Gran makes me breakfast in the morning. It is an unusual way to start the day. The closest my parents come to making breakfast for me is when one of them passes me a cereal box or puts a slice of bread in the toaster. On rare occasions, on the weekends, we go out for breakfast. But that isn't the same.
Gran sets the plate of french toast down in front of me. "There you are, Grace," she says. "Now don't drown them in butter and syrup. All the fat and calories aren't good for you."
"I like a lot of syrup," I reply, tipping the syrup bottle over my french toast and squeezing.
"Oh, well then," Gran says and takes the seat across from me. She sips her coffee and waits for me to hand her the syrup. "What would you like to do after church today?" she asks.
"I don't know," I say, cutting into my first piece of french toast.
"Well, if you don't already have plans, I thought we could drive out to the Greenvale Country Club for lunch."
I raise my eyebrows. "Really?" I reply. First of all, I am relieved she doesn't want to sit around the house reading all day. I'm beginning to think asking for her help was a mistake. She made me read the first hundred pages of that boring book last night. We probably could have read all night and she wouldn't have minded. Second of all, Gran hardly ever wants to go to the club.
"Yes," Gran answers, cutting her french toast into tiny pieces. "We can eat lunch and then maybe play tennis. The courts at the club are nicer than mine. It'll be a lovely afternoon and the club shouldn't be too crowded. A lot of people are probably away on vacation."
"That sounds like fun," I say, smiling.
"Yes, and Rita and Dawn are coming," she says, absolutely casual, and takes one of her tiny bites of french toast.
I choke on my orange juice.
"You're surprised," Gran observes and takes another bite.
"I thought we discussed this," I say, peevishly. Gran's always seemed so easy going. I never realized she was this tenacious.
"We did," Gran agrees. "And I considered what you said and decided that you didn't give Dawn a fair chance. Rita claims she's a perfectly lovely girl. We'll see them at church anyway. You can introduce Dawn to all your friends."
"Fine," I say, stiffly. I finish my orange juice. Yeah, right, I'll introduce Dawn to my friends.
"Thank you for being so agreeable," Gran tells me and rises from her chair. "Would you like more coffee?"
"No. I'm okay," I answer and begin pushing my french toast around on my plate while watching Gran refill her coffee cup. "You know, Gran," I say, slowly, "I'm not sure Dawn is all that lovely."
"Why is that?"
"Well, her stepsister hates her."
"Sisters always hate each other. Look at Fay and Corinne."
"Did they fight with Aunt Margolo, too?" I ask.
Gran doesn't answer right away. She sips her coffee and then turns her back to me. "Yes. That's all any of them ever did. Always screaming and slamming doors. They used to give me such a headache."
"Why didn't you make them stop?"
Gran turns back around. She looks confused. "We should get ready for church," she finally says. "We don't want to be late."
An hour and a half later, we're in Gran's Mercedes on our way to First Methodist, which is right outside downtown Stoneybrook on Stoneybrook Boulevard. Gran has attended First Methodist for fifty years, as long as she's lived in Stoneybrook. My mother went to First Methodist when she was a girl. She doesn't have anything nice to say about it. I started coming here with Gran after The Incident. She always wanted me to go with her before and after The Incident when everything was falling apart in my life, it seemed like a good time to start. It's nice to be devoted to something, to feel like there is something keeping me together. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it does does not. Sometimes it lessens the guilt, sometimes it does not.
First Methodist is fairly small, like most of the churches in Stoneybrook. Gran and I cross the parking lot together with Gran waving and smiling at all the people she knows. And she knows everyone. I like that. I like that everyone knows me as Allison McCracken's Granddaughter. It's a nice title to have and it means something.
Mari Drabek, my doubles partner and friend, waits for me in front of the church, seated on the First Methodist sign just like every Sunday morning. Mari and I have been friends since we were kids and even though she chose me over Cokie, we aren't really school friends anymore. We're friends on the tennis team and at church and sometimes at each other's houses after school and on the weekends. At school, she has her group of friends and I have mine. We have things in common - we both love tennis and church, and there are deeper things, too. Things we leave unspoken. Secrets about ourselves, secrets about our parents.
"Hey, Grace!" Mari greets me, hopping off the First Methodist sign. "Hello, Mrs. McCracken."
"Hello," Gran replies. "I'll see you after the service, Grace. Have fun at youth group, girls." And then Gran disappears through the entrance.
Mari and I stand out front and compare outfits for a few minutes like we do every Sunday. Mari's wearing a green paisley-print sundress, which I definitely don't love. I admit that to her. Honesty is very important in friendship. Mari understands this. If I were to ever wear an unflattering outfit I am sure she would tell me. Of course, there has never been such an occurrence, so I can't know for sure.
When we've finished, Mari and I walk around the back of the chapel to the second building where youth group is held. The high school class is all the way at the end. Mari and I are unofficially in charge. Mari has attended First Methodist her entire life and it is -admittedly - rather clique-ish. Mari claims she's always been in charge. Since coming to First Methodist, I have taken my place beside Mari in the top tier of the youth group. No one ever questions our authority. They simply do as we say, whether it is deciding on the location for the month's youth group trip or choosing the menu for the holiday parties or simply instructing everyone on where to sit. I don't know why anyone allows us to do all this. But they do, so Mari and I keep doing it.
Mari elbows me in the side when we step through the doorway into our classroom.
"Is that Mary Anne's stepsister?" she whispers to me and jerks her head in Dawn's direction.
Dawn's on the other side of the classroom, seated in the second row by herself. She looks slightly better than when I saw her last. She has on black pedal pushers and a royal blue spaghetti-strap tank top. Not hideous. Not really churchwear either.
"Yes, that's her," I confirm.
"She's sitting in the second row," Mari points out, as if I'm blind. "She can't sit in the second row."
"I know," I agree, even though I'm not certain why Dawn can't sit in the second row. There are no hard and fast rules to the seating arrangements. It all depends on our mood. "I'll go tell her to move," I say and stride purposely across the room, stopping in front of the first row of chairs, facing Dawn.
She looks up at me. "Oh, hi, Grace," she says.
"You can't sit there," I inform her.
"Why not?"
"Because...you can't," I snap. "The first two rows are reserved. You can only sit there if I tell you that you can. I say you can't, so you need to move."
"You must be kidding," Dawn replies with a laugh.
I place my hands on my hips and stare down at her.
"Oh, my God..." Dawn gasps and laughs again.
"You're at church," I remind her. "Please don't break the third commandment."
"Well, I'm not moving," she informs me.
I stare at her hard for a long moment. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't relent. She stares back and appears completely unbothered. I whirl around and stomp to the back of the room near the counter and sink.
"Lindsey Dupree!" I bark.
Lindsey spins around so fast she whips Elise Coates in the face with her long blonde braid. She stares at me and makes this weird puckered face.
I place a hand on my hip. "You don't have to sit next to Alexander Kurtzman today," I tell her. "See that blonde, poorly dressed girl over there? That's where you're sitting. Enjoy." I turn back around without waiting for her response. Maybe Dawn will listen to me next time once she's spent an hour with bizarre Lindsey Dupree.
It is not an enjoyable hour.
Mari and I walk back around to the front of the chapel together, so she can wait for her family and I can wait for Gran. Usually, I stay for the eleven o' clock church service. Gran doesn't mind sitting through it twice. But because Gran already made plans with Mrs. Porter and it's a half hour drive to Greenvale, we're leaving early. Mari and I stand together beside the First Methodist sign, watching the congregation stream out.
"Hey," I say to her. "Do you want to come to lunch with my grandmother and I? We're going to the Greenvale Country Club."
Mari wrinkles her nose. "Uh...no thanks, Grace," she replies. "I don't think my parents would like that. I mean...that place is so snobby."
"My grandmother's not a snob," I protest.
"I didn't say she was. Oh, there are my parents now! I'll see you later, Grace. Call me!" Mari runs off toward her parents. Together, the three of them disappear into a sea of people.
I realize Dawn's standing a few feet away near the entrance of the chapel. She catches my eye, but I shift my gaze away from hers. Gran finally appears in the doorway followed by Mr. and Mrs. Porter. I hang back a moment, watching Dawn speak to her grandparents and then finally I approach them, sidling up to Gran, still mostly ignoring Dawn. Mr. Porter walks us to Gran's Mercedes and then continues on to his own car.
"Did you enjoy youth group, Dawn?" Gran asks when we're in the car and latching our belts.
"It was all right," Dawn answers, pulling her long blonde hair out from underneath the strap. "Do you know that Grace and Mari Drabek dictate where everyone may sit?" she asks. Mrs. Porter turns around. "What?"
"They tell everyone where to sit."
Mrs. Porter stares at me. "Why?" she asks.
I could kill Dawn.
Instead, I shrug.
Mrs. Porter looks at me a moment longer, then turns around again. "Allison..." she says with hesitation.
Gran's digging through her purse, searching for her sunglasses. She glances up. "What?" she asks. I think she's missed the entire conversation. Or maybe she's pretending.
"Nothing," Mrs. Porter sighs and settles back in her seat.
Half an hour is an eternity when no one speaks.
It's a quarter to twelve when Gran turns up the hill to the Greenvale Country Club and pulls into the parking lot nearest the clubhouse. I haven't been to the club very often. Gran brings me a few times a year. I don't think she ever comes on her own.
Inside the club, it takes forever to actually reach the dining room. Every couple of feet, someone new stops Gran and Mrs. Porter. Dawn and I are introduced to more than a dozen people, several of whom I know I've met before. They don't seem to remember. There's a lot of fake cheer and plastic smiles at the Greenvale Country Club. I've noticed this before. There's also a lot of waving, clapping, and over-enthused expressions. Coming to the Greenvale Country Club always makes my face hurt.
We're seated at a square table beside one of the huge windows overlooking the golf course. Even though it's barely noon on a Sunday, golf cart after golf cart whizzes by down below. The dark green of the perfectly manicured course and the slight hills that roll beyond it make the view so serene. Bright light streams in from outside, spilling over our table, and when it hits Dawn, who's seated across from me, her hair almost appears to glow.
Not that I would ever tell her that.
"Are the chicken caesar salad's any good here?" Dawn asks.
"Everything is good here," I reply, testily. I'm still upset with her. "It's the Greenvale Country Club."
"Everything better be good," Gran says, studying her menu, "for what I pay in membership fees."
"You know, Allison..." Mrs. Porter begins in a very nonchalant voice that cannot possibly have anything good coming with it. "Charles and I are discussing not renewing our membership at the end of the year."
Gran looks up from her menu. "Why not?" she wants to know. "You've been members here almost as long as me."
"Well...Charles and I think that the club...well, it's not very progressive, is it? The regulations and policies are quite archaic, wouldn't you say? We've gotten such a bad reputation in the last few years with all the talk of discriminatory practices and so many of the older families leaving - the Wallingfords, the Ellenburgs, the Riversons, the Wellers. They all withdrew their memberships at the same time. I think they were making a statement."
"What does that have to do with us? We're not on the membership committee."
"Well, no..." Mrs. Porters says, no longer sounding nonchalant, but rather a bit exasperated. "But really, Allison - "
Dawn interrupts her. "What discriminatory practices?" she asks her grandmother.
"Well, Dawn...the Greenvale Country Club is very old fashioned and so are its members. The membership committee is known for...rejecting new members based on...superficial circumstances..."
Dawn's mouth gapes open. It's quite unattractive. She leans forward and hisses, "They don't let in minorities?" Dawn glances around the dining room and her eyes widen. "Everyone in here is white! Granny, how can you belong to a place like this?" she demands.
Mrs. Porter's cheeks flush.
"It used to be like that. It isn't like that anymore," Gran insists. She's returned to studying her menu. "Anyone may join."
"In theory," Mrs. Porter says. "But nothing has actually changed, has it?"
Gran shrugs. "I'm never here, so I wouldn't know," she answers and sets down her menu. "I'm ordering the chicken caesar salad. What are you ordering, Grace?"
Dawn tosses down her menu. "I'm not eating here," she announces. "This is appalling!"
Dawn is completely overreacting. What is a hunger strike going to prove? It's not like anyone cares. She isn't even a member. And she's eaten here before. I know because I've seen her with her grandparents. This is so Dawn Schafer. In middle school, she was always berating us about something. She hasn't changed a bit. No wonder Mary Anne's so irritated with her.
When the waitress comes, Dawn refuses to order anything but a ginger ale. If she's going on a protest she shouldn't order anything at all. I point that out to her. She doesn't listen. Gran and Mrs. Porter order the chicken caesar salad. I order the filet mignon, solely because it is the only red meat on the lunch menu.
"How are you enjoying being back in Stoneybrook?" Gran asks Dawn when the waitress brings our lunch.
Dawn shrugs. "It's okay," she answers. "I'd rather be home in California though."
Mrs. Porter stares at the chicken and lettuce she's speared with her fork and turns her mouth down in a small, sad frown.
"Why don't you go back then?" I ask. It's not intended to be mean. It's a truthful question. I wouldn't hang around somewhere all summer if it's not where I wished to be.
Dawn frowns and turns her glass around on the table in a circle, leaving a ring of water that smears with the rotation. "Mom wants me here," she says. "I can't go back to California anyway. My dad and stepmom are out of the country. That's why Jeff and I came out early. Dad and Carol are expecting another baby. She's only about three months along and she wanted Gracie - my little sister - to see Europe before the baby arrives. Carol wants Gracie to be very cultured. So, they're touring Europe for the next month."
"That's weird," I reply and that's the truth. "Why aren't you with them? I'd be furious if my parents went on vacation and left me behind!"
Dawn shrugs again and I notice that Mrs. Porter's become absolutely enthralled in her salad.
I wait a moment then ask, "How old is your sister?"
"Almost four."
Gran chuckles. "A four year old isn't going to remember Europe!" she cries. "What a silly idea! And who wants to drag a screaming four year old through the streets of Europe, from country to country? That sounds like a nightmare to me. Where in Europe are they visiting?"
"Oh...all over the place," Dawn answers, dully. "England, France, Italy, Spain, Greece. Everywhere."
"I hope they aren't going to Scotland," Gran says. "When I was a girl, my parents took me there every year. Such a dreary, dreadful place. We never went anywhere else." Gran stabs her fork into her salad.
My parents have never taken me to Europe. No country dreadful or otherwise. Why have I never thought to ask? I pick our vacation locale every year, but always choose somewhere sunny and sandy like Florida or the Bahamas. Suddenly, I am dying to go to Europe. Stacey's been and Emily's been three times, which is just disgusting. And Julie's grandparents promised to take her to Spain after graduation. Well, I'll simply have to go next summer, too.
After lunch, Gran and Mrs. Porter shoo Dawn and I away to entertain ourselves when they sit down to chat with two women who are so old that their membership numbers are, quite possibly, "001" and "002". I inform Dawn that we will play tennis. She doesn't really have a choice. I brought my tennis gear with me and after we retrieve it from Gran's Mercedes, I lead Dawn into the locker room so I may change out of my church clothes.
"Your grandmother's strange," Dawn tells me, very matter-of-factly. She's seated on a bench across from me, watching me unbutton my blouse.
"Excuse me?" I reply, nearly choking on the words.
"Granny and Pop-Pop told me she was," Dawn says, just as matter-of-factly. "Of course, I've met her a bunch of times over the years, but I've never actually sat down and had a conversation with her. She's strange. Granny said she can be a hard person to be around."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I snap, shoving the blouse into my tote bag. Gran and Mrs. Porter are supposed to be friends! What is she doing, going around making rude comments about my grandmother?
"I don't know. That's just what Granny said," Dawn answers with a shrug. "She said it isn't very easy to be your grandmother's friend. Not all the time. She said your grandmother can be very witty and funny, but that other times...she's...not."
"No one is perfect," I say, angrily, pulling my electric blue tennis dress over my head. "Except of course, you. In your own mind."
"I never said I was perfect," Dawn replies. "There's no reason to get so upset. Unless, of course, you already know your grandmother's strange and you don't want to admit it."
I narrow my eyes at her. "It's no wonder Mary Anne detests you! You're so antagonistic!" I cry and rip my hairbrush fast and furiously through my red hair. Then I gather it in a ponytail and wrap a band around it, so quick I twist and tug several stray strands. Dawn Schafer doesn't know what she's talking about. Gran is not strange. Sometimes she's moody and sometimes she drifts in and out of conversations, but any of that hardly makes her strange. Dawn doesn't know what she's talking about. Two lunches doesn't make her an expert on me and my family.
"Jeez, don't have a fit, Grace," Dawn tells me. "There's no need for dramatics. I didn't realize you'd react like that. I apologize. Your grandmother is totally normal."
"Yeah, thanks for the sincerity," I say, sarcastically.
"I didn't say I didn't like her. She's okay. Now, do you have an extra hair band?"
I find a spare band at the bottom of my tote bag and toss it at her. I try to toss it with great fury and force, but it's a hair band, so that doesn't quite work.
"I'll get my racket myself, thanks," Dawn says, casually, grabbing one of the rackets I set on the bench. She knows I intended to throw that at her next.
"The courts are this way," I inform her, stiffly, leading her out the side door.
Dawn jogs after me until she catches up. I make it very difficult, taking long, quick strides. Dawn keeps up. She keeps up while swinging her racket through the air.
"If you hit me, I'll shove that racket down your throat," I growl.
"I won't hit you," Dawn promises.
"I can't necessarily promise the same."
"I can take you. Just don't wrap those legs of yours around my neck. I enjoy breathing, thanks."
And Dawn calls my grandmother strange.
"When are you going to find your own friends so I can stop hanging out with you?" I demand, as we move down the hill toward the tennis courts.
Dawn doesn't answer right away. "Who am I supposed to hang out with?" she finally replies. "I really only lived here for a year and that was ages ago. Mary Anne won't even speak to me and for totally stupid reasons. Stacey is on Mary Anne's side and probably Kristy is, too, wherever she may be across town. The only one who still speaks to me from the old days is Claudia. Of course, Claudia still speaks to everyone, so maybe I'm not that special."
"You're not," I agree. "Claudia Kishi is nice to everyone."
Dawn is quiet a moment. "I saw my mom yesterday," she finally says. It sounds rather random, like she's continuing an earlier conversation, picking up where we left off. "I had dinner with her and Richard. Mom told me that you're just like your mother when she was in high school."
My shoulders stiffen. I glance over at Dawn. She glances at me. I've heard that before from Mrs. Spier. She said it to Mary Anne once. It was sometime freshman year and Mary Anne and I hadn't been friends very long. I'd been over at Mary Anne's house and the next day, she said to me at school, "Sharon says you're just like your mom when she was in high school." She chirped it quite happily. She thought is was a compliment. I knew it wasn't.
"I imagine I am," I reply, shoulders still stiff, but voice relaxed and airy. "My mother was very popular. She was the Homecoming Queen and the Prom Queen."
"And the tennis star. And the swim team star. Yeah, Mom told me," Dawn replies and unlatches the gate to the tennis courts. There are already a few people on the courts, mostly milling around and socializing. "I asked her about your aunt," Dawn says, rather out of nowhere. "I asked why they stopped being friends, but Mom wouldn't tell me. Well, she said it was so long ago that she couldn't remember. I'm certain she was lying. Whatever happened, she remembers. She got this weird look on her face. So, then, I asked her why your aunt killed herself. Mom said she didn't know. Maybe she was lying about that, too. I don't know."
I turn to face Dawn. We're standing in the middle of an empty court near the net. "Why are you so interested in my aunt?" I ask, irritably. We don't talk about Aunt Margolo. It seems wrong for an outsider to do so.
"I'm interested in why someone would want to kill herself. That's all," Dawn explains. "Why do you think she killed herself?"
My shoulders stiffen again. I stare at Dawn, tapping my racket on my open palm. "Why would I know why someone would want to kill herself?" I demand and feel my cheeks begin to burn, so I whirl around and stomp away. "I'm ready to play now!"
I trounce Dawn without any effort. I play even harder than normal, my racket connecting with the ball with as much power as possible. Dawn ducks out of the way more than once as the ball streaks toward her, hot and angry like I rage inside. And when the game is over, even though I've won, even though I've won without any competition, I hurl my racket across the court and it slams against the chainlink cage, clanging against the metal and then against the ground.
"You know you won, right?" Dawn asks, huffing and holding her side.
I ignore her and turn away, pacing my side of the court, hands on my hips, breathing in and cooling down. I walk it off. And I'm okay.
I pick up my racket and twirl it in my hand. "Want another game?" I ask, casually.
Dawn eyes me, cautiously. "Not really," she admits.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't like tennis and you're just going to beat me," Dawn answers and her voice rises a bit. "I guess I hit a nerve there earlier," she observes.
"You did nothing of the sort," I argue and begin walking away. "You can't play at all, so we'll do doubles. I'll find us someone to play," I call back to her as I cross to the court entrance. There are two girls by the water fountain. They're around our age and I've seen them at the club before. I stop a few feet away and place a hand on my hip. "Do you want to play doubles?" I ask without offering an introduction.
The brunette appraises me, eyes sweeping up and down. "Okay," she says. "I'm Kara Ferguison."
"I'm Grace Blume and that's Dawn," I say, nodding toward Dawn who's joined us by the fountain. I look over at the raven-haired girl leaning over the water fountain, drinking. "Who are you?" I ask.
She raises her eyes, then straightens up, her mouth hanging open slightly. "Meg Jardin," she answers.
"Meg Jardin, we're going to kick your ass," I tell her.
Her eyes widen. She doesn't close her mouth.
Her friend points at me. "Do you drive a white Corvette?" she asks.
"Yes," I reply.
She laughs. "I knew I'd seen you before!" she exclaims. "I live on Rosedale Road. You hang around with that crazy Emily girl. We hate that family. Those weird Jews need to keep their damn twenty cats out of our yard."
"What's your problem?" Dawn demands, crossly.
I regard Kara and her gap mouthed friend, coolly. "No, it's okay," I tell Dawn. "Let's play." I turn and walk away. "Stand over there," I order Dawn.
Dawn stares at me a moment, then obeys. "There's something wrong with you!" she calls to me.
"Stay on your side of the court," I snap back. "Three sets?" I shout to Kara and Meg, who have taken their positions on their side of the court.
Kara nods and kneels down to retie her shoelace.
And I seize my opportunity.
I toss the tennis ball into the air and whack it hard, sending it sailing through the air, so fast I hear it moving, whistling like the wind. It smacks Kara dead in the center of her forehead.
Kara teeters backward and falls on her ass. She swears loudly and clutches her forehead. "You did that on purpose!" she screams.
"Well, it wasn't an accident," I reply.
Kara swears again.
Dawn actually laughs.
"We can go now," I inform her and stride away, straight past Kara and Meg without giving them another look.
Dawn catches up with me, still laughing, light and breezy and surprised. "Amazing," she says. "You may have some semblance of a soul."
"Or perfect aim at least," I say, starting back up the hill in long, sure steps. "I told you, I'm a tennis star."
"You just ruined the moment."
If Dawn Schafer can't handle honesty, that's her problem.
We leave the Greenvale Country Club as soon as Dawn and I track down our grandmothers. Dawn announces she had a "charming" time and no one misses her sarcasm. She won't be back. No one doubts that.
Half an hour later, we pull into Gran's driveway. It's almost four o' clock and the day has slipped away. Gran and I say our goodbyes to Dawn and Mrs. Porter, then go inside the house. I head upstairs to pack my things and Gran follows behind me. Inside the guest bedroom, she helps me fold my clothes and gather my cosmetics and toiletries and pack them all away. It doesn't look like I stayed one night. It looks like I stayed ten.
"Are you getting along better with Dawn now?" Gran wants to know.
"Not really," I reply and put the top down on my suitcase. I zip it closed. "I don't like her. I've never liked her. Besides, Mary Anne is my friend. She and Dawn don't get along."
"That has nothing to do with you."
"Sure it does. It does because Mary Anne's my friend," I insist. I forgot to pack my hairdryer. I unzip the suitcase and stuff it inside. "Dawn's really interested in Aunt Margolo," I say without glancing up at Gran.
I wonder what her expression looks like. She doesn't speak for quite a while.
"Why would anyone be interested in Margolo?" Gran finally asks.
"Dawn wants to know why she killed herself," I say, bluntly. Then I am embarrassed for putting it out there like that, harsh and bare, thrust into the air and left to hang without answer.
There's more silence from Gran.
I finally glance up and Gran's face is unreadable. She brushes the carrot red hair from her eyes. "Margolo couldn't accept the bitter disappointments of life," Gran answers in a neutral, emotionless tone. "Life isn't fair. The sooner a person realizes that, the easier life will be. We all must play the hand we are dealt. That's what my mother told me."
And then Gran walks out of the room.
End of conversation.
My own mother's sitting in the living room when I return home. She's seated on the couch in a plum-colored business suit and matching stiletto heels. She has the coffee table pulled close to her and spread across it is a blanket of white papers. She places them in stacks and then picks them up again and moves them. A space has been cleared on the right hand corner for her coaster and glass. A tumbler of clear liquid. Is the rum all out?
"Where have you been all this time?" she asks me without looking up.
"At Gran's," I answer and set my suitcase down on the carpet. "When did you get home? Where's Dad?"
"Half an hour ago. In the shower," Mom replies and shuffles another stack of papers. "Or taking a nap. Your father's getting old. He can't keep up with me."
"Who can?"
Mom looks up at last. She smiles. "You've been playing tennis," she observes. "Congratulations. You've found the one thing outside books and flowers that my mother has any passing interest in. You've been with her all this time?"
"Yes."
Mom goes back to her papers. "You're spending too much time with her," Mom tells me. "It isn't healthy. She'll get inside your head. No good can come of extended exposure to my mother and her soul-sucking ways. Just because she's miserable, she thinks everyone else should be miserable, too."
"Gran doesn't seem miserable to me."
Mom snorts.
"Well, I don't see it," I reply and refuse to hide the testiness in my voice. I want Mom to hear it. I want her to sit up and take notice.
"I don't want you spending so much time over there," Mom says.
"Why not?" I demand and allow more testiness to creep in. It bends in my words and makes itself known and clear.
Mom raises her eyes to mine. She stares at me, unblinking and without emotion etched clear on her face. She simply stares and studies me. It's unnerving in more than one way. When she stares at me like that I see myself. I see myself in thirty years. And when I look at Gran, I see myself in fifty. I see myself and I see my mother. Sometimes it feels like we are the same person, displayed at different stages of life, the same body and face aging with the years. When I look through their photo albums, it's like my life flashes before my eyes. It is unnerving. Because I'm not always sure I like what I see.
"Fine," Mom says and moves her gaze from mine. "Spend as much time as you want over there. My mother will disappoint you. She disappoints everyone." Mom stands and raises her glass. She downs the entire drink. Then she leaves the living room, crossing into the office. I watch her slip behind the desk and pour another drink. She's raising the glass to her lips when she catches my eye. She hesitates and watches me. Sometimes I get the feeling there are things she'd like to tell me. But she never does. Instead she downs her drink in a single gulp.