Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [78]
I look into government. There are some social security funds for Thad, so I put in a claim there, and I take a phone shot of the administrator’s eyes when she notes father’s former occupation. They hate neo-Glads over at the SSA, but she indicates the modest sum he’s entitled to, and how many weeks this might take. Then Julie warns me to curb my enthusiasm for assistance—she knew, apparently, about Allison’s inquiries into a place for Thad and was, like me, vehemently opposed to the idea—so both of us worry about officials coming out to the house. There has to be another way.
When Lloyd and Julie come over, she tells me I am wasting away, that I need to eat. It’s possible the paparazzi eat every pound I lose as if I’m shedding fruit. She begins to cook extra meals, which she brings over for us as soon as she realizes I won’t go anywhere near the freezer.
After a hard, soaking rain one night, the kind that used to seep into the basement until the French drains were put in, I stand in the upstairs hallway near the photo gallery just outside my mother’s door. I’ve thrown open windows now that the rain has stopped, and I feel this breeze pick up and circulate through the house. I say, to no one at all, something about the way the air came up so suddenly. Thad has gone to sleep and I go into Allison’s room. She liked to entice me to come into her room to talk with her a little by saying: It’s such a beautiful night, isn’t it? Recently, I said something disparaging in answer. I regretted that the minute it came out of my mouth.
I lie down now, on top of the covers where she liked to nestle, and allow my head to sink into her pillow. I can hear the way her thoughts turned to beauty and the way mine were unyielding. I said something about it having no future, that a steady diet of violence cuts it out at the root. But she just touched my face and talked about the garden a little, as if that was the subject.
Too often lately, we seemed a long way from repair. I can’t help think if I had been nicer to her in the last three or four years, in the last three or four days, she might still be here.
There’s a light on in her closet now, the door wide open, all of her clothes there—to view, to try on if I want, to bag up and give away. I can do anything I want with her clothes. I can have everything taken in to make them fit. I can shove everything aside and move my clothes into this giant closet. I’m at complete liberty. Maybe that’s what death does, puts everyone at liberty.
Thad and I, we’re absolutely free, I tell her.
I know the shears she used to make alterations are up on the highboy, along with the tin of buttons and the box of threads. I get those shears down and I rip into her clothes with the blades. Her creamy white silk blouses, her rayon dresses, the carefully tailored jackets and tunics. All the tunics. I cut into her favorite clothes the way she cut us out so deftly.
When I wake up it’s two in the morning, and I pull myself from the bottom of the closet. I realize what I’ve done and how upset Thad’s going to be about Mom’s clothes.
So I set to work, removing the outfits I’ve torn apart. I haul them over to her sewing machine. From an early age, she wanted me to learn how to sew, but I never advanced beyond making small quilts for doll beds. So that’s what I do now. I cut neat squares from her clothes, and I sit up all night and make a small quilt for Thad. When I’m done I bag up all the remnants and take them down to the garage, where I stash them so Thad will never have to realize just what I’ve done.
CHAPTER
28
Representatives from Caesar’s wearing monogrammed blue jumpsuits have already come out to tag furniture and items that will be in their possession soon. I’m trying to keep Thad shored up by the hour. He’s spending too much time beneath his train