More Than You Know (5 page)

“Sharing a pot of tea at the end of the day. I can’t remember the last time . . .” She stopped in midsentence. “I take that back. I do remember the last time—Mum was sitting in the armchair by the window and I handed her her favorite china teacup and saucer from the set that had belonged to Gram. I should’ve known better. She took one sip and the heat of the tea must have startled her, because she pulled it away from her lips and the cup slipped from her hand, shattering it. She was very upset.” Beryl shook her head sadly. “Oh, Ru, I wish I could’ve kept her home. Then none of this would’ve happened.”

“You can’t think that way, Ber. You don’t know that. You did the best you could.”

Beryl looked away, her eyes filling with tears. “I miss her so much.”

Rumer reached for her sister’s hand. “I miss her, too, but you know she didn’t like depending on other people for everything . . . and not being able to remember anything.”

“I know—it’s absolutely the worst thing that can happen to a person.”

She shook her head sadly as she poured tea into the mugs. Then she nodded toward the croissants. “Eat one—while it’s warm.”

Rumer took a bite out of a croissant and chocolate dripped down her chin. She reached for a napkin and grinned. “Mmmm, you make the best chocolate croissants.”

“It’s Mum’s recipe, silly.”

Rumer rolled her eyes. “I know, silly.”

5

I
sak slipped quietly out of bed, showered, smoothed Oil of Olay onto her face and neck, brushed out her thick auburn hair, lightly swept her lashes with waterproof mascara, dressed in the Elie Tahari slacks and blouse she’d laid out the night before, and tiptoed down the stairs. She dropped in a Keurig cup and, while it brewed, jotted a few words on a sticky note:
Didn’t want to wake you. I’ll call when I land!
As she poured the steaming coffee into her travel mug, she heard a sound and turned to see Matt leaning against the door frame, wearing sweatpants and a faded Columbia Crew sweatshirt, his blond hair tousled from sleep.

“No good-bye?” he asked.

“It’s Saturday. I thought you’d like to sleep in,” she answered, unflustered by her husband’s unexpected appearance.

“I could drop you off. . . .”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll just do long-term—it’s simpler.” She paused and looked up. “Thank you, though.”

“Where are your bags?”

“In the car.”

He sighed. “So, Tommy and I fly into New York on Thursday?”

“I think so—but we haven’t finalized anything, so I’ll have to let you know.”

“But we’re picking Meghan up, right?”

“Yes, her last exam is Thursday morning, so it should work out perfectly—if the timing of a funeral
can
be perfect,” she added, her voice edged with irony.

He nodded. “You gonna be okay?”

“Me?” she said with a laugh. “Always okay.”

“Yeah,” he said, “always good at putting up a formidable front.”

“No . . .”

He pulled her into his arms. “The Isak Graham-Taylor I know never lets her guard down—she’s as tough as nails.”

Isak smiled and pulled away. “I’ve gotta go . . .”

Matt held up his hands and backed off in visible frustration. “Go,” he said, nodding toward the door.

“I’ll call when I get there.”

“Fine.”

She looked up, surprised by his tone. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

She shook her head. “All right . . . bye.”

He nodded, stood in the doorway, and watched as her black Beemer pulled away.

 

Two hours later, Isak slid her Gucci carry-on under the seat in front of her, pulled down her tray, and wondered if they served Bloody Marys on the early-morning flight—she could use one! As the plane taxied to the end of the runway, she discreetly checked her iPhone one last time. There was a text from Meghan:
have a safe trip, mom. love you! see you soon!
She wrote back quickly:
love you, too, honey! can’t wait to see you!
Then turned off her phone and clicked her seat belt. She was glad the seat next to her was empty—she didn’t feel much like chatting. Superficial conversations with strangers about reasons for travel and family backgrounds always left her feeling weary and empty—and today would have been especially hard. She didn’t want to explain the reason for her trip or thank a stranger for their sympathy. She just wanted to be left alone. She leaned back in her seat, looked out her window, watching the California skyline and highways disappear, and thought about Matt.

Isak couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when “the big chill,” as she called it, had settled on her twenty-four-year marriage. She’d met Matt in the spring of her senior year at Barnard—the college their daughter, Meghan, now attended—and at that point, she’d been thankful for finally meeting someone—anyone—of the opposite sex before graduating from the famous all-women’s college. She’d been working in the library and he’d come in looking for a medical journal. She could still see him standing there—blond-haired, blue-eyed, tan, and probably wearing the same sweatshirt he’d had on that morning. He’d been pretty darn cute—in fact, he still was—but in that hooded sweatshirt, faded Levi’s, and Docksiders with no socks, he’d had that carefree, preppy look she’d loved so much when she was younger. He’d signed out the journal—and she’d tried not to stare as he walked away. The next day, he’d returned with the journal and shyly asked her if she had time for a cup of coffee.

They’d found a small café near campus and he’d impressed her with the woeful tales of his premed days at Harvard—and now at Columbia, preparing for residency. She’d revealed that she was finishing her business degree and hoped to someday travel the world. They’d talked until the owner came over and told them he was closing; then they’d moved to a college bar across the street and ordered drinks and a plate of calamari. By the end of the evening, Isak—who’d never fallen for any guy—was falling for a medical student named Matt Taylor.

They’d married while he was still in residency and then moved to California, where he quickly became a well-respected heart surgeon, and where she climbed the corporate ladder of an up-and-coming software company. She was twenty-nine when Tommy was born; Meghan had come along twenty-two months later. Their lives had been busy and full; the kids’ activities filled their days with soccer, basketball, and baseball, dance and swim lessons, PTO meetings, dinners on the run—and little time for each other. But then the kids had suddenly graduated from high school and left for college—embarking on lives of their own—leaving their parents alone with too much free time. Isak missed the busyness of having the kids around; she missed looking in on them as they slept—and, most of all, she missed being needed. She tried to fill her time with work and travel, but the empty void the kids had left was almost too much to bear—she’d never felt so irrelevant and lonely.

Isak looked out the window at the floor of puffy clouds and the bright blue sky above it as tears spilled down her cheeks. She’d give anything to talk to her mom once more. There was still so much she wanted to say to her, so much she wanted to ask:
Had she ever felt this way? How in the world had she managed after their father died? How had she filled the aching emptiness?
“Oh, Mum, I have so much to be thankful for—why do I feel this way?” she whispered. She closed her eyes and realized that she hadn’t thought twice about moving far from home . . . and she’d never looked back or considered how her mom had felt about it—and now it was too late. She’d never again get to tell her how much she loved her . . . or say how sorry she was for not making it home more often.

6

F
lan was lying on her bed with her legs up in the air, snoring loudly, when Beryl came into the kitchen to make coffee. She knelt down and scratched the exposed, round belly. “Position is everything in life, isn’t it, you silly ole girl?” Flan opened one eye, stretched her short legs straight out, and smacked her tongue contentedly. Gravity pulled her jowls back, exposing her teeth and making it look as if she was smiling. “You’re so ladylike,” Beryl teased. “Do you need to go out?” Flan rolled over, scrambled to her feet, shook, yawned, and looked up expectantly. “Come on, then,” she said, pushing open the screen. Flan waddled down the two steps and promptly squatted in the leaves with her head up, sniffing the early-morning air. Then she started to snort her way across the yard, but Beryl reminded her it was time for breakfast and she turned around and trotted back up the steps, licking her lips.

As Flan wolfed down her breakfast, Beryl reached for the coffee and gazed out the window. It had been after midnight when they’d finally gotten home and the stars had sparkled brightly, but clouds had drifted in overnight and the muted sun hung weakly in the milky white sky. She hadn’t seen a forecast in days, and as she filled the perk pot and copper kettle with cold water and measured coffee, she wondered if it was going to rain. While the coffeepot sputtered to life, she put the kettle on, lit a match under it, and adjusted the ring of blue flame that sprang up, making the kettle shudder and click. For a moment, the queasy scent of gas reminded her of the event that had triggered the whirlwind of decisions she and her sisters had made. She opened the fridge to see what they could have for breakfast and then remembered the oatmeal. It was a perfect day for warm oatmeal with rivulets of melting brown sugar and cream, chopped walnuts, apples, and raisins—just like they’d had on school mornings when they were kids.

Beryl measured the oats and water into a small pot and lit another burner. When it came to a boil, she gave the oatmeal a stir and lowered the flame to simmer. Meanwhile, the kettle started to whistle and she scooped a teaspoon of loose tea leaves into the mesh infuser that hung over the stove. She dropped it into Mia’s old teapot, poured steaming water over the infuser, swished it around, and left it to steep.

“You certainly are noisy,” Rumer said sleepily, pulling a faded blue sweatshirt over her head.

Beryl eyed the sweatshirt. “There’s a relic from the past.”

Rumer pulled her braid out of the back and grinned. “I know, I found it in the closet.”

“I think it’s mine. You ripped the neck of yours.”

Rumer frowned. “I did not.”

“You did—remember when you were trying to get Jimmy Dixon to notice you?”

“Hmm . . . well, maybe. I guess that’s possible; he was pretty cute—except for that gap between his front teeth.”

Beryl rolled her eyes and Rumer laughed. She poured coffee into a big blue mug and cradled it in her hands, breathing in the fresh aroma. “Thanks for the coffee,” she said, peering into the simmering pot. “Mmmm . . . you’re making oatmeal too?!”

“Yup. Want to chop up some walnuts and apple for it?”

Rumer looked around the kitchen. “Ber, I’m beginning to think that getting through everything that’s in this house is going to take a lot longer than a week. Have you seen Mum’s office?”

Beryl stirred the oatmeal while Rumer chopped up a handful of walnuts and apple slices. “I know. It looks overwhelming, but I think a lot of papers can be thrown away. I don’t know when it happened, but at some point, she started saving everything.” She spooned the steaming oatmeal into bowls, sprinkled generous spoonfuls of brown sugar and raisins onto each one, and then drizzled cream on top. Rumer added the walnuts and apples, and they sat down at the old Formica table that had been the site of countless school projects and childhood meals. Flan, who’d been watching their every move, waddled over and curled up between them. Beryl tucked her feet under Flan’s warm body, scooped a small spoonful of oatmeal from the inside edge of her bowl, and blew on it softly. “It’s so strange to be here without Mum.”

Rumer looked out the window and nodded. “It’s hard to look around and see all of her things and know she’ll never use them again. She’ll never make apple crisp in her glass Pyrex dish or a pot roast in the big cast-iron pot she’s had since the beginning of time . . . or wear her silly pink hat . . . or any of her blinking holiday earrings.”

“Or, out of the blue, start quoting poetry or Bible verses,” Beryl quipped. “I think she had a Bible verse for every occasion. Which reminds me—we need to think of some for the service.”

“Have you talked to Reverend Peterson?”

“He came to the hospital and then stopped by my apartment to see how I was doing. He said he can meet with us anytime, so I told him maybe this afternoon.”

Rumer nodded. “Are you keeping your apartment?”

Beryl looked up in surprise. “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know—you could stay here.”

“In this drafty old place?” She shook her head. “It’s too big and lonely . . . and full of memories. My apartment is cozy and bright and just the right size for me and one stubborn old bulldog.” She rubbed her feet on Flan’s side and Flan groaned, rolling onto her back.

After Beryl had graduated from Wellesley with a degree in English and the dream to author the next great American novel, she’d moved back home to help her mom in the shop—temporarily. But the years had slipped by and, except for an occasional journal entry, she’d found little time for writing. Gradually, she’d lost sight of her dream—and her hope of ever finding someone with whom she could spend the rest of her life. Finally, as her thirtieth birthday approached, she decided that being an old maid was bad enough—she wasn’t going to live in her mom’s house forever, too—so she started to keep an eye out for a place of her own. After several months of halfhearted looking, she noticed a small sign in the window of a newly renovated Victorian in town, and stopped to inquire. The downstairs apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows that were trimmed with lustrous dark mahogany, a huge fireplace with a stone hearth, and a claw-foot tub with a stained glass window over it in the bathroom; the kitchen had been updated with new appliances and granite countertops, which had made her think there was no way she’d be able to afford it, but the owner said he’d inherited the house, updated it, and was anxious to find someone responsible and neat to rent it so he wouldn’t have to worry. He said the price was entirely negotiable. That evening, Beryl had brought Mia back to see it, and although her mom had had mixed feelings about her moving out, she’d understood her need for independence and gave her blessing. Beryl had signed the lease that night, and a week later—with help from Rumer, Will, and her mom—she’d moved in. They’d celebrated with pizza that was delivered to
her
apartment and beer that had been chilled in
her
refrigerator. It had given her a wonderful feeling of new possibilities.

“I love my apartment,” Beryl said. “Besides, this house needs so much work—I couldn’t afford to buy you two out . . . never mind fix it up. It’ll be sad to let it go, but hopefully the right person will come along and love it as much as we do.”

Rumer looked around, trying to come to terms with the inevitable prospect of selling their childhood home. “I just wish we didn’t have to sell it,” she said sadly. She slowly stirred her oatmeal. “So, what time is Isak’s flight?”

Beryl glanced at the clock. “She gets in around three.”

“Are we picking her up?”

“What do you think?”

“Not . . .” Rumer said with a knowing chuckle.

They ate in silence and then Beryl stood to clear their bowls. “We can start without her, though—if you’re up to it.”

Rumer yawned and stretched. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be up to it.”

As Beryl filled the sink with hot, sudsy water, she remembered one other thing they needed to do. “The undertaker is stopping by this afternoon, so we need to pick out some clothes.”

Rumer looked puzzled. “I thought Mum was being cremated.” “She is . . . but he said out of respect . . .”

“Oh, I didn’t know . . .” Rumer said quietly.

“I know, I didn’t either . . .”

They were both lost in thought as they washed and dried the dishes. Finally, Rumer smiled. “How about her tan slacks and navy blazer with a white blouse? She always looked so sharp in that outfit.”

Beryl smiled. “Yeah, that’s perfect—she’ll be the best-dressed angel in heaven!”