Circle of Three Read online

  No, I can see this is stupid. I don’t even know what mathematicians do, not really, except teach, which my dad complained about all the time. He made fun of the other professors in his department, who got ahead by kissing up or playing politics, whereas he just did his job and took care of business. He was sort of a loner.

  That’s why it would’ve been so cool to be partners. I feel like, once I was older and had my math degrees and everything, I could’ve cheered him up, plus he’d’ve been proud of me. I hate that this is never going to happen.

  I have got to do something about my clothes. I took this quiz in a magazine to find out my own personal style. You could be Fun, Preppy, Grunge, Goth, Corporate, I forget what else. Caitlin and Jamie took it, and they were both Fun, but when I added up my scores I didn’t have enough points to be anything. God, how pathetic. I can see the same thing going on in my room, which I now hate. I have a Dixie Chicks calendar—yuck! I can’t wait till it runs out!—and a picture of LeoD., and a poster of Natalie Imbruglia and some cutouts of Claire Danes and George Clooney and Siouxsie Sioux and the Banshees. I mean, what is that? Exactly what does that mean? So I’m going to take everything down, clear it all out, just have nothing, blank walls, and let my room fill itself back up organically. Then we’ll see.

  Because Raven came over after dinner tonight, and for the nanosecond Mom let us be alone in my room, his face went into like total disgust and he mumbled, “Happening. Not.”

  But that wasn’t even the worst. I told Mom afterward, if she can’t get dressed in regular clothes, daytime clothes, her own clothes, not her dead husband’s—I almost said, but that sounded mean, and plus we try to avoid the D word these days unless there’s a good reason—then she can just stay in her room when I have company over. It’s funny, I used to worry about what she thought of Raven, and tonight all I could think was what he must be making of her. She had on a pair of Dad’s old sweatpants, one of his plaid flannel shirts, and his gray wool bathrobe. Oh, and a pair of his running socks. I mean, God. No makeup, of course, and I don’t know when she last washed her hair. She has goldish brown hair, very long and stick straight, and until now I was always jealous of it. Mine’s curly, which I hate, and not as nice a color I don’t think, more of an ashy blond like Dad’s. Anyway—and her complexion’s changed, she used to have very delicate coloring, but now she’s like totally gray, probably because of all the junk she eats. She’s just washed out. “Um, my mom’s still kind of wrecked,” I told Raven when he was leaving, and he said, “Obviously.” Which I thought was unnecessary.

  But he was nice, he came by to lend me a book, some selected stories by Edgar Allan Poe. He likes anything that’s creepy. After Poe his favorite authors are Anne Rice and Edward Gorey. I was not feeling that great to begin with, and he wouldn’t get off the subject of how everything ends, everything is loss, the only appropriate humor in life is melancholy, which did not exactly cheer me up. But I think it’s too cool that his real last name is Black. His first name is Martin, but his last name is Black. Raven Black. It’s like a sign.

  After he went home, Mom came in my room and sat on my bed, where I was trying to do homework. She’s definitely not herself, because she hasn’t even been getting on me lately about what a sty my room is.

  She didn’t say anything, so I kept reading, figuring she’d get to the point eventually. She started picking at the quilt she made me for my thirteenth birthday. It has blue and green stars, and it’s about the only thing I still like in my room. “What?” I said finally, and she smiled this really shaky smile and said, “Sorry about tonight. Guess I’m not doing so great.”

  “You’re okay,” I said.

  “I’ll be better soon.”

  “I know.”

  “How are you, baby?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Really?” She touched my cheek with the back of her hand. “Tell me about school.”

  “It’s the same. I got a B on my French test.” I didn’t tell her about my algebra test, she’d’ve freaked. That’s supposed to be my best subject. “What does it mean when you have a sore in your mouth that won’t go away?” I said.

  “Let’s see.”

  I showed her the inside of my cheek, which has this tender white spot I keep accidentally biting.

  “Oh, that’s just a canker sore. It’ll go away.”

  “Canker. That’s like cancer.”

  “It’s not like cancer.”

  I have spots in front of my eyes, too, which could be a warning sign of glaucoma. One of my ankles is bigger than the other.

  “So,” she said, stretching out on her stomach. “What’s with you and Raven.”

  “God. Nothing, Mom, there’s nothing with us.”

  “Does he go to school in that makeup?”

  “They won’t let him.”

  “Huh. Do you like him?”

  “Jeez, he’s not my boyfriend or anything. He’s just Raven.”

  “Oh. Okay. Where does he live?”

  “God. I don’t even know.”

  She punched up one of my pillows and shoved it under her chest and folded her arms around it. “Well, anyway.”

  “Anyway.” I sat up and started giving her a back rub, which she loves. “You’re incredibly tense. Your shoulders are like marble. Did you do flowers today?”

  “For a while.” She groaned into the pillow, and I thought she was enjoying the back rub, but then she said in a pretend-panicky voice, “I have got to get a real job soon.”

  “You will. I will, too. People are looking for Christmas help, I can get a job in the mall after school.”

  “Mm. Except you’d need a ride to it.”

  “You could drive me,” I said.

  “Not if I’m working, too.”

  “We could get a job in the same place.”

  “Hey, that would be neat.”

  It would be. Well, depending on the place. I could feel her finally starting to relax; the back of her neck wasn’t like a block of concrete anymore. When I was little I used to think I was helping to save her life when I’d rub her feet or do some chore for her. Like, if she’d ask me to run upstairs and bring down the aspirin bottle or go down in the basement and get something out of the freezer, I’d grumble and procrastinate, but inside I’d be glad because I had this idea that anything I could do instead of her would save minutes on her life. So if I set the table or got the paper off the front porch or ran and answered the phone before she could get to it—that gave her a couple of extra minutes at the end of her life. It all added up.

  “Hey, Mom, did you know that when you pet your dog, it lowers your blood pressure?”

  “Mmm.”

  “But the cool thing is, they found out it also lowers the dog’s blood pressure. Don’t you think that’s cool? Can we get a dog?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, honey. We just can’t.”

  We couldn’t before, either, because my dad was allergic to anything with hair—dogs, cats, gerbils, whatever. I was just thinking maybe now…“Jess has four dogs,” I said, “and about fifteen cats. And a crow that comes up to his back door and lets him feed it. Jess would give us a kitten, I bet. Cats are easy.”

  “Ruth.”

  “I know, but he’s got all these animals and we don’t have any.”

  “Jess lives on a farm.”

  “So?”

  Jess is great. He’s a friend of Mom’s from the olden days when she was growing up in Clayborne, and he has a farm right on the Leap River that’s over six hundred acres with about two hundred Holstein cows. Last year I had to do a civics paper on a local industry, and I picked Jess’s dairy farm and learned all about cows. Then for my science fair project I decided to do a working model of the four stomachs of the cow (the rumen, the reticulum, the omasum, and the abomasum), and he helped me with that, too. I love to go out to his farm and just hang, although I haven’t seen him since Dad died—Mom’s been too wasted. I miss going there. I
miss seeing Jess.

  She rolled over, and we stretched out next to each other. “That was great,” she said. “Thanks. And by the way, this room is a sty.” We smiled up at the ceiling. She made me a mobile that hangs from the light, seven horses galloping or cantering or loping, cut out of thin wood and painted in different colors. It’s from my horse phase. I should take it down, but I still like it.

  “Mom? Christmas is going to be sad, isn’t it?” Thanksgiving was bad enough.

  She said, “Yeah,” and I was glad she didn’t lie. “Because it’s the first. But we’ll be okay. Some things—we can’t go around them. I’m afraid we just have to go through them.”

  “Do you miss Dad a lot?”

  “I do.”

  “Me, too. Will we still go to Gram’s for dinner?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And we’ll still have presents?”

  “Absolutely. Although…”

  “I know.” Not as many.

  “The main thing is that we’re together. We’ve still got us.”

  “Yeah.”

  Except I don’t have her. She’s still got me, but she’s about half the mother I used to have. When Dad died I lost him and part of her. I’m almost an orphan.

  She says she’s getting better, but I say not to the naked eye. Well, maybe Christmas will miraculously cheer us up. But I don’t think so. I think she’s right. Some things we can’t go around, we just have to go through them.

  3

  The Power of Nostalgia

  THE PHONE JOLTED me out of a comatose sleep on the living-room couch. I answered instantly, heart pounding, forgetting to clear my throat first and say hello cheerfully. “Carrie honey, is that you?” my mother’s worried voice asked. “What’s wrong?”

  This happened all the time. Something about my phone voice; if I didn’t make an effort to sound bright and clearheaded, people thought something was the matter with me. Are you sick? Were you sleeping? Have you been crying? Today I could’ve answered yes to all three.

  “Oh, hi, Mama. No, I’m fine, how’re you? How’s Pop?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Right now?” The mantel clock said ten after twelve. “I was just getting ready to go out. On my way, in fact. Chores, got things to do, the bank, post office, this and that…” I carried the phone into the kitchen and sank down in a chair at the table. Out of steam.

  “I was going to run over before the women’s club luncheon with one of these casseroles I made. It’s Ruth’s favorite—scalloped potatoes.”

  “Mmm. Well, that—”

  “I’ve got enough for an army. You’ll be there another half hour, won’t you?”

  I put my head down on the oak table. God, look at all the crumbs and jelly stains and water marks. How long since I cleaned this table? My nightgown sleeve was stuck to it. “Um, you couldn’t just drop it off, could you? Since I’m going out…” My mother made wonderful scalloped potatoes. They’d get me through the day. The logistics would be embarrassing, though; I’d have to hide upstairs and wait for her to come in, stick her casserole in the refrigerator, and go away. No, no, it wouldn’t work anyway, I realized—she’d see the car.

  “Well,” she said, “if you’re not even going to be there, never mind.” Affronted. “Maybe after my luncheon’s over, although I can’t promise they won’t eat everything.”

  “That might be better. And if you come late enough, you can see Ruth.”

  That perked her up. “How’s my baby? I want you two to come to dinner next Friday night, Carrie. You need to get out of that house.”

  “Friday…”

  “Just you and Ruth, a family dinner. It’s been ages.”

  “It’s been four months.” To the day. Since Stephen died.

  She realized it, too. She said too quickly, “Friday night for sure, we’ll have a good time, I promise. And now I’ll let you get on with your important chores.”

  “So—you’re coming by later?”

  “Only if it’s not too much trouble. If it won’t put you out.”

  I tried to balance the phone on my ear without touching it, so I could drop both arms and go limp. Stay like that all day, lax and drooling, head a complete blank.

  “Carrie? I was kidding, I could come over right now if you want. Honey, do you feel like talking?”

  I couldn’t even make my tongue work. Did I feel like talking? Involuntarily, I snorted into the phone. I turned it into a cough and said, “I’m fine, I’m better today, actually. I should go now, but I’ll definitely see you later, okay? ’Bye, Mama.”

  I would love a vacation from my mother’s mind. If she would bump her head—not seriously, nothing fatal or painful or long-lasting, just something to give her amnesia for about six weeks. Lovely, lovely, no calls, no visits, no casseroles, no life advice. No bullying. When I’m in my mother’s head, I’m only half myself; she sucks out the other half and swallows it. And I’m so weak these days, I’m lucky if it’s only half.

  I hung there over the table until my neck hurt. Then I got up slowly, a little dizzy—low blood sugar? pressure? Low something. I put a cup of water and a tea bag in the microwave. Couldn’t drink coffee anymore, too harsh; I wanted to be awake, not slapped awake. I carried the cup and a handful of Fig Newtons into Stephen’s office. Slumped in the doorway, I stared around at the mess I’d made of it.

  Six weeks ago I had an idea it might be a comfort to turn his sanctum, his favorite room in the house, into my new flower-arrangement-and-wreath-assembly workroom. A way to stay close to him, I thought, keep his memory vivid, not be so lonely when I was alone. Wrong on all counts, and now I’d ruined his room. He’d kept it neat as a laboratory. I littered his pristine techno-gray carpet with Scotch broom branches and wild grapevine, tansy and goldenrod stalks, crown of thorns, witch hazel. Except for his desk, every surface was covered with pods, nuts, branches, stems, twigs, flowers, containers, driftwood, twist ties, pipe cleaners, wire, silica, sand, salt, borax, clay, vermiculite. And over everything an invisible mist, an allergy sufferer’s nightmare fog of dusty dried flower and seed pod detritus. Stephen would’ve died in here.

  But I never touched his desk. Why not? Directly in front of his steel-and-vinyl chair were the notes he’d been taking for a paper on the computation of definite integrals. I hadn’t given his clothes away, either, or cleaned out his side of the medicine chest or his bedside table. Ruth said nothing, but she had to think this was bizarre behavior. I thought so, too. I wasn’t sure what was behind it, but I didn’t believe it was my sad, wistful way of holding on to my husband a little longer. Something more complicated. Less commendable.

  I sat down on the floor in my usual place. Even with the blinds open, the light was poor, but I hadn’t gotten up the energy yet to drag a floor lamp in from another room. I kept forgetting. Until recently, Margaret Sachs had been paying me eight dollars apiece for dried wreaths and Christmas arrangements, which she sold at a comfortable profit at Clayborne Crafts ’N Candles, her shop on Myrtle Avenue. Last week I began to run low on supplies, so I had to switch to miniatures. I had no choice, it was either downsize or go out into the world and look for more materials, the cattails, teasel, laurel branches, etc., etc., that were the tools of my not-very-lucrative-to-begin-with trade. I couldn’t face it. Some kind of agoraphobia; I hoped it was temporary. At any rate, now Margaret was only paying me four dollars per arrangement.

  I rationalized the cutback by telling myself I could make twice as many in the same amount of time, so I wasn’t really losing money. But that wasn’t true—if it were, I’d run out of supplies in half the time, wouldn’t I? No, I was just in a miniature frame of mind.

  The afternoon dragged by. I could drift into a trance when I made these little arrangements. When I floated up from it because I was out of pinecones or it was too dark to see or my rear end had gone numb, I’d find I had made six or seven tiny floral compositions and they were all identical. Round, fan-shaped, S-curved, pyramid—wha
tever design I’d chosen for the first, all the rest were exact replicas of it. I found that vaguely appalling. Margaret thought I did it on purpose—“Oh, these are cunning, they’ll go like hotcakes,” she’d say, and ask me to do more of whatever shape I’d unconsciously mass-produced. But I didn’t. Not on purpose, anyway.

  Hunger nudged me out of my trance today. Stiff-necked, stiff-legged, I hobbled into the kitchen. Almost three; Ruth would be home soon. The cottage cheese had a funny smell, but I scraped off the top and ate in the middle, staring out the window over the sink at my neighbors’ house. In our shared driveway, Modean Harmon was unloading her one-year-old from his car seat and carrying him and a bag of groceries inside. I wished I’d thought to ask her to pick up a few things for me while she was out. She was wonderful about that. Wonderful about everything. Modean was shy and quiet, younger than me, very reserved; it was only since Stephen died that we’d become friends. And I wasn’t much of one; she did all the initiating. Stephen never cared for Dave, her dentist husband, so we never socialized as couples. But after the accident, Modean was a lifesaver. She didn’t say much, and she never tried to draw me out. What she did was leave groceries in the refrigerator, rake the leaves in my yard, drive Ruth to school when she missed the bus. I tried to repay her later by taking care of Harry when Ruth wasn’t available, but that was no hardship even for me. He was a big grinning egg of a baby, all he wanted to do was laugh. The hard part was giving Harry back when his mother came home.