Love and Miss Communication (11 page)

“It’s called a BlackBerry. Don’t those nine grandchildren of yours teach you anything?” Edith asked. Evie couldn’t help but smile.

When she descended the train in Greenwich, Evie popped into the station bathroom to look herself over. She pinched her cheeks to flush them with color and fished around for lipstick in her tote. She had no other makeup with her, so she slicked some gloss on her eyelids. It was a trick she had read about in a fashion magazine. What stupidity. The stickiness made it impossible to blink naturally. She yanked out her ponytail holder and assembled her hair in the best style she could without a brush. At least Bette wouldn’t fret that her single granddaughter was running around Manhattan looking like Raggedy Ann.

Winston and Fran lived just a short walk from the train station. When she tapped on the front door, she was surprised to see May on the other side of it. She hadn’t counted on one of the fucking TWASPs being there.

“Hey,” Evie said casually, trying to hide her annoyance. “I thought you guys would be up at school already. Orientation must be over by now.”

May twirled her long blond ponytail, which was tied up with a yellow grosgrain ribbon, about one inch wide. Ribbons in hair, post–elementary school, were a thing. Evie learned that in college, when she saw the blond field hockey players lined up with ponytails tied up with different colored bows.

“April’s at school, but I came home for the weekend to do some shopping,” May said. “Oh, and to visit Bette,” she added, as what could only be described as whatever comes after an afterthought. “Sorry that she’s sick.”

“Thanks. Where is she?”

“Huh?” May was distracted by her phone. More nimble fingers were hard to imagine.

Evie shifted her weight. They were still standing in the doorway of the house.

“I asked where my grandma is.”

“Oh, sorry,” May said, without raising her gaze. “My friend Lonny just Snapchatted that she’s getting a pedicure next to Scarlett Johansson. She says her feet are nasty and covered in blisters. Uch, I’m so jealous. I mean, on the Vineyard, April saw Justin Timberlake picking his nose, but she couldn’t get close enough to get a picture of it. She probably could’ve gotten a lot of money if she e-mailed it to
US Weekly
or something. Do you think my friend should take a picture of Scarlett’s feet?”

“May,” Evie repeated, “where is my grandma?”

“Sorry, she’s in the guest room.”

Evie climbed the stairs two at a time but paused at the top. It was always weird for her when she reached the second-floor landing. Technically she had a bedroom there, a perfectly comfortable room at the end of the hall, across from the master suite. Over the years she had subtly replaced the needlepoint throw pillows and floral lamp shades she despised. But noticeably absent, to her, were the academic awards and the framed photos of her friends
that had embellished the walls and lined the desk of her childhood bedroom. The TWASPs’ rooms, labeled with their names in decorative paint, were totally different. Instead of looking like fungible guest rooms in a bed-and-breakfast, they were crowded with mementos and imprinted with their individual style.

The door to the small guest room was open, and Bette was sitting in a chair, gazing out the window. She looked well dressed in a red cardigan over a cream blouse with a navy skirt. Grandma Bette never wore pants. Several chains rounded her neck, including a necklace with the figure of a little girl that Evie knew was meant to symbolize her. The only thing off about her appearance was her hair, which was styled in its usual beehive fashion but had an inch of gray roots separating her forehead and the bluish-black tint to which Evie was accustomed.

“Grandma,” Evie said, and flung her arms around her.

“Evie, bubbela, I’m okay.”

In a more hushed tone her grandmother said, “I’m sorry she’s here. After fourteen years, I still can’t remember vhich one’s vhich.”

“Grandma, April and May are not even identical,” Evie chastised gently, but Bette waved her arms as if to say, “Zey are interchangeable to me.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” Fran said, standing in the doorway to the guest room. She walked over to give Evie a kiss on the cheek, and up close Evie saw dark circles rimming her mother’s eyes. “Is everything okay? Why have you been so out of touch? I was thinking about checking up on you in the city this week.”

It wasn’t the right time to delve into her resolution to quit the Internet. It was so inconsequential compared to Bette’s illness. She was seven days into her digital cleanse so far, which was six days and four hours longer than she lasted on the BluePrint juice fast she signed up for with Tracy last year.

“Oh, that. My computer is broken. It may be a while before it’s fixed.” Evie looked contritely at her grandmother. She knew Bette would disapprove of her move off-line, now that she was educated in JDate. Thanks a lot, Louise Hammerman’s grandson.

“So, Evie, any news?” her grandmother asked, holding up her ring finger.

“Grandma! How can you even be thinking about me right now?”

Bette snorted. “Oh please. If Hitler couldn’t kill me, breast cancer can’t either.”

But my being single might be the death of you?

“So when did you get the diagnosis?” Evie asked, refusing to go off-topic. “What kind of treatment will you need?”

“Don’t vorry about me. I’ll be fine,” Bette said. But her face showed signs of drowsiness, and Evie found it hard not to grow even more concerned by her grandmother’s uncharacteristic lack of energy. She couldn’t remember the last time Bette didn’t hop out of her chair to hug Evie when she came to visit.

“Stop it, Grandma. I want to help you.”

“Vell, one thing you could do is come vith me vhen I meet vith the breast surgeon. Your mother has done too much for me and you are already in Manhattan,” Bette said.

“Of course, Grandma,” Evie said. “Is this your first time meeting the doctor?”

“No, I met vith two different surgeons vhen I came up to New York, I knew right away vhich one I vanted.”

“Why? What was wrong with the other one?” Evie asked.

“Nothing. She vas lovely,” Bette said hazily, leaving Evie bewildered.

“Evie, let’s let Grandma relax a bit. She’s been shuttled back and forth quite a lot the past week for appointments and tests. We’ll talk in the kitchen,” Fran said.

“Is that okay, Grandma? Do you want us to stay?” Evie asked, but Bette’s eyes had given in to the weight of her lids. She wanted to embrace Bette again—to wrap her youthful arms around Bette’s wrinkled body and inhale the motley scent of her hairspray, perfume, and peppermint-tea breath—but she didn’t want to disturb her rest.

She and Fran were almost at the stairs when Bette’s voice sounded behind them.

“Evie-le, come back.”

“Yes, Grandma? Do you want something from the kitchen?”

“No, no, I’m fine. I’m not eating any more fatty muffins your mother is alvays making.”

“What is it then?”

“You didn’t answer me before. Are you seeing anyone?”

Evie’s heart sank as the image of Jack getting married in a lush Turkish garden pixilated in her brain again.

“No, not right now.”

“Vell, I’m not going to be around forever,” Bette said. “But if I needed to
hora
at your vedding, I’m sure I’d have ze strength to fight off zis cancer.”

Evie bit her tongue. Bette “Guilt” Rosen strikes again.

When Fran and Evie returned from a quick run into town to buy groceries and pick up Bette’s medication, Winston was at the kitchen counter, clad in his signature pink button-down and khakis, handing a wad of twenty-dollar bills to May.

“Welcome, Evie,” he said, giving her a hearty hug. He was warm, as always, but the “welcome” only served to remind her that she was just a guest in Greenwich. She plopped down at the table, next to May, and watched her swig a Red Bull while texting. She wondered how she
appeared to her much younger stepsister: Old? Probably. Successful? Possibly. Single? Obviously.

“So, May, how’s school going? Do you like your roommate?” Evie forced the overture even though May still had not asked her a single question about Yale. It had gone from surprising to hurtful to slap-in-the-face offensive. “I remember being so nervous before school started. I even drove up to Yale a few weeks before so I could find my way around on the first day. Not that it helped.”

May looked at Evie blankly and said, “I’m not nervous. I already know a ton of people.”

“From orientation?” Evie asked, and then corrected herself. “Oh, you mean from boarding school. There must be a lot of kids going with you.”

“Yeah, a bunch. But I know like the entire freshman class at Yale. Like eleven hundred of them. Out of thirteen hundred.”

“How is that possible?” Evie asked, confused.

“We’re all friends on Facebook. Some computer dork started a group called New Bulldogs and got like almost the entire incoming class to join. I feel like I already know who my friends are going to be. A group of us arranged to meet up at Toad’s Place for drinks,” May said, and then looked at Evie apologetically. “Oh, wait, Toad’s Place is like the best place to party on campus now. Not sure if it was there when you were there.”

Evie wanted to strangle the little TWASPy twit, but her dad was right there. She summoned her most patronizing voice and said, “Yes, I’m familiar with Toad’s. It’s been around since the 1970s. The Rolling Stones played there.”

“Oh, well, I didn’t know that. Now it’s just like a cool place to drink and dance. I guess it changed.”

“No, it was like that when I was in school too . . . whatever. Never mind.”

“Someone from Dartmouth did the same thing. April said this really funny girl from Hotchkiss has been Instagramming all the things she’s been getting for her dorm room. It’s kind of cool.”

Evie thought about asking why anyone would care that someone they’ve never met bought an IKEA floor lamp. If Facebook had been around when she had started college, she probably would have steered clear of the very girls who became her closest friends.

Tracy’s Facebook page made her seem like a demented bookworm, with her Emily Dickinson profile picture, unsolicited critiques of anything on the
New York Times
bestseller list, and membership in the group “I’d Go Gay for Jane Austen.”

Stasia’s page was no better. She had posted almost a dozen pictures of herself shaking the president’s hand in her father’s Capitol Hill office as well as the results from quizzes like “Which Element On The Periodic Table Most Resembles You?”

Caroline’s profile was a virtual love letter to Texas. She was the millionth fan of the group “Everything Is Better Deep-Fried.”

Evie’s own Facebook presence left much to be desired. It had nice pictures and links to interesting articles, but in an ongoing attempt not to turn off potential suitors or make waves at the office, it was kept relatively neutral. Put less euphemistically, it was lame, down to her reserved, safe profile picture—that side shot that literally was a “profile.” She didn’t join the group “People Who Don’t Pick Up After Their Dogs Should Be Tasered,” though she strongly supported the cause. She didn’t “like”
The Jerry Springer Show,
even though she never flipped away from it. She didn’t post about being starstruck when she saw Miley Cyrus in line for the bathroom at Dunkin’ Donuts. It wasn’t the real her; though how much could a virtual profile accurately portray any person?

She was tempted to tell all of this to May, to warn her about
choosing friends based on 140-character drivel and check-the-box, prepackaged personal descriptions on Facebook. But Evie knew better than to tell a “back in my day” story, especially to the TWASPs. She just thanked her lucky stars smartphones weren’t ubiquitous when she was in college. It was bad enough having to face the people who saw her boobs flying about when her tube top slipped off at a freshman crush party. If that had been memorialized on the Internet, dropping out would have been her only viable option. She may have been jealous of the TWASPs’ youth, but she wouldn’t actually want to trade places.

“May, honey,” Fran said. “Thanks so much for visiting Bette. You really didn’t have to do that.”

Yes she did, thought Evie. Winston literally paid her to show up.

Fran gave her a kiss and a big, gracious hug, and Evie found herself feeling envious. Her mother married Winston when the TWASPs were only four years old, and while they lived primarily with their mother in Westchester, Fran was a big part of their lives. Evie felt like an outsider. She had hoped her mother would complain about them when they were out running errands and Winston wasn’t around, but she didn’t.

“May, let me help you load up your car,” Winston said, grabbing the keys off the kitchen counter.

Evie’s stepsister didn’t have to be told twice she was free to go. Once she left, Evie melted more comfortably into the yellow and green vinyl chair at the kitchen table. Winston’s house looked like it had been frozen in time. Fran couldn’t much be bothered with interior design, which is why she was perfectly fine leaving the 1970s furnishings. The Rosen home in Baltimore was a two-story Colonial Revival with a wraparound porch, a charming house whose blue front door Evie still missed walking through. She longed for the smell of potpourri spilling out of the powder room into the foyer. Winston’s house smelled like cigars.

Fran settled down in the chair opposite Evie and broke off a few grapes from a bunch in a ceramic bowl on the table. Evie eyed the muffins sitting on the countertop but refrained. It didn’t seem right that her grandmother was calorie counting and she wasn’t.

“It’s been a long week,” Fran said, after a deep exhale.

“A whole week already?” Evie gasped. “How could you not tell me sooner?”

“You have a lot going on, Evie.”

There was that line again. She didn’t like it one bit.

“Honestly,” Fran continued, “I think if Bette weren’t getting treated in New York, she would have tried to keep you from even knowing she was sick. She was worried about you. After losing Dad, you know. She knows how sensitive you are.”

Did loving someone—hoping to hold on to them for a long time—mean she was especially sensitive? That couldn’t be.
Anyone
would be shattered by the prospect of losing a beloved family member. She always thought Bette would be one of those grannies with her face on the Smuckers jar having her hundredth birthday announced on the
Today
show. Willard Scott, or whoever would be his equally jolly replacement, would say, “Happy Birthday to Bette Rosen of South Florida. Said she attributes her longevity to a good diet, laying on guilt trips, and telling it like it is.”

“Didn’t Grandma want me to visit?”

“Truthfully, she said the only reason a young lady like yourself should be visiting a hospital is to bring her doctor husband his lunch.” Fran and Evie burst out laughing.

“Grandma is ridiculous. But seriously, what’s the prognosis? And please don’t sugarcoat it.”

“Breast cancer has a very high survival rate if there is early detection, which unfortunately Bette didn’t have. That doesn’t mean she won’t be okay. I just wish we’d caught this sooner. She
hadn’t had a mammogram in over three years.” Evie noticed her mother’s eyes swell as she shifted her gaze to the table.

“Mom! This is not your fault! You are her daughter-in-law. Ex-daughter-in-law, if you really think about it. You’re not responsible for her.” Evie felt herself getting emotional. “Stupid Aunt Susan knitting her freaking quilts in the desert should be taking care of her.”

“You’re right,” Fran said. “But she’s not.”

A chilling thought occurred to Evie. She could have reminded Bette to get mammograms the same way her grandmother could be counted on to call every October first to insist Evie get a flu shot. Bette was Evie’s personal meteorologist in the wintertime. She would call from sunny Boca to say, “Evie, I heard on the news about a cold front in New York. Don’t forget your scarf and gloves.”

Fran read her mind.

“Don’t you start feeling guilty, Evie. This isn’t on you,” Fran said. “Bette has her ways, but she was always a good mother-in-law to me. Henry would appreciate me looking after her. He was as dutiful a son as he was a father and husband. And we both know Susan can’t be counted on, so there’s no point in even discussing that.”

Just then, Winston entered and joined them at the table. Fran turned to him.

“Evie’s feeling like she might be to blame for Bette not taking better care of herself.”

“That’s crazy. If anyone’s to blame, it’s Sam. At least according to Bette,” Winston said.

Fran shot Winston an unmistakable shut-the-hell-up look.

“Who is Sam?” Evie asked, genuinely confused. “And why is he responsible?”

Fran kept her icy gaze on Winston, who bore the look of a man who would be sleeping on the couch that night.

“Who is Sam?” she repeated.

“Sam, is, um, Sam is Bette’s companion,” Fran said, rolling a grapevine between her thumb and pointer finger.

Evie was in shock.

“Grandma has a boyfriend?” Everyone knew “companion” was code for boyfriend or girlfriend in the seventy-plus set, the same generation that referred to couples as an “item.”

“It’s not serious, Evie. That’s why Bette didn’t want us to tell you about him.”

“Really? It’s not serious? I thought Grandma and her boyfriend might want to start a family.”

Winston chuckled. “That really would be something.”

“It’s just, I don’t know, Bette just said not to mention it to you. It doesn’t matter anyway, since now it’s out in the open, thanks to . . . oh, never mind.” Fran, looking at Winston, shook her head in frustration.

“I know why Grandma didn’t want me to know about this Sam guy,” Evie said, crumpling the napkin in her hand forcefully. “She doesn’t want me to feel bad that my grandmother has a boyfriend and I don’t. Well she’s wrong. I’m thrilled for her!”

Neither Winston nor Fran said a word. They looked at each other, as though hoping to telecommunicate how to handle the conversation.

“And pardon my morbid curiosity, but why is Grandma being sick Sam’s fault anyway?” Evie asked.

“Well, according to Bette, when the lump was detected, it was already the size of a small grape,” Fran said. Each of their eyes noticeably wandered over to the cluster of red grapes resting in the ceramic bowl on the table. “Just under two centimeters.”

“So?” Evie asked, not sure where she was going with this.

“I guess Bette doesn’t understand how Sam, never, um, felt it. You know, when they were being intimate.” Fran blushed, unable to look Evie in the eye. Winston dug his hand into his collared golf shirt and scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, but Evie noticed a hint of a smile. Sam, that old dawg, he was thinking.

“Jesus Christ. Grandma’s having her boobs felt up by some geezer? I think we need to move her up north permanently. Where is he now anyway?”

Fran’s jaw tightened. “Actually, Bette’s a little upset that he hasn’t been in touch. She thinks he may be dumping her because she has cancer. Supposedly there are a lot of women after him.”

Evie shook her head in disbelief. “Let me guess. He has his own teeth. Wait, wait, better yet, he can drive at night.”

Winston chuckled, but Fran persisted with a grim face.

“Well, Bette’s neighbor saw him playing shuffleboard with one of the less reputable women in the condo yesterday.”

Evie reached for the muffins after all. She took a big bite and chewed slowly, finding it hard to swallow.

“Okay, I think I’ve heard enough about Sam for now. For a while, actually. Just tell me more about the treatment she’s going to need.”

“Well, she will definitely need surgery to remove the tumor. Following the surgery, there will be radiation and possibly chemotherapy, depending on whether the cancer has spread into the lymph nodes. You’ll hear more specifics when you meet the surgeon.”

“Does that mean she’ll lose her hair?” Evie asked. That would kill Bette, who treasured her weekly trips to the beauty parlor to have her ’do set in giant Velcro rollers.

“I’m really not sure,” Fran said. “The chemo is much better
these days. Apparently they’ve been able to reduce some of the worst side effects—the nausea isn’t as severe, and the hair loss is not as certain. Thank God—right? Bette would, well, you know. She’s vain like me. Not like you, Evie.”

“What are you insinuating?”

Now Winston shot Fran a look that said, “Choose your words wisely.” Fran didn’t seem to notice.

“Sweetie, you know I think you’re absolutely gorgeous,” Fran beamed, as if taking credit for her daughter’s beauty. “But you’re in pajamas right now. It’s the middle of the day. I could never do that, that’s all I was saying. And you know how Bette is. I would have thought you’d change before coming here.”

Evie knew that try as she might, there was no way she could convince Fran that Lululemon leggings and a Juicy top were not pajamas, and that her outfit was pretty decent, considering she had no notice for the visit. Why couldn’t Bette wear pastel tracksuits like every other grandmother? How did she manage to look pristine a week after a cancer diagnosis?

She made her face into an innocent pout and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I completely forgot to get my hair blown out before visiting my sick grandmother. I should have booked GLAMSQUAD.”

Winston intervened, forcing a détente.

“Let’s move on. Evie, I want to hear what’s new with you. Have you been searching for a job? I still cannot believe your firm let you go. Fran said it’s the market—everyone is suffering.”