You Take It From Here (33 page)

Then there was one mystery woman, standing off to the side near the fireplace, overlooking the scene while sipping a Chardonnay. I eventually called Vikki over to have her identify the rail-thin redhead in a long green dress and wearing an impressive diamond the size of a hard candy.

Vikki shot a look of jealousy-filled disdain. “That’s Tori Payne. Her husband owns a bank or something. And she runs that fancy-pants cemetery for the VID.”

“VID?”

“Very Important Dead.”

Tori Payne happened to be the director and chief executive of Serenity Hilltop, the cemetery Smidge was planning on crashing. Smidge was hosting her graveyard audition.

As she flocked from attendee to attendee, around thirty-five in all but growing in number by the minute, Smidge was beaming like this was her cotillion. She wore a long-sleeved navy dress with a bright red brooch. A thick Bakelite bangle in the same color red hung from her wrist. The temperature had dipped slightly, but not quite enough to explain the dark stockings she was wearing. Cherry-red patent-leather stilettos completed her outfit. She looked like a flight attendant from the sixties, perky in her French-braided hair and red lipstick, makeup covering any trace of how pale and paper-thin her skin had become lately. If she was in any pain as she played the merry hostess, flitting around her home holding a martini, she was hiding it well.

I located my glass of wine before diving back into the throng of women. I was hoping to find Smidge without being sidetracked by awkward small talk.

“The birthday girl is fixing to speak!”

Smidge was teetering along the ledge of her brick fireplace, drink raised like a torch. Someone lowered the volume on the music.

She cleared her throat, exaggerating for effect, like she was about to launch into a big speech. It got the crowd chuckling, which covered as she gave her real cough, the one I’d come to recognize. She placed a hand against the painted brick behind her to steady herself before she continued.

“I wanted to thank all y’all for coming today,” she said. “It’s
real nice of all of you, and I know it’s been some time since some of us have seen each other. Look how pregnant Amy is, for instance.”

The stunning Asian in a black, fitted dress sporting a modest, five-month pregnancy bulge smiled as she gave a regal wave to the room. “Yes,” she bellowed. “I am huge.”

There was more polite laughter accompanied by a few murmurs about her in vitro fertilization. The woman behind me barely tried to speak at a polite volume as she noted to her friend, “I asked Smidge, but she didn’t know who Amy chose as the father.”

I shifted uncomfortably on my heels and searched the room for Tucker. I didn’t know whether or not to expect him, but I could imagine him showing up, claiming to be there for Henry.

Smidge continued. “Before I open these presents, I’ve got my husband out in the kitchen cutting y’all some cake. I want us all to have something sweet in our hands.”

She took the last sip from her drink and put it aside.

“Where’s Danielle?” she asked, looking over the crowd. It took me a second to recognize my own name, I was so unused to her calling me by anything so formal. I found myself standing there with my hand in the air.

“Well, come on up here!” Smidge smirked.

As I walked through the crowd, Smidge explained, “I want everybody to appreciate this cake, because my friend Danielle here went through a lot of trouble to get it. Poor woman was out in that storm making sure there was enough buttercream and fondant for all of us.”

Unsure of what else to do, the women gave a brief, gentle round of applause. Again I found myself raising my hand in acceptance.

Smidge put an arm around me, gripping me by the elbow. “Danny here,” she said, and then she suddenly stopped, dropping her face toward the floor. Mouth twisted to the side, chest heaving, I realized Smidge was holding back tears. She lifted her head, her chin raised higher than normal, and gave a quick gasp. “Danny here is my best friend,” she said.

It felt like someone had tied ten-pound weights to both corners of my mouth. Smidge kept her voice steady.

“She’s also my partner in travel, my partner in life. We’ve seen way too much together. And yet, we still haven’t seen enough.”

The grip Smidge had on my elbow tightened as she took a breath.

That’s when I saw Tucker wandering in from the kitchen, a beer dangling from his hand.

“Danny’s been through a lot lately,” Smidge said. “And wouldn’t you know it: I went ahead and put her through even more. But I wanted to thank her, in front of all of you, because I know I don’t tell her that I love her enough. And I love her the mostest.”

“Aw!” That came from Tori Payne at the front of the crowd.

Smidge hugged me then, just as I saw you in the back of the room, holding your father’s hand, tears streaming down your face. Henry also looked troubled as he watched this scene on his fireplace, this outpouring of womanhood splayed
out all over his living room. The question burning in his eyes read loud and clear:
What does everyone know that I don’t?

Looking over that crowd of tense, saddened faces, I realized exactly what was going on.

They all knew.

Everybody knew.

Their eyes were wide as they attempted to hide their own fears, their own worries of death coming for them at any moment. If it could happen to Smidge, it could just as easily swipe them from their husbands and children, knocking them right out of their designer heels.

At one time or another Smidge had terrorized their church groups, their book clubs, their parent-teacher conferences. Nobody in Odgen got away without coming face-to-face with Smidge Cooperton at some point. And yet, here they all were, paying silent, secret, last respects.

They all loved her just as I did: wholeheartedly, in a most terrified way, unable to stay away from her, and worried they’d never really be close enough.

I was floored with gratitude.

I called for a toast to the birthday girl.

“Danny, I can’t believe how many people are here,” she said to me as her crowd sipped and shared teary glances. “It’s enormous! It’s all of Ogden!”

“It does look like that, doesn’t it?”

“Danny, I am
loved.
Beloved. I am not a mean spider. You see that?”

Women began seeking out their husbands in the crowd, clutching them a little tighter. Men were carrying their children,
cheeks were being kissed. Over by Henry, people were shaking his hand. A receiving line was threatening to break out.

That’s when Smidge cocked her head. “Wait. You don’t think . . . they don’t know, do they?”

I shook my head. “No way. This is because they love you.”

She smiled as she relaxed into a pleased nod. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

When Smidge started giving away her things it was like a joke at first, a bit of charity. That girl who used to coach soccer at your high school had knit Smidge a sweater. Overwhelmed with the amount of work that went into a gift like that for a person she hadn’t seen in more than a year, Smidge pulled the yellow bracelet from her wrist and handed it over to her, insisting, “It will look so much better on you.”

The girl was so confused she accepted it, perhaps unsure of the etiquette.

Smidge smacked her palms together. “Wait! Amy with the baby! I just remembered something important.”

Using my arm as an anchor, Smidge dropped herself to level ground and headed in a speedy shuffle straight to her bookshelves. After a quick scan, she gave a squeal of success before pulling a heavy white book from one of the lower shelves.

“I still have your Nigella,” she said. “I must have borrowed that six years ago! And wait, whose
Middlesex
is this? I know it’s someone’s here.”

“Mine.” It was one of the moms Smidge used to sit with during your ballet recitals. The heavyset brunette giggled like
she’d won a contest as Smidge placed the hardcover into her waiting hands.

“I’m sorry I had this so long,” Smidge said. “I never did get around to reading it.”

“You can keep it awhile longer,” the woman said. “It’s really very good.”

“No,” Smidge said, a peaceful look overcoming her, like she’d just been sainted. “I’m afraid I won’t find the time.”

Smidge found excuses to unload her Harry Potter books, a first edition Agatha Christie, and three copies of
The Great Gatsby.
“I guess I liked this one,” she said. “So nice I bought it thrice!”

Smidge told each guest to pick a book, any book. “I don’t want you going home empty-handed,” she said. “Party gifts for all!”

This was something bigger than a free paperback. This was an olive branch Smidge was extending to each of them, for whatever slight that had caused them to drop away over the years. Taking a book with a smile was an easy way to declare all water officially under the bridge. It was a peace offering and a farewell. The women looked relieved.

Henry stepped in. “Some of those books are mine,” he reminded his wife, trying to elicit a chuckle, while letting people know they could stop pilfering his book collection at any time.

“Point taken,” Smidge said, before jutting one finger into the air. “Here is what is all mine: Ladies, I have dresses.”

“Smidge,” I said, knowing she was going to ignore my gentle reminder that she was about to go too far. Two-thirds of those women would never fit into any of her small
clothes, risking the chance that each of them could be insulted anew.

Smidge turned to Tori. “I have the perfect dress for you,” she said. “Danny, you remember that dress I wore to the gala last year? The green one? Wouldn’t Tori look amazing in it?”

“I don’t know which dress that is,” I admitted.

“Well, I’ll go get it and show you. Tori should have it.”

“No! You said it was mine!”

Your voice cut through everything. All of the women fell silent, aside from the one or two who gave an audible gasp.

You approached us, stomping heavily. “You said it, Mama,” you repeated.

“Did I? I don’t remember saying that,” Smidge said, wavering just a bit on her feet.

“It’s okay,” Tori said, smiling wide enough I could see metalwork on one of her molars. “Your daughter can have the dress. I’m sure it’s too small anyway, Smidge, you’re such a slight gal.”

“Jennifer, will you please meet me in the bedroom?”

Your mother’s formal invitation was enough for me to know that I needed to follow as you once again stomped through a cloud of competing feminine perfumes.

I found the two of you standing in your mother’s closet, ripping dresses from the hangers, tossing them over your shoulders as you searched for that one Holy Grail of a dress.

It was like a final clearance sale. You were in a race, both of you dead set on winning, and it was eerily quiet.

“Please stop,” I remember saying.

“It’s
my
dress,” you muttered. “She said I could have it.”

Smidge said, “You can’t have everything you want, Jenny. Learn a life lesson.”

“Maybe it’s time for you to learn something, Mama.” You grabbed my hand and clutched it, keeping me from going anywhere. “Tell her, A.D. Tell Mama what to do.”

This was it. There was to be no more stalling, no more excuses. I couldn’t believe you were making this happen after all this time, after all the reasons not to, you just cut it all away and demanded that it end right then and there.

“You have to tell them good-bye now,” I found myself saying, the words barely audible, my voice breathy with emotion. “You have to tell them, Smidge, while they’re still out there.”

Smidge was shaking her head. “No. No, I don’t want to,” she said, sounding so small herself, even smaller than she’d already become.

“Look at those women out there taking your books and thanking you for them. Why do you think they’re doing that? They
know.
You can pretend to be mean and selfish and spiteful all you want, but we all know what you’re doing. You’re trying to slink away. Well, you owe it to us to die like a decent person. Quit being scared and fix it. We all have to be here once you’re gone, so let us say our good-byes.”

“Wait, we need Daddy,” you said, wiping your eyes. “Mama, we have to get Daddy and then we can tell everybody else.”

“Tell everybody what?”

That was your father, of course, standing in the doorway, walking straight into the end of his life as he knew it.

THIRTY-THREE

T
his story gets harder, Jenny, because you know as well as I do that it is winding down. I’m going to do my best to shelter you from any of her suffering.

It happened so quickly. She was fine, so fired up with direction and to-do lists, until one day, when she just wasn’t. Her voice had gone raspy, every breath rattled. Her shine was gone, and I knew it embarrassed her to look that way, unable to style herself the way she liked. I tried, but it was such an effort just to get her to the bathroom, doing anything that required washing her hair grew difficult. She stayed in bed, attached to a small oxygen machine.