Mother of Pearl, page 11
Steve slams the glass to the counter, shattering it. “No.”
Startled, I jump back. “Steve!”
Blood emerges where the glass cut his palm. “Elaine, under no circumstances will I allow you to proceed with any of this. As far as I’m concerned, everything surrounding this thing with Pearl is to be left alone. Do you understand?”
Her mouth draws into a thin line, the only signal her idea has met a hostile reception. “Fine.”
Moving for her purse, her back to Steve, Mother turns to look at me. “You might think of your daughter’s reputation. News of this sort is like a fine perfume. Once the bottle is opened, and the wind catches the scent—there will be no collecting the fragrance back again.”
For emphasis, she pulls her signature cologne from her purse and spritzes her neck. Placing the cap back, she returns the bottle to her bag.
“Take care, dear.” A light kiss to my cheek, then she turns to my husband. “Steve.”
She walks out and draws the door closed, leaving behind the faint smell of Givenchy—the perfume my daddy used to buy her for Christmas every year.
17
If I needed my own personal cheering squad, the ladies sitting around the country club’s linen-covered table would definitely fit the bill.
My tastes run closer to grilled hamburgers, loaded with cheese and bacon, but today my friends are treating me to tea sandwiches and scones served on dainty floral plates.
“Honey, I’m so glad you finally decided to get out of that house.” Connie Anderson reaches for the honey bowl. “Joe and I were beginning to think y’all had fallen off the face of the earth. Since that awful—” Her heavy sigh mixes with the thin sound of ice tinkling in stemware at the table behind me and strains of a string quartet playing faintly in the background. “Well, since all this happened.”
“Here, let me,” I say, keeping my game face in place while I pass the container her way, taking care to avoid the tiny vase of purple hyacinths in the center of our table.
Connie surveys our surroundings and comments how she much she likes the new color they’ve painted the dining room, telling us that particular shade of green reminds her of a photo she’d seen in her Decorating Today magazine. “They called it celadon,” she reports, quickly scooting the conversation to a lighter subject.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, the notion dawns how little I’d seen Connie since Pearl died. How uncomfortable she seems even now, as if my horrible luck might be contagious or something.
I look around the table at the gathered women. Maybe she feels there is safety in numbers, at least where confronting my grief is concerned.
Connie turns to Lynne Matheson, a friend from our Bunko group. “Joe and I just got back from Dallas last week.” She scoops honey from the delicate bowl, using a tiny silver spoon. A wide smile spreads across her face, as she stirs the amber liquid into her teacup. “My sister, Tami Jae, got married.”
“Again?” I pull the thin cucumber slice from my sandwich and place it at the rim of my tiny plate. “What’s that make now—four times?”
Connie chuckles. “You know what they say, everything’s worth doing up large in Texas. She turned in that skinny engineer for a big strappin’ former football jock. Rich as black oil, too.” She leans over to me, cupping her mouth, but speaking plenty loud for everyone at the table to hear. “He’s chummy with Jerry Jones.”
Robin McBride, a sugary woman we know from the Women’s Auxiliary, dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “Who’s Jerry Jones?”
Connie’s hand slaps to her chest. “Are you kidding? He’s the owner of the Dallas Cowboys.”
Lynne raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Wow. Bet Joe appreciates knowing his new brother-in-law has those kinds of football connections.”
Connie nods. “That’d be the truth. Y’all know I’m his second love,” she says, mimicking a Texas drawl. She laughs and draws the dainty cup to her lips, taking a sip. “Ooh, this Earl Grey is yummy,” she says, taking care not to make eye contact.
I paste a smile on my face, doing my best to join the “let’s cheer up Barrie” party. Inside, I feel detached from the conversation, wishing I could spend the afternoon taking flowers to Pearl’s gravesite instead. Late February is unpredictable when it comes to weather here in Idaho, and I hate to waste this sunny day. One of the first, following weeks of gray skies and freezing temperatures.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling paned windows, a gentleman steps up to a tee box in the distance. He takes several practice swings before lining up to take his shot.
Lynne asks when I’m returning to work. “Soon,” I tell her. “With the vacation I had built up, I didn’t have to hurry back. I’m scheduled to start on Monday.”
“I’m glad you aren’t letting all this pull you down.” Robin dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “We’ve all known people who use a loss as an excuse to wallow. Our deacons had to pull the stopper on the grief recovery group at church. None of the members were getting any better. It was as if they just wanted to stay victims of their circumstances.”
Connie’s eyes went wide. “Well, but sometimes these things take time,” she says, looking at me apologetically.
I give the women a weak smile. “Eternity couldn’t be enough time for me to fully recover.”
Robin winces. “Oh, I didn’t mean you guys are acting like that,” she adds quickly.
A white-gloved waiter steps to the table with a tray of tiny petit fours, little bite-sized cakes decorated with stunning precision. “Ladies?”
I help myself to several, not caring how the gesture might look to the others. On some occasions, food is the best medicine. That, or alcohol. And since I don’t drink, these desserts will have to do.
Without waiting for the others to finish being served, I sink my teeth into a tiny cake with white frosting adorned with thin slices of strawberry.
Pearl would have loved these fancy desserts.
Once, when she was twelve years old, I treated her to a trip to Portland, Oregon. I had a counseling conference and Steve and I both decided it would be fun to show Pearl the big city while Steve and Aaron went fishing on the Middle Fork.
I got paid for presenting a workshop and splurged on a dinner at the Heathman, a luxury downtown hotel, which boasts “where service is still an art.”
When the server placed the triple chocolate truffle topped with cream ganache and berries on the table, I thought my daughter’s eyes would pop out of her head. I ended up ordering a second serving boxed to take with us, just so I could see that joy on her face a second time.
“You should sign up for the bible study class at my church.”
It takes me a second to realize Robin’s suggestion is directed to me.“I—ah. I think I’m going to pass. I have a lot on my plate right now, what with catching up at school and everything.”
Robin rests her hand on my arm. “Oh, honey. It’d do you good, don’t you think?”
Her touch bristles. I understand why she might believe a good dose of God might move me out of this grief faster, but frankly the woman doesn’t get it.
I don’t want to let go of this pain. No matter how raw, this hurt somehow connects me to her—to Pearl. Every time my heart weeps, the pain signals something precious was ripped away.
I’m torn and no amount of stitching, even if the Almighty were doing the sewing, will ever weave the fabric of my being back in place.
“Look, I’ve got to go.” I pull my wallet from my purse and ruffle through my credit cards.
“This one’s on us.” Connie looks at the others for confirmation. They all nod their heads, sympathy oozing from their eyes.
I stand, feeling a bit awkward. A day with the girls used to be fun, but now, my mood seems to burst everyone’s party bubble.
As I weave through tables and make my way outside, I catch a glimpse of a guy with shoulder length brown hair sitting alone in the corner. His eyes follow me as I make my way to the door. As I near his table, my muscles tense.
It’s the reporter. The one from the curb.
“I’m telling you, Steve, that reporter is following me.” I grab a grocery cart, tossing my purse in the place where I used to seat my children when they were toddlers.
“Aren’t you overreacting a bit?” Steve reaches for the printed advertisements stacked in a rack to the right of the automatic door. He scans the front page as he follows me into the store.
“Sure. The guy always has lunch at a dining room filled with women,” I counter, rolling my eyes. I push my cart toward the produce section, planning how best to approach the next subject. I stop in front of the romaine. “Maybe we should reconsider Mother’s offer.”
Steve shakes his head. “Barrie, I don’t want any part of that nonsense.”
“But, what if she’s right?” I argue, my voice lowered. “What if we come home one day to find our lives are splayed across the televisions all across the valley—telling every intimate detail of how my baby stumbled into a bad situation.
I grab some lettuce and toss it in the basket, followed by a bag of tiny carrots. “I mean, think about what something like that could mean. Think about Aaron.”
I know I’m playing a little dirty with that last comment, but Steve has to admit the risk and what all this could do to our son.
“It’s not like I want to admit Mother is right, and let her take over. But, why else would that reporter be following me? There is simply too much at stake.”
“Hey, you two.”
I startle and turn to find Robin McBride, her cart loaded with hamburger, buns and chips. Her young son follows her with a second cart filled with soda pop. She notices Steve and I staring at her purchases. She explains she’s hosting a little get-together to celebrate her husband’s job promotion at Hewlett-Packard.
“He finally made VP. We considered inviting you both, but wondered if it might be too soon.” She gives me a sympathetic look. “I mean, you seemed to have a really hard time at lunch yesterday.”
I nod. “Oh no, that’s okay. You’re right, I—”
“How’s Brian?” Steve interrupts, saving me.
“Good. He’s so excited about everything at work. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you.” She leans forward and lowers her voice. “Did you hear about Lisa Warren, the coach’s wife? She just got out of rehab.” She shakes her head. “It’s just a shame. Guess you don’t know what people battle with behind closed doors.” She waves off her comment. “But I guess you guys really don’t want to hear all about that right now.”
When Robin finally pushes her cart on down the aisle, Steve scowls. He leans close to my ear. “Okay, I get it now. The last thing I want is for this town to chatter about our daughter around their dinner tables. Maybe I will talk to your mom. See what she has in mind.”
I nod. “I think that’s a good idea.”
In this situation, Mother is right. When it comes to gossip, the best way to keep honey from oozing out the jar is to keep the lid tightly screwed on.
As soon as Steve and Aaron leave for the hockey game, I take advantage of the time alone and get Pearl’s laptop. Wedging it on my knees, I lean back into the sofa and lift the screen.
When the boot-up process is complete, I take a deep breath and swallow the notion I’m intruding on my daughter’s privacy. In reality she’s no longer here, but somehow I get the sensation she’s watching.
Despite my discomfort, I fumble through her files looking for something I can’t put a name to. Mostly, I find school essays and reports. Study notes.
I pull the mouse to the email icon and click. A box appears where I must type in a password I don’t have. Chewing at my lip, I move on and click through her music collection, past a few videos, and finally to her Facebook.
Quickly scrolling through the posts on her wall, I scan for clues. Anything that might shed light on . . . I shake my head, knowing that stumbling on who fathered Pearl’s baby is a long shot, at best.
I click to her friends. Classmates, the people she babysat for two summers ago, even Grandma Tess. Near the bottom, a name appears that makes me pause.
Michael Warren.
I frown and open to his wall, where most of the posts are from students.
“Hi, Coach. Thanks for the ride last night. And you’re right—grilled chicken pizza is the best!
You rock, Coach! BTW, we’re all checking out the new Twilight movie on Friday. Wanna come?
I frown.
Opinions vary on this matter, but many educators believe this chummy kind of interaction with students isn’t wise. I know I’ve read articles warning against blurring these lines. I guess I could slip one of those magazines in his mail cubby, with the page tabbed. Knowing my luck, he’d discover who placed it there, and the last thing I need right now is another battle with the coach. I have enough to deal with right now. And so does he, with his wife and all.
By the time Steve arrives home with Aaron, I’d found nothing that shed any light on my daughter’s secrets.
My son’s arms are loaded with game souvenirs. Omelette stands near, eying Aaron’s half-eaten candy apple. The sight makes me grin. “So, buddy. Looks like you had a good time?”
“Yeah,” he says, tossing the mementos onto a chair. “You should’ve seen the way the Hawks’ forward slammed into the plexiglass, right in front of us. Huh, Dad?”
Steve tosses his keys on the counter. “Is that Pearl’s laptop?”
Feeling caught, I nod and shut her computer down.
Steve sends Aaron on up to bed, then he joins me on the sofa. “Barrie, even if you find answers, then what? Will the knowledge of who Pearl was sleeping with bring any difference?” He draws me against his chest, nestling his face in my hair.
“Please,” he whispers. “Let it be.”
18
Nearly eight weeks have passed since the morning we learned of Pearl’s death. The day my world crashed. And even though I long to stay home with no pressure to dress or wear make-up, the day I’d scheduled to return to work arrives, about as welcome as a door-to-door salesman.
I’ll especially miss my afternoon naps, when I slide under the covers and blot out thoughts of what might have been—if only.
I maneuver my car into the Sawtooth High parking lot. After cutting the engine, I check the rearview mirror once more to make sure my makeup covers the dark circles that have become permanent fixtures, shadowing pain I can’t keep from reflecting in my eyes.
The last thing I need this morning is another pity party. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate that people care. But, if someone asks me how I am even one more time, I think I’ll scream. And I don’t want our family tragedy added to any more prayer chains, which is really just another name for holy distribution centers.
Shoving these thoughts from my mind, I run lip gloss over my mouth, paste on my most convincing smile and take a deep breath.
Well, here goes.
Stepping into the chilly morning air, I make my way to the teachers’ entrance. Normally, I’d be juggling books and files, but this morning I simply carry my purse—and the memories of that morning.
I arrive early on purpose, wanting time to myself before facing the mass of students and teachers scurrying to get to the next class before the tardy bell. A wise decision, it seems.
I step into the hallway and immediately envision Steve with the policeman and the resource officer standing outside the administrative offices, waiting to crush the blissful ignorance of a mother who didn’t realize her world was about to change forever.
I force my thoughts back to the present, batting my eyes several times to stave off tears. If I keep letting my head drift, I’ll never make it through this day.
My desk is remarkably clean, likely straightened by the substitute counselor who spent two days a week covering for me over these last weeks. I need to send her a thank-you card.
I sink into my chair, the one really nice piece of furniture assigned to me, and the result of a push by the state’s education department to be more ergonomically minded. Or, perhaps the genesis was really the rise in worker comp claims filed by teachers with bad backs.
“Hey, there you are.” Sharon Manicke peeks her head inside my door. “Welcome back. How a-a-a-re you?”
“Just fine,” I say, using the cheeriest voice I can muster. “Glad to be back.”
“Well, we missed you around here. But don’t feel you have to tough it out if things get too hard.” She looks at me like I’m a puppy with a sore paw. “We can manage if you need to ease into things a bit.”
I avert my eyes. “Thanks, I appreciate it. But, I’m good.” I pull some papers from the neat stack and grab my reading glasses, praying she doesn’t notice my hands are trembling. “Really.”
Sharon nods. “Well, okay then.” She raises her arm and looks at her watch. “By the way, we have a department head meeting at noon. In the teachers’ lounge.”
The morning slips by faster than I’d expected. With no student meetings, I’m able to review all the notes the substitute left and get back on top of things. In fact, this afternoon I think I’ll schedule appointments for later this week with the few remaining seniors who have yet to cement their post-grad plans.
Out of nowhere, a thought slams into my heart. I need to call and cancel Pearl’s application to UC Davis. And her teeth cleaning appointment. Surely it’s been six months since she was in. But then again, Dr. Madsen’s staff must know what happened.
I picture that lady at the front desk, the one with the really wide behind that barely fits into drawstring pants, pulling her file and shaking her head in sadness. Where do they put files for people who have died? Do they just throw them away?
I’m obsessing again. I chastise these careless thoughts and pull myself together. Organizing my pen and pencil drawer seems to help.
Minutes past twelve o’clock, I shuffle the loose pages on my desk back into the neat pile, grab my purse and head into the hallway, angling my way through hungry sophomores making a beeline for the lunch room. Outside the door to the teacher’s lounge, I overhear my name.
