Come Back to Me (11 page)

But I always
asked.

“I think we
were on the second chapter?”  I sat on the edge of her bed across from her.

“Oh no,
sweetie.  I haven’t started this one.”

“Okay.”

I opened the
book and read the first chapter like I’d done last month and the months
before—as if everything were the same.

“1935,” I said,
launching into the first few sentences, my eyes skimming over the words,  my
mouth seeming to spit them out before my eyes processed them, like I knew the
first paragraph by heart.  I probably did.  If not, I had a decent picture of
the scene the author had set up.  A schoolhouse in England, in December, middle
school aged girls outside on the playground, their arms filled with books,
balloons, and treats from a Christmas party.  There was an air of excitement as
they left school to go home for winter break.  It was a pleasant scene, easily
read repeatedly.  I occasionally wondered where the characters went, what
happened.  The back of the book hadn’t offered me any clues.  Not that it
really mattered.  I read for my grandmother, and if she wanted to hear one
scene over and over, she was entitled to that.  Especially seeing as life slowly
took her mind and memories away a little bit at a time.

I paused.  My
grandmother’s head rested on the wingback of the chair.  She was already
sleeping.  I focused on her necklace, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. 
She never snored, unlike Mr. Hopkins who, even from my grandmother’s room, sounded
like he was revving up a chain saw.

I glanced down
at the book again.  My last memories of Katie and me as friends were around
Christmas, too, and just like the characters in the novel, my friendship with
Katie froze in a wintry aftermath.

I closed the
book and put it back in her drawer for the next time.  I stood.  My
grandmother’s eyes flickered open, focusing on me for a moment.

“I love
you,” she said, her eyes closing once more.

I still felt
uneasy hearing her say that, even though she always said it every time I visited,
but it was different now that she was in the home.  I felt a distance, as if
her faulty memory removed her from me.  When I heard her say those words as a
kid, it was always coupled with flourishes of perfume-scented hugs as we piled
into the car to head home.  She often handed my sister and me snacks and sodas
for the road, too, even though we lived less than an hour away.  The treats
only amped the love, especially when coupled with an awareness that my
grandmother’s affection bounced off my mom’s steely exterior.  I felt like my
sister and I were in a special club with my grandmother, one that was free of
restrictions or feeling like a disappointment.

I always
thought the stern look on my mom’s face was because my mom didn’t want me
sugared up for the ride home, but now, really seeing my grandmother plucked
from one world and into another, I questioned my mom’s choice of outfits and
infrequent visits.  Was it because, in my mom’s perfect, sterile life, she didn’t
have time for messy, complicated relationships?

Lauren told
me not that long ago that my grandmother and my mom didn’t get along at all.  As
a kid, I didn’t know any of that.  I took her hugs, her candy, and her love
with great happiness.  She was my grandmother, and, somehow, even now, those
three words retained importance in her memories.  She never failed to forget.

“Love you,”
I whispered, cringing a little because my voice sounded so unsure.

But she’d
closed her eyes.  She drifted in and out of sleep like a newborn baby.  Or like
a drunk, which actually was a better example, when you factored in the random
affection.

I wanted to
see Kyle again, to sink into his presence, and veg out in front of a movie,
like we’d done for the past three nights, but it was Sunday, and dinnertime. 
In the Denison household, that meant only one thing:  time for another
installment of my mom’s Sunday dinner.

I put on a
white cardigan over a sleeveless pink dress.  My outfit was part of my mom’s
‘smart casual’ dress requirement.  I considered it my costume for the play we
reenacted every week.  Because without fail, rain or shine, my dad cheating or
not cheating, my best friend liking me or hating me, dead or alive, we had
Sunday dinner, and I covered the role of Whitney Denison:  Karen and Tom
Denison’s latest unfit daughter.

My parents played
the role of being married.  They did an Oscar worthy performance, pretending
everything was normal, and even though there was nothing officially wrong with
their
memories, I sat there and watched as they went through the motions of acting as
if we were a normal family.  It was similar to me sitting with my grandmother. 
Although, even with her memory loss, she seemed more real than my parents did.

Who was
their audience?  Each other?  Me?  Last Sunday, as I sat at the table for the
first time after Gosley, I wondered if the Sunday dinner show had been the same
when I was at Gosley or if it had been “dark.”  There was never much
conversation, only pleasantries, probably because Karen and Tom Denison had
very little to say to each other.

The loudest
thing in the room was my mom’s sleeveless shirtwaist dress.  It was fuchsia,
with a chunky, gold buckle belt, and it offset her carefully blown out hair and
understated makeup.  Everything but her dress was a background palette, like
her table setting.  The china, tapers, and tablecloth were all white on white,
highlighting the only the centerpiece, which was a tiny burst of hydrangea in
the palest purple.  Martha Stewart perfect.

My dad’s
attire was similar to the suits he wore to work—only on Sundays did he favor
lighter colors like pale yellow, light blue, or a very colorless tan.  As if by
changing the color of his clothes, he could somehow appear relaxed.  Impossible,
when his face retained his typical seriousness. I used to think his perfectly
trimmed hair and dark suits made him appear so stern, but even in his Sunday
clothes, his face remained almost expressionless, as if he were somewhere else,
maybe thinking about a case or someone else (like last summer).  Either way,
his faraway look made it easier for me to ignore him.

My dad and I
waited for my mom to present the spread, as was her custom.  She used the
weekly dinner as her opportunity to follow the recipes she was always researching. 
My mom loved research.  She majored in journalism in college and probably
wanted to be a famous reporter who travelled all over the world.  She probably channeled
that old desire into her local noon show and cookbooks.

I could
already smell some sort of bread.  She usually baked homemade bread or rolls,
soft and buttery, along with some sort of roast as the centerpiece.  When Katie
started attending regularly a few years back, my mom made sure there were at
least two vegan-approved side dishes, like rosemary roasted potatoes with
caramelized onions (Katie’s favorite).  My mom was very accommodating, and she
did her research.

Today, she
presented corn muffins.  They were fluffy and melted in your mouth, and might
as well have been dessert (not that I was going to give up dessert, because
that was always crazy good, too, particularly anything with her chocolate
ganache topping).  Then there was a salad with roasted peaches and dried
cranberries.  It was all great, but the food was the best part of Sunday
dinners, especially once I found out about the whole cheating business.

My dad praised
my mom on the food. (
The asparagus is delicious. Do I taste resentment?  Oh
no, dear, that’s just betrayal doused with a little maple syrup.
)  He even
complimented her obnoxious, belted outfit.  They were unbearably polite to each
other, and, after a quick catch up on their schedules, they were finished.  It
was my turn.

Normally, I
hated being the focus of conversation, mostly because it was my weekly reminder
that perhaps there was a better way I could be applying to college, writing my
essays, studying for quiz bowl matches, wearing my hair, breathing, whatever. 
That was why I loved when Katie came to dinner.  She had a way of orchestrating
a conversation so that everyone was actually contributing.  Of course, Katie
picked loaded topics like animal rights, veganism, and the big bang theory. (She
believed in it. My parent’s erred on the side of Protestant caution.)  Today, I
was almost happy at the thought of telling them what was new with me because
try as they might (and they would try), they wouldn’t be able to fake how they
felt about it.

I told them
about my new job, and I totally emphasized the atmosphere of TEA and the tired
neighborhood that wasn’t in the trendy part of Old Towne, because I wanted to
see them squirm.  It was one way of reminding me that they were in fact human.

“Are you
sure that’s such a good idea?”  My mom asked, pausing in the act of sipping her
wine.

“Why not? 
It counts.”  I shrugged, rolling my asparagus around my plate with my fork.

“It’s just
that you have to take the train. . . .”

“Not that
far.  I clocked it on my way home.  With the local bus, it’s like a forty
minute trip.”

“The bus?” My
mom asked, and I swore she flinched a little.  I imagined her expensive perfume
would not mix well with the diesel soaked smell of the bus.

“Whitney . .
.” I imagined her fishing around for something to say that wouldn’t sound
elitist but still maintained an elitist undertone.  “Does this place even count
as volunteer service?”

Bingo.

It did. 
Last week, I called the Steeple Academy guidance counselor.  She might’ve stretched
the rules a bit—I got the feeling she felt sorry for me (with the whole binge
drinking, rehab, and dead ex-friend and all).

“What
happened to working with Felicia Bennett?”  my mom asked.

I looked at
my dad to see if he had anything to add to that, but he remained focused on his
food, no indication on his face that the decorum class meant anything other
than teapots and etiquette.  Not surprising.

“That was my
junior year project.”

“Well, why
couldn’t you try for something at Bloom Town Center?  If you asked me, Mamie
could have given you something to do at her store.”

“The
knitting store?”  I rolled my eyes.

My father
set down his fork and knife.  “Your mother has a point.  I thought you were considering
work that complemented your future studies.  What does making tea have to do
with any of that?”

“What does
knitting have to do with it?”

“That’s my
point, Whitney,” he said, sounding tired.

“What?  Oh,
wait.  I get it.  Knitting does have something to do with
your
career,
spinning a yarn, lying.  You have to be good at lying to be a lawyer, right?” 
I stared at my dad.

My mom
pushed back from the table.  “Okay, who wants dessert?  I made mango sticky
rice.  You can have it with or without the vanilla bean ice cream.”

“No ice
cream for me,” my dad said, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin.

I shook my
head.  My mom disappeared into the kitchen.  She stuck to her role, staying
within character at all times.  The only time I ever noticed her do anything
different was after Katie died—my mom never made those stupid rosemary potatoes
again.  Not that she said that was why.  I could only guess that she thought
potatoes would be a painful reminder or something, as if there weren’t a
thousand other things that made me think of my once upon a time best friend.

But Katie
wasn’t here to lighten the mood anymore.

The only
things left were the food and the palpable silence.

There were
so many elephants in the room: my dad’s cheating, my mom’s acceptance of it, my
stint at Gosley, my dead best friend, and Lauren.

My gaze
shifted to the baby grand piano in the room across from the dining room, to the
frames and photos.  My family had a history of elephants.  We were like a big
game preserve.

I pretty
much had no respect left for my parents, especially when they dropped me off at
Gosley.  That was when I realized my parents only wanted me around as long as I
conformed to their ideal.  If I didn’t, they would ship me off to fix me, the
embarrassing anomaly.  Or disown me completely.  Because my parents wouldn’t
stand for a daughter who didn’t conform to their way.

Lauren was
proof of that.  Not that there was much evidence that she even existed
anymore.  If my mom could, she’d put all her uncooperative family members in
the Spring Hill Retirement Home.  Then she could dress us like her very own
zombie Barbies.

Suddenly, my
48 days left at home seemed like an eternity.  Besides, even when I left, Karen
and Tom would still be my parents, my family.

Unless I did
something to screw that up.

There was a
time when I hadn’t grouped my mom and dad into the thoughtless, dead-in-the-eye
gossip zombie fiends who cheated on their spouses, or collected Ivy League
husbands more competitively than Glen and Tommy Brisling warred with anime
trading cards in the fourth grade.  Not until I realized their marriage was
just as phony.  Before that moment, I actually considered my parents as somehow
immune to it all.  I used to look up to them in one of those immature, clueless
ways.  I baked with my mom, and my dad built me a tree house and told me
stories about law school.  I even sided with my parents on the whole Lauren
thing—although I didn’t understand any of it.  All I knew was that they
couldn’t handle her divorce, or her new unapproved lifestyle.  I think I
thought of my sister as stubborn—or that she just didn’t like our parents.  And
that the feeling was mutual from our parents.  But I considered myself separate
from it all, at least, until last summer, when I saw my dad in the lobby of the
Hyatt.