The Weight of Small Things (2 page)

Corrie crushed the invitation in her fist, dropping it into the trash can on the way to the kitchen to fix a plate for her husband.

3

“T
his one is from us.”

Mark smiled as he handed the package to his parents. He turned to Corrie and winked as he said, “I guess you’ll know who picked it out.”

Grace carefully opened the wrappings and laid them aside. She looked up before opening the silver box and smiled. “Well, if Corrie chose it, I’m sure it’s perfect.”

She lifted the lid from the box. “And I was right. It’s beautiful.”

She raised the crystal bowl for everyone to see. “It’s the one we saw at Macy’s, Tom. You remember, the one I liked so much?”

Tom leaned over and kissed Corrie’s cheek. “It’s beautiful, honey. Thank you.”

Corrie felt a quick rush of relief. She had known Grace would like it, but she was never sure about Tom. In the six years he had been her father-in-law, she’d never learned to feel comfortable with him. He was an imposing man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a regal bearing, as if he owned the world. Corrie felt like an intruder in the family when Tom was around. Mark always laughed when she said so. Then he would kiss her forehead and say, What did it matter, anyway, what his father thought? He loved her, and wasn’t that enough?

Grace was opening another gift. Corrie rose from the couch and walked into the kitchen. She’d seen Ian heading in that direction, walking with a studied casualness she knew meant mischief. She opened the kitchen door and, sure enough, there he was, standing on a stool by the counter, dragging his fingers through the white icing on the huge anniversary cake.

Standing by the stool was his sister, Laurel, two years his junior. Ian was passing fingerfuls of icing to her. Both children had mouths full of the sticky sweet stuff.

Corrie stood in the doorway for a moment watching them, smiling. Her nephew was such a handful, always thinking up schemes that seemed well beyond the scope of a five-year-old. Just now, he was using a spoon to smooth icing over the bald spots he’d left on the cake.

Corrie put on a serious face and let the door swing shut. Both children spun around. Ian nearly toppled from his perch. Then he climbed down and stood behind Laurel, saying brightly, “Hi, Aunt Corrie. We were just looking at the cake.”

He nudged Laurel and they both moved away from the counter. “We weren’t having any.” He smiled sweetly, exposing a gap where his top front teeth had fallen out.

“I think you’d both better go back out and watch Grandma open her gifts. You’ll have to wait till later for cake.”

The children ran past her to the living room. Corrie smiled again. She picked up the spoon and began smoothing the icing, finishing Ian’s job.

“Couldn’t wait?” Sarah was standing in the doorway, laughing. “I saw the kids come out of here and thought I’d better see if the cake was still standing. I see you beat me to it.”

“I probably let them off too easy,” Corrie said. “But they were so sweet.”

“Oh, they have their moments.” Sarah smiled as she eased herself onto one of the stools. “Last week, Ian decided on a new name for the baby,” she said, patting her pregnant belly. “He thinks Obo would do just fine.”

Corrie laughed. “That’d be . . . different. Have you and Kevin thought of a name yet? You’ve only got a couple months left, you know.”

“Well, actually we have. If it’s a boy, we’ll call him Thomas Carl,” Sarah said.

“That’ll make Tom proud.” Corrie grinned. “But what a moniker for a little boy to live up to.”

Sarah paused and looked at the floor. “Corrie, if it’s a girl, I hope you won’t mind if we name her after you—Corrie Ann.”

Corrie felt tears sting her eyes, and she stood still for a moment, saying nothing.

“We can come up with something else. I mean, you might want to use it yourself someday . . . for your daughter. I just . . . I’d like my daughter to be named for my best friend. But, honestly, just say the word if you don’t like it.”

Corrie wrapped her arms around Sarah and hugged her. Her voice trembled as she said, “I think that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. Of course I don’t mind. I’d love to have a namesake. I’m just glad it’s Corrie and not Coriander.”

“You’re sure?” Sarah asked.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Corrie dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “Besides, if Mark and I ever have a daughter, I don’t think I’d name her after me.”

Sarah laughed, gave her sister-in-law’s hand a quick squeeze, then scanned the cake. “I see my kids’ handiwork.”

Corrie picked up the spoon again and began smoothing icing. She didn’t look up when Sarah asked, “Do you wish you were there?”

Corrie was proud to hear her own voice steady and calm. “Where?”

“Don’t give me that. You know what I’m talking about.”

“You mean the reunion?” Corrie asked, studiously smoothing icing.

“You’ve been awfully quiet today,” Sarah answered. “I just wondered if you’re okay.”

Corrie didn’t look up. She was making a bigger mess with each stroke.

Finally, she straightened and smiled. “I’m having a good time, really. To tell you the truth, it was kind of a relief not going.”

“You keep saying that, but I’m not buying it.” Sarah shook her head. “It’s your ten-year reunion. All your friends are there. I know you hate missing it, and I don’t blame you.”

“Well, maybe it would have been fun. But I couldn’t miss your folks’ fortieth anniversary.” She stood back to look at her icing work.“Besides, Bryn is going, and she’ll fill me in on all the dirt.

“I think that’s enough damage for one day.” She put the knife in the sink and wiped her fingers on a towel. “Besides, I know Mark would rather be here. He didn’t want to miss this. And he’d have hated the reunion, making small talk with a bunch of people he doesn’t know.”

“Well, you went to his,” Sarah said. “He could have returned the favor.”

“It’s okay, Sarah. Honestly, I think you’re more worried about it than I am.

“We’d better get back in there. They should be done with presents soon.” She headed for the door, then stopped. “Don’t worry about it, okay? I really would rather be here with all of you.”

Corrie pushed open the door, put on her best smile, and walked back into the living room.

“Who’s ready for cake?”

 

That night, long after the rest of the household had gone to bed, Corrie stood on the balcony outside her bedroom. She stared at the black water of the lake below, sipping a cup of herbal tea. Usually, she loved coming to the cabin. Well . . . it was a cabin by her in-laws’ definition. It was much bigger than the house Corrie had grown up in.

Most times, she loved it here. She enjoyed the lake and the boat. She was a demon on water skis. And Grace and Tom were easier here. It was the only place she ever saw Tom really relax. Mostly she welcomed a weekend at the lake. She and Mark had spent their honeymoon here, after all. It was a very romantic place.

But tonight she was not enjoying the stars, the quiet, or the light breeze off the water. She stood in the dark, in her robe, staring into space. She wondered briefly if she could sneak downstairs and find a cigarette in Grace’s purse, then dismissed the idea. She’d been smoke-free for nearly five years now; she and Bryn had fought that fight together and finally won. But sometimes she thought she’d sell her soul for one good drag of nicotine.

She wondered what was happening back in town, on campus. She wondered if Daniel was there.

Probably not. He wouldn’t come back from . . . wherever he is, just for a reunion.
She smiled ruefully
. He’d think it was a huge waste of money.

She shook her head, willing herself into the present.

Corrie swirled the tea in her cup, nearly spilling it onto her silk robe. She was lying to herself and she knew it, but it was too late to do anything about it. She’d missed the chance to see him again, to finally face down the past and be done with it. And she was angry with herself for not going . . . and angry with Mark, too. And she was angry with herself for being angry with Mark. Because Mark, after all, had told her she should go to the reunion.

“You go ahead,” he’d said. “Mom and Dad will understand. We can take them out for dinner next week. You go and see your friends.”

But Corrie had smiled and said no, it didn’t really matter. She would just as soon not go to the reunion.

Mark hadn’t pressed her about it. She knew he was glad she hadn’t gone.

People always told her how lucky she was to have Mark. What a terrific guy, was the general opinion. And Corrie always agreed. Yes, indeed, she was lucky. Mark was everything anyone could want. He was good-looking, smart, funny; and on top of all that, he was wealthy, a successful architect in a thriving firm. In the beginning she’d been amazed he was interested in her at all. He’d always seemed so remote—Sarah’s handsome older brother, so popular, so completely out of her league.

Corrie and Sarah had been inseparable since grade school, and Corrie had spent a lot of time at the Philips’ house—mostly because for a long time she was afraid to take Sarah to her house. Corrie’s family lived in a little frame house near the university. But it wasn’t the house Corrie didn’t want her friend to see. It was the state inside the house . . . and then there was her mother.

Patrice was known in polite company as “the neighborhood character.” Sometimes the neighbors called her other things—like a drunk or a loon. She was officially too young to have been a hippie, but that didn’t slow her down in her quest for nirvana. She breezed through life drinking gin and tonics, oblivious to the neighbors’ curious stares and whispered comments, naming her children after whatever held her interest at the time. Maya Chi-mala, Corrie’s younger sister, had been born during Patrice’s period of fascination with the Mayan culture. Her brother, Gawyn Caerleon, arrived while Patrice was researching the legend of King Arthur. And Corrie had the misfortune to be born during Patrice’s adventures with Indian cooking. Corrie had changed her name to Corrie Ann officially when she married Mark, much to Patrice’s dismay.

In addition to drinking and occasionally painting, Patrice collected things. She was not a collector of specific items, like stamps or coins or even Tupperware. No, she was a collector of everything. She couldn’t bear to part with things—old cards and letters, books and magazines, bottles, bags, knickknacks, paper clips, anything—and she was forever accumulating more. The house was filled to bursting with stacks of books and papers, every shelf and counter and closet filled. The little yard was cluttered with what Patrice grandly called “garden sculptures.” Stone geese, glass balls, pink flamingoes, even an old bathtub Patrice had painted yellow, intending to use it as a planter. Of course, she’d never actually planted anything in the tub, but it still sat in the yard, collecting rainwater and breeding mosquitoes.

Her children had long since given up trying to persuade Patrice to throw anything away. They simply lived with the mess and told themselves it was part of their mother’s peculiar charm. But Corrie had never wanted to bring her friends to the house. She couldn’t stand the thought of her mother greeting them at the door, tipsy in her red kimono, waving an incense burner in the air and calling delightedly, “Just see, Coriander Bliss, what I found today in the Hendersons’ trash.”

Of course, Sarah had finally come to Corrie’s house. One day while Corrie was out, she simply dropped by. Corrie arrived home to find Sarah sitting on the couch, between a huge pile of
Rolling Stone
magazines and a stack of Tarot cards, drinking tea.

And Sarah had loved the books, the figurines, the lawn art, and especially Patrice.

“Your mom is great,” she’d said to Corrie. “She’s so much fun. I wish my family was more like yours.”

Corrie didn’t tell Sarah about the times she had to drag Patrice up the stairs to bed after she’d passed out on the couch. Or the times Patrice spent the grocery money on gin and rum and bourbon. Or the time she had to take a bus to the county lock-up to bail her mother out of jail after she’d been picked up for driving drunk.

For a long time, Corrie never told anyone about her family. She worked hard to rein in her mother’s drinking and to shield Maya and Caerl from Patrice’s thoughtlessness. In all the years she and Sarah had been friends, it was only after Corrie and Mark had married—after Patrice disrupted the wedding reception, falling drunk into a fountain, exposing her panties and laughing hysterically—that Corrie finally confided in her childhood friend. Mark knew, of course, and Bryn. And Daniel knew.

Two weeks after she first met Daniel in the college cafeteria, Corrie sat in the waiting room of the neighborhood food pantry, voucher in hand. It was a trip she’d made countless times through the years, but one she still hated. As a child, she had trailed along after her mother, studiously avoiding eye contact with the other people there. Once Corrie turned sixteen and got her driver’s license, Patrice had simply stopped going, relying on Corrie to keep the pantry filled.

“Coriander Matthews?”

She rose from the bench, looked up, and saw Daniel standing before her.

“Oh, hey,” he said when he recognized her. “Are you here to volunteer? You need to check in at the office upstairs.”

“Uh, no. That is, I . . .” Her voice trailed away. Her cheeks burned.

“Oh,” he said, his voice gentle. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”

“It’s okay,” she said, not looking at him. “My mom needs some things.”

“Sure,” he said. “That’s okay.” He waited, but she didn’t reply. “So, do you have your voucher?”

She wanted to turn and run. Instead, she handed him the slip of yellow paper, her family’s key to meals for the next two weeks.

Daniel read the slip and made a note in the file he carried. “Looks good,” he said.

She nodded and reached for a bag.

“It really is okay, you know.” His voice was soft.