Thorns of Truth (31 page)

She couldn’t argue with that. But what he hadn’t told her was
how
to change. How was she to separate the strands of her life—strands that had somehow gotten tangled into one giant knot?

Rachel knew no other way than to tug hard, but that was only making it worse. There
had
to be a way to weave those strands into a tapestry that would encompass what she and Brian wanted, both for themselves and for each other; something that would prove both lovely and serviceable.

Out of nowhere came the thought of her mother. Why hadn’t Mama married Nikos? Except for her usual glib response about being too set in her ways, she’d never offered any real explanation. Did she fear that it would compromise her? That marrying again would somehow trample the tender sprig of independence she’d nurtured over the years into a strong tree?

Tomorrow she would ask Mama’s advice. See what words of wisdom, if any, Mama had to offer.

It was ironic, Rachel thought. She’d planned on visiting simply to make sure everything was all right. A concerned daughter looking in on her elderly mother. But now
she
was the one in need of solace, longing for her mother’s cool hand against her brow, and for Mama’s sensible voice telling her what to do.

Chapter 11

S
YLVIE, DOZING IN
her bed, propped nearly upright by a mound of pillows, was aware of a faint humming noise. In her half-dreaming state, she imagined a honeybee trapped against a windowpane, deceived by the blue sky on the other side into believing it could fly straight through the glass. When she was little, she would always capture the poor things in a Mason jar, and set them free outdoors. Otherwise, they just kept at it until they perished. People weren’t much smarter, she mused; they only imagined they were.

Bzzzttt.

Not an insect’s droning, Sylvie realized. It seemed to be coming from the intercom.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she muttered thickly, “What?”

No answer. She lay alone in the four-poster bed, gazing up at the ceiling, which, with its rose-medallion centerpiece and curlicued brackets, had always made her think of an upside-down wedding cake. Not even the safe bulwark of Nikos’ broad, sleeping back to comfort her. Good Lord. Had she slept away the entire morning?

It had to be nearly lunchtime, judging from the sunlight flung like a bright shawl across the eyelet duvet. So late! But these days, time had a funny habit of folding in on her. She’d be out on the patio, reading or enjoying her afternoon tea, and she’d close her eyes to rest them, just for a minute … only to start awake and discover that somehow a whole hour had gone by.

I’m old, she thought impatiently. An old lady snoozing my life away.

Not just old, but weak. Day by day, her strength leaked from her like water from a cracked pitcher. Lying down was the only way to keep from being drained altogether. By the same token, nothing ever seemed to replenish her. She could sleep all day, and wake up feeling no more rested than if she’d spent the night reading or watching TV. A trip upstairs left her as exhausted as if she’d climbed to the top of the Empire State. And however deeply she breathed, her lungs were always starved for air.

Dr. Choudry, at her last appointment, had clipped X-rays of her chest to a lightboard and pointed out the cloudy areas where fluid lay trapped. In his courtly, faintly accented English, which reminded her of Nikos when they’d first met, her cardiologist had warned about the risk of developing pneumonia. Antibiotics would only prolong the inevitable, he explained, his soft brown eyes fixing on her with a gravity that would have made her smile—how oddly formal he appeared, like a Victorian suitor gathering the nerve to ask her hand in marriage!—if she hadn’t been on the verge of tears. It was time they discussed the possibility of a transplant, he said.

“No. Thank you.” She’d cut him off, firmly but politely, as if it were an unwanted magazine subscription he was trying to interest her in. “Whatever time I have left, I don’t intend to spend it on a waiting list, hoping for a healthy heart that ought to go to someone young, with his whole life still ahead of him.”

Now, as the faint murmuring of voices drifted up the stairs, she wondered if Nikos had company. The past few weeks, he’d insisted on staying home to keep an eye on her. But that only meant his work now came to him. Anteros’ chief foreman, Joe D’Angelo, had stopped by twice yesterday. The den was now littered with blueprints, punch lists, specs on various interiors, not to mention the endless coffee mugs and overflowing ashtrays that had their overworked housekeeper muttering under her breath.

Poor Nikos. This was hard on him, too. Occasionally, she’d catch him with his guard down, watching her with an expression of fierce apprehension, as if she were a precious vase teetering on the edge of a narrow shelf. Sylvie longed to put his fears to rest … but how could she? There was no way she could reassure Nikos of what she only suspected was true: her time had not yet come. One day, perhaps not too far away, she’d be stretched out in her coffin instead of on this bed. But first, she had important business to attend to. Family business.

And until it was taken care of, she could not, would not, go without a fight.

Something has to be done about Iris. The thought had been lodged in Sylvie’s mind like a splinter since yesterday afternoon, when her granddaughter had unexpectedly stopped by.

The girl who’d sat at her kitchen table bore no resemblance to the joyful young woman who’d celebrated her engagement only weeks before. Iris had looked—well, mournful. She’d lost weight, too; her jeans hung on her as if from a clothesline.

Sylvie, shocked to see her so despondent, had insisted on fixing Iris a toasted cheese sandwich. But the girl had only picked at it, crumbling the hard crust into tiny crumbs that lay sprinkled over her plate like birdseed.

“Would you rather have soup instead?” Sylvie had offered. “I could heat some up. It won’t take a minute.” She’d felt silly, useless—only stupid, old women believed food was the cure for whatever ailed. But what else could she do?

Iris shook her head. She looked small and lost, seated at the sturdy pine table that had been a fixture of this kitchen since Sylvie had come to the house as a timid young bride. It was the table at which she’d first interviewed Nikos for the job of handyman, over half a century ago, never dreaming they would end up spending their lives together. And where Rachel, as a little girl, had stood on a chair with an apron tied around her neck, rolling out scraps of piecrust.

Iris had loved to play underneath it with her dolls, pretending it was her secret fort. As much as she loved her own home and parents, this house had always been a refuge for her. Sylvie could see Iris in her mind, a little girl racing up the front steps, her arms flung wide. She knew every cupboard and closet, every corner in which to curl up and read. She loved the defunct bellpulls in the kitchen, artifacts from the days of many servants.

But her favorite place of all had been the attic. How often when Rachel or Brian arrived to pick Iris up, had they had to search high and low, calling from room to room? When at last they found her, it was usually by climbing the ladder to the attic. She’d be rummaging in one of the old trunks, or playing house with the baby furniture that once upon a time had been Rachel’s. She’d especially loved the wicker bassinet, passed down from Sylvie’s own grandmother; she’d spend hours arranging her dolls in it, and rocking them to sleep.

Like a cloud passing over the sun, a shadow scudded over the surface of this happy memory. Sylvie found herself remembering the time she’d come upon her seven-year-old granddaughter playing with matches in the attic. No, not playing. Iris had been holding a lit match to her baby doll, watching, as if in a trance, as the flame caused a portion of the doll’s plastic arm to bubble, then begin to melt. Only when Sylvie cried out in alarm, startling her, had Iris snapped out of whatever spell she’d been under …

“I’m sorry, Grandma.” Iris now pushed her plate aside with a sigh. “I guess I wasn’t as hungry as I thought.”

“Something to drink maybe?” Sylvie started to get up.

Iris’ hand circled her wrist, stopping her. “Really, Grandma. I don’t need anything. I’m only here to see you.”

Sylvie sank back into her chair. Her granddaughter’s fingers felt strangely weightless, as if her bones were hollow, like a bird’s. More shaken than she dared let on, Sylvie replied warmly, “We’ll just sit and visit, then. I was feeling a little low, and you’re just the medicine I need.” She lightly touched her granddaughter’s cheek. “How’s my shainenke?”

“Fine, just fine.” Iris stared sightlessly out the window, where the morning glory that twisted up the drainpipe had begun to die back, its leaves riddled by insects and the onset of cold weather into something that resembled old, tattered lace. In a queer, disconnected voice, she said, “Drew and I have been looking at apartments. But the ones we can afford are either too small or too dark.”

Sylvie hesitated only an instant, not wanting to seem too eager, before offering, “Do you need money, dear? I could lend you some, if you’d like. Pay me back whenever you can … or not at all. All I care about it is that you’re happy.”

Tears flooded Iris’ eyes, making them appear huge and luminous. “Oh, Gran.” Her voice trembled on a note so wistful it was almost heartbreaking. As if she wished desperately it could be that simple. “You’ve always been so generous. Too generous. But I don’t want your money.”

“Well, then … I’m sure you’ll find something.” Sylvie spoke firmly and brightly. “In the meantime, you must be busy with school. Are you enjoying your classes so far?”

“School?” Iris blinked, as if she’d just woken from a nap, and swung sluggishly around to meet Sylvie’s gaze. In a dull voice, she finished, “Oh … well … The thing is, I dropped out. For now. I asked the dean if I could defer until next semester. To be honest, I’m not sure if I ever want to go back. I can paint on my own, can’t I?” She shrugged, but a wary look had crept into her eyes. “You won’t tell my parents, will you?”

“I’m sure they’d understand. If you explained it to them.” Sylvie tried to keep the alarm from her voice. She didn’t know which was worse, Iris dropping out of school, or the fact that she was keeping it from her parents. Ever since she could remember, Iris had wanted to be an artist. As far back as kindergarten, her drawings had been more colorful and imaginative than any of her classmates’.

But her change of heart wasn’t the real problem, Sylvie suspected. It was just the handwriting on the wall.

“I will. Soon.” Iris smiled, the corners of her mouth tucked downward in a faintly rueful expression that Sylvie found not the least bit reassuring. “You know how Mom is. She worries if I miss a doctor’s appointment.” She dropped her voice. “And, anyway, between you and me, things haven’t been so great at home. That’s another reason I’ve been staying away.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sylvie asked, though not at all sure she wanted to hear.

Iris shifted in her chair and began twirling a hank of hair— a childhood habit she reverted to when she was anxious. “It’s been going on for a while, I think,” she confided. “All the stuff that happened over the summer with Drew and me just turned the flame up. Now Mom is furious with Rose. She thinks Dad and Rose might be having an affair.”

Sylvie felt her heart catch, and she slumped back in her chair. “Oh dear.”

Just like before, she thought. In the early years of Rachel’s marriage, when she’d fretted over the fact that they couldn’t have children, using Rose as her scapegoat. Imagining Brian still loved Rose … and wanted to go back to her.

Now, decades later, Sylvie found herself wondering if there had been more than a grain of truth in Rachel’s jealous imaginings. If Brian really did still carry some sort of torch for Rose. Certainly, from what Sylvie had seen, Rachel had done nothing to discourage him from wandering.

“What do
you
think?” she asked her granddaughter.

Iris shrugged, but Sylvie could see she was troubled. “I don’t think anything’s happened. But Mom …” She let the sentence trail off. “I just wish sometimes she’d stop worrying about everyone else and worry more about
herself
.”

Well said,
Sylvie thought.

“I’m sure your parents will work it out.” She spoke with more confidence than she felt. “What I’m worried about, frankly, is
you.
Iris, dear, pardon me for saying so, but you don’t look well.”

Iris shifted away from her, and sat chewing her bottom lip in silence. Finally, she said, “Drew thinks we should wait to move in together. Until things are more settled.”

This is about more than finding the right apartment,
Sylvie thought. The look on Iris’ face told a story much deeper, and darker. “Tell me,” she urged softly. “What is it? Why so sad?”

Iris shook her head, and a tear from one brimming eye spilled down her cheek. “Oh, Grandma … it’s not Drew’s fault. It’s
me.
The way I get sometimes.”

“What way is that?” Sylvie asked, dreading yet already knowing the answer.

“Drew is always telling me he loves me,” Iris began, her head tucked low. “But I never believe him. After a while, I start thinking that maybe he’s just saying it to make me feel better. And the next thing I know, I’m picking a fight. Accusing him of stuff. And … well … you can pretty much imagine the rest.” She looked up, her lashes stuck together in dark wet spikes.

Sylvie felt tired, so tired she could have put her head down right then and there. But she had to say alert, find a way to help. Cautiously, she asked, “Have you spoken to anyone about this?”

“Just Dr. Eisenger. He says that when a negative thought creeps in, I should ask myself, ‘Is this real, or am I just looking for an excuse to feel bad?’ But it’s hard to know sometimes.” Elbows propped on the table, she rested her chin in her palms, her fingers cupped delicately about her face. “With Drew, I hold on so tight I end up choking him … but I can’t seem to make myself stop.” The tears were flowing freely now, but Iris wasn’t wiping them away—as if she was so used to crying she hardly noticed. “Grandma, have you ever wanted something so bad you’d
die
to keep from losing it?”