The Girls of August (13 page)

“What do you mean?” Baby asked.

Rachel looked at her, and without a stitch of animosity, said, “You don’t know anything.
All the great things in the world escape you because your generation is only interested
in what’s in front of your face. It’s scary.”

I had no idea why Rachel was being so bullheaded.

“Hold on there,” I said, trying for damage control. “I think young people simply know
things we don’t and vice versa.”

Missing my cue, Barbara jumped in. “What do you and Teddy talk about, anyway? I
mean, you’ve got nothing in common. For goodness’ sake, your cultural references
are decades apart.”

Baby didn’t respond, which, I grudgingly thought, was wise. I suspected she felt
outnumbered, picked on, hurt, and with good cause. She kept her big-eyed gaze on
the fire, and we all trailed off into an uncomfortable silence.

Finally, Barbara said, “Well, it’s late. I think we best throw some sand on this fire
and go to bed. How about it, Baby?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, I’ll put out the fire.” She stood and grabbed the shovel that
was lying in the sand beside Rachel. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

“What’s that?” Rachel asked, standing and slapping the sand from her rear end, totally
unaware that she’d insulted Baby to her face.

“I know that Maddy has been doing all the cooking because she’s, well, you know,
a chef. But what if I cook breakfast in the morning? Give you the morning off, Maddy.”

We all looked at each other in stunned amazement. We had never even seen Baby near
the stove, and I could tell that my cohorts were stifling giggles. But what was
more impressive to me was that after Rachel’s rude smackdown, Baby seemed intent
on taking the high ground.

“Why thank you, Baby, that would be wonderful,” I said.

She smiled that wide, pretty smile of hers, leaned over, and pecked my cheek. This
time I did not move away. “Y’all go on to bed. I’ll get this.”

“You sure?” Barbara asked.

“Absolutely. Go on.” She waved us into the house and we took our leave.

I looked after her.
She’s not a dumb bunny, I thought.  Under all that—goofiness—she’s as smart as a whip.
I wonder what’s going on with her.

As we entered the living room and closed the door, Rachel said, “Well good goddamn,
looks like we’re rubbing off on the poor little thing.”

“Does she even know how to turn on the oven?” Barbara asked.

“Whether she does or doesn’t,” I said, “we’ve got to let her try. You know, she’s
not the enemy.”

“Yeah,” Rachel grumbled as she headed upstairs, “I guess we ought to be a little nicer.
Damn it.”

And with that we ascended the stairs, offered our good nights, and drifted off to
our own rooms, where, I suppose, we each considered sleepily what the next day would
bring.

As I pulled up the covers and settled into the cool sheets, my thoughts turned to
Rachel, with whom I could never really be mad. In the darkness I tried to imagine
what a dying woman dreamed of. I decided that she dreamed of her children.

“Her children,” I whispered, and I saw her five kids—all young adults, most already
in college—crowded around their dying mom. All were weeping. That was the last thought
I had before sleep took me.

I was roused from a velvet sleep the next morning by sweet, sweet old-fashioned
scents that drew me out of bed and down the hall, where I bumped into Rachel and
Barbara, who, it would seem, had smelled them too.

We ran barefoot down the stairs like kids on Christmas morning. We hushed each other
as we tiptoed across the living room. We peeked into the kitchen and could barely
believe our eyes: Baby hard at work, her polka-dot bikini barely hanging on. Her
face was scrunched in concentration as she stirred something on the stove. She appeared
to be immersed in adult thought. It was an arresting sight.

“Mmmmmmmm,” Barbara said in a hushed tone, lifting her face to the scents of oatmeal,
sugar, vanilla, raisins, apples, cinnamon, and something else I couldn’t divine.

“Maybe we spoke too soon about her,” Rachel whispered. “Or maybe the thing is to just
let her cook.”

We pattered into the kitchen. She looked up and said, “Hey! Just in time.” She opened
the oven door and removed a cookie sheet sizzling with golden pastries. “Raspberries
and cream cheese! Mmmmm. And I also made us some yummy oatmeal.” She shimmied the
pastries onto a cooling rack and then spooned the oatmeal into four deep bowls.

“Holy crap. The child can cook,” Rachel said.

I moved to help Baby and she said, “No, no, no! I’ve got it!” She moved around the
kitchen as if she knew exactly what she was doing. Barbara, Rachel, and I were mildly
stunned. I looked at the table. It had already been set. A single rose in a crystal
bud vase was nestled beside each of our napkins. “I’m sorry. I used frozen puff pastry.
But I’m on vacation,” she said, setting the bowls on the table and serving the pastries
on individual dessert plates that were rimmed in gold. Lenox, if I had to guess.

“Nobody in their right mind makes it fresh,” I murmured, taking in the luscious scents
and the lovely place settings.

We took our seats and I gazed down at the rosy, steaming oatmeal with submerged
bits of all sorts of goodness—apples, walnuts, raisins, brown sugar, cinnamon. “Wow,”
I said. “This smells delicious.”

“It sure does,” Barbara said. “And I’m famished.”

“Go on. Eat,” Baby said as she set the coffee carafe and a bowl of brown sugar on
the table. The OJ had already been poured. “Anybody need anything else?”

“Nope. We’re good,” Barbara said and pulled out the chair next to her, indicating
it was time for Baby to sit down and enjoy breakfast with us.

“To the chef!” I said, raising my spoon.

“Hear, hear!” the girls rang out all round. And we dug in.

“Baby, I’m mad at you,” Rachel said, her mouth full of pastry.

“Why?” Baby batted her eyes as if she were girding herself for another onslaught from
Rachel.

“You’ve been holding out on us. Damn! You can cook, honey.”

“This is the best oatmeal I’ve ever eaten. It’s real. None of that out-of-the-packet
instant stuff,” Barbara said right before she shoveled in another big mouthful.

“It really is delicious,” I said. “What is in with the berries? A liquor…”

“Chambord,” Baby said.

“Well, it’s just perfect,” I said, and Baby beamed. I gobbled down three or four
good spoonfuls, relishing every single bite, and suddenly I was struck. I didn’t
even have time to speak or warn anyone or run to the bathroom. I simply slewed around
in my chair and threw up on the floor.

“Oh, Madison…,” Barbara began.

Baby shrieked. Rachel stopped eating, her spoon in mid air.

“I am
so
sorry,” I said, scrubbing at my face and bending over to quell the suds in my stomach.
“I don’t know what…”

“What in the name of God?” Rachel slid back her chair and wet a hand towel with cool
water. She held it to my face.

Baby began to whimper. “I’m so, so sorry! Oh my God. Is it the food?”

“No, Baby. It’s not the food,” Barbara said softly, and I clutched my stomach, afraid
I was going to heave again.

Baby burst into tears.

“No, Baby. It’s not you. I-I-I just don’t feel good,” I said stupidly.

“Let’s get you into bed,” Rachel said. “Baby, get her some water. Just take it upstairs.
She’ll be OK. I’ll clean up down here.”

With Barbara’s help, I made it down the hall and to the bathroom where I proceeded
to vomit again. After the room stopped spinning, Baby and Barbara helped me upstairs
where I spent most of the day shuttling between my room and the bathroom, throwing
up. I was so woozy, hugged the wall coming and going. In between bathroom visits,
I stayed in bed rereading
Jude the Obscure
, which I’d found wedged between the mattress and the wall.

“If the stomach flu doesn’t get you, Jude certainly will,” Barbara said, coming
in with a cold cloth for my head. “God, if there is a more depressing book on the
planet, I don’t know what it would be.”

I scooched up to a sitting position and my head spun. Barbara placed the cloth on
my forehead.

“Is Baby OK?” I asked.

“Yeah, but she’s still blaming herself even though we keep telling her it’s not her
fault that you picked up a bug.”

“I’ll have to apologize tomorrow.” I closed my eyes, hoping to thwart another stomach
upheaval.

“For what? It’s not your fault you got sick.”

“I just feel bad, Babs. She actually made a really good breakfast and I ruined it.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Good cook or not, she’s just a self-involved little rich
girl.”

“I don’t agree. I know she’s annoying, but I think she’s got more going on upstairs
than we’ve given her credit for. Maybe Teddy didn’t make a mistake after all.”

“Damn, you really are sick. You must have brain fever.”

I didn’t respond. She paced the room, silent, and I closed my eyes, hoping to stanch
the nausea by staying still. “You ought to go home and let Mac look you over,” Barbara
said finally. “You don’t look good. We can get hold of that ferry fella and have
him fetch you before he heads to New York.”

Despite the fact that the last thing my stomach, in its current condition, could
tolerate was a boat ride, I actually longed to go home, to climb into my own fresh
lavender-smelling sheets and simply sleep, listening to Mac’s voice as I drifted
off. We read together most nights; he was currently reading me the poems of T. S.
Eliot. I did not think I liked Eliot, but the night before I had left he read me
“The Hollow Men,” and I had wept aloud.

I could not have said why the poem affected me so; it simply seemed unutterably sad
to me. Mac had held me close to him all night and, from time to time, I would wake
up and breathe in his scent—sweat and soap and the Burberry cologne he favored—and
the sadness engendered by the poem ebbed each time.

“No, I’ll be OK,” I said to Barbara. Beyond the issue with the boat ride, I wanted
to make the rest of our time out here count for Rachel. “I’ll be good as new by morning.
I promise.”

I felt a tremendous urge to confide in Barbara, to unburden myself, to tell her
that our dearest friend on the planet was dying. Maybe that’s why I was so sick.
Keeping the secret was poisoning me. But I had given Rachel my word. And I would
not go back on it. I squeezed Barbara’s hand. “I think I’m already feeling better,”
I lied.

I do not know what the girls did Wednesday evening. Around six p.m. Barbara gave
me a sleeping pill, which I gladly accepted, and I slept straight through to morning.
When I awoke I felt human again. The sun streamed through the windows and French
door. I rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. Nine a.m. I could not remember
the last time I’d slept that late. I got out of bed, pulled on my bathing suit, threw
a cover-up over it, and ventured downstairs. I heard the girls chattering on the
front porch. After I got my coffee, I went out and joined them. Barbara and Rachel,
that is. Baby was not in attendance.

“How are you feeling?” Barbara asked.

“Loads better,” I said. I sipped my coffee and stared at the endless morning blue.

“Rachel was just telling me about the time she and Oliver did it in the front seat
of his Jaguar.”

“Stick shift?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Rachel said.

We were laughing about that, and I was trying to erase images of the two of them
getting hot and heavy amid the leather and glass and instrument panel, when Baby
burst out of the house, said, “Hello, y’all,” and started off down the beach hugging
a bulging grocery sack so close I thought that surely it must contain precious cargo.
“You feeling better?” she asked.

“Much. Sorry I ruined your wonderful breakfast.”

She flashed a brilliant smile and then kept going. “You didn’t ruin anything. So
glad you’re better.” Her words trailed behind her like wisps of smoke.

“What’s in the sack?” I called after her.

“Sandwiches.”

“Who are you feeding?” Rachel asked.

“Nobody,” she said, picking up speed.

“Well ain’t she Little Miss Tom Sawyer,” Barbara said.

“What in the world? It’s as if she doesn’t want anything to do with us. What did y’all
do to her?” I asked.

Barbara immediately looked guilty but Rachel gave away nothing.

“Barbara?”

“We just sort of roughed her up a little bit about Teddy last night.”

“Oh, come on back, Baby. For God’s sake.” Rachel sighed and rolled her eyes. “We’re
sorry we acted like numbskulls last night. It was the wine. Besides, Teddy will kill
us if he thinks we ran you off.”

Baby turned around and faced us, but she kept going, walking backward. “I’m busy.
I’ll see you later.”

“Where are you going?” Rachel stood and planted her hands on her hips, and I thought
for a moment she might run down the beach and tackle our problem child.

Baby stopped and turned. She seemed to consider her answer for a couple of seconds,
and then said, “Actually, it’s none of your business.”

Rachel gasped and I started laughing. Baby headed off again, and soon she and her
bag of sandwiches were a memory.

“At this rate we’ll have to go over to the mainland and get more food,” Barbara groused.

“Oh, she’ll bring it back,” I said. “She can’t possibly eat all that. Let her be.
She’s just being…a baby.”

“Spoiled brat is more like it,” Rachel said.

I looked at my dying friend. She appeared absolutely fearless, prompting me to wonder
if she was cycling through Kübler-Ross’s stages of grief or if a sense of one’s mortality
infused a soul with clarity, wrongheaded or otherwise. I took a deep breath. Frankly,
at that moment, I felt as though it was all too much to think about. “It’s OK. I
suspect she’ll be back in a couple of hours. But y’all must have surely pissed her
off.”