The Truth About Forever (34 page)

Thinking this, I glanced at Lucy again. When we'd come back with the mayonnaise, Delia had been beyond frazzled, frantically boiling huge kettles of water while she and Bert chopped a small mountain of potatoes in the garage. Lucy, hot and bored, was underfoot, and Delia had handed her off to us, asking us to just entertain her until it was time to start mixing everything up. Now I watched as she pushed one of her tight black curls out of her face and pressed an orange crayon to the paper, zigzagging across it. "Cow," she said, with authority.

"Cow," I said.

A breeze blew over the porch then, ruffling the trees, and suddenly there was a flash, something glinting around the side of the house, that I caught out of the corner of my eye. I leaned back on my palms, craning my neck, and saw that in the side yard there were several angels, big and small, as well as a few works in progress: large pieces of rebar twisted and sculpted, a couple of whirligigs that were still only gigs, missing their moving parts. Behind them, lining the fence, was what looked like a small salvage yard, pile after pile of pieces of pipe, metal car parts and hardware, gears in every size from enormous to small enough to fit in the palm of your hand.

"So," I said, nodding toward that side of the house, "that's where the magic happens."

"It's not magic," he replied, watching Lucy scribble orange all across the top of the page.

"Maybe not to you," I said, as he made his modest face. "Can I see?"

As we came around the corner of the porch, Lucy, who was toddling along ahead of us, immediately ran down the stairs and toward a large piece that was made up of hubcaps attached to a twisted center pipe. "Push! Push!" she demanded, slapping at one of the lower parts with her hand.

"Say please," Wes told her. When she did, he gave one of the top hubcaps a big push, and the entire piece began spinning, some of the circles rising up, while others moved down, all of it circular, catching the light again and again. Lucy stepped back, watching entranced and silent until it slowed a couple of minutes later, then creaked to a stop.

"More!" she said. She was so excited she was hopping up and down. "Wes, more!"

Wes looked at me. "This," he said dryly, "can go on for hours." But he pushed it again anyway.

"Wes?" Delia's voice carried over the trees. "Can you come over here? I need something heavy lifted."

"I
said
I can do it," I heard Bert protest. "I'm stronger than I look!"

"Wes?" Delia called again. Poor Bert, I thought.

"Coming," Wes replied. To me he said, "You okay with her for a minute?" When I nodded, he headed around the side of the house. Lucy watched him go, and I wondered if she was going to start screaming. But instead she began walking across the yard with what for a two-year-old seemed like a strong sense of purpose.

When I finally caught up with her, she was at the back fence. Looking over her shoulder, I saw a row of three small heart-in-hand sculptures, miniatures of the one by the side of the road. Each one was slightly different: in the first, the heart had a zigzag across it, like it was broken. In another, the edges of the heart were jagged, pointy, and sharp looking. My favorite was the one on the very end, where the heart in the center of the palm had another, smaller, hand cut into its center, reminding me of the little nesting dolls I'd had as a kid. All the sculptures were especially rusted and dirty: clearly they'd been there for awhile before Lucy pushed aside the grass covering them.

Now, she turned her head and looked at me. "Hands," she said.

"Hands," I repeated. I watched as she took her small hand and pressed it to the hand in the first sculpture, her fingers overlapping the rusted ones, the pale, smoothness of her skin contrasting with the dark, ragged metal. Then she glanced back at me and I did the same, pressing my hand to the one beside it.

I felt a shadow fall over us and looked up to see Wes coming back across the yard, with Delia beside him. Lucy turned her head and, seeing her mother, scrambled to her feet and darted across the grass, hurling herself at Delia's knees. Delia looked down at her, shaking her head, and pulled her fingers through Lucy's dark curls.

"What are you guys doing?" Wes asked me.

"She was showing me these," I told him, nodding toward the sculptures. "I never knew you made small ones."

"Just for a little while," he said, dismissively. "They never really caught on."

"So," I said, standing up, "is it time for potato duty?"

"Nope," Wes told me. "False alarm."

"Really?"

Delia pressed Lucy against her legs. "It's the strangest thing," she said, shaking her head. "Right as we're about to start boiling all those potatoes, I get this phone call from the client. Turns out that they don't want potato salad after all, that they'd rather do coleslaw and macaroni and cheese, which we have plenty of, instead."

"I tried to tell her," Wes said, "that this is a
good
thing."

"Of course it is," I told her. "Why wouldn't it be?"

She smoothed her hand over Lucy's head. "It's just… weird. I don't know. It makes me suspicious."

Wes just looked at her. "You know, sometimes things do go the way they're supposed to. It's not unheard of."

"It is for us," Delia said with a sigh. "Anyway, now we at least we have plenty of time to get ready. Which I guess, you know, is good." She still didn't sound convinced.

"Don't worry," Wes said, as we started back toward her house. "I'm sure disaster will strike any minute now."

Delia reached down, taking Lucy's hand. "Yeah," she said, seeming encouraged. "You're probably right."

As we packed for the job, though, things kept happening. Or, more accurately,
not
happening. Whereas we usually had to cram all the carts in and hope they'd fit, for some reason this time Delia had managed to organize the items in the coolers so economically that we were able to take one less, so everything went in easily, with even (gasp!) room left over. The best round serving platter, which had been missing for weeks, suddenly turned up in the garage, behind one of the freezers. And, most amazing of all, instead of racing down Sweetbud Road already late, we finished with time to spare and actually found ourselves having to kill time instead of scramble for it. It was a little weird, I had to admit.

Delia and I ended up on the front steps fanning ourselves, while Bert and Wes milled around the garage, packing the last few things. "So," she said, leaning back on her hands in an effort to get comfortable. "I heard you quit your job."

I glanced at Wes, who was passing by with a box of napkins. "Couldn't help it," he said. "It's just too good not to tell."

"Maybe you should tell my mom, then," I said, pulling my hair back behind my neck.

"No thanks," he said, before disappearing back into the garage.

"You really think she'll be mad?" Delia asked me. "From what you've said about that job, you were miserable there."

"I was," I said. "But to her, it's not about that. It's about the fact that I made a commitment."

"Ah."

"And that this job would look good on my transcript."

"I see."

"And," I finished, "it fits right in with what she wants me to be."

"Which is?"

I ran the fabric of my shirt between my thumb and forefinger, remembering our conversation that morning, as well as the one the night before. "Perfect," I said.

Delia shook her head. "Come on," she said, waving her hand as if brushing this very thought aside, "I'm sure she doesn't want that."

"Why wouldn't she?" I asked.

"Well, for starters, because it's impossible." She leaned back again, shifting her weight a little bit. "And secondly, because she's your mother. And mothers, of all people, are the least likely to care about such things."

"Yeah, right," I said glumly.

"I'm serious." She stretched her feet out in front of her, smoothing her hands over her belly. "I know something about this, okay? All I care about for Lucy, and Wes and Bert, is that they be happy. Healthy. And good people, you know? I'm not perfect, not by a long shot. So why would I expect them to be?"

"My mom's not like that," I told her, shaking my head.

"Okay," she said. "Then what
is
she like?"

I sat there for a second, considering this, surprised, as the seconds passed, that the answer didn't come more easily. "She works too much," I began, then stopped. "I mean, since my dad died she's had to carry the whole business. There's always so much to do, I worry about her. A lot."

Delia didn't say anything. I could feel her watching me.

"And I think she works so much because she can be in control of it, you know?" I said. She nodded. "It makes her feel, I don't know, safe."

"I can understand that," Delia said softly. "Losing someone can make you feel very out of control. Totally so."

"I know," I said. "But it's not really fair. Like, after my dad died, I wanted to be okay for her. So I was. Even when I had to fake it. But now, when I really do feel okay, she's not happy with me. Because I'm not perfect anymore."

"Grieving doesn't make you imperfect," Delia said quietly, as Bert came back out to the van, adjusting one of the carts inside. "It makes you human. We all deal with things differently, Macy. Your mom is missing your dad in her own way, every day. Maybe you should ask her about it."

"I can't," I said. "I can't even bring him up. I tried this morning for the first time in ages, and she just shut down."

"Then try again." She moved closer to me, putting an arm around my shoulder. "Look, everyone mourns at their own pace. Maybe you're just a little bit ahead of her, but she'll get to you eventually. The important thing is that you keep trying to talk to each other, even if it's difficult at first. It gets easier. I promise."

I felt so tired all of a sudden that I just relaxed into her shoulder, leaning my head there. She smoothed her hand over my hair, saying nothing. "Thank you," I said.

"Oh, sweetie," she replied, her voice vibrating under my cheek. "You're so welcome."

We sat there like that, not talking, for a good minute or two. Then, from the garage, we heard it.

"Gotcha!"

It was Bert who shrieked in response to this. I knew it instantly.

Delia sighed loudly. "Honestly," she said.

"That's ten," I heard Wes say, and Bert grumbled something I couldn't make out in return. "And counting."

Once we got to the party, our good-luck trend continued. It seemed at first that we were off to a normal start, when we arrived to find that the large gas grills Delia had ordered from her equipment company would not, no matter how many times Wes tried, ignite with any sort of flame.

"Oh, my God!" she was hissing at me as people started arriving. "This is a cookout. A
cookout
. You have to cook outside. It's part of the definition!"

"Delia, just—"

And then, suddenly, there was a whoosh, and we had fire. It turned out that the gas tanks just hadn't been hooked up. No problem.

Then, about an hour later, as I was doing a last round of appetizers before the grilled items came out, Bert noticed that we'd only brought one case of hamburger patties instead of two, which left us about, oh, a hundred or so short.

"Okay," Delia said, putting her hands to her face, "God, just let me think… think…"

"What's wrong?" Wes said as he passed through, picking up more ginger ale for the bar.

"We didn't bring enough hamburgers," I told him. To Delia I said, "Look, it's fine, most people probably won't even—"

"Three cases isn't enough?" Wes said.

Delia took her hands off her face. "There were supposed to be two," she said, speaking slowly.

"You said three," he told her. "I remember."

"I said two," she said, sounding out the words carefully.

"I don't think so."

"Two!" Delia held up two fingers, waving them in the air. "Two boxes is what I said."

"But there
are
three," he told her, speaking equally slowly. "One in the first cart, two in the cooler. Go check. They're there."

I did, and they were. Not only were we not scrambling for beef, we had a surplus. And that wasn't all. Bert and I almost collided and spilled condiments all over each other, but I was able to step aside at the last second, disaster averted. The ice cream scoopers were nowhere to be found, until they magically appeared, in the drawer beneath where they were supposed to be. And so on.

"I'm telling you," Delia said to me later, as we stood in the back of the kitchen, surveying the yard, which was full of happy, well-fed people enjoying food, beverage, and each other's company without incident, "this just makes me
very
nervous."

"Delia," I said, watching as Wes poured a glass of wine for a woman in a strappy sundress who was gesturing grandly, talking to him. He was just nodding, in an oh-sure-absolutely way, as if what she was saying was fascinating. As he bent down to scoop ice though, out of her sight, I saw him roll his eyes.

"I know, I know." She chewed on her pinkie nail. "It's just so weird. Everything is going too well."

"Maybe you've just earned it," I offered. "You know, the cumulative effect of all those bad nights."

"Maybe," she said. "I just wish we'd have one little mishap. It would be reassuring."

The weirdest thing was, I could see her point. Once, this sort of night had been all I aspired to, everything going like clockwork, just perfect. But now it was a little eerie. Not to mention, well, boring.

I couldn't help but think, though, as the hour crept from four to four-thirty to five, that maybe this was a trend that could work in my favor. After all, in about a half hour I'd get dropped off at the Commons, where I'd have to face my mother and explain quitting the info desk. The closer it got, the more nervous I became. Each time my stomach jumped, though, I reminded myself of what Delia had said to me, about how it might be hard to tell my mother how I really felt, but I had to try anyway. It wouldn't be easy, but it was a start. And like my dad always said, the first step is always the hardest.