LOVEY

She always dresses in black, skips school twice a week, and mouths off to her mother. You might say she’s a bad kid. But her grandmother never would.

(Originally published in Seventeen)

  *

Mom finishes her toast, pushes the cat off her lap, and stands up.

“Whose funeral are you going to?” she asks. She says something like that every morning. Who died? Are you in mourning? You look like a vampire. Then she goes back to hurrying around the kitchen, grabbing her bus tickets and her alligator-skin briefcase, twisting her hair up and sticking it to the back of her head with a big gold clip.

“Mine, I hope,” says Gran. “I can’t take much more.” She’s chewing on a cheese Danish – she calls it a cheese bun. It’s one of the few foods she can keep down.

“Don’t say things like that,” Mom says, wincing. She turns to me. “And you, Miss Morbid, are not going to school like that.”

“Yes I am.” I’m wearing a slim suit from the 1960s that falls to just above my knees, and a matching pillbox hat with a veil of netting.

“I hope you at least had that thing dry-cleaned before you put it on,” Mom says.

I buy most of my clothes at secondhand shops called It’s New to You and Second Time Around. Dead people’s clothes, Mom says. As if someone’s dying contaminates their jackets and skirts.

I’ve worn black to school every day this year, my junior year; kind of a reverse Emily Dickinson. The school psychologist points to my so-called giftedness and my distress over my grandmother’s illness as two of the forces behind my “troubled” adolescence, and, incidentally, my choice of dress. But the fact is, I just like to be dramatic.

My mother dusts toast crumbs off the front of her bright blue suit. A sharp little teal handkerchief pokes out of her pocket.

“Emily Dickinson wore white every day,” I say. “Why shouldn’t I wear black?”

“I don’t give a damn what Emily did,” Mom says. “She was a genius. You’re not.”

I would like to be a poet who hides in the house and sends gingerbread to the neighbors, but I’m not. I’m a high school truant who takes care of my grandmother, and she takes care of me. After I graduate, I plan to go to the Fashion Institute of Technology, in New York City, to become a clothing designer. Sometimes I show Gran my drawings.

“You look like a freak.” My mother continues to rant as she puts on her coat. “Don’t forget to defrost the chicken.” She leans down and kisses Gran good-bye, then pauses to rub the bronze lipstick mark from Gran’s cheek.

“Have a good day, dear,” Gran says.

“You too,” Mom says, although it is not likely to be good, and we all know it. My mother grabs her briefcase and rushes out the door, her high heels clicking on the floor.

When we look from the sliding glass doors of our New Jersey apartment, the Garden State Parkway is visible between the trees.

Every morning, my mother catches the bus for Manhattan, where she’s a paralegal. She’s been working since the divorce, when I was five. She’s not sure how long she’ll be able to keep the job. Gran is getting worse.

I’ve heard Mom whispering urgently about it on the telephone, talking to Aunt Marjorie, who lives in Albany. “You don’t know how difficult it is,” she says. “She’s slipping away before my eyes.” She whispers it, as though I can’t see for myself.

Sometimes, when the leaves are sparse, like they are today, Gran watches the buses go by on the Parkway, guessing which one Mom might be on. But now Gran just stares at her Danish like it’s an enemy.

“I think you look pretty, dear,” she says, finally looking up. “Just like Jackie Kennedy.”

She pushes the Danish away and wraps her hands around a teacup. It’s a thin, delicate piece, with hand-painted irises. Only two sauces in the set have been broken, but all the other cups have slipped through people’s fingers and shattered. She doesn’t actually drink much of the tea, just sips it, and warms her hands.

“Thanks, Gran,” I say. “More tea?”  

She nods, so I dump the lukewarm tea down the sink and pour a fresh, hot cup. The golden steam rises and wisps and her soft, pale, Irish face. For a second, it looks like she’s on the verge of evaporating.

“Maybe you should leave the hat at home,” Gran suggests. “You won’t be able to see the blackboard.”

“No school for me today,” I say. “Don’t tell Mom.” I kiss her powdered cheek.

“You know I won’t , sweetheart,” she says.

I’ve been going to school about three times a week this year. The teachers have a tendency to beat points into the ground, and I get sick of it. Besides, they have their hands full with girls who sip vodka out of lip-gloss bottles and boys who get high in the bathrooms. They can’t say much to me, really, I keep up with the work and ace almost all the tests. Not that they’re wild about having me around, either; I think I make them nervous. Mom doesn’t know about any of this – or maybe she’s just never let on that she does, since I help Gran and get straight A’s, besides.

It is a slow, fragrant April morning. I feed the cat and watch the end of the morning show. Gran flips through a new catalog. Her name must be on every mailing list in the nation.

“Do you like this, dear?” She points to a picture of a model in a striped gypsy outfit.

“It’s all right,” I say. “It’s cute.”

I’m always careful when answering these questions, because if I give the slightest indication of liking something, Gran will call and order it for me. She’s hoping the persuade me away from my monochromatic wardrobe.

Gran looks back and forth, between the catalog and me.

“They have it in purple,” she muses.

  *

On the days I stay home, I try to convince Gran to go outside with me if the weather is good. Some days she’s not up to it and won’t even sit out on our porch, which overlooks the parking lot.

“Let’s walk to the shopping center,” I say.

“A little fresh air would be nice,” Gran says.

“We’ll go to that nice bakery and get some fresh bread to go with dinner.”

When I’m alone, it takes me about ten minutes to walk to the shopping center, which is at the far end of the apartment-complex parking lot and down a short path through the woods. It takes longer with Gran.

I rub blush on her soft cheeks and guide a pink lipstick across her mouth.

“Thank you, Lovey,” she says, using her nickname for me. I draw some eyeliner on me.

“I don’t want to say what you look like,” Gran says, “but I don’t want people thinking bad things about you.”

I think I look glamorous, like Cleopatra, but wash it off anyway. She asks me to wear a denim jacket so I won’t be chilly, and I do it to please her. Then I help her into her pale blue sweater. Mom shrank it in the wash a couple of months back, but now it fits Gran perfectly, because Gran has become even smaller. She went off the medicine around New Year’s. She said it was because she hated losing her hair, and the wig itched. As we walk across the parking lot, her new, fine curls blow in the breeze.

We walk through the woods, where bare gray branches meet overhead, curving like ribs. Suddenly Gran teeters on the asphalt path and begins to stumble over a fallen branch. I grab her fast.

“Thank you, Marjorie,” she says.       

“No, Gran, it’s me. Aunt Marjorie’s in Albany. She’ll be here for Easter, remember?”

I hate correcting Gran because I know it embarrasses her, but my mother says it’s best to set her straight.

“Yes, of course,” Gran says. She pats my arm. “You’re a good girl, Lovey.”

  *

The shopping center is long and narrow, all metal and dirty windows. There’s a card store and a pet store and a music store, and a cheap department store with vast scuffed floors and a vinyl smell.

The strip mall’s only good point is De Rosa’s, an Italian bakery that sells fancy pastries. They make rich coffee that smells of cinnamon, and you can buy newspapers. There are small table where you can sit for a long time, and a lot of people do. Gran and I take a table near the window and watch the other people as we sip tea in a leisurely way.

“Look at him,” Gran says under her breath, nodding toward an unshaven man at a nearby table. He’s leafing through the New York Daily News and digging at his nose. “Didn’t he ever hear of a handkerchief?”

“I don’t know,” I say, laughing quietly, hoping no one heard her. After nearly an hour, I’m feeling slow and relaxed. Gran has eaten the better part of a cream puff and sipped two cups of tea, so I’m pleased.

“She’s a dancer,” Gran says, nodding toward a tall woman who is buying a coffee at the counter. The woman is slim and muscular. A dark braid hangs down her back. She tucks a newspaper under her arm and walks past us.

“See how graceful she is?” Gran asks. “I told you she was a dancer.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I worked at Radio City Music Hall for three years,” Gran says proudly. “I was one of the first Rockettes.”

It’s her special story, and it’s all true.

“I lived at the YWCA,” she says. “I was only eighteen. My mother wanted me to go to Katie Gibbs, but I wanted to be a dancer.”

I’ve heard all this before, but don’t interrupt her. She stares out the window, no longer seeing the bleak parking lot. “There were beautiful costumes. And that’s where I met your grandfather. He came to every show for a week, and brought flowers. One night, he took me out to dinner at a fancy restaurant. A lady sang and played the piano. Your grandfather wore a tie. He was the handsomest man in the restaurant.”

She falls quiet, take a deep breath, then suddenly looks up.

“Lovey, where’s the ladies’ room?”

I scan the bakery.

“I don’t see one, Gran.”

“Look some more,” she pleads. Her face is taut.

“Do you want me to ask if you can use the employees’ bathroom?”

Gran shuts her eyes hard. Her hands clasp her napkin desperately.

“No,” she whispers. Then, “I’m sorry.” She opens her eyes and tears spill down her cheeks, leaving lines in her face powder.

“It’s all right.” I take a tissue from her purse and pat her face with it.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I didn’t know in time.”

“It’s okay, Gran.” I pat her hand. Then I get up and take her tiny blue sweater from the back of her chair. “Stand up. It’s all right. No one will know.”

She stands hesitantly, watching the handful of anonymous pastry eaters, her hands bracing against the table. The other customers continue reading their newspapers. I tie the sweater around her waist.

“This looks foolish. Nobody wears a sweater this way. Everyone will know,” she says brokenly.

“No they won’t,” I say. “They’ll think it’s a new style.”

I tie my denim jacket on the same way, and we begin the walk home.

*

Gran is bathed and warm and sweet. I help her from her special seat in the tub. Her skin is pink and papery. It shows her bones and hangs loose at her stomach and under her arms. The operation has left a scar, like a feather, across her chest.

“Thank you, Lovey,” she says as I dry her with a towel. I try to do it without really looking at her.

“You did this for me enough times,” I say. “I’m just returning the favor.”

“Well, God gave us similar equipment,” she says, setting her mouth tight.

“Yes.” I don’t know what else to say. I find myself hoping, just for a moment, that she’ll go before things get worse for her. I set aside the towel and hold out her terry-cloth bathrobe. She steps into it and knots the belt.

“Now, we have to wash those clothes or your mother will know,” Gran says. “I have to be wearing the same outfit when she gets home.”

“She’ll understand,” I say.

Gran looks at me. “I’d rather do it my way.”

“All right.”

She walks into the living room and sits in her recliner. I go to put her clothes in the washing machine, and when I get back she’s looking at the catalog, pointing to the page with the striped gypsy outfit.

“Shall I order this in purple?” she asks without looking my way.

“Okay,” I say. “Purple’s pretty close to black.”

She looks up at me and smiles.

  *

The chicken is in the oven, and Gran, wearing her clean clothes, is in front of the television watching an afternoon talk show. The room is getting cold, so I get Gran’s sweater for her and put on the kettle to boil water for tea. We sit together until it whistles. The talk-show host yaps in the background. The cat jumps onto Gran’s lap, and Gran pets her.

“Here you go.” I hand Gran the fragile teacup, the one with the irises painted on it.

“My good china will be yours when I go,” she says matter-of-factly. “It’s Limoges.”

“But that won’t be for a while,” I say.

The cat jumps down.

“No, not for a little while yet.”

We are following the family tradition of sidestepping tragedy, for a time, by refusing to acknowledge it.

She sets down her teacup and absently touches her soft new baby hair. I kneel next to her and lean against her chair. She pats my head.

My mother will be home from work soon. She will sit on the couch with a cocktail, pull her hair from the stiff gold clip, and try to be cheerful even though she’s tired. She’ll say the chicken smells good and ask how Gran is feeling and how did school go today. Gran and I will lie, keeping each other’s secrets, and my mother will sense it but never challenge us. It is the best the three of us can do.

Gran and I sit together, drinking tea in the darkening room. We watch the buses slide by fast on the Parkway, hurrying to bring all of the workers home, and we wait.       

* * *