The Girls of Tonsil Lake (20 page)

“Hello?” I croaked.

“Andie?” said David. “Is that you?”

I cleared my throat. “It’s me. Is Jean all right? How did she come through the surgery?”

“Like a trooper. The mass...” He stopped, and I heard a little gasp, as though he were crying.

Oh, God, no, Jean.

“It was the size of a grapefruit, but they got it all. It was contained within the pelvic region.” He stopped again, and I could sense his struggle for control. “And, Andie?”

I nodded, realized he couldn’t hear my head moving, and whispered, “Yes?”

“It was benign.”

Jean

It hurts like a sonofabitch. Andie says my writing that is plagiarism. I don’t give a damn.

Suzanne

The condo sold last week. The woman who bought it, an executive at the same automobile factory where David is still a consultant, loved the furniture. So I sold her most of that, too.

“She’s thirty-eight,” I told Jean and Andie, as we all sat on David and Jean’s king-size bed eating lunch. “By the time she’s fifty-one, she’ll be sick of all that white.”

“Uh, Suzanne...” Jean, two weeks after her surgery, weighed in at about a hundred pounds soaking wet. It was the first time in my life I’d ever encouraged anyone to gain weight.

“What? Here, have some of these. If I eat them, the sour cream goes right to my ass.” I handed her the potato chip bag and the dip container. “The chips just gather up on my thighs in perky little dimples.”

“Suzanne, where are you going to live?”

“Oh.” I gave them the most vacant-eyed, dumb-blonde smile I could come up with. “Probably move in with Andie.”

Andie was silent for a moment, exchanging a look with Jean. Then she said, “Isn’t there a saying about dead bodies?”

Jean grinned. “Or pigs flying?”

“Or hell freezing over?” said Andie. “Suzanne, I don’t have room in my house for your makeup, much less your wardrobe.” She looked speculatively at my hair. “Or enough dye to maintain that atrocious color. You look like you should have a mattress strapped to your back.”

“Sarah’s already offered to pimp for me,” I said, scrubbing a hand through my redder-than-I’d-intended hair. “I gave tons of my makeup to Miranda. Ben suggested I stop before they had to build onto their house. And I put a lot of my clothes in the daycare center’s garage sale. The owner said my suits, by themselves, probably bought the new playground equipment.”

“Suzanne, what are you doing?” asked Jean quietly. “New job, no makeup to speak of, new hair, new car, no clothes, no home. What are you doing?” she repeated.

I was quiet for a minute, thinking. Then I reached for the purse-sized photograph album Vin had sent to Jean. I flipped through it till I found the shot Lucas had taken of the four of us sitting on the rock. “What do you see?” I said, pointing at the picture.

“Us,” said Andie, looking mystified and somewhat impatient.

“And who are we?”

“What are you saying, Suzanne?” asked Jean, looking at the photograph with her brow pleated into a frown. “It’s a good picture of all of us, something we don’t have many of.”

“You’re right, it is a good picture of us. It’s so good, you could look at it and point out which Tonsil Lake girl is which, even if you didn’t know us.”

I pointed. “There’s you, Jeannie, the strong one, the one who wouldn’t complain about anything. See, you’re sitting on the edge of the rock, with one cheek about to fall off, and you’re laughing.”

“Well, it was funny,” said Jean, “because I
was
getting ready to fall off right that minute.” She arrowed a look at Andie. “Or was being pushed.”

“I know,” I said, “but it’s representative of who you are. And look at you, Andie. The fighter. You’ve got your hand up on your shoulder like you’re daring someone to knock the chip off.”

“I was brushing sand off,” Andie protested.

“Representative,” I said again. “Okay, look at Vin. What do you see?”

They gazed at the snapshot, and I saw realization dawn on Jean’s features. “The mystery,” she said. “She’s looking somewhere other than the camera, and she’s just wearing this cool little smile instead of laughing like the rest of us.”

Andie nodded. “Lucas hadn’t tickled her yet.”

“Now,” I said, “look at me.”

Although Jean had been right when she said it was a good picture of all of us, it was best of me. My hair was tousled, but artfully so. My makeup was intact. My turquoise bikini showed up better than the other girls’ dark-colored maillots. I was—

“The pretty one,” said Andie.

Jean nodded. “You’ve always been the pretty one.”

“We don’t even hate you for it anymore. Much,” Andie added. She looked at me, not smiling. “But you do, don’t you?”

“No,” I said as honestly as I could. “I liked being the pretty one. I still like people thinking I’m nice-looking. But I let that be
all
that I was because it was the only thing I succeeded at. I failed at two marriages, I was never a good mother, I can’t
do
anything. I can’t write like you two, or make money just by waking up in the morning the way Vin does.”

I laughed, although it sounded forlorn to my own ears. “I can’t even keep houseplants. They die on me so fast I’m convinced it’s a suicide pact between the philodendrons and the English ivies.”

I reached for the potato chips and scooped up some dip. “I know I’m not going to change into someone else overnight,” I said, “and I’m just feeling my way right now. I’m already discovering I’m too old to be chasing small children around as a way of making a living. I adore your grandkids, but they just flat wear me out.”

Jean and Andie both laughed. “Us, too,” said Andie. “There are reasons for having your kids when you’re young.”

I laughed, too, because Jean looked worried and she was still too sick to be worried. “I’m so proud of you guys. Jeannie, being the strong one has gotten you through this illness and surgery with flying colors even though you do need your butt kicked for being so secretive about it. Andie, the way you fought your cancer was inspirational to all of us. And Vin’s just wonderful. I guess I want to be proud of me, too, for something besides being able to pick out the perfect shade of foundation for any skin tone.”

Jean took back the potato chips. “We always kind of liked the pretty one.”

I smiled at her. “I appreciate that, but maybe you’ll like whoever I become, too.”

Andie said, “You do know Tommy didn’t die because you’re pretty, don’t you, Suze?”

The tears filled my eyes before I could stop them. “I know that in my head. But you have to understand that every day, when I walk out of that condo, I look straight at the place where he was killed. I see cars driving over the area of pavement that was stained with his blood. And every day, I remember that he wouldn’t have been at the condo if he hadn’t come to see me. If I’d been home, he wouldn’t have been outside at that precise moment.”

I held up a hand to forestall their protests. “You don’t have to tell me that’s nuts. I know it is. But tell me this”—I leaned forward and met first Andie’s eyes, then Jean’s—“if it were you, would you feel any different?”

They hesitated before Jean said, “I don’t know.”

Andie said, “You can stay with me for a while if you need to.”

Vin

We had to re-schedule the lunch meeting between my stepdaughters and me twice—once because Marie said she was sick and once because I got too buried at work. My bravado wore off by the Thursday afternoon before the third-time-scheduled lunch.

I sat at the kitchen counter with three unread manuscript submissions in front of me. I should have had them read by Tuesday at the latest; instead, I was two days later than I’d promised and I was obsessing over a luncheon menu.

“You knew them when they were young,” I said, glaring at Archie. “What did they like?”

She glowered back at me. “They weren’t here that much, and when they were, Mr. Stillson usually took them out somewhere. But when they were here, they didn’t like anything. Mostly, they wanted to go home.”

I thought of their bedrooms, still kept as they had been when Marie and Joanna were teenagers. Archie only went in them to dust; I didn’t go in at all. “But Mark was so crazy about them.”

“That he was.” She sighed and looked away. “But being crazy about them didn’t make him a very good father. He didn’t know what to say to them, what to do with them. He was very proud of them, but long distance suited him fine. He was relieved when they were in college and he only saw them when he wanted to.”

I was horrified, but I believed it. Mark had liked his life very well-ordered, and two resentful children who became snarling adolescents wouldn’t have fit comfortably into that order.

I called Jean. “What would you serve people who didn’t like anything?”

“Are you trying to formalize or in-formalize your relationship with these people?”

“In-formalize.”

“Tacos. They’re good, they’re easy, and they’re messy. It’s hard to be snotty when you’ve got taco sauce running down your chin and your nose is running because you got a shot of hot sauce.”

“Sounds good. How are you feeling?” I asked belatedly.

“Fine, but no one will let me do anything. I’m just lying here watching do-it-yourself shows.”

“Where’s your laptop?”

“In my lap.” She sounded sheepish. “I have to hide it under the covers if anyone comes in. They think I’m brain-dead because I had surgery and shouldn’t be writing.”

I laughed. “Then quit watching TV and get busy, at least till someone comes in.”

“Vin?” Her voice was hesitant, and I frowned at the phone. “Can I ask you a favor?”

My God, Jean O’Toole asking for a favor instead of doing one? I was surprised the heavens didn’t open up right then and there. I caught myself looking up to check and grinned in spite of my jangling nerves. “Anything.”

“Would you look at some of the book I just finished? It’s rough. I haven’t revised at all. But it’s...different. Just a chapter or so?”

I looked at the manuscripts in front of me and crossed my eyes. “You bet,” I said. “Why don’t you e-mail me the first three? I’ll read ’em tonight or tomorrow.” Maybe I could print them out and read them in the bathroom. That was the only free time I could see in the near future.

“Oh, there’s no hurry. Just wait until you have two minutes to rub together. You want me to tell Archie how I make tacos?”

I covered the receiver and put the question to Archie, who nodded and reached for our communal reading glasses. “Yes, that would be great. Bless you, Jeannie, and take care.”

Archie took the phone and sat down with a pen and paper. I started reading, relieved the menu crisis was over, but wishing we had two sets of glasses in here—my arms weren’t long enough for me to read without them and I was too lazy to go in search of another pair.

“What a lovely woman.” Archie looked at the phone after she’d hung it up.

I smiled, reaching for the glasses. “She is that.”

“I’m glad things went well with her surgery. I know you were worried.”

“It’s been a rough couple of years for all of us,” I said. “I think we’re all starting to doubt if we’ll survive our fifties.”

She went to the refrigerator, digging through the crisper drawers. “I think you’re all survivors, from what you’ve said and what I’ve seen.”

****

Marie and Joanna arrived together. Marie wore Donna Karan and Joanna wore Liz Claiborne. I wore jeans, flip-flops, and a cotton sweater I’d bought at Hope Island Knits.

There was a time, not that long ago, when it would have mattered who wore what designer.

The first few minutes were as uncomfortable as they’d always been. I hung their coats in the entry closet and we exchanged tight-lipped pleasantries on the walk from the front door to the dining room. Their husbands were fine. Their kids were fine. I was fine.

“Oh,” said Joanna, “tacos! I love tacos, but I hope you’ve supplied bath sheets. I make a hell of a mess when I eat them.”

I stopped dead beside my chair and looked at her. “You’ve had them before?”

“One of the kids came home from camp one year raving about them,” said Joanna. “Our cook considers such things beneath her, of course, so we go into the kitchen and make them ourselves on her day off.”

Marie took her seat and looked at the taco fixings with raised eyebrows, more the reaction I’d expected from her sister, as well. “Somehow, I can’t imagine Daddy eating them.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t have,” I admitted. I met her cool gaze and lifted my chin. “There’s an old country saying about making a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Your father tried, but there’s still a lot of sow’s ear in me.”

Joanna looked between the two of us, and I sensed that she struggled between old enmity and new realization brought on by the appearance of tacos on her father’s Italian dining room table. “Well,” she said finally, “silk spots dreadfully.”

After we’d eaten—Joanna had four tacos, Marie three—Archie came to take away plates and ask if we were ready for coffee. “Yes, I said, “but we’ll have it in here.”

With the aromatic brew between us, I took a deep breath and plunged. “I know you wonder why I insisted on this lunch, since we’ve never had much to say to each other. Your request for the use of the Palm Beach house really forced me to consider what I wanted to do with it.”

Marie’s eyebrows went up again. “Do with it?”

“Yes.” I took a sip of coffee, willing it to calm my jumping nerves. “Because I don’t want it. Nor do I want this one.”

“But they were Daddy’s houses.” Marie’s protest was immediate and heartfelt. “He loved them.”

“I know he did. And I loved him.” I forced myself to meet her eyes again. “But I never loved these houses, and without him, I don’t even like them. No one’s been in the Palm Beach house except staff since he died.”

Joanna spoke stiffly. “Will you allow us the first chance to buy them?”

“No.” I smiled at her. “You shouldn’t have to. Mark should have left them to you in the first place. Since he didn’t, I’m asking you to take them. I don’t know the legalities involved, so if you need to buy them from me, the price is one dollar each.”