Pearl Page 2

  I don’t move. I just stand still and let the pain cut deep.

  My mom stops looking at the ceiling and stares into the sauce, as if the bits of basil are tea leaves she can read our future from. Then, slowly, the wooden spoon slips from her hand into the sauce and disappears in the red as my mom sinks to the linoleum floor. She covers her face with her hands and brings her knees up to her chest like a little kid.

  I slowly walk over to her and kneel next to her. I feel clumsy. I can’t remember the last time I touched her. But I manage to put my arms around her sweaty body and hug her awkwardly. She leans into me and sobs. She smells like garlic and sweet basil and tarragon. I hold tight, afraid she’ll tip over if I let go. She feels uncomfortable and unfamiliar, and I wish it was her arms around me, instead.

  After a while she stops crying and moves out of my arms. She leans against the oven door and covers her face so I can’t see the proof that she ever cared about Gus. Henry pushes the chair I didn’t use back in. His soft footsteps creak gently across the floor and into the living room. My mom looks up at the sound of his voice reciting our name and address.

  “I’m so sorry, Bean,” she says. “I know how much you loved him.”

  But she doesn’t hug me or hold me or let me cry into her the way I imagine she should. She just looks at me through her watery eyes and shakes her head. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  When the police and the paramedics arrive, an officer helps my mom off the floor and asks where Gus is. I look away when the paramedics carry him out on the stretcher, even though I’m sure they’ve covered his face with a sheet, like on TV. I don’t want to risk seeing his still shape.

  When they’re gone, my mom turns to Henry. “Make me a drink?” she asks.

  Henry looks confused, but finds the vodka my mom keeps in the freezer and pours it over some ice, then adds some orange juice. We’ve seen her do this at least a hundred times.

  “Lexie?”

  The screen door in the front hall whines open and footsteps rush toward us.

  “Oh, honey.” Claire wraps her skinny arms around my mom. Standing above her, Claire presses my mom’s head into her stomach and pats it like she’s a child. My mom moves her hands around Claire’s small waist and holds on, burying her face in Claire’s middle.

  Claire picks up my mom’s glass and takes a long drink from it.

  “Could you two leave us alone a minute?” she asks Henry and me. My mom pulls her head away from Claire. She looks even younger than me, with the wisps of hair, wet with sweat and tears, clinging to her face. She nods at us, confirming we should get out.

  In the living room, we sit side by side on the sofa, facing the empty chair with Gus’s indent on it. We stare at the quiet gray TV screen. General Hospital is probably on by now. If Gus was here, he’d be reading the paper. If I turned on the TV, he would rustle the pages in disapproval. Then I would turn it off and ask him what was happening in the real world. And he would tell me about people blowing each other up in the Middle East. And shake his head. And I would think TV life was preferable. But I wouldn’t say anything. I might even lean over and touch his hand. Instead, I lean over and touch the empty arm of the chair, worn almost to the bone.

  Be good. Be good. It’s all I can hear. I keep trying to feel something, but my body feels like a silent echo. I feel like that chair. Like the weight of loss has made me all out of shape and ugly.

  Every so often we hear the scrape of a chair sliding across linoleum—Claire getting up to refill my mom’s glass.

  “You can cry, ya know,” Henry says when I lean back to close my eyes against the sound.

  “I know,” I say back.

  And then I do.

  chapter three

  The next morning I get out of bed and listen for the usual sound of the news coming from the TV in Gus’s room.

  Then I remember.

  In the hallway, all the doors but mine and the one to the upstairs bathroom are closed. I walk down the faded and worn Oriental runner in the hallway and stand outside Gus’s door, listening. When I was younger I used to knock on his door if I heard the news on inside. He’d let me sit on my grandmother’s old rocker and we’d watch together. Sometimes he’d let me change to a cartoon and he’d pretend to laugh even though I think he personally hated those shows.

  I open the door carefully. The bed is made and both windows are open. The curtains that have been there since before I was born—since before my grandmother died, I bet—blow in the morning breeze. The air smells like hot, cut grass from outdoors mixed with polished wood and folded wool blankets. And memories.

  On the dresser there’s a single, silver-framed black-and-white photo of my grandparents. My grandmother died before I was born, when my mom was younger than I am now. But I’ve always felt like I knew her. Gus told me story after story about the special way she cut onions, roasted peppers, stacked lasagna with homemade noodles he’d helped her roll out with her old, hand-crank pasta maker that my mom still uses on special occasions. He’d tell me how she would spend hours in the kitchen with my mom, teaching her all her secret cooking tips. Gus described these to me in detail, knowing my mom would never bother to share them with me.

  “Never learn to cook,” she always says, “or you’ll be cooking for people the rest of your life.”

  My mom is the most depressing person I know.

  I pick up the photo and study Gus’s smiling eyes and try to remember the last time I saw him look truly happy.

  When I was little, Gus took me fishing out on the stinky river behind our house. He would tell me fishing stories about him and my grandmother and make me laugh. He’d hold my hand when we crossed the street. He’d cut my food into tinier pieces than my mom had, so I wouldn’t choke. He shined my Mary Janes for picture day at school, even though the shoes wouldn’t be in the picture.

  Muffled laughter comes from my mom’s bedroom. Claire and my mom. God, it’s like they’re twelve and having a stupid pajama party. Of course, my mom probably was twelve the last time she had a friend stay over. Getting pregnant with me pretty much took care of her social life. But honestly, they seem far too happy for this occasion. I would really like to know what’s so funny.

  I take the photo of my grandparents and walk back to my room, leaving Gus’s door open.

  More giggles come crackling down the hall, paired with the padding of slippered feet. I quickly jump into bed and crawl under my covers, pretending to be asleep.

  “I thought I shut this,” my mom says.

  There’s a click.

  “He’s haunting me already.”

  “Stay in there, you old coot,” says Claire.

  “You’re awful!” my mom says, giggling again.

  Their footsteps pause in my open doorway.

  “Should we get her up? It’s going to be a busy day.”

  “Nah, let her sleep,” my mom says. “There’s not much for her to do.”

  They move on along the hall and down the stairs. I study the framed photo again and wonder what my grandmother was like. I wonder if she braided my mom’s hair and read her bedtime stories like regular moms do. I wonder if she let my mom have friends over and go to birthday parties and join clubs and sports and do all the other things normal kids get to do. If she kissed my mom good night at bedtime, or hugged her when she was sad. And if she would have done the same to me, if she was here now.

  In my sock drawer, I find the tiny velvet box Gus gave to me for my thirteenth birthday. Inside, there are two tiny pearl earrings that belonged to my grandmother, and that she wears in the photo.

  The night Gus gave them to me, my mom had made us a special dinner and we were sitting at our usual seats around the dining room table. I opened my mom’s gift first, which was a flat box I was sure was a gift certificate to the mall disguised as a book. But when I picked it up to do the usual shake, it was too heavy for a plastic card. As I slowly tore the wrapping paper, my mom bit her bottom lip while Gus acted unintereste
d. Inside the box was a book wrapped in pink tissue paper. A journal. A plain old black composition book like they sell at the MiniMart. Wow. How thoughtful.

  “Do you like it, Beany?” my mom had asked.

  I smiled and nodded, even though I was disappointed. What would I write in a journal, anyway? I lived the most boring life on the planet.

  “I always had a journal when I was a teenager.” She glanced at Gus who looked away. I wished for just one night they could try to like each other. If we couldn’t be a normal family, at least we could be a pleasant one. Just for my birthday.

  “Anyway, I thought you might like one, too,” she said.

  “It’s great, Mom,” I lied, putting it back in the box. “Thanks.”

  Then Gus handed me a much smaller box and cleared his throat. I glanced at my mom, who looked bored, but curious.

  I carefully removed the wrapping to find an old velvet box. When I opened the lid, the tiny hinges creaked a little. Inside, were two very small pearl earrings. Gus had never given me jewelry before, and I felt kind of embarrassed. Even though my mom had taken me to have my ears pierced, I never remembered to change my earrings and pretty much just wore the silver studs I had my ears pierced with.

  “They belonged to your grandmother,” Gus said. “And I know she would want you to have them.”

  I touched the tiny pearls with my fingers. “They’re beautiful,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Pearls were your grandmother’s favorite,” Gus said quietly. “I gave those to her for our tenth wedding anniversary.” He sat back in his chair and blinked his watery eyes.

  My mom got up and cleared our dessert dishes without commenting. She never talked about my grandmother. But I wondered then if that was the real reason she named me Pearl. Maybe she wanted my name to be some sort of reminder.

  “What was she like?” I asked Gus for the thousandth time.

  He sat forward again and looked at the box in my hands. “Like no one else,” he said from someplace far away.

  I could hear how much he missed her, and I felt bad for reminding him. I didn’t know what to say, so I reached over and put my hand on his. The back of his hand felt cold and wrinkled, and I was glad when he slowly pulled it away.

  Even though I wanted to, I didn’t dare put the pearls in my ears. They were so small and delicate. And they didn’t feel like mine. Instead, I just held the small box. We waited for my mom to come back from clearing the dishes, but she didn’t. Finally, I took my two presents upstairs. I flipped through the empty pages of the journal and knew I would never be able to fill them. Journals were for writing your secrets in. For describing your life and your loves. And I didn’t have any of those things. Instead, I put it in my sock drawer, along with the earrings. Then Henry called to wish me a happy birthday. And then, I guess I must have just gone to bed.

  Every so often, I would take the earrings out of my drawer and look at them, but I never wore them. I would just touch them, and wish for the thousandth, maybe the millionth time, that I’d known my grandmother.

  * * *

  Now, I touch the tiny earrings again. I lift the flap they’re set in so I can take off the backings and put them on for the first time. It’s been a while since I wore any earrings at all and they feel strange in my ears, as if they don’t really belong.

  I pick up the picture frame again and touch my grandparents’ faces through the glass. I try to smile back at them, but my mouth won’t let me. Instead, I hold them against my chest, my heart, and close my eyes, trying to shut out the sounds of my mom and Claire laughing downstairs.

  chapter four

  In the kitchen, Claire and my mom sit at the tiny table with mugs of coffee and a notepad.

  “We’re planning the funeral,” my mom says.

  Claire is drinking from my favorite mug.

  “Where are we having it?” I ask.

  “At the river,” my mom says. “Where else?”

  “But—aren’t funerals supposed to be at a church?”

  “No, Beany. There are no rules. You can have a funeral wherever you want. Besides, we don’t go to church. And even if we did, who’d show up, the three of us? I’m not wasting money on a church or a funeral home or whatever. Besides, Gus belongs in the river.”

  Claire writes something on the notepad.

  “What do you mean, he belongs in the river?”

  “It’s what he wanted, Bean. To have his ashes scattered in the river. Your grandmother’s ashes were scattered there too.”

  I lean against the kitchen counter and wipe my forehead. Maybe that was one of the reasons Gus went out on the river every day. To feel closer to my grandmother.

  “Henry would’ve come,” I say. “To the funeral. And so would Gus’s friends.”

  “What friends?” my mom asks.

  “He had friends!” I say, even though I’m not so sure.

  My mom wipes her own forehead and takes a long drink from her coffee mug. “I’m handling this, Beany. It’s all taken care of. It’ll be just you, me, and Claire and a nice quiet ceremony at the river. The sooner we get this over with the better.”

  “What about Henry? And Sally? I want them there!”

  “Sally? You mean Henry’s mom? Honestly, Bean, she hasn’t even left her house in years, has she? You think she’s going to leave the house for some grumpy old man she never even met?”

  Claire closes her notebook and looks up at me. She doesn’t say anything, but I’m sure she’s thinking my mom has a point. I hate her.

  “They’re coming,” I say.

  My mom looks up at me and I finally see some sympathy in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know how much Gus meant to you. If you want to invite Henry and Sally, you can. Just don’t get your hopes up about Sally.”

  “I will,” I say. “And they’ll come.” I hope it’s not a lie. I turn around, walk down the hallway, and go outside. It’s early but already it’s hot and humid. My feet move instinctively to Henry’s.

  The walk seems longer and slower than usual. When I was little, sometimes Gus would take me with him on his daily trip to the MiniMart. He’d hold my hand even though we were on the sidewalk. I remember the way his bony hands felt. How sometimes I could feel the bones under his wrinkly skin. We didn’t talk much, but sometimes he’d nod at an empty house with a For Sale sign in front as we’d pass by and tell me a little story about the people who used to live there and where they’d gone.

  “How come you never left?” I asked once.

  He stopped walking and gently dropped my hand. He breathed in deeply, as if he were taking the whole neighborhood into his lungs.

  “I couldn’t leave,” he said quietly. “This place is all I know. Where all my memories are.” He’d looked at me with sad eyes, and I remember wishing there was more for him. More than just memories and always looking back.

  * * *

  As I walk the final steps to Henry’s, I pause and look at the neighborhood behind me, realizing it’s all I know, too. But it won’t always be. Someday, I’ll make it out.

  I breathe in the way Gus did, almost tasting the hot air. Then I let it out, and knock on the door.

  Henry is always the one to open it, but today Sally is there. She greets me by wrapping her arms around me and pulling me to her chest. She smells like rotten flower vase water. “Oh, Bean Girl,” she says. “I am so sorry about your grampa.”

  It sounds odd to hear Gus referred to as Grampa. It feels odd to see Sally standing up.

  “Come sit,” she tells me.

  I follow her to the couch. She’s wearing her usual housedress that covers up all of her folds. She must not have put a fresh one on yet.

  Good Morning America is on the TV.

  “Henry’s still sleeping. Do you want to sit and watch GMA for a while? There’s Entenmann’s on the kitchen counter you can help yourself to.”

  An empty plate rests on the coffee table. A few light streaks of raspberry jam and a lone crumb remain on the flowered plat
e. One streak looks like a fingerprint, and I try not to picture Sally scraping up the last bits with her fingers.

  We watch GMA quietly until an ad comes on, then I turn to Sally. She smiles at me in her special way. When she smiles, it’s not just her mouth but her whole face that changes.

  “Sally,” I say, “I know this is an awful lot to ask, but—”

  I pause when our eyes meet. Sometimes, I think Sally can see through my chest and into my heart. When she looks at me like this, she feels more like a mom than my own ever has.

  “What is it, Beany?”

  I look down at my hands. “I was wondering if you might come to Gus’s funeral. It’ll be just down the road, at the riverside. And just my mom and her friend Claire will be there. I know you don’t like to leave the house much. But, I was hoping—”

  Why am I crying?

  “Oh, Bean,” Sally says, pulling me toward her. I breathe through my mouth to avoid the dead flowers and cry harder.

  “Beany Bean,” Sally says. She runs her hand through my hair like normal moms do to their little kids when they’re sad or hurt.

  “I’m sorry, Sally. Never mind. It’s just that my mom is acting so weird. She doesn’t care that Gus is dead at all. I swear. I just wish someone could be there who cares. I mean, I know you didn’t know Gus, but—” I picture Claire and my mom talking about Gus at the table, and hear their horrible giggles. “At least you have a heart.”

  Sally leans back and sighs.

  I should never have asked for something so big.

  At the end of the hall, Henry’s door opens. He walks out in a sleep-induced stupor. He’s wearing plaid boxers that go to his knees and a T-shirt that falls well below his waist. Henry isn’t really that chubby. Just a little soft-looking in spots. But he always wears baggy clothes to hide himself in. Instead of coming out to see us, he goes into the bathroom. His electric toothbrush hums for what is most likely precisely two minutes. Sally and I watch a chef on GMA stand outside, sweating like mad as he makes barbecue chicken for the camera, and the predictable fans make faces behind his back.