Daughters for a Time (5 page)

Claire was like the Gestapo, checking in on me daily, so I was forced to shed my flannel shell each morning to attend my classes and do my homework. I didn’t really mind, though. I actually enjoyed some of my classes, including some I’d been certain I’d hate, like accounting. There was a deep satisfaction in balancing columns, some cosmic or karmic assurance that
what went in would equal what came out. A hopeful thought that my pain would someday be reconciled with happiness.

I studied most of the time at the corner coffee shop and that was where I met a group of alternative students who seemed to have the world figured out. They smelled of clove cigarettes and patchouli oil. They spouted their philosophies.
Buddhism is so enlightening
, I remember them saying.
No dogma
. At the time, I felt that their free-living lifestyle was the antidote to too much Claire and to missing my mother. When I was with them, I didn’t think about Mom when she was sick and Claire pounding down on me the importance of going to college. They were recovering Catholics. Some of them fancied themselves anarchists (though I never knew them to do anything but talk). Everything about them showed disdain for social convention, and Claire was the poster child for social convention. Meanwhile, my sister continued to check in on me, and I continued to tell her what she wanted to hear—that everything was fine, that
I
was fine—and not one word about my new group of friends. The last thing I wanted was my conservative, goal-driven sister telling me that my current lifestyle was unacceptable.

One night, four of the guys in the group were arrested for possession of cocaine. The group cried foul, saying that the arrest was bogus, that drugs should be legal anyway. We should be able to do what we want with our bodies, they argued. I might have lacked direction, but I’d never done drugs and was put off by their defense of these guys. Where I once saw them as evolved, progressive, and revolutionary in their opinions, I now saw them as aging dropouts with few prospects. All of a sudden, Claire and her day planner, her tax-deductible IRA, and her five-year goal chart didn’t seem so stupid.

The next year, I convinced Claire that I could handle a job. I scoured the want ads, though I wasn’t qualified to do more
than bus tables or answer phones. Then I came across an ad for a prep cook at the Arlington Country Club. I’d always liked cooking next to Mom. In fact, standing next to her at the counter was one of my fondest memories.
First soak your bread in buttermilk
, I could still hear my mother say as we made meatballs. I loved the way she always hummed as she worked, the way our conversations flowed easily while our hands were busy chopping or mixing, the times when she revealed something new about herself that I’d never known, like the miscarriage she had had between Claire and me, how she still sometimes woke in the night wondering about her lost child.

I was hired, and for the next six months, I did every bit of grunt work that was asked of me. Early one Sunday morning, Chef asked me if I wanted to learn how to make hollandaise for brunch. I whisked while he gently spooned in clarified butter, explaining the risk of the sauce “breaking.” Then I watched as he poached the eggs in water and vinegar, cradling each one as gently as a baby bird. I shadowed Chef for two weeks, at which time he promoted me to the resident eggs Benedict maker. A perfect hollandaise was now my responsibility.

After five years of going to school and working part-time, I was finally ready to graduate with a degree in accounting. When Claire and I met for lunch one Saturday, I told her what I’d been thinking about.

“You’re going to think it’s stupid,” I said, feeling my heart thump. “I know you are.”

“Try me,” Claire said, as calm as a career counselor.

“I don’t want to be an accountant,” I said. “I can’t sit in an office all day.”

“What do you want to be?”

“I want to be a chef,” I said, and then turned away, waiting for Claire’s barrage as to why that was the stupidest career choice in history. How, with my luck, I’d end up stocking the
salad bar at Olive Garden or flipping pancakes at IHOP. How I’d never have health insurance, paid vacation, or a 401(k) this way.

“At the country club?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Well, maybe. But I want to be a
real
chef, not an assistant.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “I don’t think that’s stupid at all. I know you hate to sit still. I actually think that’s a pretty good choice.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“They offer cooking classes right here at George Mason,” I said, growing more excited by the minute.

“How about we dream bigger?” Claire said. “Maybe France? Or Italy?”

“Are you
kidding
, Claire?” I gasped. “How on earth would we pay for that?”

“I have some money set aside for your education, from Mom’s life insurance. Plus, Larry’s on the hook to cover some of it, too. I think you’d do really well to get out of Virginia for a while.”

“Thank you, Claire!” I said, flying into her arms. “Thank you so much.”

Claire started down the winding streets that led out of the neighborhood, and pulled onto a road that ran parallel to the Potomac River. “I ordered a bouquet from Flowers Galore,” she said. “It’s right down the road. There’s a coffee shop next door. We can grab the flowers, get a coffee, and then be on our way.”

We got the flowers and coffee and then headed back to the car. I rested my coffee on the roof while I wrestled the gigantic
bouquet of flowers into the backseat. Claire was prone to overkill. The odiferous bunch stood taller than Maura’s booster seat. If it were up to me, I would have opted for a subtle bunch of wildflowers.

The overly sweet scent of lilacs perfumed the air.

“What are Ross and Maura up to?” I asked.

“Ross took her to see the new Chipmunks movie. Promised she could have her own bucket of popcorn, plus gummy worms.” She smiled.

“Tim fixed me breakfast this morning,” I said. “For Un-Mother’s Day.”

“Any headway on the adoption?”

“Since the last time you asked, two days ago?”

Claire shot me one of her raised-eyebrow glares. “No need for sarcasm.”

A half an hour later, Claire slowed nearly to a stop as we eased our way through the wrought iron gate that was the entrance to Oak Creek cemetery. Mother’s Day was a busy day for visitors. My sister and I shared a sigh before we looked at each other, said, “Ready,” and opened our doors. Claire carried the bouquet, and I carried the potted daffodils from her trunk, along with a hand shovel, gardening gloves, and a bottle of water.

We climbed the hill that led to Mom’s gravesite. It was a good site, on the crest of a perfectly manicured hill that offered sweeping views—if such things mattered once you were dead and buried. Claire stood with her hands on her hips, taking in the view, and then bent down to pick a few weeds.

“How do you want these?” I held up the tray of daffodils.

“I’d say split them equally on either side of the headstone, don’t you think?”

Claire was fond of ending sentences with “don’t you think?” even though it was clear that she had already made up her mind.

I plopped down on my knees. Claire pulled a dishrag from her purse, poured some water on it, and rubbed at the top of Mom’s headstone, pulling away cobwebs, dirt, and grime that had accumulated since the last time we’d visited.
When was that?
I wondered.
Did we really not come at Christmas?

“When were we here last?” I asked.

Claire looked up from the headstone, made a visor with her hand, and said, “I came at Christmas, but I don’t think you did.”

“You don’t think?” I said.

“Okay, I
know
you didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were coming?”

“I did tell you,” Claire said. At once, I remembered when Claire had called and how I’d been huddled in bed following another disappointing month.

“So I just came alone.” Claire went back to rubbing the headstone, scraping at a patch of moss.

“Real nice, Claire.” I threw the words like daggers, but they might as well have been made of rubber the way they bounced right off of her.

“Whatever,” Claire said. “We’re here together now. So start digging.”

“Remember how Mom was at Christmas?” I asked, a warm memory sliding through me like a sip of hot cocoa.

“You mean all of the presents?” Claire smiled, her face opening, bringing to mind Maura’s innocence—allowing me for a split second to see my sister as a child, before the stress of adulthood claimed her much too soon.

“She went nuts,” I said.

“You couldn’t get anywhere near the tree. And she was just as excited as we were. She’d swear that we’d have to wait until Christmas, then as it got closer, she’d start with, ‘Okay, just one!’
By Christmas Eve, we’d have at least a dozen presents already opened.”

“Do you remember Christmas Eve dinner?”

“Yeah, of course. We’d always go to that little French bistro.”

“That was after Mom died,” I corrected. “That’s where you and I went. I’m talking about when we were younger, still a family. It was Chinese food every year! I hated it, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Claire nodded, remembering. “So Dad would run into McDonald’s and get you a cheeseburger beforehand.”

“And a box of cookies that Mom let me eat during midnight Mass, remember?”

“She would have never let you eat cookies in Mass,” Claire said. “You must have put them in your pocket like a little sneak.”

I stared out over the treetops, dug my hands deep in my sweater pockets, and felt Mom’s hand wrapped around mine. “We were a pretty normal family back then, huh?”

“It was a good childhood,” Claire said, willing to concede only so much. “But we don’t know what Mom was going through that whole time. She put on a happy face for us, but she couldn’t have been too happy inside.”

I dug into the dirt. It was soft and crumbly, like a cupcake falling apart, completely unlike the red clay that I had to deal with in my yard. Did the cemetery put a soft layer of soil around the gravesites to make it easy for weary family members? I wondered whether that was mentioned in the brochures:
Soft Soil! Easy to Plant!

When we were finished, there were two neat clusters of daffodils on either side of the stone tablet, and the gigantic bouquet propped against Mom’s now clean headstone. Claire and I stood back and took stock.

“We love you,” I said for the two of us.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” Claire added.

“And Happy Mother’s Day to you, Claire,” I said, giving her a hug.

“And Happy Un-Mother’s Day to you, too, little sister,” Claire said. “I’ve got something for you.” Out of her purse, she pulled a neatly stacked bundle of letters, tied with a ribbon.

“What are those?” I asked, even though I kind of knew already.

“These were the letters you wrote to me while you were at school and traveling afterward.”

“You saved them.” A chill ran down my arms.

“They’re beautiful, Helen. They meant the world to me. Every day I would check the mail to see if another had come. I lived your adventure alongside of you. Your happiness and zest for life popped off the pages.”

“Geez, Claire,” I said, almost embarrassed by her sentimentality.

“I thought maybe you’d like to read them. To reconnect with that part of yourself. Or just for the heck of it!” she said, lightening her tone.

“Thanks, Claire. Thanks a lot.” I hugged her tightly, breathing in her expensive rosemary shampoo.

A few minutes later, we turned and began walking down the hill. I glanced back once, only to see that the impressive bouquet had already slid onto its side. I slung my arm around Claire and pointed to the car, hoping that she wouldn’t look back to see that even the sturdiest bunch of flowers could be overcome by its own weight.

Inside the warmth of the car, I pulled out the stack of letters. The first one was written inside a card I bought from a peddler on the street. It was a typically Parisian scene: couples strolling along the tree-lined bank of the Seine, Notre Dame in the background, one of the impressive bridges straddling the river. I started to read it to myself.

“Read it out loud,” Claire said.

Dear Claire,
I’m now settled in at the culinary school’s chateau—you’ve never seen a “dorm” quite like this! I cook all day, and at night, a small group of us students who have become friends sit around on the patio of the manor house, looking out over the hillside covered in lavender, sipping the most delicious Beaujolais. You wouldn’t believe this group—everyone is from somewhere different. The accents, the translations, the hand gestures we all use to communicate what we’re saying. It’s so much fun! We’re tentatively planning a trip through Greece and Turkey after graduation.
Believe it or not, there’s this one guy—who is SO good looking, so totally not my usual type (dark, brooding, dangerous). This guy has sandy blond hair and a square jaw and the greenest eyes—very “boy next door.” Guess where he’s from, Claire? Fairfax! I traveled all the way to France to meet a guy from Fairfax, probably ten miles from where we grew up.
Anyway, we’ll see what happens. He laughs a lot. I like that best. I mean, I laugh a lot when I’m with him. It’s like we’re two kids, the way we think everything is SO funny. You’d roll your eyes at us, guaranteed, telling us to “grow up.”
So, Claire. Here’s the thing: I sit with this group of great friends, and I laugh all night with this new guy, Tim, and I love what I’m learning all day long, and while I’m as happy as can be, I can’t help feeling sad for you.
I can hear you already, reading this, saying in your most indignant voice, “Don’t feel sad for me!” But I do because I just wonder: When was your time for fun? Mom died and you stepped right into her shoes caring for me in so many ways I never deserved. I know that I wasn’t good to you and I also know that you never gave up on me. I owe you my life, Claire. You’re the best sister/surrogate mom in the world and I truly hope that now that I’m older and not such a wretched brat all of the time, we can finally be more friends than anything.
I love you, Helen.