Island Girl (35 page)

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Authors: Lynda Simmons

BOOK: Island Girl
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Trying to convince him that my plan was not wrong was proving as impossible as trying to convince him that I didn’t need a caregiver. He simply wouldn’t listen, and now he and Mary Anne had worked out a schedule, taking shifts to ensure that someone was always around, always in the way. It was getting bloody annoying, let me tell you.
To prove I could still do just fine on my own—and to make sure I had my notebook with me at all times—I’d added a sticker to the bathroom mirror, reminding me to leave the notebook beside my bed at night, and another on the bedside lamp just in case. On the notepad itself was a bright yellow strip reading
Open me, you stupid cow
, in keeping with the tone of the other notes in my life.
Did these sound like the actions of a woman who needed constant supervision? Certainly not. These were the actions of a woman who not only recognized her shortcomings but was pro-active in dealing with them. Meeting her challenges head on and fighting back one day at a time. Knowing with absolute certainty that she was having a good day and that it was time for her morning smoke.
I kept the little bag of pot in the medicine cabinet, because contrary to what Mark believed, that’s exactly what it was. Medicine—clinically proven to help the older brain with memory retention while significantly reducing agitation. Little things that ticked off Big Al and were more than enough to keep me puffing for the foreseeable future. Thank God Mary Anne still kept a little on hand, to take the edge off after a rough day in the classroom.
I lit the joint and inhaled slowly, the way she and I used to before Liz became wise and the pot started disappearing. I closed my eyes, letting the smoke work its way into my head, still coughing a bit on the exhale, but positive that would pass in time. Raising the joint to my lips a second time, I opened my eyes and was surprised to see Mark standing in the bathroom door. For a big man, he could be awfully quiet.
And he didn’t merely look good, he looked great. His jaw had always been strong, his cheekbones pronounced, and he was starting to get those wonderful angles back. Starting to look more like the outdoorsman he was born to be, the one I’d welcomed into my home all those years ago. “You’re early,” I said.
“And you’re still at it.”
I nodded while I inhaled and said, “I think it’s helping,” on the exhale. Then I pulled the ashtray across the counter, snuffed out the joint, and held up my hands. “See? Two puffs and no more. It’s purely a therapeutic exercise. Although I don’t understand why they make the stuff so strong nowadays. I honestly believe there’s a market for pot lite.” I walked past him, grabbed my notebook from the bedside table, and started down the stairs. “You should look into that one day.”
“I’ll try and remember,” he said, and his steps were much heavier going down than they had been coming up, I was sure of it.
I reached the kitchen in time to see Grace on her way out the door, and Jocelyn waiting for her outside by the birdbath. “See you for breakfast,” Grace called over her shoulder.
“You bet,” I said, wondering if she ever missed solitary mornings the way I did. She hadn’t complained so perhaps not. Then again, she rarely complained about anything so who knew? It was just one of her many virtues.
“I have a conference call at eight,” Mark said. “I can’t fit in canoeing now. We can go this evening when it’s cooling off, or Mary Anne will grab a paddle if you’d rather go now.”
Yes, she’d grab a paddle and we’d cruise the lagoons, which would be nice. But the good thing about paddling with Mark was his willingness to go beyond the safety of the inland system. To head out into choppy open water where I could use my arms and work my body, confident we’d find our way back without incident. As much as I hated to admit it, I’d miss that more than the ritual of the morning paddle.
“I’ll wait,” I said, and went to the door, watching the girls laughing and talking on their way to the gate while the mockingbird flew back and forth above their heads, trying to get the bird-in-a-box to come out. Mark handed me a mug of tea and stood behind me with his coffee, just as he had so many mornings when Liz and Grace were little. Not giving it a second thought as they headed off to school or the beach or a day of exploring on Snake Island. Knowing they were safe here, on the Island, where we watched out for each other’s children and the deckhands on the ferry knew them all by name.
Grace and Jocelyn pedaled off, but we stayed where we were, standing close enough that I could feel the reassuring warmth of his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath against my back. Without thinking I leaned into that warmth, that reassurance. Felt him adjust his stance, welcoming me, supporting me. Outside, the mockingbird quacked like a duck, singing his song for the bird-in-a-box who hadn’t done more than poke her head out the door for days.
“I don’t know why he stays,” I said softly. “Even if she comes out, she’s never going to be the same.”
“He probably doesn’t care,” Mark whispered, his lips grazing my ear, making my breath catch and my skin warm. “He just wants to be with her.”
He set his mug down, took mine from my hands, and turned me to face him. Said nothing at all, simply leaned down and kissed me, letting his lips linger, his hands move over my back. Both of us discovering the fit was still right, still worked, exactly as it had for so many years.
I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him back, trying to remember why I’d sent him away, why I’d spent so many years alone, and why he’d only once tried to come back.
He was hard now, his hips pressing against my stomach, making my head swirl and my body ache with a longing as familiar as it was unnerving. I pulled away and he let me go, the two of us awkward now, searching for a way back, a way out, some time to think, at least—finding it in a voice calling, “Good morning, birdies,” as Mary Anne came through the hedge to look in on the bird while the four of us were supposed to be out. Looking after me would come later, when Mark had gone to work.
He went out the door to say hello—to discuss my care—and she turned and smiled at him. She was all in white, a floating, gauzy shirt knotted over loose fitting linen pants. She looked old and lovely, like she’d stepped out of an ad for Viagra or extra fiber. When she laughed at something Mark said, then reached out to touch his arm, I couldn’t help hating her, knowing she would be around to hear that voice, maybe kiss those lips, long after I was gone.
I turned away from the window, needing a distraction, needing order. Definitely needing meds. Pleased that my mind had gone in that direction, I focused on finding the container with the days of the week written clearly on top of each compartment. I didn’t keep it upstairs anymore because it was more convenient for Mark and Mary Anne here in the kitchen. As long as Grace didn’t find out what was under those plastic lids, it was all the same to me.
Pills swallowed and ready to make my morning notes, I searched the counter by the answering machine for a pen, the one that always sat there. But Grace must have moved the pen again, so I took the hunt to her room and sure enough there it was, sitting on her desk beside the monitor. She must have been making notes of her own.
Curious, I poked around on her desk a little, lifting bird books, sifting through styling magazines. Sifting, sifting. Opening drawers. Sifting, sifting. Still finding nothing of interest.
I straightened and gave my head a shake. Rolled the chair out from the desk and sat down. Pulled out the keyboard and tapped the spacebar. A small box asked for a password. I had to smile. Another game of hide and seek.
I typed in
bike, ned, baberuth
. When those didn’t work, I tried
lordm
,
ladym
, and
feralcat.
Still no luck so I typed
william
and breathed a sigh of relief when that didn’t work either. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to cope if we started down that road again now.
Mark came to the bedroom door. “What are you doing?”
“Just a quick check on the Life of Grace, but I think Jocelyn might have given her a password and now I can’t get in.” I glanced over at him. “Give me a few passwords Jocelyn might use.”
“Not a chance. What’s on that computer is none of your business.”
“Of course it’s my business. How else can I know what she’s up to?”
I went back to the keyboard. Tried to think like Jocelyn.
Goth, hated, fuck
. Still no good.
“Ruby, stop.” Mark rolled me back from the desk. “Grace has a right to privacy.”
He was right. I could corner Jocelyn later. Get the brat to confess.
He helped me to my feet and we walked out into the kitchen together. I sat down at the table while he plugged in the kettle and got out the eggs because Grace and Jocelyn were already back, already coming through the gate. How odd. They must have cut their ride short for some reason.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Mark asked as they came through the door, and then somehow they were all working together to get breakfast on the table. Mark measuring coffee, Grace breaking eggs, Jocelyn slipping bread into the toaster. And me? I was sitting at the table. Thinking how quickly this had become a routine and wishing they’d all stop talking at once.
“Then we’re going birding,” Grace was saying, sliding the eggs onto plates while Jocelyn added toast, and the three of them sat down to join me.
“When we were out this morning, I heard a black-billed cuckoo near the statue of Ned,” she continued. “So we’re going back to find him.”
“A cuckoo?” Mark asked. “Aren’t they fairly rare?”
She said, “Not anymore,” and went off about changes in migration patterns and sightings while I considered my toast. It needed something. Red stuff. The stuff in the jar in the middle of the table. The stuff that’s sweet and bad for you and full of . . . “Strawberries,” I said out loud. “Can you pass me the strawberries. The jam. The strawberry jam.” Big Al was stirring.
Jocelyn raised a brow and picked up the jar. Handed it to me much more slowly than I thought was necessary. “Anything else?” she asked.
“No, thank you.” I smiled and dipped my spoon into the jar. Shook the red stuff onto my toast. Spread it around. Cut the toast in half and dipped it in my eggs. Nope. That was wrong.
“I like to blend the flavors,” I said, biting into the dripping yellow and red mass. It didn’t taste bad, but I was going to have to be more careful. Think before I made a move.
“You should come with us,” Grace said, and smiled at me over her teacup. “See the cuckoo for yourself. Might be nice since you don’t have any appointments today.”
Mark coughed into his hand, Jocelyn bent her head over her plate, and my sweet daughter kept smiling at me. She’d turned the page in the appointment book. Of course she’d turned the page. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
“A surprise day off,” she said. “Just like I had yesterday.”
“Yes,” I said, and laughed. “Isn’t it like customers to cancel all at once like that? But it’s summer and the weather is lovely, so aren’t we the lucky ones?”
“Lucky,” she repeated, and I knew she had more to say. Could see it in the way her jaw was moving back and forth, back and forth. My fingers fumbled with the other half of the toast. How many pages had she turned? Did she know that Saturday also held nothing at all? Not even Marla Cohen, who had argued and argued with me before finally hanging up. Banging the phone down and leaving me with a headache. No matter how many times I said it, she couldn’t understand that closing the shop was best for Grace, best for both of us. And honestly, how bad could it be for a young girl to have the whole summer off?
Mercifully, Grace didn’t make me answer that question or anything else. She simply pushed back her chair and said, “I need to feed Lady M,” for which I was grateful. I still needed to plan what I was going to say to her about Chez Ruby, figure out a way to ease into the discussion. Make sure she fully understood what a great idea this was.
She went to the fridge for the container of dog food and berries.
“Perhaps if you stop feeding her,” I suggested, “she’ll look for food on her own.”
“Or perhaps she’ll starve.” Grace put a dab of the bird food on a plate and shoved the rest back in the fridge. “I’ll see you outside, Jocelyn.”
The ferry horn sounded. “I’m off to get a paper,” Mark said, pressing a quick kiss to Jocelyn’s cheek on his way to the door. No kiss for me, though. Not this time. Not in front of the kid. Just as well. No need to give her something more to scowl about.
He poured more coffee into his travel mug and headed out. This was also one of the new routines. On the days he was working from home—which had been every day as far as I could tell—he’d take his coffee and the ferry across to the city, buy a paper at the convenience store, and come back again. The trip took him forty-five minutes from the moment he left the house, and rather than seeing it as a pain in the neck—rather than ordering home delivery—he’d come to enjoy it. To remember what it was to relax, to breathe, to be an Islander again. And his return always gave me the opportunity to be frustrated by yet another crossword puzzle.
“Are you looking forward to birding?” I asked Jocelyn.
She turned to me, her eyes narrowing, warning. Danger ahead. Danger of what? Impending mood swing? Eruption of pimples? Who ever knew what teenagers were thinking?

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