Lillian nodded.
“We want to see our grandmother,” Pammie said to him.
“Was that what you were talking about? I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Peter said, and frowned at Lillian.
“But we never met her, and we want to,” Penny said.
Lillian swelled with pride at the compassion and kindness of her daughters. Maybe she didn’t have that much work to do after all.
“Go upstairs and finish your homework. Your mother and I will discuss it.”
The girls rolled their eyes and slipped past Peter. When the sound of their footsteps proved they were on the next floor, Peter gave Lillian a sigh.
“It was their idea. They caught me crying, so I told them why,” she said.
“They shouldn’t go. It’s too difficult. Too frightening for them.”
“They’re stronger than you think. And they should know their grandmother.”
“It’s a bad idea. You know how heartbreaking that place is. How . . . disturbing . . . your mother can be. Just look at how upset you are. So no. No visits for the girls.”
During dinner, no one mentioned Anna. Lillian, Peter, Pammie, and Penny ate roasted chicken, baby peas, and Rice-A-Roni. They talked about their days as if Lillian and the girls hadn’t cried over their abused mother and grandmother. Hadn’t asked Peter if they could visit.
Lillian made sure to keep smiling at Peter, at the girls, keeping the dinner conversation light and pleasant. But in her heart, she made a vow. She would be a coward in a cardigan no more.
And she would do things her way.
The next morning, life went on as normal, centered around breakfast and coffee—and Peter’s expectations. Everything needed to look ordinary so that Lillian could help Carrie without arousing suspicion.
“Lillian, did you hear me? I’m going to invite the Bookbinders for dinner after the holidays. Don’t you want to write it down on your calendar or something?”
Lillian topped off Peter’s coffee and poured herself a second cup. She nodded.
“What do you remember about Art Bookbinder?” Peter said.
“Nothing, why?” Lillian went back to the flapjacks.
“He’s coming in today and I want to schmooze.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“What’s his wife’s name again?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many kids do they have?”
“No idea.”
Peter gritted his teeth and his voice rose. “Well, when did he open the upholstery shop?”
Lillian popped a piece of rye bread into the toaster and pressed the lever. “I can’t remember.”
“What’s wrong, Lillian? You always know these things.” She could hear the exasperation in his voice.
“I’m sorry, dear, I’m preoccupied.”
She wanted to say that he should probably know these things about his own clients anyway, but instead she said, “Shirley, the girls, and I are working on a special project, so I’m going to be busy with that until the holidays.” Lillian paused.
“Does this have anything to do with your mother?” Peter said.
She remained silent and waited until, without a word, the girls put their plates in the sink and slid out of the kitchen.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Be careful, Lil.”
He couldn’t possibly know about Carrie. “What do you mean?”
“You know we can’t take our daughters there, so don’t press it. Your mother is senile. I don’t think we know exactly what she will do, will say, in front of the girls.”
Back to that topic, then. Relatively safe. “She wasn’t always like this. I want to understand her, Peter. I want to be more empathetic and less judgmental. I think she can help us.”
“Us?”
“Yes, all of us. You, me, Pammie, and Penny. Who better to teach us empathy than my own impaired mother?”
“You think our daughters need to learn empathy?”
“I do. There are people in the world who need us to care about them. And . . . I want our girls to know that no matter what happens, they can use their voices and we will listen to them.”
“They know that.”
“I don’t think they do. We haven’t given them a very good example.”
“Are you saying I don’t listen to you?”
“I’m saying I don’t always speak up.”
Peter looked at Lillian. “Did I do something?”
She registered the uncertainty on his face and in his voice. “I don’t blame you. Not completely.”
Peter stopped buttering his toast. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just that if a man says something, people believe him. When a woman says something difficult, she’s hormonal, pregnant, or hysterical. She might even get sent away, so no one has to deal with her. If our girls are ever in trouble, I want them to be believed when they speak their truth.”
Peter reached for her hand. “It’s hard to accept. I understand. If your mother had spoken up . . .”
He’d missed the point. This was about the girls and their future happiness. “We don’t know that she didn’t.”
“Right. But if she did, no one was listening.” Peter looked in Lillian’s eyes the way he did when he wanted to kiss her, but he drew no closer. “I promise that will never happen to our girls or to you.”
“It won’t, if we teach our daughters that they must find the courage to stand up for themselves, even when things are hard, and even when no one believes them. We can’t assume they’ll just know that. What better way to make the point than to show them their own grandmother?” She glanced at him. “They asked to go, you know.”
Peter gave her a loving smile. “Lillian Diamond, you are something.”
“I want them to be empathetic. Like their father.”
He shook his head, and leaned in for a kiss. “I’ve always trusted your instincts before. If you feel that strongly about it, we’ll take them.”
She laughed and kissed him tenderly. When their lips parted, she said, “Margaret.”
“What?”
“Art’s wife is named Margaret.”
They laughed. She was grateful that he trusted her instincts, that he was willing to go along with this smaller request. Because this would give him practice. He’d need to work up to the even bigger issue that was coming. The one he couldn’t possibly be expecting.
Chapter 28
RUTH
Ruth was freshening up before dinner. She had put on a clean wool dress and pink lipstick and was brushing her hair. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. She would need fifty strokes to keep the oils distributed and the shine in her locks. Thirty-four. She now found she wanted to look her best, even on a day like this. Like Shirley said, times were changing.
Asher burst into the attic, carrying a plate of Shirley’s homemade rugelach.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“Nothing.”
“Why does my mother think I need to bring you cookies? Why wouldn’t she tell me anything about what you’re doing up here?”
Ruth wanted to laugh, but she felt like playing this out a bit. Having a little fun with Asher before she broke the news. “I’m freshening up for dinner. I think your mother meant that rugelach for you. She probably thought that you’d need them more than I would.”