Chapter 40
Greta
I’m with my father at the grocery store because of something that happened four days ago when I got home and found him waiting for me in the kitchen. My mother had a hot cup of coffee in her hands and a look of worry on her face as she asked, “May we ask where you were last night?”
“Uh, out?” I’m not used to giving explanations, and I’m too old to have to, but this is how it goes when you still live with your parents. “I went to see Will.”
“So you just take off in the middle of the night…”
“Yeah, it was an emergency,” I said.
This didn’t satisfy Mom. She stared at me, and I thought that, despite the distance between us, there are times when moms have a superpower and can see things no one else notices.
She turned her head and looked at my father.
“What do you think, Jacob?”
He was taking the milk out of the fridge.
“I think maybe you should have him over for dinner.”
“Will?” I asked, perplexed.
“Are we discussing anyone else?” Mom asked.
“No.”
“Then yes, we mean Will.”
“Are you going out with him?” Dad said.
“I guess,” I managed to reply.
Mom: “You guess, or you know?”
“I know.” I rolled my eyes.
“We’d sure like to meet him, wouldn’t we, Rosie?”
“We would,” my mother concluded.
I don’t know if I said yes because they caught me off guard and I was flustered or because deep down I liked the fact that, for the first time, my parents were asking, and maybe for a long time I had wanted them to do that, and set rules, and give me a curfew, and things like that.
Maybe I needed to find my parents having breakfast in the kitchen together like a regular couple so I could realize there was still hope and, despite everything, life was moving on.
“So you want to show off with your special sauce,” I tell Dad as we walk through the aisles. “I don’t think Will’s going to object.”
“You think he might want something else, though?”
“He’s crazy about cheese.”
“Cheese it is, then.”
We leave the spice section and head to the dairy aisle. I push the cart but then decide to make a detour.
“I’m going to go for some cereal. I’ll meet you back here.”
He nods and walks off. There must be a hundred types of cereal.
I don’t wonder how it’s possible that man walked on the moon or invented television—what I want to know is how the hell we can devote so much creativity to cereal.
I’m thankful, though. I throw two boxes into the cart, one of Cocoa Puffs and one of Rice Krispies.
I can see Dad up ahead talking to a younger woman who might be in her early thirties. He looks wary, but there’s something in his eyes, the kind of thing that might lead a person to wonder…
“Hey,” I say when I approach them.
“Oh, Greta.” Dad steps back. “You got your cereal, huh? Good. I got the cheese. We should probably go get in line.”
I look at the woman. Her expression is almost fragile as she glances at him.
“Hi, I’m Allison,” she says. “I work with your dad.”
“Nice to meet you. And yes, I got the cereal.”
“Cool. See you at the office, Allison,” he responds.
Dad wraps his arm around my shoulders and walks me down the aisle. We grab a few more things, pay, and put the groceries in the back of the car. Then we climb in and he starts the engine, and I realize we haven’t talked in a while.
“She seems nice,” I say.
“Yeah. She is.” He flicks the turn signal, and the tack-tack-tack sounds strange to me, even if it’s the same sound as always.
“I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned her.”
“She hasn’t been there for long.”
“Not long like a month…two?” We’re both aware at this point, I think, that the conversation isn’t just trivial.
“A year and a half. What’s up?”
Exactly. What’s up? I don’t know. I shake my head, and I don’t say anything more until we get home.
Today’s a special day, and I don’t want to spoil it with my imaginings.
I’m nervous about Will coming to eat tonight.
I’ve never had a guy over and I never felt the urge to, but with him…
I want them to meet him, and I want them to like him as much as I do, to find him as interesting as I do.
Dad says he’ll put the groceries away, and I don’t argue. I go upstairs. I knock on the door of the primary bedroom to make sure Mom remembers we have to go to group therapy this afternoon, which is why Dad’s taking care of dinner.
“I’m awake, come in!”
She hasn’t gone to bed in the middle of the day in weeks. I find her now sitting at her makeup table staring into the mirror with a strangely serious expression.
“What are you doing, Mom?”
“Nothing. Just looking at myself… It’s been forever since I’ve just looked at myself.”
I sit in the armchair with the floral upholstery in the corner and observe her. She’s wearing a loose, pearl-gray dress that I haven’t seen her put on in years. Her face looks aged, from time and from pain—I don’t know which has hurt her worse. Her hair lies flat, without body, against her back.
“Yeah. It’s good to look at yourself sometimes,” I say.
“Maybe. I look different, don’t I?”
Different from when? I want to ask her, but I don’t think either of us cares to hear the likely answer. Different from when you met my father, different from when you were still the top employee, different from when Lucy was still alive…
“You’re prettier,” I say.
“I don’t know about that…”
“Yeah.” I smile and get up. “You could use a haircut, though, to fix up those dead ends. I could do it if you like. I’m not bad at it.”
I’m not making this up. I trim my own bangs, and sometimes, Olivia lets me practice on her hair. I don’t know why. Even Lucy agreed to it once, and she wasn’t the type to take a risk if she wasn’t sure what she was getting into.
“It could be good… I’ve got a meeting tomorrow.”
“About what?”
“Anne’s project. She’s sold me on it. It’s interesting. The houses are perfect, not too big but quality construction. They just need a little fixing up. I’d like to take you to see them one of these days.”
“I’d love to. So should I go get the scissors?” I ask.
“Now?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
My enthusiasm is infectious, and we put a stool in front of the bathroom sink; I moisten her hair and run a comb through it to untangle it.
Then I start hacking away without hesitation.
I’m surprised she trusts me to follow my instincts, but she stays calm as locks of hair fall around her onto the floor.
Much of the time, she has her eyes closed, and I can’t help wondering what she’s thinking.
I layer it toward the front, and it takes several tries to get it even. When I’m done, her hair hangs to her shoulders, with the odd silver strand giving her a look of sophistication. She looks lighter, freer.
I’m still behind her as we look at each other in the mirror.
It’s taken me years to understand my mother.
It’s easy to let your impulses get the better of you; in my case, that meant just assuming she loved Lucy more than me.
She and Lucy were always so alike, I could see that clearly, and it cut me deep.
But I understand. I understand the loss affected us differently.
And I admire her for realizing that taking care of her daughter mattered more than her job, for giving so much that she forgot herself, for not looking away from the most painful thing a woman can face: losing her daughter.
She takes my hand, which is resting on her shoulder, and smiles. It’s a sad smile, full of unsaid words, but there’s hope in it too.
“You look amazing,” I say.
“Thank you, Greta.”
Later, when we go to group therapy, everyone tells her how good her hair looks. She doesn’t seem to mind the compliments. We eat orange donuts Jane brought in and drink fresh-roasted coffee until Faith starts the session. Adrian says something that surprises all of us.
“I’ve met someone.”
For a long while, no one says anything.
“Wow, that’s wonderful.” Faith looks at him with gentle sympathy, but Adrian just sinks into his chair.
“I can’t go out with her, though. I feel…”
“Awful,” Matilda, the widow with the young son, interrupts him. “Just thinking about it makes me feel guilty.”
“Do you want to tell us the details?” Faith asks.
“I was in the parking lot at the mall. This girl had lost her ticket and was looking all over for it, so I told her I’d help her out.
We walked around the lot trying to see if it had fallen somewhere, and we talked, and then when we finally said goodbye, she gave me her number, said her name was Rita and told me she’d love to meet for a drink sometime. ”
“So…?” I look at him, impatient.
Adrian’s forehead furrows. “Nothing. I can’t call her. I can’t do it.”
“You can’t but you want to? Or it scares you? Or what?”
“Greta, let Adrian explain.”
I wait, but I want to tell him to go for it, to jump in with both feet, to call this Rita and take her out for tacos or for dancing, because life is over in the blink of an eye. But I know from experience that these things are far harder than they appear from the outside.
“I’d like to go out with her, just walking around with a girl and chatting felt good, but I can’t. I feel like I’d be betraying Kate.”
“I get it.” Matilda nods.
“I’m still mourning my husband and it’s been more than thirty years,” Jane says, voice trembling. “And can I tell you something, dear?” She turns to Adrian, who’s sitting next to her.
“Sure.”
“You should call her.”
“But you just said…”
“Exactly. I know what I’m talking about. Without friends to keep you company, without love, life just stretches on pointlessly for what seems like forever.”
I want to stand up and hug her. But I don’t because the next person to speak up is my mother.
“Jane’s right, but I understand why you’re scared,” she says cautiously.
“I’ve felt like that before, even if my situation is different.
The thought of doing something with Greta, with the daughter I still have, sometimes seems harder than it should be because I remember I’ll never be able to do the same thing with Lucy. ”
I remain silent as the group talks about guilt and betrayal. I never thought my mother felt something like that about Lucy and me, and I’m moved that she was willing to share it with me.
When the session ends, we return home.
Mom can tell I’m nervous about dinner with Will, and she seems to think it’s funny, because she smiles slightly before saying, “I guess you really like this guy.”
“Yeah. Some. I mean, a lot. A ton, actually.”
“Well, then.”
“I’ve always known what my heart wanted.
” I say this without thinking twice because it’s true.
I’ve never confused random sex with something more, I never imagined that hooking up with someone meant that we had something, and I’ve never felt for anyone what I feel for Will.
And I’m not going to hide it because I don’t believe in being lukewarm.
“What’s he like?” she asks.
“You’ll meet him in like an hour.”
“Yeah, but I want to know what you see in him.” She’s not letting it go.
“He’s…smart,” I say.
“That’s good.”
“He’s funny. He makes me laugh,” I add.
“That’s no mean feat.”
“Exactly.” I turn the wheel. I told her I wanted to drive home.
The sky’s a soft-pink color with orange traces.
“He’s flighty, but he’s attractive, and he can keep up with me in a conversation, he’s got an answer for everything, and I don’t feel like I’m just talking to myself the way I do with other people. ”
“If that were his only good point, I’d admire him,” she jokes.
“Very funny.” I try to be sarcastic, but I can’t help laughing.
“Greta in love. It’s a wonderful thing to see. Everyone should fall in love at least once in their life.” I wonder if she’s dwelling on Lucy and all that she never lived. All that she never will be able to live. “It makes me think about myself a bit…”
“You mean like when you met Dad?”
“Um, yeah. But before that too.”
“Before?”
“Your father wasn’t the first man I fell in love with. Before him, I went out for a year and a half with a guy from England who I met in college. It was very intense.”
“You don’t have to go into details.”
“All I’m really trying to say, Greta, is that even when love is fleeting, when it just lasts a few months or a year, it’s still worth it to give yourself over to it passionately. People talk about love being forever, but why? Even if it’s just for a moment, love is always real.”
I know she’s right, but something keeps me from saying so.
Endings… I’ve always hated them. When I finish a book, my fingers tingle because I want to keep turning all those pages that aren’t there.
I wonder what’s going to happen afterward, where those people will go, what they’ll do, and it feels unfair that I only get to see that tiny portion of their lives.
If I’m watching a movie, I don’t move while the credits are rolling, I wait to see if there’s one more scene afterward, and lots of times I rewind and enjoy the last bit again and think about how I wish I could rewind my life too.
If I like a song, I listen to it over and over until I hate it, and even then, it remains a part of me. Endings… I hate them.
I park in front of the garage because we’re running late and I don’t want to wait on the door to open and close. The house smells like grilled meat and honey and aromatic herbs. We find Dad inside manning the stove.
“Wow, it smells amazing in here,” I tell him.
He looks back and smiles. “Grasshopper, there’s a surprise in the living room. Or two. Go look.”
I turn around and walk there, and even before I open the door, I hear their voices. Will is sitting on the couch next to a wrinkled man with steel-gray eyes and snow-white hair.
“Grandpa!” I run toward him.