Chapter 5
Five
bugbear (n.): any source, real or imaginary, of fright or fear
Lucy
Bleary-eyed, I shimmy my toes into Nana’s soft pink slippers for the epic trek from my bed to the kitchen. Flipping on the electric kettle, I blink. How is this my teakettle? Its chrome belly gleams like new. The range top, too, is spotless.
Oh yeah. Mom.
My mother was actually here yesterday, in Charity Falls, Mary Poppins-ing her way into our daily life. Which means . . .
Now I’m fully awake. I wheel around.
And there it is.
Slightly bigger than a bread box and occupying prime real estate at the head of our little dining table for two, the only place I could think to lump it last night. I could hardly leave it sitting unceremoniously in the only free corner of my bedroom, hidden among so many potted plants.
Gah! Shrouded beneath a square of aged linen trimmed in colorful embroidery, Nana’s gift is actually here in our apartment.
The embroidered sampler that has long served as its dust cover is itself precious.
The folksy needlework Nana stitched along its border reminds me of the tablecloth that took center stage during every holiday meal in Nana’s simple rural home where Mom was raised.
On account of the secrecy and hastiness surrounding my exit from Salem five years ago, I own little of sentimental value. I can’t bring myself to think about all the personal belongings I abandoned, fearing I’d poke the bear named Devin if he knew I was leaving.
Unveiling the item concealed beneath the sampler deserves some kind of ceremony.
Warmth travels through me as I finger the cheery needlework, and then—voilà!—I yank off the cover with all the drama of a circus magician.
Sitting before me? Nana’s vintage 1940s-era Smith Corona Sterling.
My vintage typewriter. Soot-black, rock-solid, and infused with childhood memories.
The classic icon of a bygone era. For that matter, the sexiest icon, to my thinking, with its graceful curves and rows of round black keys emblazoned with gold letters.
Welcome to our humble abode, you beautiful thing, you. Please stay forever.
I love you.
Bending, I retrieve the sticky note that fluttered to the floor when I hastily disrobed the typewriter. When Mom discovered the typewriter in the back of Nana’s closet, this note was attached, hidden beneath the dust cover. In Nana’s rickety cursive, two words dance before my eyes—For Lucy.
How long ago had she placed it there, anticipating the day when she would leave this world and I’d remain? Oh, Nana.
In contrast to the heft of the typewriter, the delicate sampler is feather-light. I don’t even have to bring its aged fabric close to my face to catch a whiff of her scent. Sweet marzipan and spices.
The same smell that surrounded me whenever I sat at her table, punching keys on this very instrument, turning out yet another edition of the Montgomery family newspaper.
Evidently Nana, too, never forgot those afternoons when I assigned myself every role from editor in chief to reporter—every byline was mine—to delivery girl.
Seated now, facing the typewriter at my own kitchen table, I’m carried back.
To all the silly interviews and reporting on daily events in our home.
Which basically amounted to a highlight reel of Vanessa’s successes.
Reviews of the high school plays in which she starred.
Oh, and who could forget all my coverage of her varsity athleticism? Soccer, swimming, tennis?
I could always count on Dad to contribute a corny joke or a goofy anecdote about something that went haywire at work.
Fingers stained with black ink and sticky with Elmer’s Glue, I typed, I cut, and I pasted, patching together a master copy, which Nana would then take to Kinko’s.
Patching together.
Exactly what it was—my desperate, juvenile attempt to maintain a sense of normalcy and connectedness despite the empty chair at our dining table. Mikey’s. And the other chair that was frequently empty. Mom’s.
A scene plays through my mind as if it happened only yesterday.
“Time to finish up, cara mia, if we’re going to make it to Kinko’s.”
I whined, begging Nana to phone Mom again. I’d been trying for several days to ask her my interview questions, but, of course, she was traveling.
“Oh, sweet one. We’ve already left two messages. If she could pick up, she would. You know that, right?”
“But this can’t wait! I have everyone’s song dedications except for hers!” A special feature I’d been excited to include in the Valentine’s edition.
“Aww, such a sweet idea.” Nana leaned over my shoulder. “Show me what you have so far.”
I sucked in a deep breath and hit the carriage return several times so she could see the lines I’d just typed. “See, Vanessa dedicated this one to me.”
“‘You Look Good in My Shirt’? Funny name for a song.”
“It’s country. And then I dedicated ‘Glamorous’ to her . . .” Even vexed as I was, I couldn’t hide my quirk of a smile. “And here’s Dad’s dedication to Mom.”
“‘Crazy for You’? This is a love song?”
“Madonna.”
“Ah. I’m sure she will love it.”
“So, see, I just need Mom’s. Why won’t she call back?
” My childish mewling hurt my own ears but couldn’t be helped.
How could I possibly “go to print” without at least her song dedication?
How would that make Dad feel? I needed to keep our family together when sadness hung in the air like dragon tears and Mom wasn’t around to mop it up.
We needed to find our smiles. Our laughter. Each other.
“Tell you what, young lady. I will dedicate a song to your father. And then I will interview you. Oh now, stop with the face. Your mother isn’t the only one whose thoughts matter. You know this, yes? You, too, have something to say.”
I wanted to stiff-arm Nana’s words. No one ever asked my opinion. Was it possible she saw something in me others couldn’t? Not likely. My grandmother was being kind and supportive, was all. Grandmothers are famous for it.
Rain pelted the windowpanes, painting them gray, obscuring the view of her greenhouse with its year-round supply of pungent herbs.
“‘Blessed Assurance,’ she said, tapping the page. “Put that down, from me to your father. He will know it.” She reached down, wrapped me in her cushiony arms, laid her cheek on my head. “You see, sometimes, Lucia, we have to carry on. We have to make do with what we’ve got, even if it’s not what we want.
Life can be messy, but it doesn’t change the fact that you are loved.
And love, cara mia . . . love always requires courage. ”
I wouldn’t cry. There’d been far too much crying.
Someone needed to bring the sunshine.
A lump knits my throat. My head tells me this is just a grown woman’s long-ago, childish memory, but my heart can still taste amaretti cookies mingled with sadness.
But seriously. What are the chances this gorgeous hunk of steel would drop anchor in my life, in my world—in my kitchen—right now?
I can’t explain it, and no one else would understand it if I could, but this vintage writing instrument is so .
. . solid. So real. It transcends time. And I feel certain its arrival at this moment is laced with some kind of meaning.
Lifting the index card to my nose, I sniff. For Lucy.
Nana is for Lucy.
God is for Lucy.
And if God is for me . . .
It’s too much. A surge of warmth volcanoes beneath my ribs. I’m still not a woman who cries easily. Who has room for it? Right now, though . . .
“Can I try it?” Chase’s morning rasp is one of my favorite things about him. At the moment, it’s just what I need. Still dressed in crumpled blue Mr. Spock pajamas, he gazes wide-eyed at the glorious object before us.
I sniff in my emotion, tucking it away deep in my belly, and smooth down my son’s cowlick.
It pops right back up. Wrapping my arms around him, I squeeze.
He smells like love and lemon shampoo. I’d better figure out how to start breathing normally again because this dude and I have got a day to conquer.
“Sorry, bud. You and I are going to have to wait till tonight to check it out. Let’s get you some breakfast.” Chase begins to writhe head to toe, and I tense, anticipating a meltdown. But then he checks himself. He opens an upper cabinet and removes a cereal bowl.
At one time I could either have a good morning or get Chase to the bus stop on time. Never both. Lately, though, we’ve carved out a rhythm. My son is even more a fan of rhythms than me, and that’s saying something.
Even so, I’ll be forced to shake that boy’s tree pretty soon.
I can’t wait much longer to discuss the paper he brought home the other night.
Turns out it was nothing to be dreaded, only the information I requested about the new ranch where they offer equine therapy.
Paige is loving her sessions there, and Chase wants to try it, I can tell.
Still, helping him push through the resistance—fear, discomfort—is sure to be a whole thing.
Also, who am I to expect a yes to roll easily off his tongue when the word isn’t even part of my own vocabulary?
***
The moment Chase disappears inside Charity Falls school bus number 2, I set off for work. There’s a bounce in my step as I plot my next thrift-store spree.
After all, a proper typewriter deserves a proper desk.
This morning, I cradle one of my little green babies—a gift for Dot, poor thing.
Tragically, her pug has been diagnosed with diabetes.
And by tragedy, I mean this is a cataclysm felt office-wide at the Messenger.
The fallout of Poochy’s illness? Our favorite cake-boss coworker’s baking days are on hiatus.
For the foreseeable future, Dot has retired her rolling pin.
Evidently, if Poochy can’t enjoy bites of Dot’s home-baked delicacies, neither can we.
Anyway, this newly propagated lipstick plant has the sweetest little glossy leaves and is bound to cheer her up.