Summer Snow (21 page)

“Yes, actually, that sounds great.” Grandma smiled at me over Simon's head. She was falling in love with him by degrees; her affection growing exponentially as she learned more about him, as he slowly revealed himself to her. It wasn't that Simon tried to be enigmatic—he was too young to let such duplicity even cross his mind—but his young personality was angled and full of unknown corners. It was like wandering through a maze, exploring hidden paths and finding yourself in uncharted territory, mysterious and exciting in some inexplicable way. It wasn't too far below the surface that our sweet Simon became rather complicated.

And Grandma wasn't the only one who cared for him more with each passing day. My morning routine with Simon had become the highlight of most of my days, whether or not he was becoming bored with our intrigue. He was fierce and determined underneath his sensitive exterior, and I wanted so desperately to learn all the details that had made him who he was. I wanted to experience everything I had missed, take back the years when I should have been a part of his life and was instead a stranger. Sometimes it felt like I couldn't possibly know him today until I knew who he had been yesterday.

I pulled the blender down from the cupboard above the stove and set it on the counter beside the bag of peaches Simon had tossed there. “We need juice, buddy. And a container of yogurt.”

“We don't have peach juice,” Simon called, standing in the yellow glow of the open refrigerator.

“We don't need peach juice,” I assured him. “Anything will do. Orange? Apple?”

“Apple,” Grandma cut in. “Way in the back, Simon, behind the gallon of milk.”

“Got it!” He grinned, emerging with the paper carton of juice held high in triumph. There were goose bumps on his bare arms.

Grandma leaned against the sink for a moment, watching the smoothie production unfold. She grinned at Simon's excitement and pulled a banana from the curved wooden stand to her left when he tried to scramble up on the counter to get one himself. “What is going on with you two?” Grandma asked merrily. She dug a finger-nail into the stem of the banana and then gave it to Simon so he could peel it himself. He loved peeling bananas; though he would often claim that he wanted one, then proceed to peel it and surreptitiously abandon it with only two small bites gone. I found and finished many browning bananas left that way.

“Nothing,” Simon said quickly, tossing me a sloppy wink that Grandma couldn't have missed even without her glasses.

“Nothing at all,” I agreed, winking back.

Grandma laughed. “Okay, whatever you say. But just for the record, I don't buy it.”

Simon looked confused. “What don't you buy?”

“I don't believe that there is nothing going on,” Grandma clarified. She moved to start a pot of coffee, turning on the cold water and testing it with her finger until it was acceptably brisk.

“Well, we're not telling you anyway,” Simon gushed happily. “It's our secret.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed.

“What is it with secrets in this house?” Janice said from the hallway.

I hadn't expected her voice, and I swung around to regard her. She stood squarely in the oversize doorframe, arms hanging at her sides as if she didn't know what to do with them and a half smile on her lips that seemed forced and unnatural. It was obvious to me that she was trying to edge in, trying to be a part of the lighthearted chitchat of our morning, but she hovered at the boundaries of our miniature community and did not step into it. Janice waited for my invitation, but as far as I was concerned she was unwelcome. An outsider.

I turned the blender on.

When the pink-orange foam was frothy and light, I poured out three careful glasses, making sure each one held exactly the same amount of smoothie as the one before it.

“Red straw?” I asked Simon, knowing the answer.

“Yup,” he said, reaching for his special drink.

I took the last two smoothies in hand and gave one to Grandma, sipping out of the other one myself.

Grandma held me in an indefinable look for the span of a breath and then turned away and smiled broadly at Janice. “This one is for you,” she said, holding out the cold glass. “I'm having a cup of coffee.”

Janice hesitated in the shadows, her bare toes curling into the carpet of the hallway before she stepped carefully onto the checkerboard linoleum. She smiled again, thinner this time. “Thank you,” she said, taking the drink. Then she made a point of looking me square in the eye. “Thank you, Julia.”

I searched her face for animosity, but her expression was blank, unreadable. “Anytime,” I muttered.

Though I liked to think that Janice deserved it, I wasn't always so mean to her. There were just certain times when I was so overwhelmed by the scope of my own anger toward her that a rough stone of malice would rumble loose and escape. Occasionally that rage seemed vast and unplumbed, and I fell into it unexpectedly—a booby-trapped, bottomless pit that I slid into without intention or even desire to do so. Most of the time I more or less ignored her and then, out of the blue, something inside me would click and I would tumble head over heels, taking her with me as if the fall would serve to punish her somehow.

When I pulled out a chair across from her at the table, some civil part of me knew that I should apologize for being rude and childish, but consideration for Janice wasn't part of my repertoire. I held my tongue.

Grandma scrambled eggs for breakfast and even sprinkled a few pinches of fresh Parmesan cheese in the skillet just before serving them. Janice loved Parmesan, and she smiled almost timidly at Grandma when she brought the eggs to the table. To my utter astonishment, Grandma gave Janice's wrist a little squeeze, and the younger woman closed her eyes for a moment in what looked like pure, unadulterated gratitude.

There was something going on between them, too.

I knew it instantly. If Simon and I had a little secret, Grandma and Janice definitely had one of their own. My defenses rose like battlements, and I glanced back and forth between them, trying to guess at the riddle of their alliance. I felt betrayed.

Simon raved about the eggs, but I avoided them out of spite and nibbled instead on day-old bran muffins that Grandma and Simon had made together the morning before. My good day was disintegrating quickly and I hated it, though I knew it was my own fault for being so cynical and bitter. But knowing something and being able to change it are two completely different things.

Only a week ago, Grandma had directed me to a passage in her tattered Bible that had something to do with wanting to do good but not being able to follow through with it. I could feel the writer's angst and it made aggravating, perfect sense to me. I knew well the ceaseless battle between the two women of my psyche: the woman I wanted to be and the woman I was. Unfortunately, the author had not in his infinite wisdom told me how to change. There was nothing for me to do but continue to plod along a path that I was beginning to know very well.

I had to be at work by eight o'clock, so I left the table before everyone else and went upstairs to mope and get ready.

Depressingly, the size-medium uniform that I had started work in had been traded for a large, and I knew it would not be much longer before I would need the extra large. I wasn't particularly huge—my pregnant belly was by no means outrageously out of proportion—but the shirts were cut slim and I couldn't stand it when the buttons pulled and the fabric gapped open. Grandma was an excellent seamstress, and she tailored the shirts to fit me, allowing room up front and shaping the seams in the back to help combat the tent look. Though it helped, altered seams were not enough to make something so sadly unflattering look good.

I cheered a little, though, as I pulled the sides of my hair back in a silver clip. Dr. Morales had warned me at the beginning of my pregnancy that some women have a difficult time carrying a baby, not just because of the extra weight and stress on their bodies but because the little one leeches every good thing out of blood, marrow, and bone. Thin hair, he warned. Acne, brittle fingernails, pallor. However, it didn't take me long to learn that the opposite could also be true: glowing skin, vibrant hair, an overall outward manifestation of all that is beautiful and secreted inside.

I was one of the lucky few to be far lovelier in pregnancy than I had ever been before. I knew it wouldn't last, so I relished my moments of glory, letting my hair hang loose and full and wearing pink on my eyelids and lips to match the color in my cheeks.

Once I had caught a glimpse of myself in profile as I slipped through the glass doors of Value Foods and been stunned by how familiar I looked. I stopped and stared, wondering what had caused such powerful déjà vu. It wasn't until I'd turned my head slightly right and left that it hit me: I looked like Janice. Not the Janice I knew today but the one who had for a few short years been a caricature of a mother. When I was a little girl, I had heard more than one person refer to my mother as
gorgeous
, and though I was certainly nothing of the sort, there was an unmistakable similarity in the arch of my neck, the curve of my heavy-lashed eyes, the fullness of my face as it shone from within.

I didn't know whether to be happy (I was marginally pretty!) or devastated (I looked like Janice?). But it was what it was and I couldn't change it. What could I do but accept it?

Everyone was still sitting around the kitchen table when I emerged from my room at quarter to eight. Janice had to be at work by eight thirty, and she dropped off Simon at preschool on her way. Usually they lingered at the table while Grandma puttered around, Janice occupying herself with a newspaper and a cup of coffee and Simon racing his Hot Wheels cars or maybe drawing with chunky crayons if he was in the mood. They were together but engaged in the affairs of their own personal worlds. There was little conversation, rare amusement. Today, however, the dishes had not been moved an inch, and the members of my unorthodox family sat laughing and talking as if there was nothing more comfortable, more wonderful and fun than the three of them huddled around the table.

Simon looked up when I walked into the room and clapped enthusiastically. “Guess what?” he practically yelled.

I opened my mouth to humor him, but he didn't give me a chance to.

“Grandma Nellie is going to take me on a date tonight!”

Grandma Nellie?
As far as I knew, Simon had always called my grandmother Mrs. DeSmit. Since when had she become Grandma Nellie? Simon and I might be siblings, but my grandmother certainly was not his—not ever, actually. And what was this about a date?

“I think you're too young for a date,” I said with a tight-lipped smile. “And I think Grandma Nellie might be a bit old for you.”

Simon squinted at me uncomprehendingly.

Grandma tsked. “Come on, Julia. Don't be a party pooper. I'm taking Simon to the A&W, and then we're going bowling.”

“I've never been bowling before!” Simon interjected. “I'm going to get three strikes. Grandma Nellie and Mom say that's a chicken.”

“Turkey,” Janice corrected.

“Yeah, a turkey,” Simon repeated, still staring at me excitedly.

“Sounds like fun,” I said, trying to feel indifferent. It would be good for Simon to have some time one-on-one with Grandma. Then it hit me that if Grandma and Simon were gone, Janice and I would be home alone together. I schemed quickly. Maybe I could stay late at work, pick up an extra half shift or something.

But Janice cleared her throat and looked right at me, putting a halt to my hasty plans. “Why don't we go out, too, Julia?” She asked the question hesitantly, but once it was out of her mouth she seemed to gain confidence and began to list arguments in favor of her idea. “The house will be empty. We might as well get out. We can go somewhere nice … my treat,” she added hurriedly, lest I use money as an excuse.

I didn't know what to say, and I couldn't think fast enough to come up with a reason not to. I sputtered for a moment.

“Sounds like fun,” Grandma said encouragingly. “You know, there is a new restaurant that just opened last week in Glendale. I hear it's really good.”

“Mediterranean cuisine,” Janice offered, though she was looking at Grandma now instead of me. “I don't really know what that means, but it sounds good.”

“It got a rave review in the
Herald
.”

“Very elegant.”

“When's the last time you went out, Julia?” Grandma asked. She was trying to help Janice's cause, and between the two of them I couldn't get a word in edgewise.

“It would be good for you.”

“Who can say no to a night out?”

It all sounded pretty good to Simon, too. “Hey, I know!” he said. “We can all go bowling together tonight and then to that new restaurant tomorrow!”

Grandma and Janice turned to him as one. “No, honey.” Janice stopped him. “Grandma Nellie wants to take you out by yourself. Just the two of you.”

“It's our special night,” Grandma added.

“Okay.” Simon shrugged.

The room went quiet, and I tried to slip toward the door.

But Grandma caught my arm as I walked past. She swung it gently, her fingers a bracelet on my narrow wrist and her eyes almost pleading. “What do you say? How about having supper with Janice?”

I wanted to glare at her for putting me in such a position, but as always, I knew she was only doing what she thought would be best for me. And Janice. That's the part that bugged me the most: that Grandma was worried about what was best for Janice, too. I realized that the two of them had not had to keep their secret very long. Any plotting between my grandmother and my mother had to do with this. They were trying to orchestrate a few hours so Janice and I could be alone. Together.

Pursing my lips, I studied Janice. She was watching me, but when I met her eyes, she looked at her lap. Played with her fingers. Waited for my reply.