Amazing Grace Page 23

  “He had no right to tell you that.”

  Nan straightens up and shuts the fridge door. “Is it a secret?”

  “I suppose not, but…”

  She sits in the chair beside me. “He’s worried about you.”

  “He’s angry at me, more like.”

  “There’s lots of things Fletcher doesn’t tell you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She nods. “Sometimes he’s afraid of you.”

  “Fletcher! Afraid of me?”

  “A lot of people are afraid of you. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Why, for god’s sake?”

  “He’s worried you’ll leave, and I’ve heard from a few sources around town that you throw things, like cookie tins. You have a temper. Pearl knew it; she bore the brunt of it.”

  “I’ll leave? He says that? We just got married. Twice!”

  “He knows you’re quite capable of disappearing, like you’ve done many times before. He’s insecure about it. I doubt he even knows. It’s a grandmother’s intuition.”

  “A grandmother’s intuition is usually right.”

  When I get back out to the car, I have to sit for a minute. Has my anger been on display…an obvious thing, even to strangers? Fletch shouldn’t be stressing about anything. Not with his heart.

  As I go up and down the aisles of the grocery store I’m in a flap and not paying attention. I crash into someone’s grocery cart so hard I wrench my neck. People stare at me.

  My hand goes back to cradle my neck. “Who was the idiot who left this cart in the middle of the aisle?”

  As it happens, my doctor turns around with a jar of dill pickles in his hand. “That would be me. Are you all right, Grace?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Come to my office in the morning.”

  “Never mind. I’ll take a couple of painkillers.”

  “I’m not talking about your neck.”

  After I deliver Nan’s groceries and get home to put away my own, I immediately go to the garage, where Fletch is gabbing with his cronies.

  “May I speak to you for a moment?”

  “In a minute.”

  “Now.”

  All the men turn to look at me at once.

  “I’d like to speak to my husband without half the village listening in!”

  “Excuse us,” Fletch says. He comes towards me with a look of thunder, takes my arm, and walks me back into the house. Once we’re safely out of earshot he turns to face me.

  “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again in front of my friends. Despite what you may think, I can only be pushed so far. I know you’re upset about your sister, but taking it out on me is not going to help you. In fact, you should think seriously about getting help for your anger. It’s hurtful and I’m not going to spend my golden years tip-toeing around it. I’ve managed to live most of my life without you. I can do it again.”

  “You’d leave?”

  “Of course not. I’d kick you out. Now stop taking me for granted, Grace! I’m not one of the dogs! I don’t know why, but I feel I can say these things now that we’re married.”

  “Don’t leave me!” I’m hysterical. The thought of Fletcher not wanting to live with me anymore never occurred to me, and now it’s a giant sword stabbing me in the heart. “Don’t go! I’m sorry! I never meant to give you a heart attack. Please don’t go!”

  I grab his shirt and press my face into his chest. He puts his arms around me.

  “I’m not going to leave you, Grace.”

  “I will never take you for granted again, Fletcher. You are the only thing in my life that’s good.”

  “That’s not quite true.”

  “But it was true for so many years,” I gulp. “I have no idea why you put up with me.”

  “Because when you aren’t being a shrew, you’re quite nice to have around. Now, what was so urgent?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Then I’ll be outside. What’s for dinner?”

  I wipe the sweat off my face with my sleeve. “Umm…cabbage rolls. Tell the guys I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry, they have wives too.”

  Once he leaves, I sit at the kitchen table and tremble. I’ll be waiting outside the doctor’s office in the morning.

  The upshot is, I’m on some mild anti-anxiety medication and I have to have “talk therapy.” Something I would’ve pooh-poohed only weeks ago. But I will do anything to make it right with Fletcher, and if it means me telling some stranger about my problems, then so be it.

  Turns out, it’s surprisingly easy to spill your guts. It’s also surprising to hear that I’m not crazy and my reaction to even the thought of meeting my sister was totally appropriate…for me. I’m not a bad person for not wanting to see her. The psychiatrist says I have to prepare myself for something like that, and it’s obvious I’m not ready. No biggie.

  The relief is overwhelming. What prisons our minds can be. He said with my history of abandonment and having my son taken from me, he’s surprised I’m as normal as I am.

  Who knew?

  All fall, Fletcher and I are content. We continue to walk the dogs twice a day to get our exercise. Now Fletch even joins me walking up the hill, which he couldn’t do before. We celebrate his hundredth pound gone with sparklers. It took him eleven months, which is amazing. His doctor is thrilled and says he’s fit as a fiddle. This makes my heart sing. Whenever someone mentions how good Fletcher looks, he always says, “Couldn’t have done it without Grace. She’s the reason I’m here.”

  The lead-up to Christmas is in full swing. I’m railroaded into doing the advent calendars for the church fundraiser because Delima said she shouldn’t have to do them two years in a row.

  “God forbid,” I whisper to Gladys at our meeting. She grunts.

  “Something else I’d like to bring up for the minutes,” Delima announces in a clipped tone. “I’ve decided I need to retire from napkin duty. From now on someone else will have the responsibility.”

  Napkins? “I’ll do it for all the suppers and events. We can have themes and seasonal colours. Maybe I can sew up a few samples to show you what I have in mind.”

  This sets my elderly ladies abuzz. It feels good to make them happy.

  “I don’t think so.” Delima throws me a look over the glasses hanging on the end of her nose. “We’ve always used paper napkins. You can’t keep washing cloth napkins. They’ll stain.”

  “Maybe so, but you’re retiring. You don’t have a say anymore.”

  “Just so you know, Grace, the napkins are always white. White paper napkins. It’s been ever thus.”

  “Time for a change.”

  “I withdraw my motion.”

  “You are a lunatic.”

  “I’ll be a lunatic with white paper napkins.”

  Fletcher just about wets himself when I tell him of this exchange. “What’s killing me is that this is actually a job!”

  The advent calendars become the bane of my existence. I start to understand Delima’s reluctance. All I do is cut out bits of felt and squeeze globs of hot glue everywhere. It’s bad enough making the trees to attach to the banners, but the small ornaments that go into the daily pockets have me up at night. Delima tells me she wants one row of sequins outlining every tree, so I impatiently press one lousy sequin at a time into the glue and burn my fingertips. Nan helps me one day when she comes to see her beloved Beulah. We’re at the kitchen table cursing up a storm.

  “You listen to that crackpot,” Nan tsks. “Who appointed her the queen of advent calendars? You should stay away from that lot. They’re crazier than a bag of hammers.”

  “You never joined a church league?”

  “Who needs the aggravation? I’ve never met a more judgemental bunch in my life.”

 
“I can’t believe I’m defending the church, but they have their good points. All the money they raise is funnelled into projects for the less fortunate.”

  “I was a less fortunate, and no one darkened my door when I was trying to raise Fletcher on my own. Don’t get me started.”

  When the phone rings I gingerly pick it up with my fingertips, trying not to glue myself to it. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Gee! It’s me!”

  “Hello, you. What’s new?”

  “We’re going to Florida for Christmas. Wanna come?”

  “No thanks, honey, but have fun.”

  “Oh, we will. Juni is coming with us.”

  “Don’t her parents want her home for Christmas?”

  “Remember that divorce thing? The battle is still raging—she’s coming with me as a not-so-subtle way of letting them know neither of them are winning.”

  “Good for her. And your mother? Won’t she miss you?”

  “Oh, she will, but she’s too sick to notice.”

  “Sick?”

  “She’s having a baby. Isn’t that gross?”

  “A baby! So you’ll have a half-brother or sister! How marvellous.”

  “That part is cool.”

  Jonathan gets on the phone and wishes us all the best for Christmas. He sounds very happy and relaxed. Whitney is living with them now, which I think is a bit hasty, but no one asked my opinion so I’ll keep it to myself. When I finally get off the phone, I give a big sigh.

  “I love it when they call to tell me happy news. It makes me feel like I’m surrounded by family.”

  “What am I, chopped liver? I don’t see any of them sitting here sacrificing their fingers for your sake.”

  I lean over and kiss Nan on the forehead. “You’re the best.”

  “Remember that.”

  Every year I buy two Christmas arrangements to put on Aunt Pearl’s and Aunt Mae’s graves. This year we have snow, and the graveyard looks peaceful in its white finery. Lots of snow has stayed on the fir trees, making them even more beautiful. The day is cold and crisp, with a robin’s-egg-blue sky peeking from behind the clouds rushing by. I love the silence of this place. My aunts rest easy here. As I admire the pine and holly berries against their headstones, I think while this is a lovely place to be buried, I’d prefer to have my ashes scattered over my hill. Unless Fletcher already has a plot somewhere, but I doubt it. We should discuss these things, I guess. It’s hard for me to believe I’ve weathered sixty years. Inside I’m still twenty. Aunt Mae used to say, “When I look in the mirror my mother looks back at me.”

  What does my mother look like, if she’s even alive? I’ll never know unless Maria can tell me something. I push the thought aside quickly. I bend my knees to touch the ground in front of Aunt Pearl’s marker with my gloved hand. “My loyalty will always be to you. I should have told you I loved you long before I knew you were dying. I hope you knew I did, despite my nonsense.”

  Can’t forget little Aunt Mae; I touch the snow where she lies too. It gives me comfort to know that these two sisters are together forever, throughout the seasons, while days turn into nights for all time. I doubt it will happen for me.

  A brand-new year is upon us, and after the excitement of Christmas it’s always a bit of a let-down. No more “Merry Christmas” to shout across the street. The village is in for its long winter’s hibernation. Fletcher and I and our furry family spend our evenings in front of the fire. Fletch still dozes through his television programs, but he doesn’t snore anymore. My new project is knitting sweaters for penguins. After an oil spill, even when penguins are cleaned off, they can still poison themselves by preening, so knitters across the world are making colourful little sweaters to try and save them from man’s stupidity. I’ve got half of the church women doing it and we send off a parcel quite frequently. The only one who says it’s hogwash is Delima.

  “A sweater for a penguin? What’s next? Pyjamas for polar bears?”

  I’m cutting up grapefruit for breakfast one morning in February when I get a call from Jonathan.

  “Mom, Grandmother died.”

  “Lydia died? Oh no, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know she was ill.”

  “She died in her sleep. Natural causes, they said. I was wondering if you’d like to go to the funeral.”

  “Yes indeed. Lydia was so kind to me. I suppose your grandfather doesn’t want me there.”

  “I didn’t ask him one way or the other. I want you there. The service is on Friday.”

  Fletcher stays to keep the home fires burning, and once more I find myself in New York, only this time I’m going without the heartache and uncertainty. Both Jonathan and Whitney pick me up, and Whitney is a completely different girl on her own turf. Bright, bubbly, and so welcoming. As long as she never comes back to a Cape Breton beach, she’ll be fine.

  The townhouse is adorable and the two of them are like excited kids showing me around. There’s nothing like a woman’s touch to bring a home alive. Linn and I have a great reunion and Juni comes tearing down the stairs with Melissa to jump into my arms. All of us sit around the dining-room table and gossip for hours while we obliterate Linn’s pad Thai. She remembered I loved it.

  “We should be penpals,” I tell her as I help put the dishes in the dishwasher.

  “So fun! Yes!”

  Lydia’s funeral is held at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, a magnificent church in the heart of New York City. There are hundreds of people here; the Willingdon name is well known in this part of the world. Oliver’s cronies, his business associates, politicians, and even celebrities, the kind of people Lydia had such a hard time with. But I’m grateful that Jonathan and Whitney’s friends are here to support him and even some of Melissa’s chums show up. Deanne and Andre are also with us, and the dear woman looks quite peaky. I give her tummy a pat and tell her how pleased I am.

  Oliver doesn’t acknowledge anyone as he sits in the front pew; it’s easy to avoid him. I don’t want to upset the man. Lydia was his wife, for better or worse, and I know this must be a terrible day for him.

  The ceremony is long, with communion. I don’t go up to the altar but spend my time thinking about the wonderful woman I knew as my mother-in-law. Her brooch is pinned to my coat, which Jonathan noticed right away before we left the house.

  The burial is private—only immediate family proceed to Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn.

  Oliver doesn’t speak to any of us, not even Lydia’s family from California. He stands alone, not wanting anyone near him. The rest of us are on the other side of the grave. It’s while I watch him there, staring at the graves of his wife and son, that I feel something let go inside. My intense hatred for him seeps away. He’s an old man who’s lost his entire family.

  Once the last prayer is read and people begin to depart, walking slowly arm in arm, I turn to Jonathan. “Go ahead, I’ll only be a moment.”

  He gives me an uncertain look. “All right. We’ll be in the limo.”

  As I approach Oliver, he keeps his head down. Only when I stop beside Aaron’s grave does he speak.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I loved Lydia. She was a wonderful woman. I needed to pay my respects.”

  “You have. Now leave.”

  “Oliver, I want to tell you that I forgive you for taking Jonathan away from me. I need to let it go so I can move on. The night Aaron died was horrific and I realize the despair of losing your only child made you crazy.”

  “No, you did that. A girl from some backwater, with no education or breeding. It was laughable.”

  I look away for a moment and compose myself. “I also want to tell you that I’m sorry Aaron and I lied to you about Jonathan. It wasn’t fair to any of us, least of all Jonathan himself. It was a big mistake and I regret it.”

  He takes two sudden steps and gets right in my face. “You took m
y grandson away from me. You made him hate me. Everything I worked for, he’s throwing away. My life’s work is up in flames because of you.”

  “You can blame me if you want to; it makes no difference to me. But let me give you some advice. Family is all there is, and you have one last crack at it. Jonathan and Whitney could have ten babies in the future. Melissa could have as many herself. You have a whole new group of people coming along that can belong to you, if you let them. Or you can live in your house alone until you die, surrounded by your stockpile of money. You should choose wisely.”

  When I turn and walk away from the man who caused me such misery, my heart feels much lighter. By forgiving him, my relationship with Oliver is finally over. He can’t hurt me anymore. I scramble into the limo and sit back in the seat with a sigh.

  “You okay?” Jonathan asks.

  “Yes.” I give his hand a squeeze.

  When I get home, I’m going to call Maria.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It takes me three days to work up the nerve to call her. Fletcher promises to stay in the garage and not disturb me. Why I need to be alone, I haven’t figured out yet. The poor dogs and cats are corralled in two separate rooms, all of them confused and annoyed. I place a glass of water on the table and a box of tissues. The last thing I put near the phone is the spoon I found at the compound. Not that Maria had anything to do with the tree house, but it was there when Maria and I were sisters.

  My hands are shaking when I pick up the phone. What is her voice going to sound like? What if she hangs up?

  “Stop it!” I yell at myself. I dial the number and it starts ringing. The wait is torture, but no one picks up. There doesn’t seem to be an answering machine, either, not that I would’ve left a message. In my mind I see her ignoring the ringing phone because somehow she knows its me. I slam the phone down. “I don’t want to talk to you either.”

  Everyone is allowed out of their allotted rooms. I grab my winter jacket and march to the garage. Fletcher looks up from the hood of a car.

  “She didn’t answer,” I tell him.