“I guess this makes a case for having neighbors a bit closer than I do,” Lola says while we work to clean up and throw away the remains.
“It’s not like you’re in the middle of nowhere,” I say, pointing up the road. “There’s a house right over there.”
“Mrs. Grande wouldn’t have heard anything if they were in her own house,” Lola says. “I’m glad they came here and not there. She would have tried to fight them off, the feisty little thing, and would have probably gotten herself hurt, or worse.”
“You are the most gracious person I know.”
“How’s Ray?” Lola asks. She reaches down to pick up a piece of something. She turns it over and over in her hand, squeezes her eyebrows together, and then tosses it back on the floor.
“He’s good,” I say. “You should visit. He’s got the place set up really nice. Beer in the fridge and everything. Just like he’s planning to stay a while.”
“I will.” She steps away from me and deeper into the broken remains of her house. “If he wants me to.”
“Why wouldn’t he want you to?”
“I told him,” she says and picks up something that looks like part of the washing machine.
“About Chris? I think he knew about that already.”
“No,” she says. “I told him that I knew what happened.”
“What do you mean what happened?” I pick up shards of glass from a broken picture frame and put them carefully into the trash.
“You know what I mean.”
I stand there with my mouth agape.
“Close your mouth,” she says. “You’re letting flies in.”
“Lola,” I say, frozen to the ground. “I didn’t know that you knew.”
“Sure you did.” She picks up a shard I missed. “But I appreciate the effort. I do. I told Ray as much, but you know how he is.”
I do, and now I’m torn between fear and amazement. He knows she knows, and still he stays. This would be the perfect flight opportunity for Ray, but yet, here he remains, nest built and all. Suddenly everything seems fragile.
“You’re afraid that he’ll leave?” I ask, beginning to understand why she’s staying away. “He’s not going anywhere. He’s here.”
She looks at me and kicks at the edge of the knifed-up couch. “Nothing is a given. I don’t think I can stand it if he goes away again.”
“If you won’t even talk to him, what’s the difference if he’s here or not?”
She looks at me and chuckles. “It’s not about me. You guys always made it all about me.”
“Babe,” Chris says, coming into the room carrying one of Lola’s paintings. “Look at this.”
It’s the Space Mountain painting with the word “Sorry” written in yellow spray paint across the center.
“Well, at least one of them was remorseful,” Lola says. “Maybe I’ll keep this one. The lettering is pretty well done.”
Chris sets down the canvas and retreats back into the depths of the house.
“Why now?” I ask, shifting the question.
“It was time,” she says. “Dad is gone. The jig is up. It’s ok. Really.”
“Is it?” I am brought up short by the memory of everything that ever was.
“Yeah. It would have been ok back then too, but just for me. It wasn’t time for everyone else. Mom needed me to forget, so I played along. Ray needed to forgive himself.”
“Do you think he has? Forgiven himself?”
“No,” she says. “But he’s served enough time. So have I. I understand the desire to create something new from the wreckage. But it was time. I kept my promise as long as I could. It’s not about me anymore.”
“Your promise?”
Lola shakes her head at me, but smiles. “That night on the porch when we were little,” she says. “I’d heard Mom and Dad fighting about me and the way things were before. Bits and pieces had already come back to me, and I was figuring it out pretty fast. I told you I wouldn’t tell. And I didn’t. But I think it’s time we all got on with moving forward, don’t you think?”
She says it all so easy and casual. She touches my arm and smiles at me. We pick over the remains of her world, showing each other things and nodding yes or shaking no to indicate their importance. There isn’t much that gets a yes.
“You could move in with me until you clean this up,” I offer when the conversation drifts that way. “It looks like this is going to take a while.”
“Thanks,” she says and kicks at a piece of dining room chair with her toe. “But I have somewhere in mind already.”
“Ray’s?” I ask, stumped.
“Be serious,” she says. “Do you think he could look at me every day and not wind up in a puddle under the coffee table?”
“Chris?” I say, excited. “Is he moving here? Don’t tell me you’re going out there. I couldn’t stand it. Don’t you dare move to LA. Break up with him,” I finish, laughing at my own turnaround in attitude.
“No, I’m not going to LA,” she says. “I’ve been thinking about a new project. I think it’s time.” She holds out a bag of garbage that used to be her house. “I could become one of those Found Object artists.”
“Well, you said you were looking for something new,” I say.
“There is something sort of poetic about it. Making art from tragedy—literally.”
Her whole life is art from tragedy. I guess I’m not surprised that she knows. I remember that night on the porch. Everything was so fragile, like the world was covered in eggshells. I wanted her to remember, but she was right—it wasn’t the time. How gracious of a child to know her place in the world, her hold on the universe. How unselfish to remain quiet when quiet was needed. All this time. It makes Lola seem angelic to me. Capable of love so deep that self is less important.
I watch as Lola looks through the broken contents of her house. She seems
