Part 8 (1/2)
Cell phone pressed to her ear, Lena peers through a crack in the curtains. Her mother sits at the table, a cup in front of her and a book in her hand. The television set is on, but Lena can't hear it, and she guesses the volume is probably muted. Sometimes, Lulu keeps the TV on for the company the images, not the sound, offer. ”I'm outside the back door, Lulu. Open up.”
Lulu flips back the flowery curtain from the kitchen door window before opening it. Her hair is covered with a blue slumber bonnet, her cheeks and lips are bare, her housedress is faded and worn at the elbows. The kitchen sink is full of dishes and pots. At the sink, Lena runs water into the rubberized dishpan. She searches under the cabinet for dishwas.h.i.+ng soap hidden between a.s.sorted half-full bottles of cleansers and squeezes the blue liquid over the dishes.
The running hot water steams up the window above the sink while she washes the dishes and rinses them one by one. Lulu picks up a dishtowel and dries the plates and bowls and places them on the counter instead of onto their shelves because she likes them air-dry not just towel-dry. ”Randall served me with divorce papers, and I've decided to move out.” Lena says matter-of-factly, surprised at how even her voice is.
”Oh, my G.o.d, look what you've gone and done. I told you not to bother Randall with your problems.” The soft scent of her dusky perfume floats between mother and daughter. Lulu backs into the kitchen table and lowers herself into her chair. ”You never listen, do you, Lena?”
”Oh, Lulu... I feel bad enough as it is.” Lena scans the kitchen. It is messier than normal: five soda cans and three empty gallon water containers sit, along with newspapers, beside the refrigerator. She pulls a folded grocery bag from underneath the sink, snaps it open, then drops the cans, papers, and containers into the bag.
”You better keep yourself in that house. Don't let him take it away from you.”
What, she thinks, is the point of telling Lulu about Randall's manipulative offer? ”I'll feel better in neutral territory.”
”I hope you put some money away.” Lulu purses her lips and sips from a cup she has had since Lena and Bobbie were little girls.
”I'll sell my car if I have to.” Lena pulls the broom and the dustpan from the tall cabinet beside the stove and begins to sweep the floor in hurried, choppy strokes. ”I'm sure he has to pay me alimony or something...”
”Even I I kept a secret stash, baby girl.” kept a secret stash, baby girl.”
Whenever Lena joked that Lulu encouraged her to hide a little something on the side, Randall chortled and told Lena that if she was, he hoped it was a lot of something because, with her expensive tastes, there was no way a little would ever do.
”These things don't happen in my family.” The volume rises suddenly on the TV as if Lulu senses her daughter's breakup can be masked by the sound.
Standing on the other side of the kitchen, Lena thinks of at least two of her aunts and a cousin who should let it happen to them. Divorce or separation, that is. She sweeps the dust and dirt into the dustpan and empties it into the trash. Lulu points at a corner underneath the cabinet, and Lena sweeps there as well.
”I'm sure Randall still wants you, Lena. He's a good man. He just works too much.” Lulu fumbles with the slumber cap and pushes the lacy edges behind her ears. ”What can you do without him? How will you take care of yourself?”
”I don't know why I'm here. I didn't want you to have a heart attack if I told you over the phone.” Lena shoves the broom and dustpan back into the little closet and reminds herself to buy Lulu one of those handheld vacuums for spot-dusting and spills. Lulu believes in forever and so did Lena until almost twenty-four hours ago. Tina believed in herself, and Lena has to hold on, too, or she will wilt like one of Lulu's short-blooming azaleas. She steps past Lulu to the back door and pulls it wide open, letting a chilly breeze into the overheated house.
Lulu hobbles to Lena and yanks at the elbow of her sweats.h.i.+rt just like Camille and Kendrick did when they were kids and wanted her full attention. ”Your Aunt f.a.n.n.y left your Uncle Johnny two or three times before he finally straightened up. They made it through forty years of marriage before she died.” A rare stern look crosses Lulu's face, the kind that would have stopped Lena in her tracks if she were thirty years younger. ”Get yourself together, and don't leave that house. Make Randall take you back before he finds another woman to take your place.”
Chapter 16.
Time to do it. Time to pick up the phone and call that stupid Randall. She tried to erase him from her thoughts during the purgatory of hours since she signed her lease. When Lena picked up his s.h.i.+rts-wis.h.i.+ng she had the guts to burn them-she lied to the two chatty proprietors behind the counter that she would no longer bring in Randall's s.h.i.+rts because they were relocating to another state. The state of no-longer-married. Randall's absence is an ache that deepens when she least expects: while she balances the checkbook, completes change of address forms, changes the bed linens.
Lena lights the candles on the corner of her desk. Music, music, music will help. She scrolls through 173 Tina Turner songs on her MP3 player and stops wherever there is inspiration. She searches for the tunes she imagines Tina, onstage, strutting her stuff to and dials.
”Randall. This is Lena.” She knows he knows who it is. She needs to distance herself from him this way. This is business. ”I leased an apartment. I'm moving out.”
”My offer is reasonable. I gave you enough time to evaluate it.”
”Well, it's this way,” Lena mutters Randall's prayer. A false cough covers her unsteadiness. She doesn't want Randall to know how off balance she is. ”I'm thinking there might be more to it than you've let on.”
”Think what you want, but you'd better get a job. I won't pay for an apartment when you should stay in the house.”
”Oh, but you will will pay for one for yourself? I have that right?” Had she planned better Lena would have taken money out of the bank-no, taken money out of the household funds, ignored monthly bills; if needed, hidden a ton of money so that she wouldn't have to deal with Randall. pay for one for yourself? I have that right?” Had she planned better Lena would have taken money out of the bank-no, taken money out of the household funds, ignored monthly bills; if needed, hidden a ton of money so that she wouldn't have to deal with Randall.
”Stay in the house, Lena. Don't make it any harder on Kendrick and Camille than it already is.”
If the blame-game gauntlet were something she could see, touch, or feel, it would be coming at her hard and heavy like a brick through a gla.s.s window of this lovely house; she would take it and throw it back. ”It already is, Randall, and that's not all my fault.” Breathing brings Lena back to her business mind-set. One. Two. Three. ”I have room for them, and I'll make sure they understand that wherever I am is home. You make sure there's money in the bank.”
Like a dancer, Lena moves around the kitchen at a frenzied pace grabbing plates, silverware, and napkins, ignoring the flush of perspiration across her forehead. The table is set as it was for the last meal Lena prepared now more than two weeks ago. That day marked an end. Tonight has to be peaceful. A time to savor and enjoy.
The back door opens with Kendrick's familiar entrance; a couple of inches at first, as if he needs to peek in, then a full swing. His profile is trim and still borders on skinny. He is not close to his normal weight, though his arms look muscular through the long sleeves of his s.h.i.+rt. His brown-red complexion is finally clear and free of the acne brought about by drugs or his final bout with adolescence.
”Wa.s.sup, Moms?” Kendrick's greeting is a gift. Conversations over the past few days have been brief, as if he has been hiding his life from her. Lena leans against Kendrick's chest and rests her head against the flat ridge of his sternum. His backpack makes a soft thud when he lowers it to the floor. ”Smells good in here. Camille,” he shouts, pulling away from Lena to sit at the table. ”Get your b.u.t.t down here!”
Any other day, Lena would have fussed over what she considers impolite shouting. Camille's reply is equally loud. Their voices are welcome: a call and response, a kind of jazz breaking the silence that has permeated the house since the separation.
”I emailed my scholars.h.i.+p paperwork. They renewed starting fall semester.”
”Yea, Kendrick! I knew you could do it. We should celebrate.”
”We're celebrating?” Camille distracts Kendrick from the details Lena wants to hear. Sister slaps brother's back. Kendrick raps Camille's shoulder, and she yelps with fake pain at what she describes as a hard knuckle-hit, not brotherly affection. They are their old selves: kids who know they are loved. Lena crosses her heart, thankful for this one second that makes her world seem like nothing has changed.
The house feels warmer with their banter; it feels like home. They eat and gossip about friends, as if Lena is not within earshot, while she dishes hearty portions of food onto their plates. Tonight, she feels like an observer. She leans against the upholstered bench, picking at the cherry tomatoes in the salad, nibbling on the crunchy corners of the macaroni-and-cheese ca.s.serole, hearing without listening until they bring up the subject of their father. Kendrick went with Randall to look at condominiums in San Francisco. He's pus.h.i.+ng for the unit with eighteen-foot ceilings, a view of the East Bay, and bedrooms for him and Camille complete with flat-panel televisions.
Because the sound of their laughter is so sweet, because she learned from that last meal with Randall, Lena holds her tongue. She wants to shout from the ceiling that their father is manipulating them, but she waits until Kendrick's and Camille's plates are empty and they seem to have run out of friends and TV reality shows to talk about. ”I have something to tell you.”
This same phrase was once a signal for good news or good times: anything from going to Lulu's to flying kites near the estuary or taking a trip to a warm place where the whole family could romp in the ocean. Kendrick's smile turns somber. Camille's knees shake underneath the table; a new habit. Their expressions ask the same question: what is our crazy mother up to now? Or worse: can't we pretend that everything is the same for a while longer?
”I love both of you, and I want you to be a part of this different life I'm beginning. I rented an apartment near the lake. It's small, and there aren't any fancy TVs, but there's a bedroom for each of you.”
”I knew it. I knew it when I saw the food. This is bulls.h.i.+t.” Kendrick's voice cracks like it used to when it first began to deepen.
”Your timing sucks.” Camille's dimples disappear, just as tears begin to fall down her cheeks.
”Why is it always about you, Mom? You could've waited until later. We were having a good time.”
What does a mother do when she is responsible for her children's tears? When their hearts are broken, when the decision to save herself is as hurtful for them as it is for her? The urge, the need to grab both of her children and shake sense into their heads, is strong. The closest she can get is their hands-one hand on each of theirs, and she holds them in a tight grip so they cannot pull away. ”How can you in one breath be so happy for your father's move and criticize me in the next for doing the same thing?”
Now their words fly like arrows all aimed at her so fast and hard that Lena ducks at the imaginary points coming her way.
”You're our mother.” Kendrick wrenches his hand from Lena's grasp and rises from the table. ”I can't believe you, Mom. You've f.u.c.ked everything up for all of us.”
”You're supposed to take care of us, take care of Dad, take care of our house. What's the matter with you, Mommy? I hate you.”
Camille's best friend's mother called days ago. After apologizing for being the one to break the news, the woman told Lena that Camille had posted bitter poetry that blamed Lena for the separation on a teen blog. Posted what the best friend's mother would only say used words no mother would want her child to write in the same sentence with her name: selfish, hate, dead, f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h. selfish, hate, dead, f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h.