Tell Me When It Hurts (17 page)

CHAPTER 17

Several days after the Halloween debacle, Archer sat at the pine table, sipping her morning coffee. Today she would take her run, ride Millie, do her grocery shopping, bake an apple pie.

The phone rang, jarring her out of her thoughts.

“
Hello!”

Pause.

“
Archer?”

“
Yes, this is she. Who is this?”

There was some hesitation.

“
Archer, it’s Sharon.”

Archer spun around at the sound of her sister’s voice. She leaned against the counter.

“
Sharon? What’s wrong?”

“
It’s Mother, Archer. She’s gone.”

“
Oh, my God. I didn’t know she was that sick.”

There was silence, then, “Well, how
would
you know? You’d have to call her sometime—maybe even go and see her.” The angry tone faded as quickly as it had flared. The voice now sounded weary. “Uh . . . anyway, the funeral is Friday, First Congregational in Litchfield, at eleven. I’ve made the arrangements . . . not that you’ll show up.”

“
That’s not fair, Sharon, and you know it.” Archer felt the start of tears.

“
Look, I don’t want to have this argument again, Archer. I really don’t. I’m too damn tired. I called Adam. He can’t make it, but I felt he should know. He
was
part of our family for fourteen years. Julie, David, Ted, and I will be there. Come if you want to.”

“
Sharon, you have no right. You don’t know. You have Julie and David. You—”

“
Yeah, I know the whole routine, Archer. No one has ever, in the history of the world, suffered as much as you. No one on the face of the earth can understand all you’ve been through unless exactly the same thing happened to them.”

Sharon was quiet for a moment, then continued in an even voice, “Archer, we all tried to be there for you. It was no one’s fault, but you acted like it was. You pushed Adam away when all he wanted was to help you get through it. You pushed me away. You have a niece and nephew who don’t even remember you. You’re a lawyer who does nothing. For God’s sake, Archer, do
something
. Yes, Annie’s death was tragic, the worst thing that can happen to a parent. But it’s ended your life. Now we have two deaths in the family. You make me angry, but mostly you make me so damn sad.”

Archer quietly pushed the “End” button on her cell phone and slumped back into a kitchen chair. She put her head in her hands and sat there, with Hadley watching her from across the room, her chin flat on the floor, tail still.

* * *

Archer arrived in Litchfield on Friday morning a few minutes before eleven. It had started to rain. The town green was still lush from the mild fall, and the quaint little downtown looked pretty even in the drizzle.

Archer found a parking spot and got out of the Jeep. She smoothed the skirt of her black suit. It was a leftover court suit and the only outfit she had that was anywhere near appropriate to the occasion.
What a loser,
she thought.
Archer Loh, mother of no one, wife of no one, sister of no one, and now daughter of no one as well.

She approached the church cautiously. She and her sister had once been close. Sharon, her elder by two years, with her curly blond hair, sea green eyes, round face, and pretty smile. Sharon,
my right hand,
their mother would tell people.
Your right and left hand, Zsa Zsa,
Archer would mutter. Even at eleven years old, Sharon could organize the laundry, make out the weekly grocery list, and put together a dinner party for twelve. By the time she was thirteen, she handled the day-to-day cooking for the family, much to their mother’s obvious relief.

And what did their mother say about Archer?
Oh, dahlings
,
Archer prefers to be on da outside of da house, like her father,
she would sniff. True enough—the kitchen was the last place to find her. Or, her mother would say,
nem, Archer prefers da horses to da people
. Also true—more or less. Then there was her mother’s classic,
Archer, kerem, if you could stop wit da clomping around with dat horse, a swell fella might take you to da dance, somevon like Shara’s boyfriend.
Archer had spun around and retorted that she’d rather go to the prom with Clique than with that idiot Jay Chamberlain, Sharon’s then flame, or “flamer,” as Archer called him. She had then stalked off, but not before Sharon screamed and threw a high-heeled shoe at her, which Archer immediately threw back, stabbing Sharon’s poster of Billy Idol, leaving a heel-size hole in the punk star’s forehead, leading to a second shriek from Sharon.
Isten segits! Archer, you are behaving like a vagrant. Vhat am I going to do wit you?
her mother had screeched after her. Ilona Loh had then sighed heavily, shaken her hands as if drying them, and shrugged as if to say,
I can only do so much with that one.

Ironically, Archer had married almost five years before Sharon. When Annie died, Julie was only six and David was eight. Sharon had continued to live in Litchfield after she and Ted Davini got married. Ted was an internist at Waterbury General Hospital, and Sharon was a pediatric nurse who worked part-time on weekends.

Standing now outside the old church’s open oak doors, Archer took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and walked in. Organ music played softly; the church was almost full. She wanted to slip into a back pew and slip out the same way, but others, no doubt with the same idea, had beaten her to it.

In her imagination, Archer envisioned people staring and pointing as she moved down the center aisle. She imagined them saying,
That’s Archer, the weird sister. You know, she went crazy when her own daughter died. Never thought
she’d
show up.
But the organ played on, and beyond a few polite nods, the crowd barely noticed her.

Archer walked farther and farther forward, searching for a seat, and then it struck her: she was family. This was her mother, who, with all her faults, was worthy of being mourned and shown respect in this final tribute. Archer moved to the front of the church and slipped into the front pew, next to Sharon.

Sharon was smoothing Julie’s hair when Archer moved into the space on the aisle. Sharon turned with a faint smile, which instantly froze.

Sharon’s eyes filled with tears. She had not seen her sister for almost three years, since the day Archer told her she was moving away to a cabin in the Berkshires. Sharon had gotten a cell phone number in the mail a few days later, but no address, no e-mail. Since then there had been no photos, no gifts, no birthday cards, no visits.

Archer looked thin and small, but better and stronger than the last time Sharon saw her. Then she’d been a broken woman with dark hollows under her eyes, muddy skin, and a perpetually startled look. Sharon had thought Archer looked like those young horses she used to ride: ready to spook at any loud sound or unfamiliar sight.

Today her dark hair was simple and straight, her light green eyes clear, her skin fresh. Sharon blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek. Archer’s arms reached out; Sharon grasped them.

“
I’m sorry, Archer. I didn’t mean what I said,” Sharon wept.

“
Shh, it’s okay,” Archer whispered as the minister began the service.

Julie and David stared curiously at this woman they did not know.

* * *

When the organ swell signaled the service’s conclusion, Sharon stood and waved her children, Ted, and Archer toward the West Street Grill on the green for lunch. She greeted mourners as they left, and paused for a few reminiscences about her mother. Ted kissed Archer on the cheek and gave her a hug as he hurried back to the hospital.

Once at the restaurant, Archer and Sharon laughed like old times. They were seated at a big booth, with a solid oak table between them. Rustic chandeliers hung at periodic intervals while blue glasses and white napkins adorned each table. A pretty blond waitress in black pants and a white shirt hurried to wipe off the oak top as Archer and her family slid into the brown leather seats.

Archer and Sharon spoke fondly of their mother, recalling her affinity for all things Hungarian, which went along with her resistance to completely adopting the English language.

“
Remember how, no matter where she was, she would find the one Hungarian person in town, and all of a sudden they’d be comparing butcher shops and inviting each other to dinner?” Archer recalled.

“
Yeah, a dinner
I
would have to cook. How about the time when she said the steaks were ‘laminating’ instead of marinating?”

“
Oh, God, yeah. Those were some tough steaks. Oh, and then there was the ever popular ‘swell fella’—you know, ‘He’s a swell fella’?” This got them both laughing.

Archer turned and looked at Julie, sitting beside her in the booth. She smiled at her niece, then said to Sharon, “She has the Loh smile—like Annie did.”

Sharon eyed her sister, fearing tears but seeing only pleasure in her face. She gazed at Julie and David, noting their enjoyment of the banter and of the attention from their lively, pretty aunt. Then Julie piped up. “Aunt Archer, I thought you lived in a cave with wolves or something and had, like, long fingernails and ate out of cans.
Do
you?”

“
Julie!” Sharon yelped. “Don’t be silly. You can see that your aunt is perfectly normal.”

“
But you said Aunt Archer was . . .” She stopped. Sharon raised a warning eyebrow.

Archer smiled and turned to Julie. “My cabin is small, but it’s not a cave. Come and see for yourself sometime, darling.” She patted her niece’s hand. “Maybe you remember Hadley? Not a wolf, just a chocolate Lab.”

And soon it was time for Archer to go. When she and Sharon separated, they hugged again, and Archer promised to stay in touch.

“
I’ll really try,” she said before driving away.

CHAPTER 18

Archer got back to the cabin in the late afternoon. After changing into her old jeans, she lay down on the couch, legs up, ankles crossed. She thought about the day. Connor had wanted to go with her to the funeral, but she’d felt there was enough in the mix without adding another wild card. Further, Sharon’s comments on the phone had hit home. She didn’t want to be
that
woman—self-pitying and ultimately self-centered.

Connor walked in with groceries, Alice on his heels.

“
Hey, how are you doing? I didn’t know when you’d get back, but I thought I’d get some supplies,” he said, resting two bags on the counter.

“
I’m okay actually. It started out rocky. I wasn’t sure what I’d find after that call from Sharon . . . thought she might physically bar me at the church door. But it turned out okay. We talked. And I saw my niece and nephew for the first time in about six years. It was actually better than okay—it was good.”

“
That’s great. I’m glad. And, now that you’ve left the mountain, and the mountain doesn’t have to come to Mohammed, maybe we should try going on an outing.”

Archer was up, helping to put groceries away. She looked curiously at Connor over her shoulder as she put a half gallon of milk in the refrigerator. “Just what kind of ‘outing’ do you have in mind?” she asked.

“
Well, I haven’t given it too much thought, but maybe like a weekend into Boston,” suggested Connor.

Archer put a dozen eggs away. “Boston. Hm-m. I haven’t gone out anywhere in over four years.” She was quiet a moment, then said, “Hey, do you think I’m self-centered and wallowing in self-pity?”

Connor looked at her, surprised. “Uh, no. Where’d that come from?”

Archer told him about Sharon’s attacks.

He stopped putting the rice boxes up on a shelf, caught Archer by the shoulder, and turned her toward him. “Listen, Arch, no one has the right to judge you. Whatever you feel or do is okay. But I will say this. Don’t just grieve Annie—honor her. Honor her memory in a way that’s as unique and special as she was. You’ll know what it is when you find it.”

He went back to putting the groceries away.

* * *

Connor made reservations at the Four Seasons Hotel on the Boston Green, across the park from Beacon Hill. They planned to go for Thanksgiving weekend, leaving Wednesday night and returning Sunday night.

Without discussing it, Connor reserved two rooms, one overlooking the park, the other across the hall with a view unknown.
Ah, to rent just one . . .
but that would never be.

He sighed. The moment either had passed or never would come—he wasn’t sure which. Since the day in the woods, nothing more had been said about romance or sex. Archer had to be the one to make a move, and she simply never would. He knew it.

He had not been back to Boston since moving to Wyoming seven years ago. It would be fun to eat in a nice restaurant, see a play, maybe even go dancing. Did she even
like
to dance? He didn’t know, but he had seen her waltz in fun around the kitchen.

He asked her one night, as they read by the fire after dinner, “So, do you dance?”

“
Do I dance? Did Martha Graham dance? Did Nureyev dance? Did Baryshnikov dance? Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” she declared dramatically, putting her book down.
Do I dance?