Summer's End (6 page)

“I'll page someone right away,” the operator promised.

Phoebe went back to her mother's room.

The room was full of flowers, but they were all carnations. The ice storm must have kept the town's one florist from getting the usual weekly delivery, and they had to fill all the orders with carnations.

Phoebe hated carnations. They were stiff, angular, and scentless. They never seemed like real flowers to her. She couldn't imagine them actually growing in a field.

Her father was at her mother's bedside. Phoebe spoke softly. “You need to have something to eat, Dad. Ellie made some sandwiches this morning.” Just as Phoebe had been her mother's first daughter, thirteen-year-old Ellie was Phoebe's first daughter, helpful and conscientious.

If anyone but his granddaughter had made the sandwiches, Hal would have no doubt refused them. But he was a good grandparent. He took the sandwiches.

Phoebe sank into his chair and touched her mother on the cheek. Eleanor turned her head. She nodded faintly, she recognized Phoebe, but she was too sick to care.

Get well, Mother. I'm having a baby this spring. You have to get well
.

What did she remember most? The books, she supposed. C.S. Lewis.
Alice in Wonderland. Winnie the Pooh
. The British ones. Mother had given her the editions she had read as a child, wonderful volumes, some of them leather-bound with color plates. The American books—
Little Women
, the Oz books, the Little House books—the two of them had discovered together.

Phoebe fumbled for the nightstand, almost knocking over the little aqua plastic water pitcher. There was a pile of books there. She picked up one, any one, and she cracked it open to a page, any page. She started to read
aloud to her mother, just as her mother had once read aloud to her.

She went on and on, she didn't know how long, she didn't know what she was reading, but this was what she and her mother had always shared, books. This was what they would share now. Her father came back into the room. He put his hand on her shoulder for a moment. She went on reading. She knew that he understood.

Then the door eased open again. A hospital aide bent over her shoulder. “Ms. Legend, you have a phone call. It's someone representing your sister.”

Her father took the book from her, and Phoebe slipped out into the hall. She picked up the phone at the nurses' station. The voice on the other end was male; he sounded young, identifying himself as the administrative assistant to someone Phoebe had never heard of. He listened as she repeated the message.

“You do know that Amy is in Holland, don't you?” he said.

Phoebe hadn't known that. People in Holland loved Amy. The tulip growers' association had named some fabulous, disease-resistant blossom after her. It seemed strange that they would honor an American like that. Surely Holland had skaters of its own.

“I don't care where she is. I need a number to reach her.”

“I don't know that I can do that.” His voice had a selfimportant little whine to it. “We will handle communications with her. When our clients are on tour, our job is to protect them from distractions.”

Distractions? Was that what this was? A distraction from Amy's tour?

He was someone's assistant; she wasn't going to listen
to this from someone's assistant. “Is there someone else I can talk to?” She couldn't remember who he had said his boss was.

“There's no need. I will relay—”

Phoebe leaned her forehead against the wall. The painted cinder block was cool, rough. Her rings were tight, and her clothes didn't fit right anymore. She felt sweaty and fat. She was tired. She wanted to lie down, she wanted to go to sleep, she wanted all of this to go away.
I'm pregnant. I want someone to take care of me
. “Would one of you idiots please tell my sister that our mother is dying?”

They did, but not soon enough. Someone decided to wait until her performance in Holland was over. As a result Eleanor Legend died while Amy's plane was circling O'Hare.

 

The day she died, the ice melted, but its weight had already pulled down tree limbs. The darkening spots of winter kill were already spreading on the shrubs. Hedges that had been full and green last summer would have twiggy patches this spring, and the gardeners would have to thrust their hands deep into the bushes, searching for the heart of the dry, dead branches.

Phoebe knew what her mother would want: a traditional funeral and a traditional burial, followed by a gathering in their home. “They should have had it at home,” Eleanor used to say when a funeral reception was held in the church fellowship hall. “It's a lot of work, but that's the point. It gives you something to do.”

Her father was planning the funeral, and Phoebe knew without anyone saying anything that she was in charge of planning the reception. She was in charge of everything at
the house. She was the oldest. It was her job to take charge.

They were all staying in the family home, she, Giles, and their three children, Ian, his wife Joyce, and their three children too. Friends and neighbors were bringing in food, but someone had to decide what to eat when. And that someone was naturally Phoebe. She was the oldest; that's what the oldest daughter does.

So she was in the kitchen, taking chicken off the bone, when Amy arrived. She had to rinse and dry her hands before her sister could hug her.

“Are you okay?” Amy whispered into her hair.

Was she okay? A flash of irritation shot through her. What kind of question was that? She was four months pregnant, and her mother had just died. “I'm fine.”

Amy stepped back. For a moment it seemed that her eyes were asking the question again.
Are you really?

But Phoebe kept her lips tight. She wasn't answering. She couldn't.

Amy looked pretty, her light, glowing hair curling delicately around her ears. She was already in black, slender wool trousers and a long sweater whose cowl collar brushed against the perfect line of her jaw, the black making her skin look porcelain fragile. Everything she had on fit her perfectly. Her sweater didn't catch and wrinkle across her hips; her slacks were hemmed slightly longer in back than in front so that the cuffs fell gracefully along the line of her shoe. It was always like that. Amy's clothes were always softer, better cut, better fitting, more detailed than anyone else's. When she wore a suit, the buttons on the sleeves were never the ornamental detailing that they were on Phoebe's suits. They were working buttons with button loops or button holes that were bound on the lining
side of the jacket and hand-worked on the outside. Last year she had worn a taupe-and-black-checked blouse, and whenever one of the front button holes crossed the check line, the designer had changed thread color. Sometimes it seemed as if Amy's clothes were a beautiful armor, as if she wore such exquisite clothes to protect her…although Phoebe couldn't imagine from what.

Amy truly had been a beautiful child, and it seemed that every time the family had her out of the house, the whole world would gather around to gush. Ten years older, Phoebe had been at her most awkward ages—twelve, thirteen, fourteen—just when Amy had been attracting the most attention. Phoebe had hated it.
Shut up
, she would want to scream.
You're not saying anything that we haven't heard a million times. So what if she's pretty?

They shouldn't have been ten years apart. Fifteen or five would have been better. At eighteen Phoebe might have been proud of a beautiful three-year-old sister. At eight she might not have noticed. But at thirteen it had hurt.

Although what business did Phoebe have complaining? How far apart in age were her two daughters, Ellie and Claire? Nine years. And, yes, little Claire was prettier than Ellie.

Amy spoke. “Should I put my stuff in my room, or are any of the kids in there?”

Why are you asking me? Mother's the one who decides who sleeps where, not me
. “The kids are in the attic. Your room is free.”

Amy picked up her bag; it was small, the size of a gym bag.

That's probably what it was. Apparently she had gone
straight from the arena to the airport, not even stopping at the hotel. “Is this a good time for me to take a quick shower?”

“We do have a lot to do.”

How nasty that sounded. She hadn't meant it—she didn't begrudge Amy the opportunity to shower—but before she could take it back, Amy had already set her bag back down. “I can wait. It's no problem.”

“Not if you flew first-class,” Ian's wife Joyce said from the other side of the kitchen. “I don't suppose you feel so grubby when you fly first-class.”

She made it sound like Amy had done something wrong by flying first-class. Amy didn't answer. “What can I do to help?” she asked Phoebe.

Phoebe thought for a moment. “Make up some frosting. Just a butter cream will do. Mother usually keeps two or three boxes of powdered sugar in the pantry.”

Again she heard herself.
Keeps
, she had said.
Mother keeps
. The word should be
kept
.

You didn't know, did you, Mother, when you bought that powdered sugar, that we would be using it for your funeral
.

It took Amy awhile to find the powdered sugar. Then it turned out she didn't have a clue how to make frosting.

She didn't know how to clean broccoli, she had no idea how to take the Cuisinart apart, and, most frustrating to Phoebe, she didn't know where anything was in the kitchen.

How could she not know? She had lived here, hadn't she? Mother hadn't rearranged anything. “It's where it always is,” Phoebe would snap. That didn't help Amy, and it made Phoebe feel like a shrew.

And the whole time Amy looked great, standing up so effortlessly straight, a white butcher-block apron knotted
neatly around her slender frame. She had indeed brought virtually nothing with her. So who did she borrow clothes from? Ellie. That's whose jeans fit Amy, a thirteen-year-old's. It didn't seem fair.

 

After dinner that night Giles and Phoebe were in the library going over lists, trying to be sure that they had done everything, notified everyone. The door was open, but Amy knocked softly, waiting for permission to enter.

“What can we do for you?” Giles asked pleasantly. He and Amy had always gotten along very well. It had seemed odd because, as far as Phoebe could tell, they didn't have a thing in common.

“I was thinking about Thursday.” Thursday was the day of the funeral, but only Dad had the courage to use that word. The rest of them simply talked about Thursday. “I wondered if you knew what you were going to wear, Phoebe.”

Clothes. Only Amy would be thinking about clothes at a time like this. “I haven't had a moment to think about it.”

Amy's lips tightened, and for a moment Phoebe thought she looked hurt. Phoebe supposed that she had sounded a little sharp, but Amy's obsession with clothes had always been such a nuisance. “Amy, you will have ten minutes to dress,” Mother had said countless times. “Whatever you have on at the end of ten minutes, you will wear even if it is nothing but your underpants.” It had been the only way to get Amy out of the house.

But an instant later Amy's expression was as composed as ever. “I'm asking a friend in New York to express a dress or a suit in. You said your clothes weren't fitting because of the baby. Can I have something sent for you too?”

“That's an interesting thought,” Giles said. He turned to Phoebe. “Do you need something?”

Actually Phoebe had thought about what she was going to wear, and her options were not good. This was her fourth child. She was already showing. The skirt to her black suit was straight; she would never be able to get into it. She could loop a rubber band through the waistband button hole of her tweed skirt and wear that with her black blazer, but it would not look right, and Mother had always worn all black to funerals.

Phoebe cared about her appearance exactly the wrong amount. A person should either be like her sister-in-law Joyce and never care, or be like Amy and care all the time. But Phoebe generally cared only one or two Saturday nights a month, just enough to make herself unhappy at those times, but not enough to make her do something about it.

“Then let's take Amy up on this very nice offer,” Giles said. He had read her expression. He knew she had nothing to wear; he also knew that she was planning on saying no. “It will be one less thing for you to worry about.”

“I suppose it would be.” Phoebe couldn't believe how grudging her voice sounded.
What's wrong with me? Why can't I be gracious?

“What about Ellie and Claire, and Alex too, for that matter?” Amy asked. “My friend probably doesn't have much opportunity to buy children's clothes, and I'm sure he would love it.”

He? Only Amy would know men who would love the chance to buy children's clothes.

“That's not necessary.” Phoebe struggled to sound more pleasant. “They can wear their Sunday school clothes. The girls' dresses aren't black, but—”

“Oh, let's go for it,” Giles interrupted. “At least for the girls. It's going to be a horrible day. Maybe everyone will feel a little better in new clothes.”

Giles was not the sort of man who had an opinion on every little thing. He spoke about something only when he truly cared about it. So Phoebe nodded and said that the girls would probably like new dresses. “But not Alex.” He was six. “He would throw himself in the river before he would wear new clothes.”

Fifteen minutes later, she heard Amy making the same offer to Ian.

“You're getting clothes sent from New York?” Ian asked. “Isn't that a little extravagant?”

There was an instant of silence. “It probably does seem that way,” Amy answered.