“We should have stayed at home,” he had said. “She’s not ready.”
“We can’t stay locked up in the house forever, Ray,” Mom had said, fussing over Lola and checking the braces she wore on her ankles to keep herself steady.
Lola kept them covered up most of the time, but they were still there. They made her seem fragile and people wanted to take care of her. When she got the ankle braces off a few years later, eventually no one even remembered they had been there.
I still see the memory of them glinting on her legs, even now, sometimes.
“Why does Mom do anything that she does?” I ask, perhaps with more sarcasm in my voice than necessary.
Across the virtual phone line, Lola chuckles in agreement. “Is Cassie with you?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Tell her I’m fine,” Lola says, always more concerned about everyone else. “You know what I found under Dad’s bed?”
“Why were you under Dad’s bed?”
“That album cover,” she says. “I wanted to play the record, but it’s gone.”
“The one with the monster face?”
“Do you remember the way he used to try to scare us?” she asks, her voice light and airy.
It was Dad’s record—some has-been band that I had never heard of then or since. He used to play this game where he’d sneak into our room and make zombie noises, holding the album cover in front of his face to scare us. We’d scream and hide under the covers, our little hearts pounding, fear squealing out of us even though we knew it was all make-believe.
I look over at Cassie and wonder where make-believe has gone. So much is possible these days that nothing is magic anymore.
“I remember,” I say to Lola, and then try to change the subject. “Where’s Chris?”
Cassie looks over at me, clearly listening.
“He’s inside talking to Mom,” Lola says. “She knows, doesn’t she? That he’s from TV?”
“Mom’s ecstatic,” I say. “She loves those commercials.”
“You told her?” Cassie asks sharply, figuring out what has happened. “Good. I hate keeping secrets.”
I glance at Cassie, who has already turned back to her iPhone.
“Are you far away?” Lola asks.
She needs me. And right now, even though I know it’s selfish, I need Lola to need me. To make me feel like I have a purpose. Like there is some tangible thing that I can do for someone and that what I do means something.
◆ ◆ ◆
At Mom’s house, I find it difficult to get out of the car. For a moment, Cassie doesn’t notice that we have stopped, and it buys me some time. I can’t help but see Mom’s yard like one of Lola’s paintings. Late April, grass painted Day-Glo green. Pink and white lopsided tulips, long buried in wait, have pried their blooms through the ground, and daffodils reach their golden buckets toward the sky. There are no leaves on the trees yet, except for the pink cherry blossoms and slightly off-white dogwoods—their short-lived color too anxious to wait for the rest of nature to catch up.
In this fictional painting, Lola will have captured the very precise spacing of the flowers edging the walk to the front door. Mom has a knack for that sort of control over things that spring from the ground. I envy that level of mastery over the world around her. Truth be told, it’s all a cover-up. Pretty though, all the pink and white. I hope that Mom finds enjoyment in it. I hope it isn’t all whitewash over an old fence.
But that’s what we do. We make things into what we want them to be. We spin the world around us to match the thoughts in our head. If this was one of Lola’s paintings, the neighbor’s house in the background would be on fire and Chris would be standing in the yard aiming a water hose made of Christmas garland at the roof. There would be little girl sitting in the front yard, eating a pink tulip, and everyone who looked at the painting would think it was the story of their own life.
Inside, Mom and Lola are in the kitchen prepping Lola for the day. They don’t notice us come in.
“Ok,” Mom says and holds up an index card with a photo and a name on it. “Aunt Rose will be the one in the blue, polyester suit. It’s her funeral suit. She wears it every time. Do you remember that?”
“No,” Lola says. “But I do remember Aunt Rose. I’m not that messed up.”
Cassie looks at me sharply, anxiously. I put my hand on her shoulder, whisper that it’s ok. These games worry Cassie. I nod toward the other room, giving her leeway to leave. I feel guilty for enjoying the small moment of being needed, being her safety net.
“Now that’s a shame,” I say once Cassie is in the other room. “All those holes and Aunt Rose couldn’t have dropped into one?”
Lola and Mom both turn toward me.
“You hush,” Mom says, but there’s a hint of a smile on her face. “We have company in the living room, so be nice. Where’s Cassie?”
“She’s already come and gone, Mother,” Lola says. “She hates your card game.”
Lola had noticed us after all.
“Don’t you think you should warn Chris about Aunt Rose?” I say, opening a cabinet, searching for a coffee mug. “It’s only fair. Without Jack to pester, Chris is a prime target.”
“Oh,” Lola says and groans. “Rose will have a field day with Chris. Do you think she’s seen the commercials?”
Everyone has seen them.
“Nina,” Mom shouts at me so suddenly that I jump, banging the coffee mug hard against the counter. “Why did you tell her?”
“I didn’t tell her anything,” I say, pulling out the coffee carafe to discover only the
