Island Girl (54 page)

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Authors: Lynda Simmons

BOOK: Island Girl
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I tried to pry her fingers off my T-shirt. “Is this part of your limitless joy philosophy because, frankly, it lacks punch.”
She tightened her grip, yanked me in close. “You want punch? Okay, here is story you will like. I used to have husband and little boy. Uri and Gregory, both very handsome. Uri and I, we liked to have good time, liked to visit friends every Friday and Saturday, have a few drinks. One time Uri would drive, one time I would drive. Always Gregory came with us, played with other children. But one night, both Uri and I are drunk. It is his turn, so I give him keys and tell him, ‘You are driver.’ Then I put Gregory on my lap because he does not want to sit in the back, and a drunk mother will let you do anything you like. He is only seven, but already he knows this.”
Nadia released my shirt and turned away, looked out over the water. “We are in car,” she continued. “Uri drives, I fall asleep with Gregory. Next thing I know, car is swerving, horns are honking, and bam! We hit something. Uri dies instantly. Gregory . . . he takes longer. Me, I am fine because my little boy was like air bag, keeping me safe. I walk away from accident. They are both dead.”
Her face was blank, her voice flat, dull, as though she had told the story many times, to herself, to Olga, to strangers just so she could say it out loud. Hear the words and hope that with each telling she might come closer to understanding, to making sense of a loss that made no sense at all.
I laid a hand on her back. “Nadia, I’m so sorry.”
She did that one-shouldered shrug, kept staring at the water. “Of course I blame Uri and I blame myself. I start drinking to get some sleep, but it doesn’t work. So I drink more and more, and soon I am sleeping all the time and hoping I will not wake up, because guilt and anger are too much. But like I said, I have good friend in Olga. She steals my vodka and tells me I have two choices. Forgive Uri and myself and go on to be good teacher, or die. Those were my choices.”
She turned back to me, her eyes no longer blank, her voice no longer flat. “So I made choice.” And just like that, the Nadia I knew was back, and in my face—and I could not have been happier to see her.
“Olga was good friend,” she continued. “She helped me to forgive Uri, to forgive myself. She helped me get my life back. Now I will be good friend to you. And we will start by taking picnic to sister.”
The ferry bumped the dock. The deckhands readied the ramp. I backed up a few steps. “Nadia, as much as I appreciate the offer, I’m just not ready.”
I walked to the other end of the ferry, getting ready for the trip back to the mainland. She left the bucket where it was and strolled over to stand beside me at the railing. “Okay, this is your lucky day. There is alternative. We will live together. Your room is bigger. Nicer window.” She smiled at me. “I like right side of bed.”
I stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Drinking. Same as always.” She leaned her elbows on the rail and lifted her face to the sun while the rest of the passengers filed across the ramp, onto the dock. “If you do not grow up and find way to forgive both your mother and yourself, I guarantee you will drink again very soon. Probably tonight. So will be easier for everyone if I move in to keep eye on you. Can I have right side of closet too?”
“Will you stop? You’re not moving in with me.”
“Then you should go to bar now, get it over with.”
“I’m not going to a bar.”
“You are thinking about it.”
“I am not.” I sighed. “Fine, I was thinking about it, but only for a moment.”
“Is where it starts. And before you know it, you are sitting on streetcar tracks with big hairy man threatening—”
“You’ve made your point.” The last of the passengers were on the ramp. It was just Nadia, me, and a bucket of chicken left on the deck of the
Ongiara.
The next group was about to board. I glanced over at her. “How did you know about the bar thing?”
“I see it in your face. Frustration, confusion, too much anger. Is look of thirsty drunk. Right now, your addiction is somewhere doing push-ups, getting ready to take you for big night on town.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said, but we both knew I was lying. If I let myself, I could taste vodka and lime. Tart, crisp, cold—the perfect alternative to an encounter with Ruby.
The line started slowly across the ramp. Nadia turned her head and squinted at me. “So do we take chicken to house and forgive mama, or do I move in?”
I drummed my fingers on the railing. Looked back at the Island. Thought of Grace and Jocelyn and a Getaway Swan that had nearly killed them both but would make a hell of a story one day. The only problem was that I wanted to hear that story now, while it was fresh. And I wanted to see my sister and hug her and know for myself that she was okay. And yes, I wanted to talk to Mark. Admit that I’d behaved badly and that I missed him. The only one I didn’t want to talk to was Ruby.
The captain blew the horn. People kept coming across the ramp. It was getting harder and harder to see that bucket of chicken.
“Well?” Nadia asked.
“Let’s go,” I said, and elbowed my way to the chicken before I could change my mind. Picked up the bucket and made it back to the ramp with Nadia right behind me. We walked across together and kept on going, taking the path across the field and past the café. Neither of us speaking, just keeping a steady pace all the way to the street where I grew up, and the gate that led to our garden.
I stood back with Nadia and the chicken. The yard was full. Looked like a party was going on at the Donaldsons, complete with cake and Mary Anne’s world-famous lemonade. I recognized some of the faces—Carol from across the road. Renata and Old Benny. The twins Kylie and Brianne. A guy I remembered as a deckhand on the
Ongiara.
Joe somebody. And in the middle of it all, Grace and Jocelyn, the guests of honor wrapped in blankets and sitting on lawn chairs in the sun. Laughing, talking—definitely not getting that rest they needed—while Ruby and Mark watched over them. Not hovering, just watching, even when the deckhand delivered cake to Grace and sat down beside her.
I watched Ruby smile when Mark handed her a glass of lemonade and realized something was different. She looked happy, her face calm, relaxed.
Botox?
I wondered, but she wasn’t the type. No, the difference went deeper. She wasn’t trying to run the show, wasn’t directing every move and conversation, and she wasn’t fighting Mark the way she used to. Wasn’t pushing him away or brushing his hand from the small of her back. On the contrary, she was standing close, letting him love her, and letting herself love him back the way she should have all those years ago. Bravo for Ruby. And too bad for Mark. She probably would marry him after all.
I moved closer to the gate and a bird squawked in the lilac above my head. Came at us, batting its wings in our faces, trying to drive us back. “I think this is an omen,” I said to Nadia just as Grace called, “Liz!” and threw back the blanket. “Wait there.”
Of course everyone turned. Saw me there. Liz, the disappointment, the drunk, fighting off a bird with a bucket of chicken. Perfect.
That bird stopped attacking as soon as Grace came near. Went back up into the lilac while she opened the latch and threw her arms around me. “Liz. I’m so glad to see you.”
“You too,” I said, holding her hard, breathing in the scent of her hair and thinking that I probably owed Nadia one. I smiled and stepped back. “I heard you had some excitement today.”
“You should have been there,” she said as Ruby hurried along the path, coming straight at me.
“Liz,” she said. “It’s so good to see you.” She pushed open the gate. Smiled at me. “Are you coming in?”
I swallowed and turned to Nadia. “If this doesn’t work out, do you really need the right side of the bed?”
GRACE
 
Mary Anne told me there’s an old superstition for picking your wedding day. Monday for wealth, Tuesday for health, Wednesday the best day of all. Thursday for losses, Friday for crosses, and Saturday no luck at all. Of course, most people don’t pay attention to old superstitions anymore and they get married on Saturday anyway. Which really does make Wednesday the best day of all, because nobody else wants the caterer or the florist or even the hairdresser. Wednesday’s bride has them all to herself.
More than a week had passed since the Swan Affair, as my mother called it, and Jocelyn and I had been just fine by the second day, which was good because that meant we could help get things ready for the wedding. At last the centerpieces were done, the favors were ready, and the tent for the ceremony was set up in the baseball diamond. We spent all day yesterday decorating the clubhouse for the reception, and I didn’t think we’d finish stringing lights and draping all that tulle until Christmas. But Mary Anne knew what she was doing and now the tent looked kind of like a church, and the clubhouse looked exactly like a fairyland. I couldn’t wait to walk down that aisle, and I wasn’t even the bride!
Even with all that decorating out of the way, we were still up bright and early on Wednesday morning because my mom wanted to go canoeing, and the florist was delivering the flowers at nine, and the caterer had to set up all her stuff at the clubhouse, and of course, the bridal party had to get ready.
My mom said it was important to keep her routine as close to normal as possible, and now that I knew about the Alzheimer’s, I understood the reason for the canoeing and the notebook and the schedules. We needed to keep everything as calm as possible so that Big Al wouldn’t show up at the wedding.
He hadn’t been invited, that was for sure, and I made certain my mom took her meds first thing that morning, and I put her afternoon pills into my purse so she wouldn’t forget to take them later. Before she left with Mark to go out on the water, I gave her a pen so she could write her daily list in her notebook:
Go caning. Grce do hair. Put drss on. Get mried.
Sometimes her notes looked like that. Like she was sending text messages to herself. Mark told me not to say anything so I didn’t, because what difference did it make? He said she’d been doing really well otherwise, and why make her feel bad about some spelling mistakes?
That made sense to me because I didn’t like it when people pointed out the mistakes I’d made. And as long as I was there to give her the pills and take Mark’s newspaper out of the oven now and then, the four of us would do just fine once they were married.
The ceremony wasn’t until four o’clock that afternoon, but as the Official Wedding Hairdresser, I had a lot of work to do before then. So as soon as my mom and Mark went out the door with their paddles and life jackets, Jocelyn and I went over to Lori’s to get my workstation officially set up and ready to go.
Four days after the Swan Affair—which also happened to be my birthday—Lori had come over with an envelope. Mark and Jocelyn were in the kitchen icing a chocolate cake that I wasn’t supposed to know about, and I was sitting in the garden with my mom, listening to my own music on the iPod that Joe brought me that morning. My mom went to help Lori fight off the mockingbird at the gate, but I wasn’t about to join her. I wasn’t about to turn my music off either because I couldn’t imagine being interested in anything that woman had to say. It wasn’t until she dropped that envelope in my lap and said, “Here’s the deal,” so loud that I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know she was there anymore, and I finally took out the earbuds and looked up at her.
“Those clients of yours are impossible,” she said. “If I didn’t need the business, I wouldn’t care if they never came over again. But I do need them, so I’m making you an offer.” She nodded at the envelope. “You’ll work for me three days a week, any three you like, and you keep those witches coming back. If they stop, you’re out of work. Do we understand each other?”
“You want Grace to work with witches?” my mom asked.
Lori looked at her funny so I said, “She wants me to work with Marla Cohen.”
“She’s a witch all right,” my mom said. “So, Lori, how are things going at your spa?”
“They’ll be better now,” I said, and we shook hands on the agreement. Three days a week and keep the customers coming back. I could do that with my eyes closed. Happy birthday to me!
I saw Lori’s place for the first time that same day. She had a sunroom that she’d converted into her spa, with big mirrors and two styling chairs, and a manicure table and even a special chair for pedicures with a soaking tub. Our old barber chair sat in a corner by the window with my workstation beside it. That would be my spot, with my very own tools right there all the time.
Lori had already told the regulars that I’d be starting at Lori’s Island Spa soon, and most of them had already booked appointments. But today was my first workday, and it was all about the wedding.
I was a little nervous when Jocelyn and I walked through the door. Lori was drinking coffee and doing her books, and just watching her bent over her laptop, sighing and rubbing a hand across her face, I realized I was glad I didn’t have to do all the extra work after all. I could just do the hair and go home. And if I wanted to learn how to do manicures and pedicures, Lori said I could add those to my list of services too. But right now, I was thinking about Jocelyn’s new hair color.

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