Dolly All the Time(82)

“I do,” I say. “And that’s it. I want to stop making it so easy for people to leave. Oh what’s that, Mom? You’re done here? No problem, I’ll handle it. Oh sorry, Stewart, you just decided you don’t love me anymore? Totally fine, enjoy!” I’m waving my hands around and using a bit of a crazy voice through my tears. My dad’s smiling at me, and I know he can relate. “I even made things easy for Niles!”

“Bastard,” he says.

I laugh. “Yeah.”

“After a while, I turned it around in my mind. Took a while, but I stopped being angry that she left and started being happy that I stayed. I was the lucky one to run the circus with you.” He squeezes my hand. “You’re angry, and I don’t blame you. In a sense we both let you down.”

“Dad.”

“I did. I was so overwhelmed, and there you were, pitching in like a total lifesaver. I shouldn’t have leaned on you the way I did. But we’ve got time to work that out between us. Your mother’s got nothing. She lost out.”

We’re quiet for a bit and I try to picture her somewhere in Virginia not seeing the maple come to life in front of our house every spring. It’s been so long since she’s heard Christopher’s laugh that she probably doesn’t remember it. She’s never even met Gus. She lost out.

“Tonight I made a deal with God that if Gus was okay, I’d be a better mother. But, you know, I think I’m a perfectly good mother.”

“You are for sure.”

“I think what Gus needs is for me to step up a bit in my own life. I think I’m done making everyone’s shitty behavior okay.”

“Good,” he says. “I think that’s good.”

“Thanks for being here, Dad.”

“Thanks for calling me,” he says.

Before we’re released from the hospital, Victoria gives me her number. “In case you need anything and don’t feel like going to the ER.”

I text her once the following week because Gus says his joints hurt. She replies: Gatorade

And she’s right again.





Chapter 36





January is bleak in Rhode Island. The sun sets at four thirty over the frigid Atlantic, all blues and purples like an aging bruise. On a Tuesday morning, Gus has just left for school, and Christopher and I are at the grocery store. This is a new thing for us, his coming on my errands. I am practicing not taking no for an answer by telling him that the cart is heavy and that I need help carrying the bags. It’s good for him to be out and seeing people. He even has a jokey rapport with the checkout girl. He’s reaching deep into a shelf to pull out the last can of chickpeas when I see Victoria coming down the aisle.

“Dolly,” she says.

“Hi,” I say. “Victoria. This is my brother, Christopher.”

She extends a hand to him and he takes it, but with his left hand. This is something we should work on, and I’m bolstered by the thought of Christopher being a person who is out in the world, shaking hands with people.

“Do we know her?” he asks me.

When you’re going through hell, keep going. “Yes, she’s Stewart’s mother.”

He gives his mischievous smile. “She liked him,” he tells Victoria.

Her eyes go to me, and I think I’m probably expressionless. We all know what went down. Of course I liked him.

“Are those good chickpeas?” she asks Christopher.

“No,” he says, and I am relieved by the subject change.

“They’re for a salad, and Christopher is going to give me a hard time about salad until I’m an old woman,” I say.

Victoria nods and looks around at the acre of cans ahead. “Gladys is visiting her brother until tomorrow, so I’ve been in charge. Should have just picked up crabcakes, actually.”

The mention of crabcakes tightens my chest. Henry being so pleased with me and then so disgusted. “I remember Henry liked those,” I say.

It hangs there. A movie playing on a screen between us. Henry saying how much he loved our crabcakes while Stewart rested his hand on my shoulder.

“Well, I’ll get back to it,” she says finally. And then to Christopher, “Thanks for the warning about the chickpeas.”

The next day I’m behind the counter at the fish house when Victoria calls. I watch my phone ring for a bit before I answer.

“I was wondering if you could come for tea this afternoon,” she says. “I think maybe we should talk.”

I do not reply. I don’t want to go to Eight Oaks. I also don’t want to act like it’s a big deal to go there. He’s in Boston or New York or wherever he goes when it’s not summer, but I don’t want to walk through the memory of it all.

“Dolly?” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “Sorry. What time?”

Gladys opens the front door (I am not bringing fish today, I’ve been invited), but due to some self-protective mental block, I was not expecting to see her.

“Oh,” I say as a greeting.

“Dolly,” she says. “Come in.” I do and she closes the giant door against the January cold. She’s wearing her usual uniform, and I am too: jeans, a gray wool sweater, brown boots.