The Elegant Gathering of White Snows (32 page)

I used to wonder if maybe it wasn't a secret blessing that we are doomed to this middle-class life, because he loves to drive his truck. He has a degree in accounting from the University of Michigan, but chose to follow his heart and become a truck driver. Sometimes I think maybe the truck that took him away so much before he switched to local routes, maybe that truck saved us because he never saw everything.

Maybe if Paul would have seen me pounding my head on the table and locking the girls out of the bedroom and crawling on my hands and knees through the living room because I was afraid if I got up I would fling myself off the balcony, maybe if Paul saw all that over and over again, he would have had a hard time remembering why he loved me.

Not that he didn't see enough. Paul saw and heard plenty. He held me too, and walked the girls for mile after mile in the old stroller while I tried to figure out how in the hell I was going to make it through the next five minutes. He listened to me tell him at least five thousand times that he would be much better off without me, and that he should just take the girls and leave “or better yet, I'll leave and you keep the house.” He always stopped me at the door, even when I scratched his face and drew blood. Still he held me, firmly but gently and then carried me to the bedroom, where he would pull back the covers and put me between the sheets and get in beside me. There we lay, him holding me while I cried. Hours later, when the girls got up and I couldn't move, Paul made me dinner and breakfast and called in sick. This happened more than I want to admit.

It has taken me so long to think that I even deserve to be loved by a man like him. Yesterday Chris was telling me what a shit she had been to her husband, Alex, who followed her from one end of the world to the next, often rescuing her from the arms of vicious men and circumstances. She told me that men like Paul and Alex surely know a good thing when they see it, and we talked for such a long time about being able to forgive yourself, for things you had no choice about.

“Paul is still there,” she told me. “He's crazy about you. Do you see the way he looks at you when you do something exotic like walk out the goddamned door? Lord, girl, he knew that under all that crazy shit there was Janice. Janice the woman he fell in love with all those years ago. Love, baby. That's what real love is all about.”

I hear that, I know that in my heart, but then I think about my mother and all the guilt that weighed her down all those years. Actually the stress probably gave her the cancer that killed her. I don't want that to happen to me. I don't want to watch my life crumble ever again, and I don't want my daughters to find notes about my sadness when they are rummaging through my underwear drawers after I have died.

They both know, though. They know about severe depression, and although they claim they only have good memories of staying at Grandma's while Mama “went off,” they know the truth because I decided there was no sense in hiding what could become a reality from them. So we have read books and talked to doctors, and sometimes I see them watching me with their eyes narrowed and such a serious look on their faces, as if they are wondering if I am going to go off the deep end at any moment.

Some of our discussions have been quite magical. Like the time Mattie and I were sitting in front of the fake gas fireplace Paul built for us as a Christmas gift. Mattie wanted to know what it was like those times when I couldn't recall my name or where I lived or that I had anything wonderful like her in my life. Cassie and Paul were out getting a pizza, and Mattie and I had hot chocolate. We were sitting right in front of the fireplace, holding hands, talking—just like my mother and I used to do.

“Mom, what did you see those times, you know, when it was so crazy inside of your mind?”

“Mostly it was just this overwhelming feeling of sadness. I could look at you or your sister or dad, all people whom I love so much, and I would see or feel nothing wonderful and good. Only this terrible, terrible feeling that I was ruining everything and there was no hope.”

Mattie grew quiet, and I saw her fourteen-year-old wheels turning, and she was squeezing my hand so hard I thought she might bruise me.

“Was it hard to stay, Mom, did you just want to go away and leave us?”

“Lots of times, sweetie. I thought you might be better off without me, and I prayed, and your grandma, oh your grandma, she always stood by me and kept you safe. She made it easier for me to stay. Otherwise, yes, I might have left and who knows what would have happened?”

“We read about this homeless lady in social studies and then we saw a film about her. She had a family and a good job, but she was schizophrenic and she couldn't find the right medicine. She ended up living in a box in New York. That made me so sad, Mom. I thought about you and about how weird my life would be without you and everything.”

“Honey, so many people loved me and helped me. Your daddy, he always loved me even when he knew I was sick, and he helped me. And you and your sister. I knew that no matter what I did, you would love me too, just like I'll always love you.”

“Mom, if you ever get sick again and because you know, because Grandma isn't here anymore, well, I'll take care of you. I can do everything like she did, and make sure you are safe and everything. Just so you know, Mom, just don't go away, even if I'm mean and act like a teenager. Don't ever go away, Mom.”

That talk with Mattie would have made my own mother so proud and happy. If she could have seen how bright and happy and sensitive the girls have turned out, she would know that every single painful thing we went through was worth it. She would know that her spirit and her heart and her caring and never giving up have helped create an entire generation of young women who will change the world.

That is what I believe with all my heart. Even when the girls act like little jackasses and throw stuff out their bedroom doors and pout because I won't let them do stupid things like rent a hotel room the night of the prom or drive to Fort Lauderdale for Easter break, even then I know that they have hearts as strong as their grandmother's. They will always love me, and if they had to, they would hold me back from that dark abyss.

But there is still so much to put behind me, and I have to sort out what to save and what to throw away. There may be a time when I will be able to read all those notes my mother kept. Chris seems to think I should use them to write something to help other people. She thinks I have undersold my abilities with my English degree by working part-time at a video store. She wants me to get a teacher's certificate and work with high school kids, and maybe I'll be able to do that when I figure out how to get beyond the same guilt that consumed my mother.

I can also smell that soapy scent of hers, and I can feel her hands touching against my face. The way she studied me when she thought I was not looking still makes my heart skip to a fine rhythm that must be the music from her own heart. I can see her eyes filled with such kindness and love for me that it is as if she is right here with me on this great walking adventure.

If she is here, if she is still watching out for me and the girls and Paul, I would want her to know that I have never been finer, that I am on to something glorious, and that I am ready to try a few new things in my life.

With every step I take out here, I seem to feel lighter, seem to see more light, seem to feel a strong pulse of life beating through me. I think this light has the chance to overtake any darkness that might try to sneak up on me.

I'm betting that my mother could look into my eyes and see that my soul is healing, and because she held on to me with such fierceness, she saved my life.

Maybe when I am finished, and my mother knows that she is here inside of my beating heart, maybe she will finally fly free herself and rest quietly. She will know that she was wonderful and made me wonderful too, and whole and happy.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

G
AIL PUSHED HER LEG
against the side of J.J. and tossed a huge oak log into a campfire that was already the size of a small barn. “Oh man,” she said, inclining her head toward the rising flames. “I haven't had this much fun since Girl Scout camp.”

Not surprisingly, Chris had a different memory of Girl Scout camp. She quickly launched into a story about losing her virginity on the floor on an old platform tent with an assistant cook. According to Chris, this young stud had the perfect recipe for making his customers happy campers. A huge scar that launched at her right hip and moved into the upper part of her thigh was definite proof of her positive first night of lust and love.

“The tent floor?”

“Yeah, you remember those big old wooden tent floors and that smell of moldy canvas and the assistant cook? My gawd, didn't anyone have guys at camp who worked in the kitchen or as the handyman?”

The women had gathered up a huge pile of wood from the miles of trees surrounding them. Mary set them up on her brother-in-law's uncle's farm, with sleeping bags and shiny blue tarps spread out under this seventh starry night in a row. Coolers of beer and wine called to them seductively. Everyone agreed that Mary deciding not to walk was doing wonders for their appetites. Still, they missed her at the campfire and when they talked for hours into the night.

“It was hard to tell the girls from the guys at our camp, especially if they were counselors,” quipped Sandy, relating back to the story about the night Chris lost her virginity to the naughty cook. “If I only would have known then what I know now, I wouldn't have bothered trying to seduce that little twit stable boy. There were plenty of attractive girls now that I think about it. They were all most likely sleeping with each other.”

“The tent floor,” begged Alice. “Let's get back to the tent floor.”

“The cook was young but very beautiful, and he had me fooled he was a virgin himself. I think he was crazy about me.”

“Oh sure, he liked you,” laughed Susan. “Have your breasts always been this large?”

“I remember that he liked me and that's what I'm stickin' to, you smart-ass.”

“Go ahead, lie to yourself, but just finish the story.”

“The sex wasn't anything really spectacular, but from what I've heard from you ladies, it could have been a hell of a lot worse. We got into some heavy petting on his bunk bed, rolled onto the floor, and when I flipped off my jeans, he got a little too excited and tried to drag me right onto him. This chunk of wood from the old floor lodged itself right inside half my body.”

“Geez, didn't that sort of put a kink on the moment?”

“Actually, he bent over me, his long hair fell across my large breasts and the way he touched me as he pulled out the splinter was so erotic I almost didn't wait for him.”

“Chris, that's about the sweetest story you ever told us,” moaned Janice. “Of course every single story you do tell us has something to do with blood or guts or gunfire, so you should have known way back then about your exciting destiny.”

The camp stories from everyone flew like bullets then. Stories of burning down buildings; the summer the lifeguard got pregnant and someone finally had to sit her down and get her to a doctor; the next year when the entire vanload of female counselors drove into town. They picked up every single man they could get their hands on, and partied until the sun came up.

Alice took out the marshmallows and lined up little pieces of chocolate on top of graham crackers. When the women huddled around the fire to make s'mores, Alice said that she was glad they were camping one last time because she had never been to camp.

“Well, Alice, we ain't driving into town to pick up guys tonight,” said Sandy. “So you'd better keep your little hands on that stick there.”

“What did you mean by calling this the last time camping, Alice?” asked J.J.

Alice lifted her eyes, and in the light of the campfire she looked so incredibly beautiful that J.J. wanted to lean through the flames and touch her face. Her gray hair framed her face, and her wide eyes were glowing in the light of the campfire.

“Well, it's almost time to stop, you know.”

Susan stood up then, shifted her weight from one foot to the other and then walked around the fire. She stopped behind Alice and rested her hands on Alice's shoulders until she grounded herself in the cool earth. Then she slowly pushed the hair out of her eyes.

“It's me,” she said softly into the crackling wood. “I need to get to a doctor and get on with everything. I'm not sure I want to wait much longer, and Alice, Alice is starting to have a little problem with her knees. All those years of pulling weeds out of the garden, huh Alice?”

Alice smiled but she didn't turn around. She covered the top of Susan's hand with her own.

Chris looked up and saw that Alice and Susan looked more like mother and daughter than simple friends who loved each other. She knew that Alice would go to the doctor with Susan, and then take her home and sit with her through the night. She also knew that for the rest of their lives, Susan would be the daughter that Alice lost.

“It's going to be better than you think,” Chris finally said, breaking the silence. “When, Susan? Tomorrow, the next day, how much longer?”

Susan sighed, looking relieved to have said what she needed to say.

“I don't even know what day it is. I can walk a little more, it's just that I'm scared, and I don't want to wait to have an abortion. I feel strong about this, and if I wait, I don't know. I just don't know.”