Olive Oil and White Bread (28 page)

“I appreciate you coming by to help me, Angelina.” Her mom stood on a step stool and handed her a gravy boat from high up in the cupboard. Angie wrapped it in a sheet of newspaper and set it in the box on the kitchen table.

“It's no problem,” Angie said. “But why are we boxing up dishes?”

“I bought some new ones.”

“Of course you did,” Angie said with a knowing grin, pretending to dodge the mock glare she was tossed. Alice was notorious for changing her décor often and on a whim. Dishes were no exception. “Who's getting these?” The dishes they packed had been around for a while, even by Alice's standards, mostly because they were pretty. Simple cream with a very subtle baby rose pattern around the edges.

“Since you and Jillian got the last ones, these will go to Maria. She still has those cheapo Corelle ones I gave her when she first moved out.”

Angie nodded. Jillian loved the thick stoneware set Alice had given them a couple years back, heavy and solid with a green stripe around each piece.

“Speaking of, how is Jillian? I feel like I never see that girl anymore.”

Angie almost told her mother to join the club, but knew she'd come across as whiney and a little bit pathetic. Besides, she didn't want Alice to know. “She's hanging in there. It's been hard for both of us, but harder for her. Boo was her baby.”

Alice clucked her tongue as she shook her head. “You poor girls. You tell Jillian I want to see her face soon.”

“I will. She's been really busy.”

Something in Angie's tone must have poked at her mother because Alice stopped what she was doing to look down at her daughter. “What's going on?” she asked in her usual blunt way. It was something both loved and hated by each member of the family. If Alice wanted to know something, she didn't sugarcoat the question.

The half-shrug Angie made did nothing to move things along as she pretended to fiddle with the arrangement of things in the box. When she looked up, Alice stood still, a hand on her hip, an expectant look on her face. The frustrated breath of a child unable to pull something over on her mother pushed from Angie's lungs.

“It's nothing. She just seems kind of, I don't know, distant lately.”

With a nod of her head, Alice went back to work, fishing a matching creamer and sugar bowl out of the very back of the corner cupboard. “I forgot I even had these,” she muttered to herself. “Don't you think that probably has to do with losing Boo? It's only been a few weeks.”

“Yeah, that's probably it.” Angie wrapped the creamer in newspaper, the tiny lid in another smaller piece.

“Everybody handles death differently, honey.”

“I know.” Angie watched her mother flexing the fingers of her right hand, a subtle wince etched across her features. “You okay, Mama?”

“Fine. Fine. Damn arthritis is acting up today.”

“What can I do?”

“My pills are up on my nightstand. Can you grab them for me?”

“You got it.”

Angie entered her parents' bedroom for the first time in as long as she could remember. It was their sanctuary, always had been. With four kids, they'd needed one. Angie and her siblings were rarely allowed in once they'd passed age five or six. Now, as she looked around, she took note of things she wouldn't normally see. Her father had a magnifying glass to help him see the print of the cookbooks and paperbacks on his nightstand. His slippers lay neatly on the floor, but they looked like grandpa slippers. His dresser still held his Old Spice cologne, but also a roll-on bottle of Absorbine Jr. for his aching muscles, as well as an Icy Hot pain patch.

Alice's dresser and nightstand told a similar tale, of a woman who was no longer young. Her reading glasses were folded neatly in their case next to a stack of magazines. The remote for the small TV was also there, and Angie knew that if she clicked it on, the volume would be set somewhere between “Way Too Loud” and “Stun”. Lately, she and her siblings had been turning down the volume on their parents' electronics. Prescription bottles sat in a tidy row near the remote: blood pressure, cholesterol, restless leg syndrome. And arthritis; she picked up the bottle and shook two tablets into her hand.

As she turned, her mother's dresser caught her eyes. The hairbrush had collected more gray hair than brown, and on the corner of the dust-free surface sat a framed black and white photo from Alice and Joe's
wedding day. Angie picked it up, ran her fingertips over the smiling faces of her parents, and wondered how it was possible that they seemed so very young then, and now so very old. Gazing at the photo, she thought about Jillian's mother, how young she'd been when she'd died, and how lucky Angie herself was to still have both parents—even if they weren't the vital, unbreakable people she had thought they were.

Her parents were getting old, and there wasn't a thing she could do to stop it. This wasn't exactly a news flash for her, but for some reason it felt like it.

And in that moment, Angie felt every one of her forty years.

Twenty-Six

The Green Apple was an adorable, little bistro not far from Jillian's school. The unspoken habit embraced by Jillian and Marina—that at least once every week or two, they went out for Happy Hour as soon as they could escape their classrooms—now included Lindsey. They occupied the same window table every time, and it was a short wait before two Cosmos and a Heineken were delivered to them.

The mouth-watering aromas of garlic and fresh-baked bread filled the air. Jillian's stomach rumbled loudly, making the other two look at her with raised eyebrows.

Jillian shrugged. “What? Lunch was a long time ago.”

“To surviving a crazy freaking week,” Marina said, raising her glass. Jillian raised hers, and they clinked with Lindsey's bottle.

“Amen to that,” Jillian said.

They sipped.

“You know, I have always wanted to be a teacher.” Lindsey scooped up a handful of mini-pretzels from the bowl in the center of the table. “Ever since I can remember. I used to ask for school stuff for Christmas and birthdays.” The other two chuckled knowingly. “I got one of those big easel chalk boards one year. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.” She took another slug, then focused on her friends. “But college did
not
prepare me for the politics.”

“Amen to that, too,” Jillian said, tipping her glass in Lindsey's direction. Turning to Marina, she asked, “Didn't you and I say the same thing our first couple of years?”

“A few hundred times.” Marina brushed a fuzz off her flowing
cream-colored skirt, rearranged it around her legs. “It's the hardest thing to get used to, in my opinion.”

“Mine, too.”

“And don't even get me started on the parents,” Marina said, taking a large gulp of her drink as she groaned.

“Well, Lindsey's quite a bit younger than we are,” Jillian pointed out. “Her upbringing might have been different.”

“Maybe. But I can tell you, my mother knew my teachers' names and she kept up on what I was doing in school, but that was the extent of it. I swear, if some of these parents today could actually do the work for their kids, they absolutely would. And the kids I teach are
little!
You couldn't pay me enough to teach high school.”

“Really?” Lindsey asked, then turned to Jillian. “What about you?”

“I wanted to teach high school,” Jillian responded.

“Yeah?”

“At first, yup. I wanted to teach art history and art appreciation. All that good stuff. But the small kids?” She gave a wistful smile. “They've kind of grown on me.”

“Finger painting is more exciting than you thought, huh?” Lindsey winked.

“Something like that.”

“I don't know.” Lindsey signaled to Jake the bartender for another round. “I understand that there is such a thing as politics in schools, and I get that certain things have to be dealt with, but I just want to teach the kids. The endless meetings and reports and more meetings and more reports just seem like such a waste of my time.” Her ponytail bounced gently as she shook her head.

“You get used to it,” Jillian said.

“That's what I keep telling myself.”

They chatted for another hour, ordered a sampling of appetizers to help soak up the alcohol, then all three switched to water. As usual, Marina was the first one to call it a night.

Once they'd said their goodbyes and Marina had left, Jillian made an expression that was a combination smile and grimace.

“What's that face?” Lindsey asked.

“I'm still not used to the fact that I don't have to get home to Boo
to let her out and feed her. It's been over a month, but it still catches me off guard sometimes.”

“Do you think you'll get another dog?”

“I don't know. At times, I think I want to. I miss having a furry thing that loves me unconditionally and is so excited when I come home that she wants to burst.” By unspoken agreement, they didn't talk about their home lives. Jillian knew Lindsey was fresh out of a relationship, but they hadn't discussed the details. “Other times, when I think about another dog, I feel like I'd almost be cheating on Boo. I know that's ridiculous, but it's true. And honestly? I didn't realize how much work a dog is until I didn't have one. It's a little bit freeing.” She made a face. “And I feel
awful
for saying that.
Awful
.”

Lindsey laid a warm hand over Jillian's. “Don't. Don't do that to yourself. You're not awful, and you know it.”

Jillian took a deep breath. “You're right. I was a good mommy.”

Lindsey grinned. “Yes, you were.”

“Okay. Cheer me up. Talk to me about something fun.”

The next ninety minutes seemed to go by in a matter of mere moments for Jillian. As always, she found Lindsey to be entertaining, charming, fun to be around. The two of them laughed so often, they garnered smiling looks from other patrons, and then playfully scolded one another to keep it down.

A quick glance at her watch told her it was well past time for her to get home.

Lindsey grabbed her wrist before she had a chance to stand, her hand soft but firm. “You still wear one of those?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye.

“Yes, smartass, I still wear one. It's called a watch. Not that a young whippersnapper like you would have any idea.”

“‘Whippersnapper,' huh? My grandpa uses that word.”

“Funny,” Jillian said as she playfully slapped at Lindsey's arm. She signaled Jake, who sent their bill right over. She added her own money to the cash Marina had left. When she looked up, Lindsey was gazing at her with an expression that Jillian easily read but forced herself to ignore, despite the pang of excitement that hit her low in her body.

“I have so much fun with you,” Lindsey said, her voice quietly serious.

“I know. Me too.” Bending at the waist, she gave Lindsey a quick hug, not allowing herself to hold on longer than a couple seconds. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

She exited the bistro as fast as she could without actually running. Once in her car, she popped in her Gwen Stefani CD and turned it up as loud as her ears could stand. Anything to obliterate the thoughts racing through her mind. Anything to keep her from focusing on what could become a problem for her. Anything to prevent her from actually dealing with the situation head on.

Singing aloud with Gwen seemed to help.

The downstairs was dark when Jillian arrived home, though Angie's car was in the driveway. She'd hardly thought about Angie that day, and aside from leaving her a voicemail telling her she was going out with the girls, they hadn't had any contact all day.

Jillian smelled bacon as soon as she entered the kitchen. Bacon and eggs were Angie's go-to dinner when she didn't feel like actually cooking, and a little stab of guilt hit Jillian when she realized Angie had not only been home for dinner but had eaten alone.

Her nights out with the girls didn't tend to run quite so late most of the time.