Little Night, page 20
“Yeah,” she said, not ready to say more. “But it’s not real ‘work.’ I need a job.”
“I’m sure you’ll find something.”
“I hope so.” Something made her look at Gary again, the old man with the sad eyes. Who took care of him? Had he once had a family that had kicked him out? She could tell he was homeless, and she felt a shiver go down her spine. If not for Clare, she would be, too.
“Well,” Dennis said, glancing up at the clock. “I should probably leave and let you get some rest.”
“I’m glad you came,” she said. “Sorry I acted weird before.”
“Weird makes my day,” he said, grinning.
After he left Grit hobbled back to her room. She stripped all her clothes off, gathered her two tiny white towels, washcloth, and the violet shampoo Clare had brought from home, and stepped into the bathroom. Showering with this bandage was going to be a challenge.
She held her foot outside the shower curtain and stood in the hot water. Dennis’s obvious interest in her threw her off balance. She’d gone out with boys before, but never let anyone get really close. It was as if her body rejected them.
She had gotten her period when she was fourteen, and her cycles had been regular until that December night at the second bonfire. Grit’s body had shut down then, as if knowing that hormones and periods led to womanhood, and if her mother was her prime example, Grit didn’t want any of it.
The water flowed over her body, and she closed her eyes, thinking of Dennis. She imagined what it would feel like to have his hands on her skin.
“Grit, do you need help with your foot?” Nina the nurse called from outside the bathroom door.
“I’m fine,” Grit said, practically jumping.
“Need a towel?”
Grit turned off the water and stood shivering. A moment later, a white towel came waving through the curtain. She took it, wrapped it around her body, stepped out into the tiled bathroom. Nina, with brown hair and wise dark eyes, wearing a pink nurse’s smock, stood there. “I was afraid you’d fall, standing in there on one foot!”
“Thank you,” Grit said. “I’m fine.”
“Okay, just making sure,” Nina said.
Grit climbed into bed and turned off the light. The nurses were keeping close watch over her, as if they knew something she didn’t. She flexed her toe, felt a shock of pain. She swallowed down tears. Curled on her side, she burrowed her head under the covers and let herself feel: even after everything, she wanted her mother.
She fell asleep. When she woke up, hours later, she wondered what had wakened her. She heard a small sound, someone stirring in the corner. Grit blinked trying to see. The door was partly shut, the room dark. She could just make out the wall clock: 2:00 A.M.
A nurse rose from the chair and stood in the dark beside her bed. Silhouetted by hall light, her hair fell in long waves. Grit’s mother had hair like that, and she used to watch her sleep. Grit had always pretended not to see. She’d lie there perfectly still, just the way she was doing now. Her heart began to race.
“Mom,” she whispered.
Suddenly the woman was gone, the room empty, the scent of violets dissolving in the air.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Grit’s release on Wednesday was delayed by the fact that Dr. Bohdi had to see her, and he was tied up with an emergency. Clare had come to pick her up, and while they waited for the doctor, Paul sat in the car outside. Grit couldn’t stop thinking about last night, the midnight visitor she’d dreamed up.
“Remember when you said there was a story about my mother and violets?” Grit asked.
“Yes,” Clare said. “When we were young, we’d go to Central Park to look for signs of spring. Snowdrops and crocuses were the first, and then came daffodils and violets. Your mom and I found a whole carpet of white and purple violets, on the hillside just beyond the zoo.”
“Which did you like better? Purple or white?”
“Both. We’d take them home, soak them in water for days.”
Grit listened, picturing the sisters concocting their flower water.
“I smelled violets last night,” she said.
“Really, here at the hospital?”
“Yes. It was probably my shampoo, though.” Grit leaned closer, so Clare could smell her hair.
“Just like that carpet of violets,” Clare said. “Such a beautiful scent.”
“But part of me doesn’t think it was just the shampoo.”
“Then what?”
“I think she came,” Grit said. “I woke up, and she was standing there. My mother. You read her diary, you know.”
“She used to watch you sleep.”
“I was probably dreaming last night,” Grit said. “But it didn’t feel that way.”
Dr. Bodhi came to check her toe, then let the nurses know Grit was ready to go home. Grit had been dying to leave but now she felt a pang. She wanted that smell of violets again; she wanted her mother to come back.
Christina, one of the nicest nurses, pushed her down to the lobby in a wheelchair. Grit said she could walk, but honestly she felt glad for the ride. Clare carried her overnight bag, and Grit held Dennis’s books in her lap.
Paul’s Jeep idled on the street outside the admissions entrance; as soon as Christina pushed Grit through the doors under the portico, he drove in, and Clare opened the front door.
“Seat of honor,” Paul said, “and more room for your foot!”
“Did you get checked for sludge damage?” Grit asked. “I’m really sorry for making you jump in after me.”
“Okay, you’ve officially apologized enough. Besides, I hear you’re in charge of baking pies for tomorrow, so we’ll be even.”
“What’s your favorite?” Grit asked.
“Apple,” he said.
“You got it,” Grit said.
When they got home, Paul helped her up the steps, and Clare carried her books. Grit hobbled into the living room, aching to continue the conversation with her aunt.
“I’ve got to go uptown and hang out in the park while the parade balloons are being blown up. You two sure you don’t want to come?” Paul asked.
“It would be fun,” Clare said, “but Grit needs to settle back in.”
“I have baking to do,” Grit said. “We’ll watch the parade tomorrow and know you helped inflate Snoopy and Garfield.”
“Okay, then,” Paul said.
He left, and Clare helped Grit off with her coat. They dropped her things in her room. First thing, Grit pulled out her Sanyo camera and checked that it had caught the footage; she watched just a few seconds to make sure. Then she arranged Dennis’s books on her bedside table. All three cats came out of their hiding places to welcome her home.
“I missed you,” Grit said to them, petting Olive, Chat, and Blackburn in turn. They made her feel so good, as if they remembered her and really had noticed her absence, too. She looked up at Clare.
“You didn’t say anything in front of Paul,” Grit said. “Is that because you don’t believe me?”
“I totally believe you,” Clare said.
“That my mother was there?”
“That you at least believe she was there.”
“That’s like saying I’m crazy.”
Clare sat beside her on the bed. “I don’t think that at all. It’s just that institutions, hospitals, I mean, are strange places. The air is stale, and the environment is unfamiliar, and voices echo from all over.”
“How do you know? Why were you in the hospital?”
“I was in prison,” Clare said.
“I know … are you saying you suddenly saw my mother once?”
“No, I never did. I dreamed about her a lot. So many bizarre dreams, though, and with all the background noise, I wasn’t sure of where being awake ended and being asleep began.” Clare stared at Grit. “Listen, the thing is, I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“How?”
“By believing your mother has come back. If she really had, why wouldn’t she have stayed?”
Grit ducked her head and, like a little kid, put her hands over her ears. She didn’t want to hear it, couldn’t stand to follow Clare’s logic through and answer that question.
Clare gave her a long hug, and when they broke apart, the look on Grit’s face said she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Clare went into the kitchen, and Grit hobbled after her.
The kitchen smelled savory. Looking around, Grit discovered that Clare had already peeled the white onions and braised them in chicken broth, peeled most of the apples, and left them in a crockery bowl drizzled with sugar, cinnamon, and lemon juice.
“Wow, I am proud of you,” Grit said. “And you told me you couldn’t cook.”
“You’ve gotten me interested in it. Who would ever guess that I’d start actually using my kitchen to cook?”
“That is what it’s for, Aunty,” Grit said.
She stationed herself on a tall stool, the right height for rolling out pastry. Clare measured the flour, lard, and butter in the right proportions—Grit preferred a French-style crust with more butter, just enough lard to stiffen it slightly while not impeding the flakiness factor. It felt warm and lovely; Grit didn’t believe that Dennis’s brownie-baking mom could create any more normal and cozy an atmosphere than this.
She used Clare’s rolling pin—old-fashioned, with wobbly red handles, the wood darkened by time and many piecrusts—to roll out a large circle of crust.
“That was your grandmother’s,” Clare said, “and these are her pie plates.”
They were Pyrex, crimped around the rim. Grit held one up, admiring it, before lifting the crust, unbroken, into it. The glass was yellow and aged, and Grit imagined her grandmother standing right here, in this kitchen, baking pies for long-ago Thanksgivings.
“Did you both help?” Grit asked.
“Your mom didn’t like baking,” Clare said. “But she loved to mash the potatoes; she always added a ton of butter. And she was big on basting the turkey. Did she cook for your Thanksgivings?”
“We never had them.”
“I mean before you moved to Demark. Back when you still lived in the States.”
Grit shook her head. “My father didn’t like American holidays. He said they made him feel left out.”
Clare kept checking her cell phone, and Grit knew exactly who she hoped would call.
“You left my mother a message—right?”
“Yes,” Clare said. “I called the gallery and spoke to your father’s assistant. I’m worried she may have given the message to him, not her. She might not even know.”
Grit knew. Clare was trying to protect her. She was right about the strange sounds and smells, the fine line between being awake and asleep. Plus Grit still felt traces of anesthesia, painkillers, and antibiotics, all of them affecting her mood and mind.
“It’s okay,” Grit said. “Let’s just cook now.”
They made one pumpkin and two apple pies and stuck them in the oven. Clare had sliced and precooked the acorn squash to the point where it was ready for the cranberry-orange–maple syrup mixture. The parboiled onions awaited tomorrow’s heavy cream and fresh-grated nutmeg.
“What was your favorite holiday?” Grit asked.
“Christmas,” Clare said. “There was always delicious food, and we’d make decorations, or pull out really old ones passed down from our grandmothers.”
“Where are they now?” Grit asked.
“Somewhere in the basement,” Clare said. “Do you want to put up a tree this year?”
“That would be great,” Grit said. “Was your family always happy at Christmas?”
“Yes, mostly,” Clare said. “But it’s tricky, isn’t it? Holidays are the time we want to feel closest to our family, so disappointments can hurt even more. My father had a way … he’d get drunk, or go off on a ‘business trip’ he forgot to tell us about. Did your mom ever tell you we used to follow him?”
“No,” Grit said. “She almost never talked about him.”
“Well, she was a really good detective. It was her way of figuring things out. He stayed out so often, and even though it was painful to learn the truth, it was better than staying in the dark.”
“Well, yeah. That’s why I stole her diary.”
“You took it the day they kicked you out?”
Grit nodded. “She was in her room, crying. I went in to say good-bye and saw it sitting on the bed beside her. It’s weird. I’d always known she had it, and she used to hide it right under my father’s nose—in his study, in a bookcase full of art books. He had them just for show, never looked at them.”
“Wasn’t she afraid he’d read it?”
“Of course. But if she’d put it in their room, or her closet, or anywhere that was ‘hers,’ she knew he’d find it. He ransacked our stuff all the time.” Grit’s jaw clenched, remembering how he had acted as if he owned everything about them, including their thoughts.
“So you went into her room to say good-bye—”
“She was sitting on her bed. Her face was so red, and when she looked at me, I could tell she was my mom again—not the monster out in the yard, hitting me and screaming at me.” Grit’s eyes filled with tears. She could see her mother now, remorse in her eyes, but also that sweet, funny recognition they’d always had for each other, the glance that only they knew, the one thing her father couldn’t ruin.
“What did she say?”
“Well, you read the last page of her journal, right? The switch had flipped back again, and she hated him. But he was standing right there, waiting for me to leave. Right up to the last minute, I hoped she’d say something, tell me to stay, but she didn’t.”
“Did you speak at all?”
“Nope. But I did save her ass. My father saw the pen and the diary sitting next to her on the bed, and he asked what it was. I told him it was mine, and grabbed it.”
“He’d never seen her writing in it before?”
“No. She was just as secretive with him as you say she was with your dad. She could hide anything. But that day, she was too much of a wreck to care.”
“So you took it to protect her?”
Grit had to think about that. Yes, she had protected her mother. But it had been more than that. By stealing the journal, she had taken something deep and important, the thoughts her mother had never been able to share with her.
“If he’d read what she wrote,” Clare said, “I’m afraid he would have killed her. Why didn’t he try to take the journal away from you?”
“It’s hard to explain, but he saw me change that day. This burn on my neck,” Grit said, touching the scar beneath the tattoo, “made me strong, right then. I saw him for exactly who he was. A pathetic bully.”
“You’re right,” Clare said. “But your mother? She didn’t try to stop you from taking it?”
Grit shook her head. “You know, I think she wanted me to have it. So I’d know the truth.”
Clare checked the oven and the timer. “I want to show you something.”
They went into the living room, and Grit followed Clare to her desk.
When she looked at the computer screen, she couldn’t believe her eyes. There was her mother’s Web site—with a brand-new photo of fog-silvered violets.
“When did she put this up?” Grit asked, shocked.
“I’m not sure,” Clare said. “I saw it this morning before I went to the hospital.”
“She’s never changed the picture on her home page before. In all the time I’ve been looking, it’s been that pink fairy orchid.”
Grit and Clare stared for a long time. Grit moved the cursor to open the password window and typed in “violets.” Nothing happened.
“I think the password has to do with you,” Clare said. “Something only you would know.”
“I’ve tried everything.”
“It will come to you,” Clare said. “Keep thinking.”
Grit closed her eyes. The new picture had to mean something—her mother had changed it now, today, for a reason. The fog had to do with Gilly, and the violets were for Grit.
The apple pie bubbled over, and they heard the juice sizzle. Clare ran into the kitchen to rescue it, and Grit slowly followed. She felt a lump in her throat, but from almost unbearable happiness. Her mother had come. She’d worn her violet perfume and left that photo for Grit to find.
Invisible family. Clare bent over the oven to pull out the pie, and Grit stood back. She could almost see her grandmother, baking so long ago. It shimmered in her mind, like an old home movie. Her mother and aunt were right there, too—one sister helping with the pie, the other holding back, planning her next move.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The food pantry was located at St. Thomas Aquinas, a 150-year-old landmark church on Tenth Avenue and Twenty-fifth Street. Inside, tall pillars supported a vaulted ceiling above Florentine-style groin arches. Dappled light came through the stained-glass windows.
Clare, Paul, and Grit passed a long line of people waiting in the cold, wishing everyone happy Thanksgiving, receiving greetings back. Most of the people in line were homeless men and women; they would receive their meal tickets and at 10:30 A.M. go into the Aquinas mission house to fill their plates at the serving stations. According to Paul, the church served fifteen hundred hot meals every single day.
Grit limped along in her special shoe, and an old woman mumbled that a shoe like that would be good for her bone spurs. Grit’s heart opened instantly to the homeless woman. Until finding Clare, she’d rarely been completely sure where she was going to sleep the next night. Seeing these people reminded her of that, and she bent down and gave the woman her shoe.
Paul had a pair of basketball sneakers in the Jeep; he helped Grit slide one onto her right foot, and let her lean on his arm as they walked in. Grit felt excited to be here with him and Clare. But what would make it absolutely perfect would be if her mother showed up to surprise everyone.
It was 9:45 A.M. now; in Denmark it would be 3:45 in the afternoon, pitch dark. She pictured her father watching the BBC news. It ran twenty-four hours a day and gave him many opportunities to complain and hate this leader being stupid, that leader a coward, this group being deluded, that group being brilliant, and why didn’t the world see? There was so much to be against in this world, and he found all of it.
