag crepe paper threaded through the spokes of their wheels. They're being trailed by a photographer wearing an identification tag on a string around his neck. He's probably with the
Dorset Review.
He looks desperate to get some pictures. I start to run after the kids, to warn them about the dangers of the media, but Cluny pulls me back.

“Are you ready?” she says when we get to the road.

“I'm as ready as I'll ever be.”

We take off down Main Street in a pack of colorful bikes and riders, and, although I wish I were riding Renny's bike, the Cannondale is nimble, my legs feel pretty good, and I'm glad to be outside on such a beautiful day.

“Check out Between the Covers,” Cluny says as we approach the end of the block. “Looks like Regan's done some holiday decorating, too.”

I slow down to look. The window is filled with American flags, patriotic pinwheels, Uncle Sam hats, and a selection of books about the Revolutionary War.

“Do you think…” I'm about to ask Cluny if she thinks Regan can actually read those books. But then I catch myself, and I make a resolution not to stoop to that level anymore. You never know what's going on in someone else's life or what battles they might be struggling to fight.

By the time we turn onto Sheffield Avenue, a green, leafy, meandering road, the better riders have sped out of sight, leaving clusters of amateurs like me and Cluny. We ride by an old saltbox house, a field where wild turkeys scratch at the ground for nuts and seeds, and a patch of woods where the air is cooler and the rhythmic tap of a woodpecker echoes.

A mile and a half later, we pass the Everett Library, where my father has given a lifetime of poetry readings and the scent of books is steeped and pressed into every crevice of its two-hundred-year-old structure. I glance at the sign—
Annual Book Sale, August 2–5—
and I picture the opening day, with cars parked a quarter of a mile away and a hundred people lined up, eager to get into the tent.

After another two miles we're at the nature center, with its greenhouse and sand-colored cottage where classes and workshops are held. The parking lot is filled with cars, and a crowd is outside, milling around tables of potted plants.

“It's the annual herb and plant sale,” Cluny says, pulling up next to me.

“My mom's probably there,” I tell her.

As we pass other riders, I'm thrilled to know there are people slower than me, but farther along, a pack of geared-up cyclists in matching black biking shorts and yellow and black jerseys zooms by us, practically knocking us over with their draft, and I'm brought back to reality. We ride around twists and turns and up and down hills, and I keep pedaling, doing my best to stay in the same gear.

As we cycle past an estuary north of Dorset, the smell of the salt marsh fills my lungs, and patches of tall, yellow-green grass blow in the warm breeze. We catch sight of red barns and stone walls covered with lichen, and deer scampering through the woods. We ride alongside clusters of yellow and pink and purple wildflowers and a pond where swans glide like fairy-tale creatures. We travel along smooth, paved roads where the only sound is the hum of the tires, and down dirt roads that jostle us in our seats. I'm feeling pretty good. Actually, I'm feeling great.

And then we come to the start of a hill. It's not one of those hills that go straight up, like the one Mitch and I rode over on the way to the lighthouse. At first, this hill doesn't look bad. I downshift a couple of times, thinking that might take care of things. But the road is insidious. It climbs slowly, gradually, and it just keeps going, up and up. And I keep shifting down and down, until I have no gears left. I try to concentrate on the fields and wildflowers going by, telling myself this has to end at some point. But the burn in my legs tells me they might give out before the road does. I'm going slower and slower. I'm panting, and I can hear Cluny behind me, panting as well. My legs are screaming in pain, and the road keeps climbing. I can barely push the pedals.

“Whyyyyy,” Cluny groans, “did you get me into this?”

“Sorryyyy,” I say, my bike swerving in and out because I can't pedal fast enough to keep it straight.

There's a stretch of near silence—just the sound of two gasping women. Then I hear Cluny's ragged voice. “You said…this would be easy. You said…we could do this.”

“I…know. I…lied.” I'm wheezing, my whole body so weak and wobbly I feel as though I'm going to collapse.

Cluny grunts behind me. “I haaaaate you!”

I'm zigzagging all over the road now, and she's doing the same.

“Are we there yet?” she moans.

All of a sudden, I can't go any farther. I stop, and my feet drop to the road. I straddle the bike. “That's enough,” I pant. “I can't do this anymore. I need a break.”

“Thank God,” she says as we stagger off the bikes and drag them to the side of the road by a field, our legs threatening to buckle under us. We drop to the ground by a fence and tilt back our water bottles.

“How much farther?” I ask after I drain half the bottle.

Cluny wipes her face with a towel and takes out her cue sheet. “Eight more miles.”

“Eight? Oh God, that can't be right. Check again.” My legs throb, and my bottom is numb. I think about Tulip's breakfast, and I can almost smell the eggs and bacon, the pancakes and maple syrup.