Pickin Clover (27 page)

What had happened here tonight was a miracle, Polly realized. He was sharing his thoughts with her again. They were in each other’s arms, the chasm between them bridged by so many kinds of love.

And as she slipped into sleep, she imagined she heard Susannah singing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Early Sunday morning, Polly and Norah tackled Isabelle’s house. They worked methodically, throwing out bags of junk, picking out usable clothing for the Goodwill, packing the items their mother had insisted they send right away.

Isabelle had called Norah three times the past week with an ever-increasing inventory of things she couldn’t live without.

“If this keeps up, our new Daddy Sanderson had better think about buying a trailer to tow behind his trailer,” Polly declared, rooting through the debris in the bottom of her mother’s closet. “I ask you, why would anybody keep five grocery sacks of ruined panty hose?” She tossed them into the garbage. “And shoes. She’s got shoes in here that I remember her wearing when we were little kids. They’re antiques, for Pete’s sake.”

“Give ’em to Goodwill.” Norah was sorting through the stack of cardboard boxes in the corner. “Teens are crazy for that retro stuff these days.” She poked through a gigantic shopping bag. “Mom must have kept every greeting card anybody ever gave her. Here’s a whole pile we made when we were in grade school.” She held one up. In garish purple crayon and less-than-perfect printing, it said “To the Best Mother in the Unaverse, a Guluxy of Love from Polly.”

Polly couldn’t remember making it. “I never could spell. And obviously I had no basis for comparison as far as mothers went.”

Norah gave her a reproving look. “She did the best she could, Pol. Think back on times in your life when you messed up. Wouldn’t you have done it different if you’d known better?”

“I guess.” Polly nodded. Of course she would have. “I hate it when you’re right. How come you’re so nice and I’m so nasty?”

“It’s genetic,” Norah said in a sugary tone. “You got the looks, I got the personality.”

Polly pitched a red Cuban-heeled shoe at her sister. She missed and they giggled. “Neither of us could ever throw straight. You find that darned scrapbook she’s having such a fit over?”

“Not yet.” Norah blew a strand of hair back. The rain had stopped and it was hot and muggy in the bedroom. “Mom couldn’t remember exactly where it was.”

“Big surprise there. Her filing system isn’t exactly the best. She happen to say what’s in it that’s so valuable?”

“Nope, only that she wants it right away.”

“That and fifty million other things. It’s probably a record of her amorous adventures.”

“Could well be.” Norah got to her feet. “I’m gonna fix us some cold juice before we melt up here. Try the dresser. Maybe it’s in there.”

Norah left and Polly glanced through the dresser drawers. The two on top were stuffed to bursting with underwear and an assortment of scarves, gloves and more panty hose, but in the bottom drawer was the green scrapbook, buried underneath three lacy shawls and four heavy sweaters. The smell of mothballs wafted up and nearly choked Polly as she lifted out the book. Curious, she flopped down on the bed and opened it, and her breath caught.

It was an Isabelle style record of Susannah’s life. On the first page was a picture she’d taken of Polly, nine months pregnant. Next to it was Susannah’s birth announcement, and beneath it was glued a crumpled paper napkin with a clumsy tracing of a tiny baby foot, made in what looked to be lipstick. Beside that was Susannah’s hospital photo. Her enraged and slightly goofy expression had always made Polly smile. She stroked a finger across the photo and turned the page.

There were more photos, Isabelle holding Susannah at the christening, Polly bathing her tiny daughter, a treasured one that Michael had taken of Susannah’s first smile.

Each page held some memory of Susannah’s short life seen through Isabelle’s eyes. There were scraps of paper on which Susannah had scribbled, childish drawings she’d made, a lock of fine baby hair, school photos, misspelled notes she’d printed. There were several dried-up dandelions carefully wrapped in plastic, even a baby tooth taped to one page.

Isabelle had written on several pages, recording events that Polly had half forgotten, most of them mischievous.

There was the summer Susannah was three and had insisted on taking her clothes off as fast as Polly put them on; the time she’d scribbled with indelible markers on the wall Polly had just painted; the day she’d cut her own hair within a half inch of her scalp. Polly noted that many of the words Isabelle had written were only half legible because they were stained with tears.

The final entries were agonizing for Polly. The last photograph was of Susannah wearing one of the outrageous hats Isabelle had given her after the radiation, when she’d lost her hair. She looked pale and sick, but her smile was wide and she was holding up a Western novel.

Polly recalled being furious with Isabelle over those paperbacks. “I want her to start reading worthwhile books, and instead she’s addicted to those trashy stories of yours,” Polly had stormed.

“Rubbish,” Isabelle had responded. “Susie loves them. There’s no harm in them at all.”

And there hadn’t been, Polly realized now. Norah came in and handed her a tall, frosty glass. “So, you found the darned thing.” Norah reached for the book. “What’s in it, anyhow?”

Wordlessly, Polly banded it over. Norah sat beside her on the bed and opened it.

“I should have known,” she said softly. “Remember the ones she made for us, with our report cards and stuff in them? I remember how mortified you were because she wrote down when you got your first period. I couldn’t understand it. I was green with envy because I thought I’d never get mine.”

Polly had forgotten.

“Look at this.” Norah tapped a photo of Susannah dressed in Isabelle’s clothing, sitting on a stool with a pair of high heels dangling from her crossed legs, a pretend cigarette held nonchalantly between her fingers.

“You’re right, you know. Mom isn’t the best example in the world for a kid. If...when...Jerome and I are together, I won’t want her teaching Clover how to smoke.”

“Too late. She already has.” Polly gestured at the scrapbook, struggling with the feelings it aroused. “But Mom must have really loved her.”

“Loved Susannah?” Norah looked surprised. “Of course she did. She was so proud of her. She’d call me and say, ‘Guess what Susie did. Listen to what Susie said."

“I suppose I always wanted her to be a typical mom. Then I wanted her to be a typical grandma, the sort who wears an apron and bakes cookies. Because she wasn’t, I figured she didn’t care.”

“Well, she did. She does.”

Polly finally believed it, and with the recognition came an easing of the anger and resentment she’d always carried toward her mother. It was a peculiar feeling, a lightness where there’d been weight. It would take some getting used to.

“Mom’s not perfect. She’s just Mom.” Norah set the album aside. “I’ve come to think of her as a force of nature.”

Polly giggled. “Funny, that’s exactly how I view Clover. How are you and Jerome getting on?”

“Good.” Norah closed the scrapbook and set it carefully aside, not looking at Polly.

Polly raised her eyebrows and waited.

Norah blushed. “Better than good, actually. I’ve asked him to move in with me when he gets out of the hospital. He can’t possibly manage those stairs at his apartment or take care of Clover by himself. I’ve got two bedrooms, so Clover can have her own room.” She realized what she was admitting and turned magenta. “Some of the nurses at work figure I’m nuts because he doesn’t have a job or any money or a house or anything.”

She stole a glance at Polly. It was obvious that whatever her sister said would matter a whole lot.

“Do you love him?” Polly considered the way she felt about Michael. She’d love him if he was penniless...and they'd come very close to that because of Raymond Stokes. Funny, there were moments now when she thought Raymond had done them a favor. He’d forced them to recognize what was really important.

“I love him with all my heart.” No one could doubt the sincerity in Norah’s voice.

“And he loves you?” At times she’d doubted Michael’s love, but Polly knew she never would again. They’d come through the worst together. He’d told her once that when a broken bone mended it actually became stronger than before.

Norah nodded. “I know he loves me.” She said it without even a trace of hesitation.

“Then that’s all that matters.”

Life wasn’t easy. Maybe it had never been intended that way. The thing was to put your energy into what was important and let the rest go.

Polly knew she’d never forget what she’d lost. But she’d learned to value what she had, and what she had was love, Michael’s love, and the love of Susannah, forever.

EPILOGUE

The October morning was sunny and glorious, the Vancouver streets paved with gold and crimson now that the late autumn leaves had fallen.

Singing at the top of his lungs along with the tenor on the stereo, Michael wheeled into his driveway, past the
Sold
sign the real estate agent had recently placed there. He switched off the ignition and bounded into the house, dodging the packing boxes that littered the hallway.

“Polly?” He planned to celebrate, kidnap his wife and Clover and take them out for the rest of the day, buy them food and flowers, a new dress each, whatever their hearts desired.

“Sweetheart, where are you?”

She came trotting down the stairs, her gaze anxious and questioning. She knew he’d gone to the office this morning expressly to examine Duncan Hendricks. Three months had elapsed since the child’s surgery, and although Michael was confident the boy was cured, the test results and this morning’s examination would be concrete proof.

One look at Michael’s beaming face, and she knew.

"He’s okay? Duncan’s okay?”

“More than okay.” The exultation he felt was there in his voice. “His CAT scan shows the tumor’s completely gone. All the neurological symptoms have disappeared. The scrotal surgery has totally healed. His hair’s grown back. He’s in kindergarten, he brought in the class turtle to show me.”

“Hooray!” She flew into his arms and he kissed her hard. When the kiss ended she stroked a finger down his cheek and gave him a quizzical look.

“And how does it feel to walk away and leave David in charge of your office?”

In September, after a month of getting to know each other and assessing whether they could work together, Dr. David Crystal had bought half of Michael’s practice.

“It feels like the smartest thing I’ve done recently.” It had provided a sizable chunk of money that, along with the proceeds from the sale of the house, once again ensured he and Polly were secure financially. Even more important, it gave Michael the time he now longed for, precious time to spend with his wife.

“He doesn’t realize it quite yet, but David’s no more in charge of that office than I’ve ever been. Valerie’s the one who runs the place.”

“I knew you’d finally figure that out. So with all these hours on your hands you think you can stand three whole weeks with me in Hawaii, Doc?” They were leaving in fourteen days, right after the move to the waterfront condo Polly had found and fallen in love with.

It was time to simplify their life, she explained. A house took so much of her energy, and she wanted to spend it on her art. She’d gathered her courage and shown the Clover drawings to Jade Crampton, at Concepts. Jade had suggested a showing at the gallery as soon as Polly had a large enough body of work.

Michael loved the condo; it was minutes from his office, and he’d always wanted to learn to sail. They’d discussed it, and if they decided someday to adopt a child, they could always buy another house.

"Three weeks with you are a stretch," he teased her. “But if you promise to wear the bikini I’m gonna buy you today, I’ll try not to complain too much. I’m taking you and Clover out to celebrate.”

He slid his hands down her body. “Although if we didn’t have Clover in residence, I’d take you to bed, instead. Where is the demon child?”

“Upstairs. We’re finishing packing up Susannah’s room. I told Clover she could have whatever she wanted. She’s busy loading a couple of packing boxes.”

“She in a better mood today?” Clover was staying with them for four days while Jerome and Norah were off in Seattle on a short honeymoon. When they returned, they’d be moving into Isabelle’s house.

“I just try my best not to cross her,” Polly said, and they laughed ruefully.

Furious and insulted when it dawned on her that she wasn’t going along on the honeymoon, Clover had tested everyone’s patience in every conceivable way. She’d thrown a grand-scale temper tantrum at the reception, refused to kiss her father goodbye and declared in a loud voice that she didn’t like Norah. She’d bitten poor Eric Sanderson on the thigh when he’d tried to console her and deliberately spilled a glass of orange soda on Isabelle’s white dress. And in the two days since the wedding, she’d been as contrary with both Michael and Polly as she could possibly be.