Unbeweaveable (20 page)

Pecans

When I think back, visits with Grandpa were some of the best times in my young life. His old house was near the nursing home he was in now. It sat on five acres of land with tall pine trees that overshadowed his massive red brick house. He had a pecan tree in the backyard and Renee and I used to pick pecans from it and bring them inside the house. We raced to see who could crack them open the fastest, and I would always win. I knew the trick with the nutcracker to crack the pecans on the side first so it would reveal the fleshy sweet nut inside.

Grandpa would have Lucille make us homemade vanilla ice cream, which took her hours, but she never complained about the extra duties he assigned her along with her housecleaning. After Grandma died, she grew more like a grandmother to us and less like the help. She always sprinkled the pecans throughout the ice-cream, so generously that we tasted them in every bite.

“This tastes so good, Grandpa,” I would say, licking the back of my spoon.

“Mm-hmm,” Renee added, ice cream on her chin.

“I'm glad you girls like it,” he said, his light brown eyes sparkling.

We would eat until our bellies were full and then eat some more as we watched silly cartoons. I remember falling asleep in his arms, smelling the musky scent of his aftershave.

When Beverly came to pick us up on Sunday afternoons, you could feel the air shift, like a car switching gears. Things were different when she came over. Grandpa's face lost his smile and was replaced with frowns, or worse, he would be devoid of all emotion and nothing Beverly said could evoke a reaction from him.

“Daddy, I'm going to the store, you need anything?”

He shook his head no.

“You sure? I could pick you up some of that ice-cream you like so much—”

“So you're blind as well as stupid, Beverly? You see the girls are eating ice cream, why would I need you to pick some up when they're already eating it? Mine is homemade.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I'll stay and have a bowl—”

“I don't think so. Girls, give Grandpa a hug and go in your room and pack your things up. You'll be back next weekend.”

“Oh, I didn't tell you? Anthony is taking us out of town. To Disney World. Won't that be fun?”

“Yay!” Renee and I screamed, dancing and prancing around the room. At twelve the fantasy of Disney World couldn't be lost on me. All my hair was back—it was still short, but I had hair finally.

“I'm going to tell them. It's time.”

Grandpa's face flushed red and his lips tightened to a thin straight line. “Don't you do that. You'll ruin everything.”

“Daddy, it's time—”

His hand slammed down on the counter so hard our bowls jumped.

“I said no! She's too young, it'll devastate her.”

“Devastate who?” Renee asked.

Beverly looked down at her, then me.

Her eyes went back to Grandpa. “Look at what you've done. Come on, girls, let's go.” She walked out of the room to the protection of her car outside.

Grandpa blew out a ragged breath and looked at us.

“Sorry, girls. Go get your things together.”

* * *

So my girl is one now. Is she walking yet? Talking? I know you have moved on, but I hope this letter reaches you. Could you at least send a picture?

Sincerely, Paul

I folded the letter back up.

“How many times do you think Mama read those letters?” Renee asked.

I stuffed it back into its envelope.

“I don't know.”

“I bet she read them hundreds of times.”

“Yeah, well, that shows what kind of heart she has. What kind of person could let someone write to them for years and never respond?”

“Maybe she has a reason—”

“There is no explanation for what she did!” I burst into tears.

Renee let me cry, and after a few minutes I wiped my face and mumbled out an apology for my outburst.

“It's okay.”

“These letters. They're really getting to me. Every time I read one, I just want to scream.”

Renee pulled over.

“What are you doing?”

“Pulling over so you can scream.”

“What? Get back on the road.”

She stopped the engine. “I was five months pregnant when I lost my first baby. I had to deliver him, just like a real baby, except he wasn't. He was dead.”

She turned to look at me. “I screamed the whole time. I screamed about how unfair it was, I screamed at how my baby should be alive—I just kept screaming.”

“Did it help?”

She shook her head. “No. But it was the only time I felt it was appropriate. You only get a few chances in your adult life to scream. This is one of them.” She rolled down the windows and let out a scream so loud, I wanted to check her for gunshot wounds. She turned to me. “Now it's your turn.”

I didn't think I had it in me. I thought it would take a few times before I could belt it out. But on my first try, I let out a scream so loud that I think Beverly heard me.

Renee nodded. “I thought you never did that before?”

“I haven't.”

“It was a good one.”

“I guess I needed to do it for a while.”

Creases

“I'm getting hungry. Let's stop and get something to eat,” Renee said.

“It's about time. I thought we would never stop.”

“We stopped at that gas station an hour ago—”

“Yeah, so I could pee.”

“Look, I thought you were eager to see your dad. I was trying to hurry.”

“I
am
eager to meet him, I just want to take it easy.”

She nodded as she pulled in front of a diner. The tin building had seen better days, but I was hungry and beggars couldn't be choosers.

“Let's go.”

I followed her inside the diner and we seated ourselves. A gum-smacking, leather-skinned waitress took our order and we sat there in silence for a few beats. Our food arrived and we ate—I had a tuna melt and Renee had chicken fried steak.

“Bet your husband never would have eaten in a place like this,” I said, taking a huge bite out of my sandwich.

“Why do you say that? Because of his money?”

“Of course.”

She shook her head. “You didn't know him. He was a kind, gentle man.”

“You're right. I didn't know him.”

“But you're right. He wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this.”

We both laughed.

“What was it like? Being married, I mean.”

She sat back in the booth and looked up, as if the gesture would send her back in time.

“Good. Most of the time it was good. Except when Mama got in the way—”

“How did she get in the way?”

“Our honeymoon, for one.”

I held my hand up. “Please don't tell me that Beverly came on your honeymoon.”

She nodded and I groaned.

“I can't believe it…”

“He planned this beautiful trip to Fiji to a gorgeous resort, and she was there at the airport with her bags packed. She felt that I needed a chaperone—”

“You were married!”

“I know, but what was I supposed to do? She was already there.”

“You could have told her no.”

“I couldn't do that. Mama is all I had. If she thought she needed to come, then she was probably right.”

“You're not serious, are you? As pretty as you are, you never got out and hung out with your friends?”

She shrugged. “I told you before I didn't have many friends.”

“It sounds like you didn't have
any
friends.”

“My best friend was a bottle of vodka.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.” And I was.

She smiled. “Why? I have a good life. In the end everything worked out.” She seemed nervous all of a sudden; realizing she said too much, she grabbed her purse and pulled out some money for the bill, throwing it on the table.

“You ready?”

“Um…” I was still trying to finish up the last of my French fries. I picked up a few, ran them through the ketchup on my plate and nodded.

“Why the rush?” I asked, as I followed her out the restaurant into the night air. She yanked open the door and slid behind the wheel.

“There is no rush. Just didn't want to stay in there longer than necessary.”

* * *

It took us a while to find the hotel that Renee booked, but we finally pulled into the parking lot and dragged ourselves to check in. What is it about sitting down all day that makes you so exhausted? I couldn't wait to jump into the shower, but Renee insisted on going first, so I agreed and laid on the bed until she got out.

I rummaged through the hat box and found a letter that had Grandpa's handwriting on it. It was addressed to my father. I opened it.

Paul,

I admire your tenacity, young man. You've written to her a long time. You wouldn't take my money, either, which I always thought was stupid, but you had your pride, I guess.

Beverly is married to another man, the man she should have married a long time ago.

She has never seen any of your letters, and I hope she never does. So stop writing, you are wasting your time. And as far as your daughter goes, she doesn't even know you exist. You are dead in her eyes, same as mine, and I'm sure, same as Beverly's.

Do not write again.

William

“Renee!” I yelled, climbing off the bed. “Renee, come here!”

“What?” She was in a white bathrobe, her hair wrapped up in a towel. “What is it?”

“Read this,” I said, my hands shaking as I handed it to her.

She read it and then met my eyes.

“Beverly didn't see them?”

I shook my head.

“Grandpa?”

“Can you believe it? This story gets crazier with every passing minute.”

She sat down on the bed. “So Grandpa blocked the letters?”

“Yeah. Beverly never saw them. He must have felt bad and given them to her later.”

“Including the letter that he wrote your father.”

I nodded.

“So this changes things—”

I snatched the letter from her. “This changes nothing.”

“But Mama didn't know your father was trying to contact her all those years. Maybe—”

“Maybe what? Maybe she wouldn't have lied to me? Maybe she would have let me know my father? That's something a good mother would do, and Beverly is not a good mother.”

“You still want to blame her for everything. She lost, too—”

“What did she lose?”

“She was in love with Paul. Maybe she would still be with him if it wasn't for Grandpa's meddling.”

“She was a spoiled brat who got scared straight because she had to do a little housework. That is not love. If she loved Paul she would have stayed—”

“She was young.”

“She would have stayed!”

Renee crossed her arms over her chest. “Why can't you see the whole story here?”

I bit my lip as I felt hot tears press at the corner of my eyes. “Because if she's not the monster I made her out to be, then who is? Who is to blame for all this?”

“Everybody made a mistake, and then made the mistake bigger by trying to cover it up. Now everybody needs to heal. You, Mama, your father—everybody. Like it or not, she's the only mother you've got. You need to forgive her.”

I looked down at the letter, and followed the creases to fold it exactly as I found it. “I'm going to take a shower now.”

Compassion

The closer we got to Memphis, the emptier my Maalox bottle got. By the time we arrived it was empty.

“You drink that stuff like it's water. Maybe you need to go to the doctor.”

I flicked my hand. “I'm fine.”

But I wasn't. The trip took us longer than we planned because of my frequent restroom breaks. The whole point of this trip was to meet my father, and now all I wanted to do was turn around.

Our hotel loomed before us, and I gave my keys to the valet, ready to get out of the car again to stretch my legs. I got my bag out of the backseat and trailed after Renee into the Hilton lobby.

“Your reservation was for the suite, yes?” the concierge asked, his voice tinged with an European accent.

“Yes,” she said, wagging her credit card in front of him like a piece of meat. He grabbed it and slid it through the machine, and I watched her scribble her signature on the bottom.

We were silent on our trip up the elevator, and when Renee slid our room card into the electronic lock, I dumped my luggage on the floor and flounced on the first bed I saw.

“I take it that's your bed.”

“Yep.”

“You mind if I jump in the shower?”

“Nope.”

It felt like I'd been in more hotels in the past two weeks than in my whole life.

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out and saw it was Norma.

“Hey.”

“You made it safely?”

“Yeah, we're here.”

“Have you made contact?”

“Not yet.” I sat up and pulled off my shoes. “I'm beat.”

“You drove?”

“Some of the way.”

“Which means you drove for about an hour.”

“Exactly. What are you doing?”

“Feeding Elizabeth.”

Flashes of her plate-size nipples entered my mind and I almost gagged into the telephone.

“So when do you make contact?” Norma asked.

“The question is
how
do I make contact? Should I call him first? Or just do the old-fashioned pop-in?”

“I don't know, what does Renee think?”

“I haven't asked her yet. Hey, let me ask you something. Don't you think it's weird that Renee doesn't have any friends?”

“She has your mom.”

“I know, but she doesn't have any real friends.”

“Beverly's really been there for her. Your sister's been through a lot. It's hard for her to open up to people.”

“I guess. Listen, when Renee's husband died, why didn't you tell me you wrote to her?”

“Oh, jeez…”

“I'm not mad, I just wanted to know.”

“I thought she needed someone to talk to. I just wrote her a couple of letters and called her a few times.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” I asked.

“You know how you felt about your family. You would have just gotten upset.”

“Yeah, but why didn't you tell me I should have reached out to my sister? You should have reminded me to be there for her.”

“I didn't think I needed to remind you. She's your sister. Her husband died. You should have been there.”

“Touché. Look, I gotta go.”

“Don't be mad, Mariah.”

“I'm not. I'm sad. Talk to you later, okay?”

“Love you.”

After hanging up, I laid across the bed. Ever since leaving the restaurant yesterday, I was haunted by the fact that Renee's only friend was Beverly. I kept thinking about the past, and wishing I could rewind time and fix it. But I couldn't change my behavior, especially everything I did that horrible day.

* * *

The day of Peter's funeral was sunny. One of those days where you want to fly a kite or sit all day on the beach. Instead I was sitting under a tent watching my sister's husband go in the ground.

And I felt nothing.

Sure, I looked sad like everyone else, but I kept glancing at my watch, wandering when I could sneak a peek at my phone to check some e-mails, itching to get out of my dress, this place, this city.

My eyes scanned the crowd, tears on the faces of many. The crowd looked like a Dalmatian's coat—there was an even amount of white and black faces around me. I stopped cold when I saw Beverly's eyes on me; her disapproving glance pierced through me. She knew what I was thinking. She shook her head at me and put her arm around Renee. She didn't have to show such signs of possessiveness, I knew who was loved most.

Renee looked devastated. Her skin was the color of snow, her hair pulled back in a severe bun that made her eyes appear as if she was caught in a wind tunnel. Her face was wet from tears and her nose oozed so much snot that her hand was full of wet tissues. I felt nothing at her loss; I hadn't spent much time with Peter, so I hadn't formed a bond.

But I should have felt sad for Renee. As her sister I should have felt something for her standing there with Beverly and Anthony, the three amigos back together again.

But I didn't. And dare I say it? I felt twinges of pleasure crawl up my lower back as Renee cried. The harder she cried, the more joy I felt until a smile played on my lips. Norma was watching me, and shock was on her face. She knew me better than anyone, and she knew what kind of thoughts existed in that black heart of mine. Shame flooded me and I had to get out of there…
Had to be anywhere but here.

“You don't understand, you didn't grow up like I did—”

“Show a little compassion, Mariah. That's your sister, and she's in pain.”

And I tried. Reached deep inside myself and tried to feel compassion, and when that didn't work, tried to feel compassion's distant cousin—pity. But that didn't work, either. It was hard to feel pity for someone who lived a life of luxury and who would inherit millions. No, old feelings of jealousy and unworthiness remained.

“I'm leaving,” I whispered to Norma two hours later.

“What? You can't! You need to stay…”

“I can't do this. I can't pretend that I care anymore.”

And behind me stood my little sister, her face wrenched in a different pain and her eyes filled with fresh tears.

“Oh, Renee,” I said, “I didn't mean that—”

“And the Oscar for Supporting Sister, goes to—Mariah Stevens!” She imitated her hand into a microphone and thrust it in my face. “How does it feel, Mariah, to know you won?”

I slapped her hand away. “I got it, Renee. You don't have to make a scene,” I said, trying to ignore the glances being thrown our way.

“Oh, I think I can do whatever I want right now. My husband's dead, remember? But you don't care, not that you ever did. So leave.”

I wish I could say that I hugged Renee tight and begged for forgiveness. But I was happy that I'd been granted my wish and left with no feelings of remorse.