The Repeat Year (24 page)

Olive’s mom arrived shortly, svelte and girlish in her batik-patterned dress. She had brought a loaf of banana bread for Olive and Phil, too. She embraced Olive and then stepped back to inspect the place. “Wow. It’s bigger than I remember. Look at the crown molding! Is that a leaf pattern? You don’t see that in most houses these days. And the fireplace is simply gorgeous. It really cleaned up well.”

Olive grinned. She was especially proud of the cultured stone fireplace. It made her somehow think of both Frank Lloyd Wright and cozy winters in old farmhouses. “Let me show you the kitchen. There’s so much cabinet space, we won’t know what to do with it all.”

Her mom followed closely behind, trailing her fingers over every surface and scrutinizing each room floor to ceiling as if she were touring a cathedral. She had only good things to say about every feature of the house, but her proclaimed favorite aspect of the condo was one Olive had nearly overlooked. The backyard was a hundred square feet of weed-infested grass hemmed in by tall trees. In both Phil and Olive’s opinion, it was a less than ideal territory for Cashew, who was staying with Carol until they were officially settled in. There was no fence, and it was too small and close to the woods, where ticks lurked. But in the corner of the yard, nearly hidden by overgrown bushes and shade, was a crumbling stone “sweetheart bench,” as Olive’s mom called it.

“Oh, your dad would’ve loved this,” she said, sitting down despite its damp, mossy appearance. “Your Grandpa and Grandma Watson had one of these in their garden. It was where we had our first kiss.”

“Really?” Olive studied the bench and her mom with renewed interest.

“Yeah. We were seventeen, and what I remember most is all the mosquitoes. We went inside shortly thereafter, and I had bites everywhere. My ankles, the back of my hands, even my forehead. I was so itchy I had to go home.”

She’d seen her parents’ senior pictures, and she could imagine their seventeen-year-old selves sitting side by side, tentatively reaching out for each other. Her dad with his perpetual doofy grin, skinny and confident as a greyhound. Her mom with soft, soulful eyes—eyes that seemed much too old for her otherwise childlike face—and wavy hair down to her narrow hips. Olive had been raised on their love story and wanted to continue believing in that love story, so she was grateful to her mom for giving her this small gift of their first kiss.

“That sounds magical,” Olive said with a laugh.

Her mom peered into the dense grouping of trees. It was a sea of dark green, but mixed in were blazes of red and yellow leaves. “You said there’s an entrance to the Arboretum nearby?”

“Yeah. Just a five-minute walk. And it’s not too far from both the hospital and the high school.”

“That’s great.” Her mom stood up from the bench and dusted her dress off. “You know I’m a little old-maidish when it comes to my ideas about living together before marriage.”

It was her one conservative belief. When Christopher and Verona had moved in together, she’d rattled off unsuccessful cohabitation statistics for weeks, and they’d even been engaged at the time. “They’re going to find out each other’s annoying habits sooner or later,” Olive’s dad had joked. “But there’s more to it than that,” her mom had insisted. “It’s about protecting yourself. And making sure you’re fully committed to the relationship, not just the fun and convenience.”

Now her mom strode to the end of the yard in just seven steps, a few dead leaves crunching under her feet.

“Yes, I do,” Olive said. “You made it pretty clear when Christopher and Verona bought their first house before the wedding.”

Her mom cupped her hand over her brow and surveyed the roof and chimney. “But I know you’re not taking this lightly, and it’s the decision you feel comfortable making right now. And if this is the step you need to take to be with Phil, then so be it.”

Olive walked toward her and followed her gaze. There were a couple of warped shingles, and one of the chimney’s bricks was missing. Little flaws, minor problems, but they were things she hadn’t noticed before, and they unnerved her slightly. Why hadn’t the inspector noticed them? Why hadn’t Phil noticed them?

“How do you know we’re not making a mistake?” she asked, sounding more serious than she’d intended. She tried for a more playful note. “Like those couples in the articles you showed Christopher?”

“I don’t, honey.” She turned to Olive, and her expression was hard to read. Encouraging, yet cautious. “But I feel good when I see the two of you together. And I’m hopeful.” She pressed Olive’s hand.

Olive squeezed back. Hopeful was nice, but she wanted something more solid to go on. It was addictive, she realized, this foreknowledge and certainty that repeating a year gave her. Knowing what to expect, preparing her reactions, gauging each situation before she entered it. But she was off the map now and no longer knew what awaited her and Phil. How had she lived like this for the first twenty-five years of her life? How did everyone else on the planet live like this on a daily basis? It was distressing, to say the least.

“Well, we shouldn’t keep Sherry waiting,” her mom said, already at the back door after three paces. “You know she has the patience of a fruit fly. Are you ready to go?”

The inside of Sherry’s house reminded Olive strongly of the garden. Teacups, stacks of books, and potted plants covered the end tables, the coffee table, the bookcase, the floor. Olive and her mom perched on the edge of the couch, afraid to disturb any of the precarious stacks. Sherry had greeted them at the door in a black-and-gold kimono-like robe, a black scarf knotted around her head. She looked strangely beautiful, like a forgotten, aging movie star. She hadn’t seemed surprised or upset that Olive was with her mom.

“Please let’s not talk about my health,” Sherry said as she lowered herself into an armchair. “I’m bored to death of cancer. Tell me how married life is treating you.”

Olive’s mom moved a ruffled pillow to her lap. “Harry’s wonderful. He’s raking leaves right now. The maple in our backyard always drops its leaves early. We went to the farmers’ market this morning and bought some fresh herbs and vegetables. Tonight he’s going to make eggplant Parmesan for dinner.”

“Ah, newlyweds,” Sherry said. She shot Olive a significant look, but what it was supposed to signify, Olive didn’t know. She didn’t want to know. “I remember when my second husband, Norman, used to read to me in bed. Everything from the
Wall Street Journal
to
Wuthering Heights
. I love being read aloud to.”

“Have you read anything good lately?” Olive’s mom asked.

Sherry considered the question. She spread out her elbows to rest on the arms of her chair. “Yes, but nothing I would recommend. Have you?”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t had much time to read this year. But I am organizing a Virginia Woolf book club at the library if you’re interested.”

“That sounds lovely,” Sherry said and closed her eyes.
“‘I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realizes an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.’”
When she opened her eyes, she was staring straight at Olive.

“Is that from
Mrs. Dalloway
?” Olive’s mom asked.

“No, one of her autobiographical essays, ‘A Sketch of the Past.’ Do you agree, Olive? Do you ever feel that way?”

Olive sat between them, feeling like a twelve-year-old again. She understood both of them much better than they did each other, and yet, in this living room, surrounded by all these books, she doubted her own insight. She remembered the way the voices of the book club ladies had drifted over her as she’d done her homework in the kitchen. Both her mom and Sherry were watching her.

“Sometimes. But it depends on how you’re applying it to your life,” she said finally. “Even if we can’t fully understand all our emotions and the implications of our actions in the present, we can’t keep holding out, expecting to be given another chance to sort it all out. Because by then, it will all be nostalgia. You will be grieving for and missing all the things and people you lost.”

“That’s a really interesting take on it,” Olive’s mom said, gripping her crossed legs and rocking forward. “But don’t you think Woolf was writing more about the knowledge we gain from having the time to meditate and reflect on our past? As they say, hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

“Not always,” Sherry muttered, but just loud enough for Olive to hear. She coughed. “Who wants tea?” she asked and tried to lift herself from the armchair. Pain flashed across her face and she fell back into the seat.

“I’ll make it,” Olive’s mom offered. “Stay here and rest.” She touched Sherry’s shoulder as she left the room.

Sherry steepled her fingers together and gazed intently at Olive. Olive was suddenly reminded of their first moment together in her apartment.

“So you have it all figured out now? One go of it, and everything makes sense?” Sherry’s lips were twisted into a sarcastic smile.

“Of course not. I’m still figuring it out,” Olive said. She hoped her mom wouldn’t take too long with the tea. Something in Sherry’s eyes made her uneasy. Something wild and restless.

Sherry arranged her scarf over her shoulder, like a long mane of black hair. “I called Heath. He didn’t answer. I left a message, and he hasn’t called back. That was over a month ago.”

“I’m really sorry, Sherry. Maybe he didn’t get the message. Maybe he has a new cell phone. Or maybe he’s still thinking about it, and he doesn’t know how to react yet.”

Sherry dismissed these comments with a wave of her hand. “It’s what I deserve, I know. I was never a very good mother to him. I’ve always been better at being on the receiving end of love than the giving end.”

“Do you want me to try to talk to him?” Olive asked, realizing how far-fetched her offer sounded as soon as it escaped her lips. Who was she to Heath? Who was she to Sherry even? “Maybe I can convince him—”

Sherry acted as though she hadn’t heard Olive. She turned her head and rested her cheek against the velour fabric of the chair. “I don’t know how this is going to work. If this is it—if I’m simply going to die alone at the beginning of next year—or if I’m going to be held by Heath’s refusal to forgive me as I held my own mother back.” Her pale face in profile looked stricken.

“
Two years
longer I kept her on her deathbed. The first year I wasn’t there. I didn’t even know she was sick. I was at a women’s retreat in Florida. Heath called me and said, ‘Nana’s gone.’ That was all he said. I felt guilty as hell, but I didn’t bother begging and pleading for a second chance at things. I knew by then that wasn’t how this thing operated. So I was surprised when I woke up in 2005 again.

“It was the first time in my life that I felt like I had a plan. I moved in with my mother. I did the grocery shopping, I gave her her medicine, I washed the drapes and polished the silver. She asked me to take her to Mass, and I did, but I wouldn’t come inside and stay for it, and that bothered her. She began preaching on the ‘state of my soul’ and told me that she couldn’t die in peace without knowing that my divorces had been annulled by the church and my son had been baptized. Nothing else I did mattered to her, and I got frustrated. I ran out on her, and she died alone again.

“When I woke up in 2005
again
, I knew I was being punished. I moved back in with her, and I tried to be the perfect daughter. I went to daily Mass with her. I took communion. I jumped through all the hoops to get my divorces annulled. And all the while, Heath was getting into trouble. He was thirteen then, skipping classes and smoking pot. Norman told me there were days at a time when he didn’t know where Heath was.

“But I needed to make amends with my mother first. I stayed with her until the bitter end because I knew I’d caused her so much unnecessary pain. I see her face when I look in the mirror now. And I understand why Heath is staying away.” She buried her face in the chair.

Olive leaned toward Sherry. “How do you know that your mother wasn’t experiencing the year over again, too? Maybe it was her decision to stay.”

“No, she wasn’t. Why would anyone want that?” Sherry shrilled, balling her hands into fists.

“Maybe it was more important for her to make things right with you than to relieve her own suffering.”

Olive’s mom poked her head through the swinging kitchen door. “Tea’s almost done,” she announced. Her brow furrowed. “Is everything all right in here?”

“Thanks, Kathy,” Sherry said. “There are some teacups in the cabinet above the sink.”

After a moment, the door swung shut, and there was a long silence. Sherry wrapped the end of the scarf around her hand like a bandage. “I don’t know what to do. What should I do?”

Her mom would come back through the door any minute. Olive stretched out her hand to Sherry and squeezed her knee. “Keep fighting. Keep getting your treatments. Keep taking your medications. And call Heath again. Go visit him if he won’t answer. Tell him what you just told me. Make him understand how much you love him and how sorry you are.”

Olive’s mom reentered the living room, carrying a wooden tray with three teacups. She smiled at Olive as she handed her one. “I added milk and honey to yours because I know you don’t like tea. Try it; you may like it.”

The teacup was made of delicate fine china; a chain of tiny purple flowers encircled its waist.

“Isn’t the pattern lovely?” Olive’s mom said when she saw Olive admiring it.

“Thank you. This was my mother’s wedding china,” Sherry said. “All the plates were broken or lost. I have only these few cups left.”

“Greg and I didn’t get any china for our wedding. We were too young for that. I think we got mostly Tupperware.” Olive’s mom laughed.

Olive took a sip of her tea. It did taste better with milk and honey. Less bitter. She studied the spines of the books stacked next to her.
Ultimate Transcendence. The Spiritual Art of Dying. Tibetan Wisdom on Reincarnation. Prepare to Meet Your God.
Her heart ached for Sherry. Atop the pile was an African violet with star-shaped pink flowers.