Her father mumbled something Penelope couldn’t make out.
“Don’t be dramatic,” she heard her mother’s voice, followed by a door slamming and water running.
I am a shoe waiting to drop. It sounded sad but powerful at the same time.
Back in her room, Penelope colored over the lines of the paper and onto the table. Her mother would be mad.
The next day, after school, she could tell that someone had scrubbed the table clean. She asked her mother if she had touched anything in her room but she said no. Penelope observed marker stains on her mother’s fingers, the kind that would take forever to disappear.
9
DONNA
I step outside and something stirs to my left. It’s Vera, slouching her way to the common area with a book in one hand, wrapped in a wool shawl she is clutching with both hands. I watch her as she lowers her body into a metal chair in slow motion.
Every Wednesday, a man in a black suit leads Vera along the walkways as she hooks her hand around his upper arm. There is a certain familiarity between them. For a long time I believed he was her son who lived in the city somewhere but found out later it was her driver taking her on errands.
As I watch Vera, her face tilted back, toward the sun, her eyes closed, I’m reminded of the cabin in Angel Fire. I wonder if Edward has sold the cabin, maybe he’d be willing to put it in my name? I always enjoyed the leisurely weekends there and I suddenly long to be at the lake. In the mornings, the water condensed into mist as it rose from the lake, and the waves lapped the shore, where here, at Shadow Garden, man-made fountains with electric motors pump water out of algae-covered copper spigots.
Vera sits, her mouth drooping, her neck now tilting sideways. What if she was dead, I think, how long until someone realizes? I slam the patio door shut. Vera jerks awake, puzzled. She lifts her hand and waves at me by merely wiggling her fingers about. I wave back. I motion to her with my hand and point at the chair next to her. Vera nods. When I drop into the chair, I look left and right to make sure there isn’t anyone within earshot.
“Vera,” I say and grab her book from her lap. I’m not interested in the book itself but I don’t want her to get distracted, and she will, she always does. “I’ve made a decision.”
“What’s that, dear?”
“I’m going to see Edward. I have to talk to him.” My breathing is heavy.
I wait for her response but there’s none. Her face is turned toward the sun, her eyes are closed. After a long while, she speaks. “Edward?” she finally says. “You haven’t spoken to him in months. Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“I don’t care.” I feel myself getting worked up, tears about to stream down my face. I’ve kept the desperation at bay but it’s about to pour out of me. Vera has never seen me cry, though apart from exchanging pleasantries and gossip, she knows the gist of my story. I’ve spent hours relaying my life to her.
I take in a deep breath. “This is about money. I need to talk to him. I can’t find any paperwork regarding a divorce or a settlement, anything about alimony.”
“Why are you crying?” Vera asks, my tears throwing her off.
I go on and on, explaining how I should have insisted on legal papers, how hush-hush the time was just before Edward discarded me, how nebulous the weeks before, how I couldn’t get out of bed, the melancholy—I want to avoid the D word at all costs—how my overall state of mind was neither here nor there, and how the edges of that time are no longer clear. And Penelope, I worry about Penelope. Always I worry. Always.
“Penelope hasn’t called in months. I’ve no idea where she is or if she’s okay. It’s driving me nuts. And Edward, Edward doesn’t know the half of it, he’s not prepared to deal and so much has been happening, I . . .”
Vera doesn’t display any negative notion though I can tell by her pursed lips that she has some sort of feeling about my disoriented stream of words.
“She’s grown, but who doesn’t call their mother?” I add.
“I don’t call my mother.”
“Your mother is dead, Vera.”
She cranes her neck to look past me. A family with two small children approaches. One of them, a boy the age of five, maybe six, runs after a ball. It bounces and then rolls over the grass, toward us. He picks it up but then stares at us as if he wants to talk.
“Hi,” he says and holds the ball in front of him like it’s a big belly. “What are you doing?” He sounds squeaky and high-pitched, still so many years before he will lose his childlike voice.
Vera opens her mouth but before she can say anything, a woman appears and grabs the boy by the hand, pulling him away. He tugs on her arm but can’t get loose. Her hands close around his twiggy upper arm, and she all but drags him a few feet.
“Parents are so rough these days,” Vera says, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The mother—I’m willing to make that allowance and call her that since I spot a slight resemblance around the eyes and the nose—bends down and whispers in the boy’s ear. I can see how tight her grip is around his arm, how she’s attempting to keep him in check. And we don’t know anything, maybe the mother is trying to protect the child, she doesn’t know the first thing about us, apparently the boy is too trusting. I want to say all this to Vera but she doesn’t have children, she wouldn’t understand. The boy reminds me of Penelope, she too was a headstrong child. Don’t judge her, I want to say. Maybe the child’s a handful, a terror. You can’t tell by looking at them. It’s always so convenient to say if a child goes wrong, look at the family. That was the very reason I never employed a nanny. How do you have strangers in your home, how do you act, how do you maintain privacy?
The family disappears around the corner and I turn back to Vera.
“Can you help me? Can you drive me to see Edward?” I ask.
“I don’t have a car. You know that. We talked about that, Donna, dear, do you ever listen when I talk? The point of my being here is not to go anywhere. I have so much work to do and so little time. I’m not getting any younger.” She hesitates as if she’s searching for something to say but is immediately distracted by a door opening in one of the buildings farther down the path. A woman and a man with a Chihuahua emerge and the man drops the dog in the grass where he immediately squats. The woman scoops him up and off they go.
“Vera . . .” I say, not knowing how to go on.
“I’m sorry. I’m digressing, what’s this all about?” Vera asks. “What’s that got to do with Edward?”
“What will become of me?” I ask.
“Think of your daughter. She—”