22
Something was off. Something didn’t feel right. She couldn’t say what exactly. But she didn’t believe Melissa. Didn’t believe that this was a girl’s weekend, or time with her old friends in Minneapolis. Melissa would have talked about it a good deal more, and a good deal earlier. She would have worried about her clothing and shoes, about whether she had enough money. She would have picked up extra shifts at the bar, or even asked to borrow some cash. She most certainly would have gotten her hair done. But she hadn’t done any of those things. When she hurried out of the house, it was like she was going to miss an appointment, not as if she were racing towards a cold glass of champagne and a hot Jacuzzi full of her laughing friends.
For their part, the girls did not notice. If anything, they were more relaxed without their mother. Perhaps because they knew their grandmother wouldn’t ask them to clean their rooms or read a book, or the other maternal directives Melissa was keen on leveling at the girls. With the Saturn back at the mechanic’s and Melissa driving the minivan, they were somewhat stranded at home. Which suited Vivian just fine. They could all sleep in and enjoy a couple days hunkered down in the living room, popping corn, and watching movies. She was knitting a nice blanket for Charlie, and the completely unscheduled weekend would give her the time she needed to finish it.
She liked the quiet of knitting. The near mindless repetition of stitches. The rhythm of the needles. The fluidity of her fingers. Her warm place on a couch, a blanket pulled across her lap and one or both girls tucked beside her. She wondered if Charlie could ever imagine this intimacy. The way her grandchildren were always there with her. Their scents on her clothing. Their warm breaths in the morning. The things they said and asked. The ways in which they depended on her. All of it, so different than the responsibility of being a mother. The weight of being a mother.
Her role, thank god, was not to correct every bad behavior, to punish, or to monitor their educations. Her role did not even carry the burden of always being there, the way the parent should and must. No one demanded anything of her. She could give what she had when she had it. Though she didn’t think of herself as old, there was recognition, especially in the past few years, that time was a growing shadow in every room. And she didn’t need to think of this fact as a negative thing, or a threat, but as a reminder that these were sweet days, sweet moments, and she could stretch them out if she so chose. She could watch the girls as they slept. She could brush their hair and braid their hair and feel their backbones pressed against her chest and stomach. She sensed that there would be no more grandchildren, and in some ways, she hoped that was true, because what few resources they had were already tested. But sometimes she wished there might be. A new baby that she could cuddle with and bottle-feed. A new baby to hold in her arms. A new baby yawning and blinking up at her.
Charlie was not in town that weekend, he had explained. Something about visiting a great-aunt in Milwaukee. Still, she couldn’t help herself. Texted him a few times. His replies were briefer than normal, but that was understandable. He and some other family members were cleaning out the aunt’s house before she was admitted to a nursing-home facility. On Saturday night she called him.
Am I catching you at a good time?
Oh, sure, he replied. I, uh, I just got back to my hotel room actually.
Is it nice, the hotel?
Well, he said, somewhat clumsily, you know. Nothing fancy. I’m not staying downtown or anything. Just a place off the highway. My cousins are here too. With their families. There’s an indoor pool. A continental breakfast. That kind of place. Anyway, how are you?
Oh, nothing exciting. The girls just went to bed. I was going to read a book.
A silence opened between them, and he cleared his throat, then yawned.
When will I see you again?
How about Wednesday night? he suggested. I could take you out for dinner. I’ve been hungry for Mexican.
She sighed, as if uncertain how to say what she wanted, then sighed again.
Or we could have Chinese. Pizza, he offered. Whatever you want. Afterwards maybe we could go back to my place.
No, Mexican is fine.
Viv, are you all right?
It’s just—I’m probably crazy but, well, you wouldn’t understand maybe, because you never had kids, but as a parent, you have this sense. She felt a twinge of regret just then, for holding her parenting over her knowledge of his lack of experience. She continued, This sixth sense. You just sort of know when your child is lying. Or withholding something. And, I don’t know, but I think Melissa is lying to me about something. I can’t remember the last time she’s done that. I wouldn’t even say anything to you, but I don’t have anyone else to tell—
No, it’s okay. I’m glad you’re telling me.
I hate to say it, but she drinks too much. Always has. She hasn’t done this in a long while, but when Ainsley was about one, she just left for a weekend. Didn’t even tell me where she was going. Some guy just pulled up in front of the house one Friday night, and she jumped into his car, and I didn’t see her again until Monday morning. We had this huge fight. About responsibility and being a good mom and how I was prepared to help her, but also how if I ever thought she was putting herself ahead of my grandchildren, or endangered those girls, or brought someone dangerous into our home, that I wouldn’t tolerate it. And we haven’t had a single problem since then. But—
I’m sure it’s nothing, Viv. She works hard. Probably just needed a break, you know? Everyone does sometimes.
I hope you’re right. But you don’t know her the way I do. I love her so much, but…you never stop worrying about your kids, Charlie. No matter how old they are.
I’m sure you’re right. Hey.
Yes?
I love you.
She chuckled. I love you too.
So, anyway, I’m going to bed now.
Okay.
Good night then.
Good night.
The phone call had done nothing to tamp down her suspicions. If anything, it felt like Charlie was just half listening when he wasn’t dispensing pleasantries, or polite excuses. She shut off the remaining lights and moved into her bedroom, where she exchanged her clothing for a flannel nightgown as soft as a child’s stuffed animal, and then slipped between her cold sheets, holding her phone to her chest.
She typed a message to Melissa, the screen glowing against the darkness in the room: Hope you’re having a great weekend. Send pictures. Be safe. The message shot through the distance separating them, and she continued staring at the phone. Many minutes drifted past until there was a reply: All good, Mom. Thanks for your help. See you tomorrow night.
She did not sleep well. A worry scratched at her, a worry that came and went and then came right back again. The worry that her daughter’s life might somehow become sidetracked, or even hijacked, that her drinking would grow out of hand, that the wrong man might derail everything, and it was no longer a matter of just Melissa’s life, but her granddaughters’. Children needed continuity and comfort. Routine and reinforcement.
For the longest time, she lay absolutely still, listening to the faintest noises in the house and the neighborhood beyond it. The rare car driving past. The furnace kicking on in the basement and the subsequent breath of warm air. When no sounds found her ear, she focused on her hands resting above her heart. The steady rhythm there. Her pulse in the tender flesh of her ear against the cool of the pillow. Finally, sleep did come. But not as a relief, rather a surrendering.