The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [41]
“I sure hope so.”
When they got home, Rachel said she’d lie down on her bed, but moments later she raced to the bathroom and called for Ginger in such an urgent tone of voice that Ginger had to make herself breathe before she could bolt up the stairs. Rachel had taken off her underpants. She lifted them to show Ginger the brownish smear of blood.
So soon? Ginger thought. Ginger was thirteen, maybe fourteen when this happened. Not such a child.
“I don’t think it’s a virus,” Rachel said.
“No.”
They smiled at each other.
Ginger thought—and she thought Rachel was thinking it, too—this is the most momentous day.
Reaching into the medicine cabinet for painkillers, rummaging through the linen closet for the box of pads stocked for just this purpose, Ginger found herself on the verge of tears, filled with more emotion than made sense. “Do you want to lie down for a while?” she asked after she got Rachel situated. Rachel shook her head no, so they sat on Rachel’s bed and had a little talk, rare and most welcome. Not a birds-and-bees talk, beyond the mechanics of pads and tampons. Not about much of anything. The nice weather. How lucky Rachel is to have Mrs. Winstead as her English teacher. How Max will probably wreck the car before he ever learns to drive.
“I’ll do better,” Rachel said. “I’ll have the knack. He doesn’t.”
Ginger has to agree.
Rachel grew drowsy then. For the first time in years Ginger watched her daughter’s eyes close while she was still trying to form sentences, her words melting into a sleepy hum. Ginger tucked her in. For a few minutes, she stood and watched her sleep.
Ginger is grateful that the nap spared Rachel the drama of the Lamms leaving their house with Paisley in a wheelchair. She hopes Rachel is still asleep now, as the couple returns after their tour of the neighborhood, both of them looking as if they aren’t quite going to make it up the driveway.
Just as they reach the top, Paisley’s eight-year-old, Melody, comes bounding out of the house, holding hands with Paisley’s mother, Rita. The two of them help Paisley up and into the house while Mason wheels the empty chair into the garage. Melody, always an imp, jabbers all the time. Ginger imagines her saying, “Come on, Mom, you can do it. Remember the little engine that could. I think I can, I think I can, I know I can.”
Oh, the little engine! It was Paisley’s mantra for her daughters, at races and softball games and difficult swim practices at the pool. Paisley had every mother in the neighborhood chanting to her children, I think I can, I know I can.
And mostly, they did.
Ginger is not so sure, today, if Paisley can anymore. Melody will probably never share a day with Paisley like the one Ginger has just shared with Rachel. Melody, so guileless, is certain to be in for a shock when her wiry, athletic body starts to change. She could use a mother then. If she isn’t going to have one, if Paisley isn’t going to have the chance to share her younger daughter’s adolescence . . . it seems such a senseless loss.
Having escorted her mother into the house, Melody comes out again, this time with her little dog, and plops down onto the grass, sitting almost motionless except for idly petting the dog. It’s one of her rare moments of repose. The only other time Ginger ever saw the girl sit still like this was at a picnic last summer, when Melody lounged on the grass for at least five full minutes, allowing Paisley to fluff her hair with one hand while gesturing with the glass of wine she held in the other, to embellish a story she was telling. At one point Paisley had flashed Ginger a brilliant smile, revealing those teeth whose glistening whiteness Ginger was never aware of until Eddie mentioned them with such admiration and delight. Back then, Paisley had leaned toward Ginger and whispered something in her ear as if they were the best of friends.
Oh, it had been wonderful! Although Ginger has no memory of what Paisley told her, she remembers with the same shivery warmth she’d felt