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Authors: Sarah Strohmeyer

Sweet Love (34 page)

BOOK: Sweet Love
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“Chanel No. 5.”
“Church perfume.”
I give him a squeeze. “She loved you most of all.”
“Don’t . . .”
“It’s okay. I’m not saying she didn’t love me. She had her way.”
At my car, Paul opens his door and stops. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”
“Okay, Paul. Chill,” I say, holding up my hands as truce.
“She was really proud of you, Julie, especially of how you’ve raised Em. Not that she isn’t a great kid. Just that . . . it bothered her to see you held back because you had to mother Em alone. That’s why she wanted you to get married again, so you could have someone to share the burden of parenting.”
This is so counterintuitive to my opinion of Mom that Paul could easily be discussing a coworker on Wall Street or a neighbor. When we get in, I tell him, “If Mom wanted me to get married, it was because she was devastated to have a single mother for a daughter. She was a diehard traditionalist.”
“You got that all wrong. Mom was really into your career.”
“No‚ she wasn’t. Just this summer she was going on and on about how much family time my career had stolen.”
“Yeah? Then how come she died when she found out you had a new job possibility that could pay way more than you earned at WBOS and get you out of the news racket that you hated? She was fully aware she’d be a burden while you were in California.” He reels back as if he’d just said something he shouldn’t have.
“Are you saying Mom
killed
herself? For me?” Talk about guilt.
“All I’m saying is that I’ve read really sick people can let go when they want to. It’s just a theory.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite.
— SONNET 56
“This is insane!” Paul spreads his arms at the mess in my kitchen.
White flour covers all the counters and there are squished raisins on the floor. A pot on the stove is lined with chocolate and another with vanilla custard. Lois, Em, and I have been chopping, mixing, whipping, and baking nonstop for two days and two nights‚ following with precise detail every direction in my mother’s barnyard tin of recipe cards‚ which, I’ve discovered, are not just clippings from
Woman’s Day
.
They’re eternal links.
Links to her. And me. And Em and all the women in our family before us—thanks to Mom’s neatly penciled notes on the side.
Some are recommendations (“
less sugar,—1 egg, too sweet
!). Some are memories (
Made for J’s 10th b’day. Big hit.
Or:
Nana’s— Straight from Germany. Authentic
!). Others are observations (
Good for parties. Finger food. Too much salt, drove Edgar Banks mad
).
No wonder she was so proud of them. I had no idea. If I’d known, we could have discussed her notes and maybe she’d have remembered more. This is the thing about death that’s so aggravating; there are no second chances.
“Seriously,” Paul is saying. “This is what an insane person would do.” He steps over a butter wrapper (not thinking to pick it up, of course) and dips his finger into a bowl. “What is that?”
“Coconut ginger ice cream.” I take a swig of Diet Coke and debate what to do next. The cream cheese tart with fresh blueberries and a raspberry glaze or the
Torta Caprese
. Think I’ll do the tart since the cream cheese has been left out to soften.
“Since when did you learn how to do this?” he asks, watching me unwrap the cream cheese and mix it with cream, sugar, almond flavoring, and a touch of vanilla.
“According to Mom’s notes, I’ve always been able to do it,” I say over the whir of the mixer. “As a little girl, I used to make tiny pies next to her when she cooked. She’d give me jam and a toy rolling pin to flatten the dough.”
“I don’t remember that.” He tries to taste the cream cheese filling and I slap his hand.
“Probably because you were at school. Then, once I got older, I stopped. Until these dessert classes. They brought it all back.”
Slicing a lemon in half, I twist it over a juicer, pick out a couple of seeds, and dump in the juice.
“It smells like Mom’s kitchen in here,” he says, leaning against the counter. “It feels like Mom’s . . .”
Here
, I think, spooning the filling into the graham cracker crust.
He picks up the tin and squints at the rusted cow. “Where’d you get the recipe cards?”
“She gave them to me.”
“Oh, yeah? When?”
I take a pint of blueberries out of the refrigerator and count back. “Sometime after my second class.”
Paul steals a blueberry and says, “That was also in the article I read about people being able to determine when they died. It said they give away things beforehand, too. Personal items. Watches and jewelry and stuff. Even car crash victims who have no idea their days are numbered do that.”
“Here,” I say, handing him the berries. “Just cover the pie with them and put it in the refrigerator when you’re done, okay?”
Paul acts like I’ve given him a nuclear bomb to defuse. “Where are you going?”
“To get the mail.”
Then I go outside and sit on the back steps overlooking my mother’s garden where, for the first time since she died, I give in and collapse in sobs.
Like most of the week before it, the funeral passes by in a blur and feels more like an overdue family reunion than what it is—a marking of my mother’s passing. Aunts and uncles whom I haven’t seen in years, distant cousins and their strange children, carpool in from Waltham, where they’ve got blocks of rooms at the Days Inn. We say over and over that we should have done this before. It’s been too long!
Lois and Teenie come, as do Liza and Rene D’Ours, separately, of course, but still sizing up the other. Not sure it works, but I’ll have to weigh that later. Donald arrives with his wife, Jillian, and Angus, who toddles after Em with eyes of love.
There are Mom’s friends from church and from Meals-On-Wheels, crooked old ladies with limps and cackling laughs. Paul brings his girlfriend, Scooter, and Em brings Nadia. Even a few cronies from WBOS stop by: Arnie, Raldo, and interestingly enough, Valerie, back from D.C. and looking slightly more humble.
When Dad appears, he’s late and sits in the back of the church wearing sunglasses. Like a rock star.
The only person missing is Michael, who came to the funeral with Carol and then left. He and I haven’t spoken since his rescue at the airport. There have been nights this week when I’ve desperately wanted to call him, but my state is too fragile right now to tolerate yet more heartache. What I need is unconditional love—the kind mothers are famous for.
But maybe I should have called. When he was leaving the church, he slipped me the most wonderful note.
When everyone’s gone, I’ll stop by the cemetery and say farewell to Betty in my own way. She was my ersatz mother, my rock, the person who laid a foundation for me to grow and in many ways she meant more to me than my own. However, I don’t want to detract from you and Paul. She’s your real mother.
There’s not much I need to tell her except for something she’s known forever:
I love you. I always have.
As I stand in the receiving line in the Parish Hall, Michael’s note itches where I’ve secreted it in my bra. I want to pull it out and read it over and over to make sense of the words. I want to call him and ask, for the umpteenth time, what our future holds.
But I can’t. To be the only daughter of a dead mother means, for a while, to be on display.
“Lovely service,” Aunt Jean tells me, her gloved hands clasping mine. “Betty would have been so proud.”
“Thank you. I hope so.”
“Are you holding up okay? I know you two were very close.”
In truth, Aunt Jean knows nothing. She is my father’s sister and has not been on speaking terms with Mom since she refused to attend my parents’ wedding.
“I’m holding up very well, Aunt Jean. I hope you’ll have some food. We have so much.”
“I saw that!” And off she goes to the groaning board loaded with turkey and ham, a roast beef and bread, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and condiments to make sandwiches. There is also a spinach lasagna for the vegetarians, courtesy of Em. And tons of dessert, courtesy of me.
My mother’s friends brought Swedish meatballs in a Crock-Pot, chicken wings, fruit salad, a veggie tray, and some hideous pink aspic. All of them have been ignored in favor of Liza’s contribution, a huge tray of smoked salmon with capers, sliced lemon, red onions, cream cheese, and bagels. Not a can of Cheez Whiz to be had.
Ignored, that is, after devouring what D’Ours brought on a silver platter: crackers, sliced cucumbers, hard-boiled eggs, and caviar one notch down from beluga.
“This is better than some weddings I’ve been to,” Paul murmurs. “I can’t wait to get out of this line so I can hit that table. Scooter was supposed to save me some caviar, but . . . where is she?”
I point to D’Ours, who is being accosted by a human lamppost.
Donald comes up and takes my hand, pausing for a bit before saying, “Grief is a necessary emotion, but kept unchecked it can turn into psychosis. If you’re not aware of the symptoms, I can lend you a pamphlet.”
“How nice of you to cheer me up.”
“I’m a doctor, Julie, first and foremost.”
Don’t I know it.
Are my eyes deceiving me? Or is that Carol—
Michael’s
Carol— slinking toward us in a handkerchief of black silk?
“Julie, I’m so, so, sorry.” Carol gives Paul the once-over. “I had to come since I was—”
“There when she died,” I say. “Yes. That’s very thoughtful of you.
And thank you for that, by the way.” Because what I said makes no sense, I add, “The more the merrier, I guess.”
She smiles wryly, flicks Paul yet another glance, and whispers, “I know this isn’t a good time, but at some point I’d like to clear up a persistent misunderstanding you might have about Michael.” Turning to Paul again, she adds, “Or you could just ask him.”
Ask Paul?
Paul shrugs and takes Carol’s smooth hands as she goes on and on about my mother and how five minutes alone with her was enough to see what a fantastic woman she was. Even Scooter’s on high alert, sticking out her neck and bugging her eyes.
Liza comes by a second time to pass me some salmon and get a closer look at Carol. “You know, there’s something I never told you because I was held to secrecy, but now that she’s died, I suppose that oath is off.”
“Mom held you to an oath of secrecy?”
“Nothing big. Just those dessert classes. She was the one who put me up to it.”
For a second, I have no idea what she’s talking about. Put her up to what? Then I remember how this all started with Liza selling the tickets to Michael and Mom and fixing the church raffle so we both ended up in the class.
“Are you telling me Mom set me up with Michael?”
Wiping cracker crumbs off her fingers, she says, “That’s right. Your mom threw in an extra five hundred bucks to seal the deal, too. Bet you’ll never be able to pass through the church kitchen without wondering what that money bought.”
So Mom wasn’t lying when she told me those tickets cost her a lot of scratch. Still, it doesn’t make sense. All those years of warning me to stay clear of Michael as a love-struck teenager and she goes out of her way to set me up with him decades later. Now‚ why would she have done something like that?
D’Ours is the last to stop in the line, assuring me, again, that the job’s still mine if I want it and then that’s it. We’re done.
“I gotta wash up,” Paul says, turning to go down the cobblestone hall. “Did you know shaking hands is the most germ-filled activity you can engage in? Worse than anonymous sex, from what I’ve read.”
Outside the men’s room door, I stop him. “Carol implied you know something about Michael you’re not telling me.”
“Not now, Julie. Bad enough the caviar’s gone. There’s hardly anything left of that salmon.”
He’s itching to get to that table, but I won’t let him. I actually stand in front of the door and block his way. “Tell me.”
“You mean, after meeting at Bukowski’s Tavern and the drive home and the hospital and airport he still hasn’t been straight?”
“Please, Paul. This is driving me crazy.”
Checking to see no one’s listening, he says, “Look. If anyone’s to blame for you two not getting together sooner, it’s me. My guess is that’s what Carol wanted me to say. That I’ve been in the way.”
This is confusing and makes no sense. “What?”
“I don’t know if Michael ever told you about the time he came home from college and saw you in your shorts and tank top and . . .”
Rolling my hand for him to get on with it, I say, “Yeah, yeah. I know all this. So?”
“So, I wasn’t too thrilled by that. I mean, you’re my little sister and he’s my best friend. He shouldn’t have been checking you out like that.”
“You mean, he really liked me back then?” I find this hard to believe, considering how he pushed me away when I threw myself at him at age seventeen.
“Didn’t you see the way he looked at you? I don’t know how much experience you’ve had with men—wait—I don’t want to know. Maybe back then you didn’t have any, but he was head over heels.” Taking another breath, he says, “That guy loves you and always has.”
“But he never told me.”
“I don’t know why. Everyone knew. Mom did, that’s for sure. I don’t know about Dad because . . . well, Dad didn’t. I did. Our friends did. We’d tease him about robbing the cradle and jailbait. Though I didn’t find it funny. I threatened to punch his lights out if he so much as laid a finger on you.”
I’m giddy. I’m filled with joy.
Michael has always loved me.
He didn’t just make that up years later to get my lobster.
“I’m really sorry. I should have realized when you two were having problems that my stupidity played a part.” He thumbs the men’s room. “Can I go now?”
BOOK: Sweet Love
7.22Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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