Things Unsaid: A Novel (17 page)

As she approached the door to Yellow Brick Road, Aida spotted a SafeHarbour resident walking her small, silver-haired Lhasa apso out of the SPCA. They were both modeling the same haircut. Aida couldn’t remember the woman’s name but a residue of dislike registered. She pretended not to see her. “A move up in the world,” she snickered to herself as she stepped into the thrift store: from dead husband to cute little dog, from silver hair to silver fur. She had such a great sense of humor, but not everyone appreciated it. That was their problem.

Residents of SafeHarbour took great comfort, she felt, in fondling a furry little pet when widowhood hit. She didn’t care for pets; she liked people. Those who were worthy of her, that is. She needed an appreciative audience. She was through being ignored. Even more so with cleaning up others’ shit.

“How’s our favorite volunteer?” Francine cheerfully greeted Aida as she entered Yellow Brick Road, the buzzer sounding off.

Aida smiled. She derived energy from the other “senior” women at Yellow Brick Road. By comparison, she was a showstopper. Francine had come out of the back room to say hello—Aida guessed her covolunteer
must have been back there tagging new donations and entering them into a ledger before hanging them on racks. None of that for her—what a snooze. She had to be in the front, where the action was. Where people could see her. Not in the back room, far away from admiring eyes. She was good for business.

“My, oh my, Aida, you certainly dress up,” Francine said, looking her up and down. All the women did that, and Aida loved it. She knew she was still attractive, even at her age.
You’re only as young as you feel
, she thought. That’s what she tried to impress upon her two daughters, but only Joanne listened. She often felt she had spent most of her life as an old woman, not a young one. Seemed unfair somehow. But her greatest asset was still there to pull men in. She just had to accept that her admirers had been age-appropriately adjusted. The looks she got now were from old men, not the young Turks of her diva days.

“Oh, this old thing? I just rushed to put it together.”
Lie
. It took Aida at least an hour every morning to decide what to wear. And this particular outfit had maxed out her major credit card, the one she used exclusively for replenishing her wardrobe. But no matter. Aida was proud that she dressed as if she still attended Junior League luncheons. And customers seemed to appreciate her air of entitlement, as well as her fashion sense. She was highly valued. She just knew it. So obvious. She was different and always had been. Went after whatever she wanted.

“I can’t stay long. My older daughter, Julia, was just here from California to celebrate my birthday. It was okay—too much fuss, if you ask me. But you know how it is with guests. I had to put everything on hold when she was here. Lots to catch up with. And Sarah’s coming over after school for her scheduled playtime with her grandma.” She liked using the word “grandma” as if it belonged to someone else. She had never imagined herself being called that by anyone. Ever.

“You never told me you had another daughter, Aida!” Francine said, interrupting her thoughts. “And we’ve been working together for three years now, haven’t we? Isn’t it wonderful to have daughters? Must have been special with all your kids here to celebrate.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely positive I’ve mentioned my older daughter to you before.”
Francine can be so irritating
, she thought, looking over at her.
Chunky reading glasses, nose pointed down. Dressing as she does, as if she were going to weed her garden. Probably a hand-me-down from one of her teenage kids, or maybe something that couldn’t be sold even here. Like my son’s wife, Abigail—looking like a hayseed. No self-respect
.

“Nope, I’m certain,” Francine insisted. “You only talk about Joanne and Andrew. This is the first I have heard about another daughter.”

Aida sniffed. No reason to mention that Andrew hadn’t come out for her birthday. Francine was so forgetful and nosy. How could she not have mentioned Julia at least once in the three years she had volunteered there? It just wasn’t possible.
Well, Francine’s got to be at least fifty—almost the same age as Julia
, she thought. She wondered why her coworker was aging so rapidly. You just had to fight the inevitable and maybe it would go away.
I’m not going down that path—not just yet, anyway
.

She felt her irritability was showing on her face. Why hadn’t Francine learned how to filter her words, to know the margins of accepted behavior? She had no social skills. At least Aida had taught Julia and Joanne that much.

“I’m certain I’ve mentioned Julia before,” Aida said, digging in. “But you know, I’ve noticed you’ve been repeating the same old stories and instructions over and over again. Starts to set in around menopause, you know—along with the middle-aged spread.” She smiled to herself, knowing Francine was sensitive about her weight.

Francine said nothing.

Aida wasn’t done yet. She went over to give her a squeeze around her waist, making sure to feel her rolls around the middle. Kind of disgusting.
She should do something about that
. But Francine was too out of shape for a tummy tuck.

“You just get used to not being noticed anymore. A kind of encroaching invisibility,” Aida continued, gaining momentum. “There are benefits to a place like SafeHarbour, you know. You should apply for an apartment. You might find some old geezer—I could make some introductions for you. The rich old farts are unaware they’re surrounded by old hags.” She chuckled softly, knowing Francine had financial worries about paying for two kids’ college tuition. She was recently divorced, with a deadbeat ex. Good riddance, if you asked her.

“Why don’t you tell me a little bit about Julia,” Francine said with a forced smile. “Is she married? Any kids?”

Aida’s cheeks puffed out. She could feel them heat up. “Since you can’t remember anything, sweetie”—she paused and reached for Francine’s hand, but was startled to see Francine recoil from her touch—“I’ll tell you again, hon, but you’ll probably forget by the time tomorrow comes around.” She laughed. Sweetly, she thought. “I gave her the beautiful name ‘Julia’ and refuse to call her anything but that. She’s an academic—or should I say, a failed academic. I think she is having problems with her husband and daughter but she doesn’t tell me anything. What more can I say? Hmm. She’s a royal pain in the ass sometimes. How about that for an answer? But the birthday celebration was good enough, I guess.”

“Oh my, you’re always a surprise, Aida,” Francine sighed, looking nervous, avoiding her eyes.

Aida sighed. All that phony nicey-nice crap. “Julia lives in Carmel now, and got a PhD so she could become a psychologist. She’s one of those psychologist types who have the biggest neuroses of all. That’s why they go into that field—to try to figure themselves out.”

“So, what kind of psychologist is she?” Francine asked.

“Oh, not the inkblot type, thank God, or those who study rats in cages all day. Nah, she tests kids in school who can’t read. They call it ‘learning differences’ now, instead of just ‘slow learners,’ like it was in my kids’ day. Back then, ‘slow learners’ was the nice way of saying ‘dumb as a doornail.’ ”

“Well, that sounds like a real contribution to improving kids’ lives, their self-esteem and all, don’t you think?”

“I guess … but I don’t believe in all this ‘self-esteem’ shit. Some kids have confidence because they’re natural-born winners. Others are losers, just plain-vanilla losers. If you ask me, they’re going to have low self-esteem no matter what. Not everyone can be a winner, you know.”

Aida fingered the new merchandise that had just come in. “New” used-clothing donations, that is. She usually stroked the donated clothing as if it were from Saks, but now she twisted and yanked at the blouse neckline on a shirt she was hanging, wrinkling the thin cotton,
which had clearly been meticulously ironed by another volunteer. She let go of the cotton blouse, straightening the hanger. The wrinkles looked embossed, like one of those crinkly Indian patterns. She tried to smooth them out. Hated wrinkles, even on fabric.

Francine laughed, interrupting her train of thought again. “Well, it’s probably a blessing you didn’t go into counseling and have to listen to other people’s problems, Aida.”

“Yeah, I’ve had enough of my own. At one point, my kids were the source of a lot of problems in our household. Always had five cars for the five of us. No one learned to share. We all felt like we had to have our own. Go our separate ways. They were so goddamn spoiled—always getting what they wanted. Bob got so upset when our son had a car accident, crashing into a steep snow bank. The bills were so high, he started playing the stock market. That’s probably what he’s doing right now, as we speak.”

“Well, kids can be expensive, but you can’t worry about the money you spend on them too much. It’s the love that counts in the end, now isn’t it? And how are Julia’s own kids, her being a child psychologist and all?” Francine asked.

“She only has one: a college-age daughter. Zoë. She’s fine, in spite of her mother.” Aida laughed at her own joke. “She’s a very good student, thanks to lots of nagging from her helicopter parents. But we don’t see Zoë much. They say they’re too busy … just an excuse, though, if you ask me.” Whenever she thought of Julia, she envied women who were close to their adult daughters. Must have just been her fate. She’d had no choice—in who her daughters would become, what personalities they would have. She and Julia were just mismatched. That happened sometimes. Like her and her own mother. At least she could depend on Joanne and her two girls. She could still influence them.

Francine had put her in a bad mood.

“Got to go,” Aida spit out, shooting a stink eye at her. She hustled through the door before Francine could respond.

Yep
, she thought,
Francine doesn’t get any action
. That explained it. Probably hot flashes were making her bitchy today.
She’ll love me again when she gets back to her old sweet self
. She wished she would just do her makeup once in a while, though, and make herself look
more presentable. But Francine probably didn’t give a damn. Didn’t care about what was really important for a woman’s well-being.

While she waited in the parking lot for her youngest granddaughter to arrive, Aida thought about the differences between her two daughters and their daughters. Three generations, yet so different. Julia had been difficult from the get-go, no common ground with her. Julia’s daughter, Zoë, was a compromise, an in-between granddaughter: beautiful, sweet, good natured, but so serious and studious—a real drawback, in Aida’s humble opinion. She saw Zoë annually at best, more like once every two or three years. She would have liked to have been closer to her. Like she was with Joanne’s two cutie-pies; they visited her at least once a week.

No matter how Aida had tried, her older daughter just never cared. Julia could have been pretty if she had only shown any interest. Aida remembered their last heated argument, over the telephone, during the obligatory Sunday-afternoon phone call to the old folks.

“Mom, stop fussing over Sarah and Megan’s appearance, their weight, their clothes. Will you, please? You’re going to make them obsessed like you did with Joanne: eating disorders, body image problems, that kind of thing.”

Aida could hear the edge in Julia’s voice. It never seemed to go away, no matter what they talked about. “All that psycho mumbo-jumbo, darling. You know, a girl’s best asset is not her brain. It threatens men, and you should know that more than anyone. You needed to play the game more—tell them how they are all God’s gift to women. That’s why you didn’t get tenure. I bet that chairman could have been charmed into submission. Into giving you that tenure you wanted so badly. And Mike … well, you just think you know your husband. Men hide their true feelings, you know. Like your father. Mike does it, too.”

“Mom—” Jules began.

“And
are
the boys after Sarah already!” Aida continued, ignoring her daughter. “One reminds me of your sister’s first real boyfriend, Tim. Only in the looks department, though. Not all that other stuff—such bad news. What a nightmare he turned out to be. Having to sleep in our closet on that cruise ship. Who would have guessed? And you just leave that little girl alone, you hear me? Sarah’s the little girl of my dreams. Looks just like me when I was her age.”

Why did they always end a conversation so tense and disagreeable? Even when they talked about Sarah, who was none of Julia’s business. With her, Aida had truly fallen deeply in love, perhaps for the first time. And this time she would get the relationship right. Many of the aunts and uncles on both sides of their family thought that Sarah looked like Julia. Even Joanne did. How could they think such a thing! How could a mother not know what her own daughter looked like, what she was interested in, or what she dreamt of becoming?

“She does look like Jules, Mom,” Joanne said. “The same black eyes and gorgeous, wavy, jet-black hair. And she has those same skinny stick legs Jules had when she was ten years old, too. I’ve seen the photos!”

Well, not even Joanne knew her own daughter as well as she thought she did. Not as well as Aida knew her. Well, it is what it is. It is what it is.

While she was on the phone with Julia, Aida had seen Megan sit at Bob’s desk in the corner of the room to do her homework. After that she would sketch for hours, lost in her own little world. Sweet. Megan should watch her weight, though. You could never be too skinny, as Gloria Vanderbilt used to say. Or too rich. Aida preferred Sarah: her second chance. With her she felt reborn—she felt like a mother. Sarah
was
a bit too organized sometimes, a wee bit too fond of structure, even at the age of ten. She aspired to be an orthodontist and straighten other people’s crooked teeth. Aida promised herself she would work on that, and on Megan’s seriousness—promised herself that she would cultivate in both her granddaughters a preference for enhancing physical appearance and a sense of fashion instead of a focus on school and studying. It was probably just a phase they were going through. Academics were not the key to a woman’s success.