Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
Evelyn
December 2001
Some days are good days, but today is not one of them. I spend most of it in and out of sleep on the couch, my shoulders and neck stiff with pain. When I wake in the late afternoon, Joseph is reading in the armchair. “Joseph?” I peer up at him, wipe my chin and lips, wet with drool.
He flips the corner of the newspaper down to see me, his face creases with worry that he attempts to hide with a sad smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay. Tired.”
“I know.”
“Violet asked if we want her to host Christmas.”
“That’s nice of her.”
I whisper, fear creeping into my chest, although we are alone, “I don’t want anyone else hosting Christmas.”
I knew everything would be different once they knew. Even as I try to freeze myself in time this final year, their image of me will shift, morph like my brain scans. But this is our last Christmas, and I don’t want it marred any more than it already is with worry, with well-meaning advice or offers of help, a steady arm extended every time I stand, pitying glances around the room. I am their mother, their grandmother, not a patient under their care, someone to monitor or grant sympathy. So for now, I want one last Christmas with my family, even if it’s my illusion. One more memory that includes me as I am, not as they will come to see me.
My eyelids heavy, sleep bidding me once more as Joseph says, “You don’t have to carry everything on your own, you know.”
I have no strength to argue, I can’t see him anymore, my chest an anchor dragging me below the depths, where space and time cease to exist, where the pain I inflict disappears.
The next day is a good day. The windows are frosted around the edges, a gray afternoon that begs for indoor lighting even at midday, on this frigid Christmas Eve that promises more snow. Jane’s back is straight, cozy lamplight glints off the glossy surface of the Steinway where she sits on its polished ebony bench. She doesn’t look at me, but I sense her awaiting my cue.
We have practiced for months, the concert in January, which at first seemed both too long to wait and not enough time to rehearse, now is only a month away. I rehearsed on my own to feign faster progress when we met, my hands often not cooperating, striking the wrong chords, notes jumbled in my mind, the keys seemed closer together, or my fingers larger. The tremors set me off course, clumsy. Joseph refused to let me give it up, despite my protests. I relented, even with the nagging humiliation at my selfish desires, because I need the time alone with Jane. The afternoons disguised as piano practice that I can use to guide her toward a truth about her own life that she knows but is afraid to admit. A concert designed for me, encasing my ploy to gather us all together, Marcus forever imprinted in this gift we share, a path that leads her to him.
My fingers are at ease on the Baldwin as I begin to play, and Jane joins in on the Steinway, but still, I can’t get it right. The first sheet of music, which we have practiced most often, is manageable from muscle memory, but after, I scramble, my fingers can’t find the notes in time. Jane stops and waits patiently for me between each mistake while I reset and try again.
Again, we start from the top, again I’m too slow. I am scarring the music as I struggle. We stop, reset. Begin. The notes fly off the page, but my fingers don’t respond fast enough, as though my brain signals are trudging through mud. What was I thinking, taking this on? Stop, reset. Begin again. I’m behind. I can’t keep up. I can’t do this. She is getting ahead, and I am falling apart. What becomes of a pianist who loses her hands? I slam my fists on the keys, and the ugly discord of my frustration reverberates through the house.
“It’s alright, Mom. We still have time to practice. It’s okay.”
She is exceedingly patient, so understanding it verges on condescension, the same encouraging look I recognize because it was the one I used on her, when she was a child aggravated that the piano didn’t make the music she wanted.
We still have time . But what if we don’t?
“Let’s hope you’re right.” I trace the keys; they are smooth and cold and familiar and strange under my fingertips. I feel her gaze, the air pulses with the question she is about to ask, how are you feeling , a conversation I’m tired of having, so I add, “Why don’t we take a break, see how Violet and Rain are coming along in the kitchen?”
“Sure. I told Marcus I would save him some Christmas cookies.”
I lean against her, happy for the opening. “I think he’d rather you were his Christmas cookie, dear.”
“Oh my gosh, Mom...” Jane covers her face with her hands. “And you wonder why I don’t bring him around?”
I shrug my shoulders, and say, before covering the keys, “I may have Parkinson’s, but I’m not blind...and neither is he.”
“Is it not enough that I’m a strong, independent woman?”
She says it tongue in cheek, but I couldn’t be more serious. “Being independent, being strong, doesn’t mean you have to be alone. It’s important you understand.” I pause. “Why are you so afraid to give Marcus a real chance?”
Jane’s tone shifts defensively, caught off guard. “You know why.”
“You’re not the girl that ran off to California, and Marcus is nothing like that man either. And it was so long ago...don’t you think it’s time you let yourself love again?”
“Look what happens when you let yourself love! Look at you two, giving up everything for each other. Look at Maelynn. She finally settled down, and then she died, out of nowhere. You think that’s a coincidence?”
“Oh, honey, you can’t believe that.” It feels absurd to counter, but I had no idea she was carrying this superstition, holding back from something good, sure the other shoe would drop. “Maelynn was happier than she had ever been with Betty. She loved Maelynn very much, I heard it in her voice every time we spoke. Loving Betty isn’t what killed Maelynn. I am so thankful that the last years of her life were not spent alone. And it’s because of the love that your father and I shared that I am okay with death. Because I really lived. It’s time you let yourself have something real. It’s worth it. It’s the only thing that’s worth anything.”
In the kitchen, Violet and Rain have begun an angel food cake and I wonder if I added that to the recipe book. I must have. I can’t remember. I wrote down all the children’s favorite family recipes and put them in a bound book for Christmas this year. I have been working on it for months. Some days my writing is so tiny, impossible to make out, but I’m unable to write larger, no matter how hard I try. Sometimes I have trouble remembering—steps are jumbled and ingredients forgotten. Some days my mind is sharp and clear, and I write as much as I can until I need to rest. More often, the tremble makes my penmanship illegible, scratches and scribbles deface the pristine lines. I rip out entire pages, the torn edges left behind in the binding.
I perch at the table, watch Violet and Rain execute the familiar recipe, Rain’s belly beginning to round beneath her wool sweater. It is like a ballet, the way they pivot between ingredients, without hesitation in this known landscape they could navigate blindfolded. Exhaustion creeps in, blurring the edges, but for now I am content to sit nearby, bathing in their company. The flour-dusted countertops, the festive aprons, the clatter of our movements as the sink fills with mixing bowls and measuring cups. I’m not sure when it happened, when I found the beauty in domesticity and embraced all the comfort it brings. One of my favorite things is to press my spoon through thickening batter and await the moment my family comes bursting through the door, rosy-cheeked with frozen toes to warm before the fire. The heaps of layers stripped in the foyer, hats and gloves propped against the radiator to dry. Sometimes I wonder where that little girl from the beach went. The girl who was afraid of heights yet desperate to fly. If she would recognize herself in me at all.
Joseph comes down the stairs, poking around for something tasty to steal. “Looks good, girls. When can we dig in?”
“Not until tonight. Everyone will be here at six. Thomas and Ann are even staying overnight. Imagine that!” I wink at Joseph.
“He’s come a long way, our son.”
“But he’s still useless in the kitchen, so we told him six o’clock is fine,” Violet says, and Jane nods, laughing. Rain dips her finger into the batter bowl and giggles when she catches Joseph’s eye.
“Grandpa, you didn’t see a thing.” She smiles a wide, guilty smile.
I reach for Joseph, and he sidles beside me. I like the feel of his rough palms, toughened from working in the garden. I love to watch him there, finally in his element, the musk of earth and sweat clinging to him when he retreats inside. I wish I could smell it one more time on his skin. The doctors said it’s common with Parkinson’s, an early indicator of what was overtaking me. How I wish I could smell the cake baking in the oven, the buttery sweetness filling the house. But for now, it is enough to know it is there, while I am still here, beside my daughters and my oldest granddaughter, watching their subconscious choreography, gliding and shuffling and spinning around each other as they work.
“Mom, you sure you want us to leave you to finish up? We can skip it this year.” Jane studies me, concern on her face. They are going to take Joseph to do some last-minute Christmas shopping, a tradition begun years ago when the Oyster Shell, packed with families visiting for the holidays, was too busy to allow him to shop in advance. He has the time now that we’ve closed the inn, our agreement after he turned sixty so we could enjoy retirement, but they look forward to seeing the stores together on Christmas Eve, decked in garlands and lights.
I shake my head. “No problem, a bit more mixing and I’ll pop this last one in the oven. You go ahead.” Jane opens her mouth to rebut, but I insist. “Go, I’m fine.” Hesitant, they gather their things and are out the door in a flurry of scarves and mittens and puffy jackets with a promise to be back soon.
Once they are gone, I scrape the batter into the cake pan. About an hour to cook will be right. I write down what time they left in case I can’t remember. Things like that have helped me lately. Joseph’s idea. He is full of ideas to make this all easier on me. Some, like writing notes, or labeling photographs, making lists, help. Still, I am losing words.
The mixing has tired me. I need to rest up for this evening. Thomas and Ann will arrive soon, Tony will be here after he and Rain visit with his family, and Connor and the kids too. Since my talk with Violet, I’ve noticed glimpses of the tenderness that once existed between them, in the passing of a butter dish at dinner without being asked, or the casual plucking of lint off a sweater. It’s not a loveless marriage, but I know love is not all it takes. I hope what I shared was enough, that how lost I once felt can provide a foothold for her, a way back to him. I’m thankful Violet and I differ in this crucial way; she can be guided, advised, her perspective reshaped through conversations, she can learn by watching others. Jane is more like me. No one could have told us, saved us from our mistakes. We had to see how it felt to run.
Jane, who still won’t listen. Who won’t invite Marcus over, who won’t admit they’re dating, who will forge the longest, hardest road so she can say she got there on her own. We met him at the news station years ago, but even in that brief exchange, she looked for excuses for us to linger, to watch him record his segment, and he stretched his neck to search for her as soon as the cameras cut, when their eyes met, both faces crinkled with affection. He was earnest in his hello, asked after our lunch plans with genuine interest, while their bodies hummed the same melody, drawn together in the space between them.
She talks about him enough that I’ve pieced together the rough outline of his life: how he grew up with a bunch of siblings in Roxbury, the years he spent as a war reporter, how he never married, always chasing his career and traveling. But I need to know him, and for him to know us. It will be important to Jane...after. I don’t want her to wait as long as I did, as Maelynn did, to realize that loving someone doesn’t mean losing yourself, that it can add more than it takes. I hope I have enough time.
Forty-six minutes left on the timer. The seconds drag. I keep dozing off. They will understand. But I can’t forget about the cake. I can’t ruin their favorite dessert. They would understand that too. There is little I can do wrong now that wouldn’t be explained away, coddled, a toddler who can’t help but make a mess. But I can’t, not on this last Christmas. I need to stay awake. I try to focus on my most concrete thoughts, on Joseph. His silver hair, his thumbnail split down the center from a wayward hammer, his frame solid as an oak tree. I am flooded with guilt, thinking about my near-flight to Boston, all the years I almost threw away, when now all I wish is for more of our life together, the way it was back then. Thinking about our plan, all we will leave behind, and the arguments we’ve had over it. Me, insisting he can’t do this; him, adamant he can’t bear a life alone, and that my decision defines his. My decision, an impossible one, unthinkable. But the alternative is a different kind of demise, slow, debilitating, certain. Death isn’t the only way to die. But on an evening like this, fresh snowfall and a cake in the oven, it feels like it should never have been my call to make.
My thoughts send me into a dreamless sleep. I am startled and frightened by beeping and the opening of a door, the house bursts with the buzz of voices and clicking of footsteps. Then I remember. My family is home. Is that the oven beeping? Did I cook? I am drunk with fatigue, but I resist the urge to drift back to sleep. It’s a celebration, for someone, or something, I remember now. It’s my family in the foyer, in the living room, swinging the wooden door into the kitchen. I need to be here.
Connor pushes open the door to the kitchen, trailed by four mops of red hair. Lanky Patrick on the verge of becoming a teenager, Ryan sporting a scraggly beard that is either an attempt at growing one or sheer college laziness. Confident and effervescent Shannon who shares Violet’s petite figure, and...who is this, this oldest daughter with pale freckles faded by winter, this rounded face and cheerful disposition? I scan my mind for details...a clue. Is she in college, or has she graduated? Where does she live? My mind is blank, panicked, searching desperately for a name I can’t find. I force a smile as they enter. It’s a celebration for something. Christmas Eve. That’s right. Christmas Eve.
“Mom, is something burning in here?” Violet rushes to the oven, still beeping, yanks open the door, smoke billowing out. “Oh no.”
The cake , the cake, I forgot about the cake . Violet carries it to the counter, the top singed. Connor throws open the nearest window, cold air rushing in.
The tickle in my throat, eyes welling. “I’m sorry, I thought...” But I can’t finish.
Violet turns to me, catches my eye, my embarrassed tears. “Oh, Mom, no, no it’s okay. We can scrape off the top. It’s fine.”
Heat spreads to my cheeks. “Throw it out. It’s ruined.”
“Molly, grab a knife.” Molly . Molly, who works in Providence. She took the train in last night. Of course. Violet gives me another pitying look. “Mom, really, it’s okay.”
Molly puts her arm around me. “Hey, it’s an excuse for more whipped cream.”
Later, there is the tearing of presents and stories by the fireplace. Eggnog and cookies shaped like Santa and snowmen and jingle bells. Jane plays “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” on the piano and I’m transported to years ago, when Joseph and the kids surprised me with a performance of that very song.
“I do have one more gift,” I say, once the celebrations have settled, everyone strewn across couches and stretched out on the floor. Out of a large gift bag I retrieve a stack of wrapped packages, and motion for Ryan to pass out one to each of his cousins, and one each for Jane, Violet and Thomas too. “These took some time, and they aren’t perfect,” I hedge, as they begin to unwrap, hoping it’s enough, that giving them something to hold, to keep, to remember me by, will make up for all I’m taking away. “I had to rip out some pages, but, well, you’ll see.”
There is only the sound of tearing paper, and then a hush follows. Rain, Molly and Shannon, together on the couch, bend over the covers of the bound recipe books, their hands clasped tight. Rain begins, “Grandma, this is... I can’t believe you did this for us.” Ann and Thomas sit together, flip through the pages with care.
“Mom, this is incredible,” Violet says, sniffling. “How did you...when did you?”
“Oh no, Vi, don’t look inside the front cover,” Jane says, teasing, as she wipes tears from her eyes. Inside each, the inscription: May these recipes always bring you home, bring you joy, and remind you of all the days we spent cooking and sharing meals, together by the sea.
Lying wide-awake in bed that night, Joseph is asleep beside me. The clock on my nightstand reads 3 a.m. It is officially Christmas. Flashes of earlier years crisscross my mind, little bare feet pattering down the hall, little bodies crawling into all the spaces between Joseph and me, the joy of Christmas magic in their eyes. The air around us is chilled, my nose cold and exposed, but the heat beneath the quilt is cozy enough to invoke the deepest slumber. But I can’t; I am haunted by my failing mind. The cake, Molly’s name. What else will I forget? What if it doesn’t click into place after a few moments? And yet—the joy in something as simple as baking with my daughters, of all the hugs as they came into the house—how many years of this will I miss? How many years will I take away from Joseph? He could outlive me. I could outlive him. That’s the way it goes. If you don’t plan it. If you don’t run.
I memorize the way his lips part, his slow, loud exhales. When we first married, he slept on his stomach and I nuzzled against him. I took for granted the way we wrapped effortlessly around each other, sinking into one form. Now he lies on his back, wisps of hair stuck to the top of his head. His shoulders are still broad, but slimmer, frailer. I long to curl around him but tonight, like most nights, my body aches too much to be contorted to fit his. I want our young agile bodies one last time. The mornings where we woke entwined, letting the morning slide into the afternoon. It has gotten more difficult these last few years, but we still make love when we can. I’m afraid for the time that will be our last, because there will be no way to know it, not in the moment. No way to hold on to it in the ways I wish I could.
But for now, it is only Joseph and me, and this early morning, this final Christmas. With the snow falling lightly outside, the heat of his body pressing against me, this moment is all the magic I need. I reach for Joseph’s hand. Even in sleep he closes his fingers around mine.
I know I am running, but to what, I’m not sure. My only hope is wherever I run, someday, somehow, we will meet again.
I edge myself toward my nightstand, flick on the light and pull a notepad from my drawer, penning a safety net, a way out of this vow he has bound himself in.
Because the only thing I’m sure of is this—I can’t let him follow me.
I can’t do this with him by my side.