When We Were Enemies: A Novel(61)
“I’ll keep her and her elves in mind,” I promise.
“What are these?” she asks, spreading out the photographs stacked on the table next to the coffee cups. She picks up the two headshots of my grandmother and holds them up, squinting like she needs her glasses. “Oh my God! That’s mamma!”
“Yeah, they’re from the archives at the military base. I’ve never seen them before.”
“This one”—she holds up the image with the fuzzy background—“was her first headshot. Used it to audition for good ole Uncle Archie back before I was born. Where did you get it again?”
“One of the volunteers at the base. They have a little museum, and I guess these were saved in storage. Here, you’d know this—isn’t this Nonna’s handwriting?” I flip over a few of the construction pictures, and Mom makes a low mmmm sound.
“Undeniably hers.”
My energy spikes.
“What about that guy? Do you recognize him?” I ask, handing her the picture of Antonio Trombello.
She reviews it quickly and then drops it. “Nope.” She picks up the headshot again and stares at it. “I can’t believe she ever looked this young. Such a beauty.”
With the topic broached and her nostalgia wheels lubricated, I clear my throat and move to the edge of my seat, ready to jump in to all the other questions I’ve been waiting to ask until we could meet face-to-face.
“Did you get any of my messages last week?”
“Huh?” She doesn’t look up.
“My messages, about Mac and Grandpa’s grave? I left you a lot of messages. Patty and Connie must’ve told you. I asked Jimmy to call you and Chris. I had Farrah call you—a lot. Does this ring a bell?”
“Phone calls that ring a bell, very clever wording, dear.” She dodges the question, pretending to be preoccupied with something on her phone and then in her purse.
“I’m not trying to be clever. I was hoping to talk to you about the situation now—before I lose you to Mac.” She puts her phone down and focuses on me intently, her petal-soft hand stroking my cheek and then my hair. She smells of Crème de la Mer moisturizer, and I feel like a little girl under her touch. She holds my chin as she speaks.
“Sweetheart, you aren’t losing me to Mac. You’ll always be my little girl.” It’s the same speech she used to give every time she fell for a new man, and it’s a piece of her worst acting. But she has to know that at thirty-seven years old, I’m not worried about losing my mommy to a new lover. She’s intentionally manipulating the situation.
“Mom, Mac wants to dig up Grandpa’s grave.” She doesn’t flinch, which means this isn’t new information to her. He’s already introduced this wild idea, and when my mom is entranced by a man, there’s little that can be done to snap her out of it. But I have to try.
“I can’t stop you legally, but professionally I have to tell you—it doesn’t read well. I’ve told Mac and I’ll tell you—I can’t be a part of this project if you sign off on this.” I try to keep a firm line, which isn’t easy with my mom. I can hold out on a deal, or a tabloid, or a lawsuit, but Gracelyn Branson has powers over me akin to dark magic.
“You’re making a big ole fuss over this, Lisey. Nobody’s digging up your grandpa.”
“Wait, what? That’s great news.”
“Yes. Now, will you stop freaking out and let Mac do his job?”
“I wasn’t exactly ‘freaking out.’ And I still have questions . . .” Like why Grandpa isn’t listed among the casualties for the Battle of the Bulge, and the dates for the purchase of the headstone, as well as the wealthy Highwards of Philadelphia, and Father Antonio Trombello.
“We can have a nice chat later, but right now I’m bushed. I was up at three in the morning to get to the airport in time for my flight. I need a nap.”
I sit stunned, staring at my mother typing on her phone again.
“Can you answer one thing, Mom? Just one. Is Mac gonna let it go? That whole storyline with the grave?”
“I already told you. No one’s going to touch your grandpa’s grave. I promise.” She shrugs. “I’m sorry, honey. I thought I told Patty to text you about it last week. I was slammed. Press junket for Finding Mrs. Franklin was intense. You know how Toro and Brit Parsons hate one another. After they loved one another, I guess that is.” What follows is a detailed retelling of the conflict between the lead and director on the set of the historical where my mom played the elderly version of Ben Franklin’s wife. Mom acts like she’s above such feuds because of her age and pedigree, but she actually revels in it all.
Her phone dings loudly, and she stops to check the notification. The font size on her screen is three times mine, so I can read it from where I’m sitting—a reminder to take her medication. She scrambles around in her bag, mumbling about how she’d been searched at security but was sure it was an attempt to snag a trophy or two for her rabid internet fans.
“It was only a little thing of mace on my key chain. Can you believe it? They made me take it off and throw it away even after I explained how important it is for a woman to defend herself these days. I swear I hate flying commercial. It’s always a fiasco.”
“So, not a rabid fan, then?” I ask with heavy sarcasm, still frustrated that I’ll have to wait—again—for answers to my questions. We need to have this conversation about our family. Especially since anyone who is curious enough to turn on their TV will soon know everything. Is it wrong that I, as Vivian Snow and Tom Highward’s granddaughter, would like to know first?