Chapter 21 Jasmine
Jasmine
Saturday morning, reunion weekend
how do i get my laundry out of the washing machine?
The first text of the day, from Lucy. Jasmine sighs and types an answer. Her phone is filled with ridiculous questions from her older girls, and it startles her how little they know about their own lives.
what’s my shoe size? (Lydia)
should i tip the school nurse? (Lucy)
what was your name before you married dad? (Lucy)
And then, of course, the bitchy teenage stuff from Lydia.
if you have to come to the game on sunday, can you please not say anything? i hate when you cheer.
When she was a kid, her mom coming to a school event was about as likely as being kicked by a snake.
Or at least, coming sober. Jasmine went to all her kids’ events, showing support and pride and love, showing them they were the most important things in her life.
Now she was being told it was embarrassing.
At the age of eight, Jasmine could lug dirty clothes to the laundromat, cook dinner, put off bill collectors when they called.
If Cash came around, he’d fill up the fridge and give her some money.
She knew better than to ask where it came from, and she knew to hide it so she could buy food from Cumby’s or the Dollar Store, which were within walking distance.
Cash might stay and watch a movie with her, take her to the diner and have her eat as much as she could hold, because she was too skinny.
But Cash always left. She spent more time alone than any other child she knew.
Her own girls can’t get through an hour without texting her. Neither can Oscar.
Where are Lyra’s pajamas?
When is the landscaper coming? The yard looks like shit.
Why can’t Lucy eat pasta?
What’s Ellen’s phone number?
In the top right drawer of her bureau.
Tuesday, and you told me to cut them back to twice a month.
She’s allergic to gluten.
Ellen’s number is already in your phone under Ellen the Nanny. Ellen usually has weekends off, but not, apparently, when Oscar is in charge.
He used to adore the girls. Lydia and Lucy, anyway.
Poor Lyra has missed out. Before leaving for this reunion, Jasmine hoped that if Oscar spent the weekend with the girls, he’d see that they were smart and interesting, despite their flaws.
She also hoped (foolishly) that he might see and appreciate all she did when she wasn’t there to do it for him.
She had cooked and labeled meals, printed out phone numbers and schedules and reminders on which daughter needs to be where, the homework projects they should work on, what Lydia will need for the lacrosse game, how long Lucy can stay on the computer, instructions on Lyra’s bedtime ritual, since Oscar has never given her a bath or put her to bed on his own.
When she got pregnant a month after marrying Oscar, Jasmine had sworn her children would have everything she never did.
Parents who loved them. A beautiful place to live.
Chances to learn things, whether it was piano or French or figure skating.
A father. Unconditional love. Safety. Yet somehow, having all those things has not made her girls happy or grateful.
They are becoming clichés of Connecticut’s Gold Coast—unaware of the world outside their ridiculous town.
They assume the world will unfurl for them without any effort on their part, because so far, it has.
Now Jasmine wonders if it’s time to tell her older daughters how she grew up. Maybe they’ll have a little more appreciation for her and their own lives. There’s no shame in Jasmine’s childhood, though she’s felt that way most of her life. In fact, there is a lot to be proud of.
It’s still early, the sky just brightening now, and Jasmine has already made coffee and unloaded the dishwasher. She sits in the enclosed porch off the back of the house, sipping from one of Clay’s ugly, thick mugs, Mr. Littlejeans purring on her lap.
Audrey did well last night. Jasmine doubts anyone guessed she has dementia.
Sitting together, the four of them in their row, cheering for the Bobcats, was wonderful.
Sad and achingly wonderful. Even fun, at moments.
Jasmine can’t remember the last time she laughed with anyone except Lyra.
The fake-laughing at parties and fundraisers doesn’t count.
This morning is the school tour, so graduates can see how much has changed.
Jasmine isn’t keen on going, but if Audrey wants to, she will.
Because Audrey is dying. Since hearing the news, Jasmine has spent three hours on various websites, learning about early-onset dementia, tears dropping on the iPad screen.
No cure. No reliable treatment. Audrey will be lost in a blurry, confusing world she cannot escape.
But suicide?
Twelve years ago, Jasmine got a message from Cash asking her to come see him.
It was important, he said. They hadn’t seen each other since she was seventeen.
She had invited him to her wedding, but he gently turned her down.
You don’t want my type there, kiddo. Besides, I’m in LA these days.
Even so, she had sent him her address and phone number.
Then he changed phone numbers, and she didn’t hear from him at all.
But he was family. Her own father was nothing but a faint memory of cigarette smoke and anger.
Her mother was horrible, but since Jasmine had married Oscar, Jade was at least contained.
Oscar bought her the condo when Jasmine got pregnant, agreeing that it would be best if Jade was far away from them.
He paid Jade’s bills, smart enough not to just give her the money, which she’d blow at the nearest casino.
Jasmine only talked to her on Christmas and Jade’s birthday, and then as briefly as possible.
There was an aunt in Minnesota she’d never met.
Otherwise, it was just Cash and Jade. And Cash, in his way, had been good to her.
So Jasmine said yes, and Oscar, who still loved her then, agreed wholeheartedly.
She arranged for extra childcare in addition to their regular in-house nanny, kissed and hugged the girls, still so little, and flew to Cincinnati.
There, she rented a car, checked into her hotel, then walked to the nearby diner he’d suggested for their meeting.
Once there, Jasmine looked around and sighed.
On one side of the diner, an old man sat hunched in a booth.
On the other was a family with six very loud and chaotic kids.
If Cash blew her off, she’d have spent two wasted days away from Lydia and Lucy.
At least her hotel had a spa. If he didn’t show, she’d book a facial for the afternoon and order room service.
“Jazzy?”
She jumped. Only one person called her that. She looked over at the old man and realized with horror that it was Cash. On numb legs, she walked over and hugged him, her once brash and brawny brother, and felt his bones sliding under his skin.
“Sorry about this,” he said, and his green eyes were full of tears. “Long story short, it’s cancer. Metastatic. How’d you like that big word? Can you believe I know it?”
“You were always smart, Cash.” Her voice shook.
“Says the valedictorian. God, you look great, kiddo.”
“Tell me about you, Cash.”
He sat at the table and traced a water stain, his fingers yellow and shaking. “Started in my liver, spread like mold. I . . . I’m about to be evicted, and I . . . wasn’t sure . . . didn’t know anyone else to ask, Jazzy.” And to her horror, he started to cry.
“No! You absolutely asked the right person, Cash. You’re my brother!”
He was pretty much a stranger, too, but he’d once been so vital.
Scary to everyone but her, with his tattoos and matted hair, his friends in their loud, souped-up cars.
She always felt safer when he was around.
Two years after she graduated high school, she got a card forwarded from her old address.
“Heard you kicked ass in high school and went to some fancy-ass college. Good for you, kiddo.”
And so she called Oscar. Of course she could bring him to Connecticut, he said. Of course they’d pay for treatment. That afternoon, she went to Cash’s festering hole of an apartment and helped him pack a few T-shirts and pants that now hung from his body and took him home.
For a few days, he stayed in the guest suite in their house.
And while he pulled a face at the beauty and luxury of their home, he also hugged her and told her he was glad she was living a good life.
Lydia and Lucy, then five and three, were fascinated by this surprise uncle, and he was charming and sweet with them, drawing tattoos on their arms with washable markers, telling them stories about his time working on a crab-fishing boat.
But he was so, so sick. On the fifth day of his stay, she found him unconscious in the shower and struggled to get him out, sobbing as she called 911.
They moved him into a gorgeous care facility with big windows and wide, smooth paths.
He needed a lot of help, a lot of pain medication.
He was an addict, he told her. Heroin. Clean for seven months, but he wasn’t turning opioids down when the teeth of cancer tore apart his stomach and gnawed on his bones.
He lasted thirteen weeks and two days.
Jasmine visited him every day and discovered that her brother was soft-spoken, had two ex-wives, had been a tattoo artist, mechanic, drug dealer, fisherman and bouncer. He liked science fiction movies, and his favorite food was cold sesame noodles. So was hers.