The Invisibles (3 page)

“All right,” she heard herself whisper into the phone. “Okay, I'll come.”

S
he stayed at the window for at least five minutes after Ozzie hung up, her eyes fixed on the horizon, a myriad of thoughts drifting from one thing to another and then back again. In just over twenty-four hours, she was going to be reunited with her girls. Her family. Her life. She could still say those things, couldn't she? It was how she felt. How she'd always felt, even if she'd forgotten she did. Their faces came rushing back at her in rapid succession: Ozzie with the short, cropped hair that she cut herself, dark eyebrows, and wide, fleshy lips; Monica, whose smooth, doughy face was framed with orange curls; and Grace, the beauty of the group, who had long blond hair and a bone structure so delicate that it sometimes looked like porcelain. They would have changed undoubtedly through the years, just as she had; maybe some of them were a little wider around the hips or had a few more wrinkles under the eyes, but she knew she would still be able to spot any of them in a crowded room.

She was glad Grace's baby was staying with her grandparents and that she was not going to be at the house. Seeing Grace was going to be difficult enough, but adding a baby to the mix would ratchet things up another hundred degrees. Nora didn't do well with babies. She never had, and she doubted she ever would. They made her anxious the way little else could. It was not so much their gigantic, wobbly heads that, mishandled at just the right angle, could snap their necks in half, or their rubber limbs that seemed to fold in on themselves like pieces of Play-Doh. It was not even the vague terror that crawled up the length of her arms when she held one, sure that at any moment she would drop it on the floor where it would break apart into pieces. It was the crying that undid her, the sorrowful, helpless sound unraveling some tight ball deep inside her chest when she heard it. There was no way she would have agreed to go if Ozzie had said the baby would be there. No way in hell.

She startled as Alice Walker barked behind her, and, realizing how much time had passed, rushed to the shower. It took her less than ten minutes to get dressed for work, and she raced up the back steps of the library, hoping to slide in through the kitchen before anyone noticed. She was supposed to be at work by 8:30, but the phone call had taken up more time than she realized. It was now 8:46. The library opened at nine.

“Happy birthday!” Trudy and Marion jumped out from behind the wall as Nora turned the corner. Pieces of yellow and white confetti fluttered down around her like snow, and Marion blew on a paper horn. Trudy was holding a cake covered with white icing. The words
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NORA
! were scrawled across the top in shaky pink letters.

“Oh!” Nora covered her mouth with both hands, suppressing a giggle. “You scared me!”

Marion blew on the horn again.

“Put that thing away,” Trudy said, swatting at it. “It sounds like you're strangling a goose.”

Marion blew it once more, this time in Trudy's face.

“A child,” Trudy muttered, shaking her head. “Eternally stuck at six.”

Marion Hubbard and Trudy Randolph were both in their late sixties. They had known each other for almost thirty years. Between the two of them, they had gone through four marriages, the death of a child (Trudy's), and two cracked pelvises. Trudy, who had actually started the library in her own living room before getting enough federal funding to transfer it to a larger building on Maple Street, was the library director, and Marion, who had been her first hire, was her right hand. It was Marion who had approached Nora with the suggestion of working for them after observing her reading in the corner of the second floor for months on end; Marion, too, who had encouraged her a few years later to apply to the local college so that she could get her degree in library science. Nora had refused outright—the thought of having to immerse herself in yet another close-knit social structure (or being on the outside of one) had literally given her hives—until Trudy mentioned the possibility of doing everything online. It had taken her a little over five years, but Nora had done it, applying for and receiving financial aid every semester, staying up late to make sure her papers were perfect, even asking Marion and Trudy to quiz her some days before a big test. She was twenty-seven when
she received her bachelor of arts in library science and media diploma in the mail, and it was one of the proudest days of her life. Marion and Trudy had taken her out to dinner to celebrate, and she had smiled all night long.

Now, Trudy set the cake down on the kitchen table, plopped into a chair, and yanked up one of her knee-high argyle socks. Her wide face was accentuated with bright green eyes and soft jowls. Tufts of her short white hair were clipped into place with a variety of plastic barrettes—two blue butterflies, an orange grasshopper, and several pink kittens. Marion had told Nora once that Trudy had never graduated from the eighth grade, and sometimes Nora wasn't sure if she was kidding.

“You know I'm always glad to see you,” Trudy said, looking steadily at Nora, “but for a minute there, I thought maybe you'd decided to live large and were going to play hooky today. I wouldn't've docked you, you know. It is your birthday, after all.”

“Oh no,” Nora said, “I wouldn't have skipped work. And I'm sorry I was a little late. I just . . . I got a phone call this morning from an old friend. We were catching up. I didn't realize how much time had passed.”

“Oh, there's nothing better than a birthday call from an old friend!” Marion clasped her hands together wistfully. “How lovely! Who was it?” The silk triangle of scarf that peeked out from her breast pocket matched her navy shoes. Marion dressed every day as if she were about to begin her own talk show on national TV instead of getting behind the periodical desk at the public library.

“Just someone I used to know in high school.” Nora took off her
brown barn jacket and draped it around the back of her chair. “She wants me to come out and visit her this weekend in Chicago.”

Trudy's finger, which she had just coated with frosting and inserted into her mouth, froze between her lips. “You're going, right? Tell me you're not going and I'll whack you on that empty head of yours.”

“Trudy!” Marion scolded.

“I am going.” Nora sat down. “I'm a little worried about the money, though. I can't even imagine what a plane ticket might cost these days.”

Trudy removed her finger from her mouth with a soft sucking sound. “Round trip to Chicago'll cost you about four hundred dollars. Maybe a little more since it's the weekend and you're booking so late. In the long run, Nora, that's not a lot of money. Do it.”

Nora glanced away from the older woman, hoping she didn't look as uncomfortable as she felt. Trudy was always bugging her about taking time off or going somewhere on vacation. It wasn't like she hadn't; just last year, after Trudy had nagged her incessantly, she and Alice Walker had rented a car and driven down to the Jersey Shore, where they stayed for two nights at Trudy's beach house. It had been a nice enough trip—the moon especially, which had been a barely visible crescent, had looked magnificent above the water, like an electric eyelash—and one night she had gotten a bucket of soft-shell crabs that she had eaten out on the deck, but being down there had exacerbated her loneliness, too. She'd left with an empty feeling that gnawed at her all the way home, an ache that did not leave
for a long time afterward. It was not something she was yearning to do again.

“I'd have to take tomorrow off,” she said. “I'm working Saturdays this month, remember?”

“Oh, I think we'll manage,” Trudy replied dryly.

“Hot diggety!” Marion broke in. “Not much else can beat a last-minute plane trip!” She tilted her head, a sly look coming across her porcelain features. “Except maybe cake and ice cream for breakfast! You ready?”

“You brought ice cream, too?” Nora sat forward, grateful that Marion had changed the subject. As bullish as Trudy was, Marion could be equally tactful.

“Of course we brought ice cream!” Marion's heels clicked against the linoleum as she started for the freezer. “Whoever heard of eating birthday cake without ice cream?” She grabbed a plastic sack off the top of the microwave on her way back. “And Swedish fish, too! To sprinkle on top!”

Nora grinned. She knew that her addiction to Swedish fish was something that Marion, who rarely, if ever, ate sugar, considered both appalling and endearing.

“And remember.” Marion began cutting the cake. “There is no such thing as calories on your birthday.” She plopped an enormous section of cake onto a plate and slid it over to Trudy for ice cream. “Of course, you don't have to worry about things like calories for at least another ten years. Forty is when it really starts to go to hell. And then fifty, well, you may as well just go ahead and burn every girdle you've ever bought, since the only thing they manage to do is leave unsightly indentations around your
middle.” She patted the front of her skirt gently, as if forgiving her body for such a thing anyway.

“Speak for yourself.” Trudy slid her finger down the side of the cake and winked at Nora. “You got any plans for tonight?”

Nora averted her eyes. “No, not really.”

“Nothing at all?” Marion repeated kindly. She stuck a single gummy fish in the middle of Nora's slice of cake, and then sprinkled a handful of them around the edges, as if they were swimming.

Nora smiled, trying to hide her embarrassment. “You both know Alice Walker would be offended if I left her alone on my birthday. We'll get some steaks and hang out.” She toed the leg of the table with her shoe, knowing how lame this sounded, but the truth was that an evening alone with her dog did not make her want to jump off a bridge anymore. There had been a time, maybe even as recently as a few years ago, when the idea of such a thing created such feelings of dread that she found herself staying late at the library to avoid going home, but not anymore. She'd gotten used to keeping herself company. And Alice Walker, who Nora could swear had been a therapist in a past life, always knew just when to climb up on the couch next to her and rest her head in her lap. No, buying a steak dinner and sharing it with her dog tonight would be just fine.

Trudy, however, did not seem to agree. Nora pursed her lips as the older woman began shaking her head across the table.

“Marion and I would be more than happy to take you to dinner tonight—just the three of us—but why don't you come with us to our salsa class instead? There's lots of young people there; you never know.”

Trudy had a variation of invites that she peppered Nora with,
but the silent, underlying purpose behind them was always the same:
It's not healthy for a young woman like you to spend so much time alone. You need girlfriends, Nora. Women your own age you can cook with and drink wine with and go to the movies with. Girls you can gossip about sex and love with and bare your darkest secrets to, and know that afterward, they will love you just as much, if not more.

What Trudy didn't know was that Nora had had all that. She'd had it in spades actually, friendships that had made her feel invincible, whole, complete in a way that defied completeness. And since it had disappeared, she had never had the heart to go out and look for it again. It had been too hard to lose the first time.

She stood up. She wasn't about to get into any of this now. “No, thanks. But listen, thank you for my—”

“Oh, sit
down
.” Trudy put her fork down and, with a great display of irritation, reached under the table and withdrew a box wrapped in light blue tissue paper. “For you,” she said, sliding it in Nora's direction. “Happy birthday, kid.”

Nora sat back down, touching the side of the small box as Marion clapped her hands. “You didn't have to get me anything,” she said. “Jeez, the cake was enough.” She pulled the tissue off and stared at the cube-shaped box.
Randall's Jewelry
was etched across the top in gilded letters. She looked back up at the women, bewildered.

“Just open the damn box,” Trudy said. “And before you get all weird about it,
yes,
it was expensive. But this is what we wanted to do. Besides, Marion and I like to spend our money, not hoard it like some people we know.” She raised a thatch of eyebrow. “Don't we, Marion?”

Marion reached out and patted Trudy's hand. “Be kind, dear.”

Nora opened the box—and then inhaled at the silver link bracelet nestled in a sea of dark velvet. In the middle of the links was a thick crescent moon, the edges tipped and shadowed in a dark gray. The word
Nora
had been inscribed along the outside curve, a tiny sapphire chip dotting the top of the capital
N
.

“Do you like it?” Marion leaned forward, her forehead furrowed. “We weren't really sure . . .”

“It was her idea,” Trudy said, jerking her head toward Marion. A blue butterfly barrette quivered in her hair. “She thought it would be cute and all, 'cause you're always talking about the moon. I have the receipt if you want to exchange it.”

Nora shook her head, struggling to retrieve her voice. “I love it. It's beautiful. Thank you.”

“Really?” Marion asked. “You're sure?”

“I'm sure.” It was hard to get the words out around the mound in the back of her throat. They were so good to her, these women, and had been for so many years. So loving. So attentive. Even if they did feel sorry for her.

She held out her wrist so that Marion could fasten the clasp, and then leaned back, stroking it with a fingertip. “I love it,” she said, looking back up at the women. “I really do. Thank you so much.”

“You're welcome.” Trudy stood up, brushing crumbs off the front of her zippered cardigan sweater. “And now that
that'
s over, it's time to get to work.”