Читать книгу What Family Means - Geri Krotow - Страница 11

Present Day

Buffalo, New York

Debra

THE SCREAM LODGED in the back of my throat. I swallowed and bit my lip. I no longer viewed the knitting needles in my hands as tools that turned a hand-spun mohair blend into a piece of art.

They were potential weapons.

If I heard one more boring remark about family trees from any of the ladies seated around the café table, I was going for it.

I was going to poke my eyes out.

“I like knitting, but it’s not the same as scrapbooking.” Shirley sat across the table from me and went on to rave about how scrapbooking had changed her life.

I wasn’t convinced. “Shirley, that’s nice, but isn’t it a lot of work, clipping and gluing and finding the right colored papers?”

Our group’s youngest member at age thirty-four, Maggie paged through Shirley’s latest creation. Her slim hand turned another sheet of Shirley’s ode to her youngest grandchild.

“I agree. Give me a ball of good yarn and my rose-wood needles and I’m set for any journey.” Dolores laughed. She was her own best audience.

Nine of us sat at the restaurant table, our breakfast dishes long cleared. We’d met here every Wednesday morning for the past several years. To knit, talk and grouse.

Maybe I could steer the conversation back to knitting.

“I just think it’d be tough to go through every single photo I’ve ever taken.” I kept purling as I spoke. “Besides, the best time of my life is now. I love to look at baby pictures of my kids, but to have to sift through them all…”

I shuddered at the thought of the boxes and boxes of photos shoved under the eaves in our attic.

“Can anyone help me with this? I dropped a stitch rows ago but I can’t bear to rip this out now.” Maggie held up the wool sweater she was making for her husband. It was a beautiful cable pattern. But an ugly ladder ran down one of the cables.

“Let me show you how to fix that.” I stood up to walk over to her when my cell phone rang.

“Hang on.” I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone.

It was Violet, my mother-in-law.

“Hey, Vi.”

“Debra.” Her voice was soft, too soft.

“What’s wrong?”

Alarm made my simmering estrogen flush turn into an all-out hot flash. I started fanning my face with a knitting pattern.

“My legs are swollen again and I’m having a hard time moving around.”

“Did you take your pills this morning?” Vi had chronic congestive heart disease. At eighty-five she was doing pretty well but every now and then her symptoms flared, despite the medications.

“Yes, but the cold’s making my bones ache.” I heard her sigh and the resignation it carried. Vi was used to good days and bad, but the “bad” days seemed to be getting worse, as though her circulatory system was wearing out.

And with it, her desire to continue the fight.

“I’ll be home in a few minutes. Keep the phone with you.” I put the phone back in its purse pocket and gathered up my knitting, shoving the needles into the large ball of yarn.

“I’m sorry, Maggie, I have to go. Can you get someone else to help?”

At Maggie’s murmured agreement, I finished my cup of tea.

“Debra, of all people, you should put together a series of scrapbooks about your family. You’ve been through more than any of us. You’re a living part of American history!” Shirley’s intent gaze was on me and I saw the serious glint in her blue eyes.

I waved my hand. “Please. Let’s not be drama queens. We’ve all had our troubles.” I returned my knitting to my tapestry tote bag. I was sorry to leave and even sorrier that Vi wasn’t feeling well. But I was also secretly grateful for a way out of the knitting group’s current conversation.

“I have to go. Vi needs me. But let me say this.” I looked at Shirley.

“I’m a fiber artist. I knit, I weave, I create. I do things for my family every day. Why take time to agonize about the past? I don’t want to miss a minute of today. Anyway, I thought scrapbooking was to celebrate the joy of life.”

Shirley didn’t buy it.

“There are many ways to celebrate life and our families,” she said. “But scrapbooking gives your children a history to draw from.”

She was the most vocal of our group, which I’d started almost a dozen years ago. Not one local election passed that Shirley wasn’t involved in, and she took up what, in my opinion, were some pretty odd causes. However, I had no argument with that as long as I wasn’t one of them.

I swallowed a sigh.

“I do celebrate my family, Shirley. We have great dinners whenever we can, usually on Sundays. Angie just moved back to town. Blair and Stella are finally talking babies, and Brian is successful.”

I didn’t mention that Will was angry at me for being too involved with the kids. Nor did I bring up my suspicion that Angie had come home to Buffalo to distance herself from her husband. That I thought Blair and Stella were approaching their attempt to start a family more like purchasing a new car. Or that I worried that Brian was too driven in his architectural career to ever find a soul mate, much less have a family.

“Deb, you’ve got to admit that none of us have had to fight for our husbands or family like you.”

Shirley referred to the fact that I’m white and Will is black. It’s not as big a deal today. When we first met over fifty years ago, it was more than a big deal. It was a showstopper as far as relationships and marriages were concerned.

I pulled out my car keys.

“Of course we had some hard times,” I said. “But at least I’ve known Will since we were both kids. He’s been a part of my life forever. Not many spouses can claim that.”

I didn’t want to examine the volcano of emotions that threatened to erupt at just the idea of looking back at our past. Our present was the best yet for Will and me. I didn’t want to mess with it.

I wouldn’t mess with it.

“Come on, Debra, it couldn’t have been easy back in the sixties and seventies.”

No, but Paris made it all possible.

I acknowledged the errant thought but didn’t share it with my friends. It was too private. Paris was the time in our lives that sustained Will and me through the storms that awaited us.

“No, it was never easy. But my kids have grown up in as normal a world as I could hope for. None of them seem to have suffered. In any event, I see no point in putting myself through any of those emotions again.”

Shirley shook her head and picked up her knitting.

“I hear you, Deb, but I still think you’d gain a lot out of recording your life for your kids and your future grandkids.”

I smiled.

“You may be right.” I shrugged into my coat and offered my best smile to the group. “See you next week. Call me if anything really stumps you.”

They often asked me for help with their knitting, since I was the only professional knitter in the group.

I loved them because we shared so much more than knitting. But this morning the sharing cut too close….

These women were special to me because they loved me for me. They knew I was a “famous” fiber artist but accepted me as one of them. A woman with a family she’d fight to the death for.

The wind that greeted me as I exited the coffee shop was chillier than it’d been a half hour earlier. I looked up at the steel-gray clouds that seemed close enough to touch.

“More darn snow,” I mumbled to myself. Mentally I went down my to-do list: check on Violet, then spend the rest of the day in my studio preparing for my upcoming art exhibition.

I had just fastened my seat belt, hand poised to turn on the car stereo so I could listen to my favorite sixties station, when my phone buzzed again. Panic fluttered in my throat but was quelled when I saw the caller.

Angie.

“Hi, honey, everything okay?” I put her on speaker so I could back out of the parking lot.

“Um, yeah, I’m fine. How are you?”

Angie’s distracted tone didn’t alarm me. But her question about my well-being did. Usually her conversations were full of her latest career feats as a meteorologist, and her marriage to Jesse, the love of her life.

“I’m fine, sweetheart. What’s up?”

“Mom, can you meet me at the coffee shop this morning?”

“Oh, I’d love to, but I’m just leaving the knitting group. I have to go back home and check on Vi.”

“Is Grandma all right?” Angie’s voice rang clear and concerned over the car speaker.

“I think so. She’s not getting any younger, and she needs a little extra TLC every now and then.”

“Is it her heart?”

“Honey, it’s always her heart at this point.” I turned the key in the ignition—February in Buffalo felt like Siberia. The heater cranked up as I did my best to reassure Angie that Vi was likely okay.

“I really need to talk to you, Mom.” The little-girl tone was back.

“Angie, are you okay?”

“Of course. I just needed to talk. It’s been a huge transition for me, you know, Mom.”

“Yes, it has.” She’d moved back to Buffalo from San Francisco, what, only a month ago?

“Can you call me when you’re done with Grandma Vi?”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Maybe we can meet for lunch.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Bye.”

I sighed and put the phone in the compartment between the large bucket front seats. I was so thrilled to have Angie home again. I just needed Brian to move here and I’d finally have all my chicks back in the nest—or at least near it. My family around me—everything I needed for happiness.

But that was before I knew Angie had decided to make her move alone, while Jesse was deployed to Iraq with a civilian surgical augmentation team. Before I realized that Vi’s congestive heart failure was changing from chronic to acute, needing to be monitored daily.

Women’s magazine pundits called us the “sandwich” generation. Still raising or supporting our children and tending to our aging parents.

I silently counted my blessings as I put the car in gear. Gratitude was my antidote to the despair that could overwhelm me when I least expected it to.

First, all our children were economically independent. Second, they all had good careers and two out of three had chosen loving partners. Third, Violet was financially taken care of, with the best possible medical care.

And most important, I had Will.

Present Day

Buffalo, New York

“HEY, HOW’S IT GOING?” Angie Bradley slid onto the stool next to her younger brother Blair’s at the breakfast bar. He and his wife, Stella, had refurbished this downtown loft apartment three years ago, as newlyweds.

“Are you hungry? I’ve got plenty of oatmeal left.” Stella smiled and Angie let the flash of her perfectly straight, white teeth send their happy energy her way. Stella was a pediatric dentist and her own smile was her best advertisement.

“No, thanks.”

Stella’s eyebrows rose. “Are you sure? I even have real maple syrup.”

Angie laughed.

“No, thanks.” That was just like Stella, to remember that Angie liked the real stuff, not some flavored corn syrup. But her stomach couldn’t cope with much of anything at the moment.

“You’re not on a diet, are you?” Blair was five years her junior but acted like her big brother more often than not. Like his twin, Brian, Blair had followed in their dad’s footsteps and was an architect. But while Blair loved Buffalo and worked in Dad’s firm, Brian had left Buffalo for a position in Denver.

Angie missed seeing both her brothers but was grateful to be facing just one of them at the moment.

“No, I’m not on a diet…” She let her voice trail off. Blair nuzzled Stella’s neck.

“Knock it off, Blair,” Stella said with a giggle.

“Yeah, knock it off, or get a room. Geez.” Angie loved to tease her brothers.

“How’s your new job?”

“Great, good. It’s okay. You know, it always takes a while to get familiar with a new place.”

“I’m sure they’re excited to have you on the team.” Stella poured coffee into a brick-red mug.

“Here—it’s the morning blend from the café.”

Angie looked at the mug but knew if it got too close she’d be in Blair and Stella’s downstairs bathroom in ten seconds flat.

“No, uh, wait—” She shoved herself off the stool and made it to the bathroom door in six seconds, to be exact.

“Come on. Be a big girl and go ’fess up,” she whispered to her pale reflection in the washroom mirror.

She walked out of the bathroom and back into the kitchen, but stayed close to the door. She couldn’t handle the smell of coffee right now.

“You’re pregnant!” Stella’s declaration caught Angie off guard, but then she teared up and smiled at her sister-in-law.

“I am.”

Blair whistled.

“Miss ‘I’m-not-bringing-kids-into-this-harsh-world’ is going to have a baby?”

Angie looked at Blair and Stella and felt like the most unsympathetic sister possible.

“I didn’t want to tell you—I was hoping you two, um…”

“Oh, honey, don’t worry about us! We’ve just started trying, and I am younger than you, you know,” Stella chided Angie lovingly. “Come on over here and give us a hug!”

Angie accepted Stella’s hug, and the tears spilled down her cheeks. She drew back and wiped at her face with her hands.

“Here.” Stella handed her a napkin from the breakfast bar.

“Thanks.” Angie sniffled. “I didn’t want to tell you guys—I know you’re trying, and here I go and get pregnant without even planning.” Angie and Jesse had always been meticulous about birth control. She knew her ovulation cycle inside out. With the effects of top-shelf champagne and the holiday season she and Jesse had enjoyed themselves on the rug next to their Christmas tree. Without protection. She’d thought she couldn’t possibly get pregnant at that particular time. The baby inside her was proof that she’d been wrong.

“My doctor says we’re both perfectly healthy—it’s just a matter of time.” Stella put her hand on Angie’s forearm. “This is so exciting! Our kids will grow up together.”

Blair stood in the kitchen, staring at Angie.

“What?”

“You haven’t told Mom and Dad yet, have you?”

“No, I haven’t—but I will. I just haven’t had time alone with them.” She let the little white lie hang there. She hadn’t told Jesse yet, but that wasn’t any of her family’s business, was it?

“Wooo-wee. Mom’s going to go nuts! When she thought we were thinking about trying, she flipped—even asked if we had a nursery theme picked out.”

Angie laughed.

“Mom’s always in the thick of it with us, you have to admit.”

“I’m not used to this. My family isn’t as hands-on.” Stella sipped her coffee. “Hands-on” was a polite way of describing what they often saw as Debra’s overinvolvement with her kids’ lives. But they all knew the reasons for it, too.

“Your mom didn’t have the interracial thing to deal with.” Blair looked at Stella, her dark skin a testament to her African-American heritage.

“No, but she had plenty of her own worries.”

“Like you marrying me?” Blair smiled sardonically. Stella’s parents had been shocked to find out that his family was mixed—Blair and Brian both had dark skin like Stella. But they’d taken it in stride.

“Knock it off, tough guy.” Stella swatted Blair on the arm.

“Mom loves us, and she’d be hurt if she heard us talking like this.” Angie felt a need to defend her mother. “I’ll tell her to give us some space.”

“Yeah, tell her to focus on Brian.”

“She can’t, he’s in Colorado.”

“Yeah, but I’ve heard he’s dating the same gal from last summer.”

“The blonde?”

“Seems so.” Blair smiled and hugged Stella quickly. Angie observed their profiles, both slim and tall. They were very open to each other, their marriage the stuff of dreams.

“I gotta go, baby. Dad’s out of town and someone needs to keep the ship afloat.” Blair kissed Stella full on the lips.

“See you at dinner, as long as we don’t have too many walk-ins.” Stella kissed him back.

In Stella’s office, walk-in referred to anything from a split lip to lost teeth.

“Do you get a lot of walk-ins this time of year?” Angie asked.

“Hockey pucks.” Stella smiled and pointed at her front teeth.

Angie winced. “Ouch. I think I’ll stick to analyzing weather patterns.”

Stella laughed, then immediately grew solemn.

“Don’t worry, Angie. We’re all here for you.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go, too. Let’s try to get together soon, okay? And no more nonsense about who got pregnant first!”

Angie laughed. “Deal.”