The Yellow Braid (9 page)

“We are,” Nina called out for her sister to
hear.

“Happy birthday, darling, and I’m thrilled
you’re happy with it.”

“I am, very much,” Livia said.

“You’ll have to thank George,” Carmen said.
“It was his idea. He remembered how much you admired mine.”

“I will,” Livia said.

“How was your party? So nice that Caro came;
you’ve mentioned her so much in your e-mails.”

“Where are you?” Livia asked.

“Hong Kong. In fact—”

“I mean are you in the hotel?”

“Yes,” Carmen said. “But I can’t stay on
long because I’m meeting George for breakfast. He had to leave
earlier for a meeting.”

“I thought we were going to have a video
call for my birthday,” Livia said, her voice dropping in
disappointment. “Later can we?”

Carmen let out a soft laugh. “Of course
not, precious.
Later
will be
your middle of the night. Remember I’m twelve hours ahead of you,
so my morning is your night and your night is my morning next day.
Maybe tomorrow, I’ll see how late I get back to the hotel
tonight.”

“But then my birthday will be past.”

“It’s okay. I love you,” Carmen said.

“Tomorrow,” Livia said in a small voice.

“Hopefully, yes. No promises though.”

When Livia put down the phone, she went over
to her uncle and smothered her face in his chest. Moments later,
she said in a teary voice, “Least she doesn’t promise anymore.”

After Livia excused herself for the night,
Nina said, “Wonder, if ever, when Livia’s old enough if she’ll
accept her mother’s wandering lifestyle. Because the way it is now,
Livia has expectations of Carmen, like the video call, only to be
totally let down.”

Tommy wiped his palms as if to disengage
himself from the subject, and then refilled his wine glass.

Caro thought of Abby so far away in London.
“Abby did,” she confessed. “You don’t ever think it’s going to
happen, and then one day it does, and your daughter’s gone. I feel
bad for Carmen without even knowing her, as I do for Livia.”

“Don’t,” Nina said. “Carmen’s choosing her
life.”

“I did, too, because I felt that I had no
options. I always believed that I was a writer first and a mother
second. Or maybe a wife second, and a mother third. I don’t even
know. That’s one of the reasons I enjoy being with Livia so much.
Reminds me of what I missed with Abby.”

“And I appreciate the fact that Livia has
you in her life this summer. My sister’s other marriages didn’t
upset her as much as this one, or not that I could tell.” Nina
piled the dishes. “Come help me with coffee,” she said to Caro.

When they were in the kitchen, Nina said,
“Tommy and I agreed to try and put off any further discussion about
Livia until she’s gone. So I didn’t tell him I submitted the photos
to
Art
World
.”

“Nina, you didn’t,” Caro said.

“Shh! I don’t care. I’ll deal with him if
they accept me. In the meantime, please promise you won’t say
anything?”

“I won’t…except that you’re crazy.”

They rejoined Tommy just as he reached for a
second helping of cake. The women exchanged looks of envy that
Tommy was immune to gaining weight.

“By the way, what should I wear to Phyllis’s
party?” Caro asked Nina.

“Dress-down chic,” Nina said.

“I don’t even know what that means, much
less own something that fits the description.”

“We’ll go shopping one day next week and
I’ll show you,” Nina offered.

“I’ll warn you now,” Caro said. “I have an
intense dislike for shopping, especially for myself, mainly because
I circle the racks for untold amounts of time clueless as to what
will look right.”

“Not to worry. We’ll get you and Livia both
outfitted. Maybe buy something new for myself,” she said and
filched a chocolate curl from her husband’s plate.

Tommy grimaced in semi-seriousness. “You own
dress-down chic already.”

“But I’m sure whatever it is, everyone’s
seen it.”

Looking at Caro’s hair with a professional
eye, Tommy said, “Am I going to see you before the party?”

“I suppose I have to,” Caro said with
reluctance.

“You do,” Nina agreed. “You don’t appear to
be anywhere near your age, so why announce it with all that gray
hair?”

Tommy circled Caro’s chair, examining her
from different angles. “I’ll get my cosmetician to recommend some
make-up tips.” He held her chin. “If nothing else, liner to bring
out your eyes. Matter of fact, I’ll slot you in for a day of beauty
and you’ll have nothing more to do than slip on your party clothes
that night.”

Nina pushed back her chair. “I’m going to
run up and check on Livia.”

“I’ll help Tommy clean up,” Caro
offered.

“Thanks,” Nina said as she gathered up
Livia’s presents and mounted the stairs to her room.

“Tell her to stop by tomorrow,” Caro
offered. “I’ve got a new poem to show her.”

Nina nodded over her shoulder.

Tommy loaded the dishwasher while Caro
stored the leftovers. His methodical movements in the kitchen,
combined with the residual cooking aromas, reminded her of a
favorite uncle who’d entertained her with stories he made up while
he dished up Italian dishes. Like Tommy, between him and his wife,
her uncle was the softer of the two. “You care for Livia a lot,”
she said.

“She’s sensitive, you know, and Nina, for
all her goodness, doesn’t understand her. She wants her niece to be
tough and outgoing. Unfortunately, those attributes can’t be
transferred just by willing them on someone.”

“If she was stronger, more extroverted,
would you be less bothered about the photos?”

“I’m supposed to be sophisticated and cool
about different art forms. A canvas painted completely black with a
purple circle in the middle of it and titled “Self-Portrait” I’ve
got no argument with. It’s ugly but doesn’t hurt anyone. A picture
of a tattooed porn star, I find less digestible, but she’s not
related. I treat Livia as I would my own daughter, so yes, I still
would have a major problem. I just wish Nina would stick to
shooting lighthouses and water mills.”

“
Wow, you’re very clear on how upset you
are with Nina, but Tommy—I have to say, that’s a pretty selfish
attitude. Lighthouses and water mills, come on. You know Nina’s
better than that.”

Tommy stopped what he was doing and turned
on Caro. “Did you ever compromise your daughter?”

“In my own ways, yes,” Caro said.

“Ever forgive yourself?”

“Not totally,” Caro said. “I don’t think I
ever can.”

“My point exactly.”

“
I don’t believe you’re worried about Nina
regretting—”

“Of course not. I’m concerned about
forgiving myself if I don’t try and stop her.”

There’s a period of life when
we swallow a knowledge of ourselves
and it becomes either good or sour
inside.
~Pearl
Bailey

Caro wrenched the bed sheet and coverlet from
the coiled mess around her legs and tucked them up under her chin,
her elbows pointing out to either side like airplane wings. Her
blanketed and tucked position didn’t stop her from bouncing from
side to side or from punching the pillow with her fist in
frustration minutes later. In the three hours since midnight, she’d
drifted off twice as many times, and awakened from a recurring
dream.

More like a nightmare, it began with Marcie
walking in the park where she had been attacked. Instead of the
mugger slamming her with a bat, he covered her eyes with his hands,
and exclaimed, “Guess who?” When Marcie peeked, she saw it wasn’t
her assailant at all. It was Zach!

They didn’t spot Caro, who peered from a
distance. They didn’t kiss. There was no embrace. And yet Caro woke
every time sweaty and shaken right at the moment when she found
them out.

In reality, Caro had no reason to believe
there was anything between Zach and Marcie besides friendship. She
reflected on the numerous occasions the three of them had been
together. After Marcie’s divorce, she melded into their family
seamlessly. They didn’t have to invite her to anything; it was
expected that she’d be there, and most of the time she was.

Often, on weekends, Marcie stayed over,
bringing an overnight bag. After a while, so many of her clothes
had accumulated at the apartment that one day when Caro was doing
the laundry, she’d laughed to herself at the number of Marcie’s
items she was washing.

Caro sat upright, drew her knees in and
hugged them as she recalled the many nights she had holed herself
up in her study to write. Intermittent chords of laughter would
drift up the circular staircase like curlicues of cigarette smoke
and she’d raise the volume on whatever mood music she had on so as
not to lose focus.

She’d never been jealous of them. Quite
the opposite, she was a dedicated artist and Marcie’s friendship
with Zach alleviated her guilt for not spending the evenings with
him watching reruns of
Seinfeld
and
Sex and the City
.

Zach and Marcie? The only other person she
loved more was her daughter. They wouldn’t have cheated on Caro.
She drew out the oversized T-shirt in front of her—U.S. Open, ’96.
She’d known Marcie only six months. Nevertheless, when Zach found
out she was an obsessive Andre Agassi fan, he’d insisted she tag
along to Queens with them to attend the grand-slam tennis event.
Marcie had bought him the T-shirt in appreciation.

Caro went into the kitchen, switching on
lights. Standing with the refrigerator door open, she was deciding
whether to drink iced tea or a beer, when a staggering thought
seized her heart and slid up to her throat.

Zach had been at a job site when he’d
suffered his heart attack. By the time Caro had received the phone
call and then driven to the hospital, he was already undergoing
surgery to repair an aortic aneurysm. Afterward, the doctors had
assured her the prognosis looked hopeful. It took Zach only
twenty-eight hours to prove them wrong.

Marcie had arrived at the hospital shortly
after Caro and had remained until the end. In the last hour before
Zach died, he’d asked to see Marcie alone. At the time, Caro had
imagined that he wanted to extract a promise from Marcie that she’d
look after his wife and daughter. She was so upset—who knew what
she was thinking, or why. But that was it.

And when Marcie emerged from the room, her
eyes red from crying, Caro asked about the piece of paper crushed
in Marcie’s fist. Marcie had denied its importance; a tissue, she’d
said. But a circle of red darkened around her neck like a collar
and stained her cheeks and she’d hurried off down the hall.

Although over the next weeks Marcie’s
obfuscation had niggled at Caro, in her grief the incident had
gotten lost. Now she contemplated with a studied fierceness what
that paper could have been—what had it contained?

Agitated by her insomnia and her irrational
thoughts, Caro dialed Abby’s number, hoping that her daughter’s
voice would calm her.

“Mom, this is the third time this month
you’re calling in the middle of your night. Are you all right?”

“I had bad dreams about Marcie,” Caro
said.

“Did you want to talk about it?”

“It’s just that I haven’t been able to
settle down to anything since she died. I haven’t written, and now
I’m getting nightmares. Seems like Livia’s the only person I feel
completely sane with.”

“And me?” Abby said.

“You know what I mean. Out of the people I
see here.”

“
Maybe that’s your problem. Except for her
aunt and uncle, you don’t mention anyone else
but
her. You need to socialize. What is it that you do
with her anyway?”

Caro was defensive. “I mentor her.”

“In what?”

“Poetry mostly. She has great potential.
More important, I understand her and she appreciates that.”

“That’s fine, but nobody mentors twenty-four
seven,” Abby said.

“There’s no one else to socialize with.
Besides, I’d compare everyone to Marcie.”

“That’s totally understandable. That’s why
you need to give yourself a push. You know how easy it is for you
to isolate.”

“Easy as it is for you to give advice. What
I need is a little sympathy.”

Abby checked the time; she had to get ready
for work, and so she ignored her mother’s barb. “I’m sorry, Mom.
Losing Marcie’s been hard.”

Caro felt herself in the grips of a bad
mood, and itching to fight with her daughter. “That’s all you can
say? Maybe if you lost someone close to you—”

“Does losing my dad count?” Abby shot
back.

“
No, he was family. I mean someone you
choose especially to be a best friend, that you can depend on and
talk to and…”

“I’m getting off,” Abby said.

“Not now you’re not. I’m still talking,”
Caro snapped.

“Fuck, Mom! You want to pick a fight, go
find your young school friend,” Abby said, and hung up.

Caro was glad not to talk to her daughter
any longer. How dare Abby implicate Livia in their disagreement.
Livia was fast becoming a part of Caro’s daily routine, and
finding
her was exactly what Caro
needed.

By first light, Caro was walking along the
beach as the sun moved in and out of a rosy, purplish haze. A
beautiful day was inevitable for even now she detected the globular
field of yellow heat behind the low cloud cover. She walked
quickly, mentally stamping out her argument with her daughter the
night before with each definitive footprint she made in the
hard-packed sand.