House of Wonder (10 page)

But I couldn't make Lydia understand. The only hope I had was my father. And unfortunately that wasn't much of one.

Briggs Western

1957

F
rom the outside, the building revealed nothing of its contents. It was large and gray and stone, and took up an entire city block as well as a good portion of the air above it. It might have been an armory or an office building or a place where they made safety pins. But when you pushed through those glass doors—well, at the time Silla found it almost too wonderful.

“This used to be your granddaddy's store,” said her father, bending to speak into her ear. And even though it wasn't called Briggs Western anymore, being inside something that once held her family's name gave Silla a sense that she had come from someplace special.

She leaned back, letting her gaze climb to the soaring ceiling, the lights above her looking like stars glowing in a
sunlit sky. Around her were curved displays of glass and shiny metal, illuminated seemingly from within to showcase the immaculate rows of purses and gloves and scarves that they contained. Ladies with bright eyes smiled at her from behind the counters as their fingers moved over the buttons of the cash registers like they were the keys of a piano. Everywhere around her, there was color and sound and beauty.

“You can get anything you want, sugar,” said her father. Today was Silla's eighth birthday and he had taken her back to the town where she was born to “tie up some loose ends,” as he put it, before his wedding to Hattie. Silla supposed that meant standing in lobbies and sitting at desks while papers were signed and stamped and signed and stamped, as that's how they had spent their morning. But now that was done and she was here and it had been worth the wait.

She looked to the far wall of the store. Against it was shelf after shelf of stuffed animals, next to a display with bins of bright foil-wrapped candy. Her father saw her eyeing them. “Go on,” he encouraged. “Go pick something out.”

She took tentative steps, feeling the soft soles of her shoes meet that hard marble floor as her father walked next to her. She reached a round, tiered table, the perimeter of which was lined with dolls all looking out with a glass-eyed calm. “You like this one?” her daddy asked, lifting a blond one off the shelf. “This one's pretty.”

She looked at it for a moment, but didn't know exactly how to answer. The blond doll looked the same as all the others—same nose, same lips, same arms that reached out to a person it couldn't see. Only its dress was different. From behind her came a gentle voice. “May I help you?”

Silla and her father both turned at once. There stood an older woman, small with a body that didn't look thin so much as deflated. Her shoulders were hunched forward over her flat breasts and her dark gray hair was pulled back into a small bun. She wore a skirt and hose that bagged a bit at her ankles, above the shoes into which her bent feet seemed awkwardly contorted. When she saw Silla's father, her eyes narrowed with recognition that seemed to try to slither from her mind's grasp.

“We're just having a look around,” answered her father, stiffening slightly, giving a tense but polite nod as he angled his body back toward the display.

But Silla watched the lady, watched as her eyes drifted away as if with the tide of a memory. Suddenly, they snapped back to her father. “Excuse me,” said the woman, “but aren't you Lee Harris?” The quaver in her genteel old Southern voice gave her an air of authority.

Silla's father looked down at his feet for a steadying moment before turning around with a cordial but restrained smile. “Yes, ma'am,” he said with a nod.

She gasped, her hands clasped in front of her. “Why, I was at your wedding,” she said, as if it was a thought she hadn't meant to speak aloud. “To Martha.” Her eyes flickered to Silla.

“You don't say,” replied Lee with a nervous chuckle, as he rested his hand on Silla's back, beginning to steer her away from the woman.

“Yes, I've been working here since it was Briggs Western,” she said, as if he had doubted her. “I worked for Mr. Benson Briggs when I was just a girl.”

“Isn't that something,” said Lee. Then he nodded. “If you'll excuse us.” He scooped Silla up onto his hip and began making
for the door and as he did, Silla looked back at the woman. She was leaning against the display, looking at Silla with that troubled expression that she hadn't seen much since they'd moved away from here.

“She knew my mama?” asked Silla, bouncing with her father's steps. “Before she died?” But her father didn't answer. He navigated quickly through the enormous store and back toward those glass doors.

He had pushed through them and into the thick, hot air outside before he spoke again. Stopping on the sidewalk, he set Silla down and looked at her, his hands on his hips, his brow creased. “You know Hattie's going to be just like a mother to you, don't you, sugar?” Silla nodded and her father smiled, the relief rushing out with his breath. Then he pinched her cheek. “You're going to have the prettiest mother in the whole world.”

Picture Show

M
om was seated at the kitchen table, looking at what appeared to be a thin catalogue, by the time Rose and I got inside. Her eyes stayed focused on the pages as we entered, and so I knew she had seen us talking to Lydia. This was how it had been when I was a teenager, trying to navigate the waters of loyalty after my parents' divorce.

“Hey, Nana,” said Rose as she strode toward the table, dropping her backpack on the floor as she went. “Where's Uncle Warren?”

“He's at work, honey.” Mom rotated on her chair, turning to face Rose, her hands clasped and dangling in the space between her knees as her forearms rested on her plump thighs. Everything about my mother was soft, forgiving. “He's bringing
people their pizza.” She said it as if it were the sort of job that children would parrot when asked by teachers what they wanted to be when they grew up.
I want to be a pizza deliveryman!
But that was the thing about my mother's admiration; she was unequivocally proud of Warren—a dedicated and reliable thirty-six-year-old pizza deliveryman who could explain the natal philopatry of sea turtles and spent his free time with his mother. A boy who was now a man, with a heart so fragile he had to keep it tucked away from the world. There was almost nothing Mom wouldn't do for him.

I nodded toward her catalogue, which I could see contained what looked like paint swatches lined in a grid pattern against the backdrop of an expansive wooden deck. “Are you thinking about repainting?” I asked.

She thrummed her fingers over the catalogue pages. “Well,” she said, almost apologetically. “I was thinking that maybe we could repaint the columns out front. As the first thing we do.”

“Oh,” I said. I hadn't known what to expect when my mother had asked for my help with the house, and I was now beginning to understand the enormity of the task. “Okay.”

Sensing my hesitancy, she turned away, smiling and gesturing for Rose to come sit on her lap. “It's just that . . . the quotes I got were kind of high,” she said. “And I thought it would be nice to maybe do it as a family.” Her voice was hopeful and uncertain.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “No, I think that would be good.”

She looked at me gratefully. “I guess you didn't really need to come today,” she said. “I was thinking that maybe we could get started, but I was just reading online about what we need to do in terms of preparation.” I nodded, listening. But she stopped,
her head tilting to one side as she regarded me. “You're such a good girl, Jenna,” she said, looking almost pained. “Everyone in this neighborhood has always loved you.”

I hooked my hand on the back of my neck, letting it hang there. “Thanks,” I said. I was uncomfortable with praise, especially the sort that seemed like a lament. Perhaps it was only the reflex of being a twin, but at once, I thought of Warren. If the neighbors had always “loved me,” as my mother said, how had they felt about Warren?

Rose slid down from my mother's lap, her eyes focused on the forest green wire baker's rack between the doors to the foyer and the pantry. And though it was often difficult to pick out the new additions in my mother's house, the rack held a picture that I was sure hadn't been there before—a black-and-white photo of a woman, framed in thin wood with a small brass hoop on top. “Hey, who's this lady?” asked Rose, reaching for it.

“Lemme see,” I said, resting my hand on her shoulder as I leaned in. The woman was staring into the camera. Behind her, in the soft, blurred background, was a picnic table underneath a tall tree that rose above the confines of the shot. She had a curious look on her face that wasn't quite a smile and her eyes seemed animated, as if she were seeing us as we saw her. She didn't appear to have a stitch of makeup on, and her bangs were shaped into a single, solid curl that looked like the barrel of a wave running across her forehead. One hand was resting on her hip, her wrist bending pliantly. She had my mother's full breasts and lips, and even in the black-and-white, I could tell her hair was red. “Is this your mother?” I asked, glancing back at Mom. I had only ever seen a few pictures of her mother, and they were all formal, posed shots, with crisp lines and good
posture. This woman looked real. Like she might, at any moment, adjust the strap of the dress that was sliding down her bare right shoulder.

My mother shifted in her chair and crossed her legs, wrapping her clasped hands around her knee. “That's her,” she said, smiling despite the tension in her brow. “That was taken the year before we lost her.”

“She looks funny,” said Rose goofily, probably meaning the hair or the clothes or the absence of color.

My mother made a soft sound that was almost a chuckle. “She was a little funny, I guess.”

I was drawn back to the photo. “I've never seen this picture before.”

“I just found it,” said Mom. “I'd been looking for it for a while.” She angled her head so that she could see around Rose and me. “I've been thinking about her a lot lately.”

I didn't know much about my grandmother, only that she had died in 1954 after a complication related to routine surgery. My mother was five at the time and my grandfather met and married Hattie soon after. “You look like her here.” I'd studied the other photos, seeking a resemblance that I was unable to find. But here it was clear.

My mother gave the photo one last look before straining to stand. “Well,” she said, “I'd better get going. The store sent out one of those family and friends discounts, so it's going to be busy.”

Her stare snagged on the open door to the pantry. “Oh, I forgot,” she said, pushing the door open and entering. Like the rest of the house, it was chock-full. Dusty cans teetered in towers, and rows and rows of cereal lined the shelves. “It's just
something I got at Costco,” she said, her voice muffled by the soundproofing power of snack foods. “They're these bars. . . . They're supposed to be as nutritious as a meal,” she said, pulling out a case of the raw vegan bars with deceptively delicious-sounding names—
Cocoa Almond Nut Chunk!
and
Banana Walnut Bread!
“I thought they'd be good for Rose's snack at school,” she said, emerging from the pantry, her eyes lifted hopefully.

“Thanks,” I said, as I took the box, Rose standing on her toes to peek down at what she surely thought were candy bars. I didn't tell Mom that Rose's school was nut-free. She looked too pleased about her contribution to disappoint her with talk of allergies.

Mom headed toward the front door. Guiding Rose with my hand on the back of her head, I followed through the foyer, listening to my mother as she told me about the cutest little sundresses that were on sale right now. “No one wants them because winter is coming, but they're just adorable. Do you think Rose would want something like that? For next summer?”

“That's okay, Mom,” I said, picturing Rose's tiny closet. “We have like zero storage at our place.”

I followed Mom out to the driveway and we each got into our respective cars. Backing out first, I paused to let her pull ahead of me. Never an aggressive driver, she stopped at the end of Royal Court, and seemed to be waiting for a break in the traffic large enough for a tractor-trailer to safely make a left turn.

“Come on, Mom,” I muttered.

“Nana,
go
!” commanded Rose from the backseat.

As we were waiting, a familiar Jeep pulled into the development from the main road. Bobby's car passed and I gave him
a friendly wave, which he returned. Then, in my rearview mirror, I saw his brake lights beam red, then the white glow as he reversed.

“Hey, Mom!” said Rose, just as my mother finally ventured onto the main road. “It's Gabby!”

Gabby Vanni's little fingers were gripping the top of the open backseat window, her mouth beneath the darkened glass, her eyes smiling and delighted. “Hi, Rose!” she yelled.

Rose tried to locate the button for the window. When she did, she rolled it down, and mimicked Gabby's posture. “Hi, Gabby!” she answered back.

I smiled into my lap, then looked up at the driver's seat to see Bobby leaning back, one hand on the wheel. His window slid down. “Hi, Jenna.”

“Hey,” I said, thinking to myself how very handsome he still was.

“So, Gabby is pretty excited to see that new rat movie,” said Bobby, speaking in the loud, staged whisper that parents use when they intend to be overheard.
I heard Santa just lifted off at the North Pole.

“Mom!” said Rose from the backseat. “I want to see the rat movie!”

Bobby smiled, and for a second, he was the old Bobby, the golden boy with white teeth and olive skin and the adoration of all. The Bobby who needed only to roll down his window and
hint
at an invitation to get a “yes.”

I looked down, sliding my hand down the length of my ponytail.

When Bobby spoke again, his voice was polite, reserved. “I was thinking that maybe you and Rose would like to come.”

“Sure,” I answered.

“Great.” Bobby smiled. Then he paused, as if to give what he said next consequence. “It's a date.”

And though I returned his smile, I wished he hadn't called it that.

After Rose was born—after I'd found myself in my thirties and single and a mother—I'd let myself be set up and fixed up and partnered up at a few dinner parties. Most of the time, the men had been warned that I had a child, so they knew how to arrange their faces when I mentioned Rose. But their idea of dating a woman with a young child was often quite different from the reality.

Once, there was a man that I liked so much that I invited him to come in. I paid the sitter and made us some coffee. He waited on the couch. And when I set the cups down on the table, he gently took my wrist and pulled me onto him, kissing me, sliding his fingers through my hair. And I could feel myself thawing. His lips were on my neck when I heard Rose start to fuss from the crib in her bedroom. I froze. He stopped. “She's getting her teeth,” I said, excusing myself to go comfort her. I hurried to her room. In my high heels. In my pencil skirt.
I'm sorry, Rosie. I'm so sorry.
And I wondered how I was going to do this, how I was going to
date
while raising a young child. When I opened the door, the cries that had been muffled were suddenly clear, and I shut the door behind me, seeking to contain them. Picking her up, I sat down in the rocking chair, rubbing my hand over the smooth cotton on her back. “Shhh,” I said, as we moved back and forth together, chest to chest. “Mommy's right here.” She lifted her red face to let out another shriek of protest and pain, then let her head collapse back into
the crook of my neck. I rubbed her back for I didn't know how long. Until I inadvertently fell asleep. Until I awoke with a stiff neck and dry eyes and set her down in the crib to make my way back out to the family room, which was empty, aside from two cups of cold coffee. The man was gone. And I walked slowly back into my daughter's room and lay down on the floor next to her crib, my face against the carpet.

I realized, then, how it was that I would date while having a child. I wouldn't.