The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [42]
And now.
What did Paisley do to deserve this?
What does anybody do?
She reruns the image of Paisley sitting in that lawn chair, one set of fingers tangled in Melody’s hair, the other curled gracefully around that wineglass. She remembers the sun glinting off the glass; she recalls the radiant brilliance of the day.
The wine, she thinks. And with grim certainty, she knows there’s a specific reason why this is happening to Paisley and not to someone else. All she needs to do is confirm it.
Later, dinner is ready but Ginger is reluctant to awaken Rachel from her nap. In the den, Eddie and Max are having one of their recent discussions—which is to say, arguments—about his driving. It sounds like they’re going to be at it for a while. Ginger heads upstairs, figuring her daughter has slept so long because of the medicine she’d taken for the cramps. She shouldn’t have any more pain for the rest of the night.
But Rachel isn’t in her room. She’s out in the yard, as usual. It’s one of those nights when the stars seem like sharp pinpricks of light shining through the dark fabric of the sky, so bright there seems to be nothing but pure dazzle behind the curtain. For once, Rachel doesn’t seem to be staring moodily at the Lamm house across the cul-de-sac. She’s intent on the night sky, probably busy thinking, I’m a woman now. A woman. Ginger is astounded by this knowledge herself. She puts her guilt about Paisley’s illness aside. Watching her daughter stare at the planes circling toward the airport and the stars whirring through the heavens, Ginger is amazed that Rachel herself—Rachel herself—is in the middle of the dance.
Chapter 11
October 29
The MOLS started years and years ago, back when the women of Brightwood Trace were mostly housebound with toddlers and longing to get out. MOLS stood for Mothers Out to Lunch Sometimes, a title they came up with jointly during their first outing. The name appealed to them because it sounded like “molls,” the girlfriends of mobsters, who no doubt lived lives far more exciting than they themselves had, or for that matter, wanted.
From that first meeting on, MOLS had met at noon on the third Wednesday of every month except December, always at Arnie’s Plain and Fancy, a diner where they could be sure of a table and decent food. Arnie’s, third Wednesday, noon—easy enough to remember. No one had to be in charge; no one had to RSVP. If you could get a sitter and be there, fine; if you were at the doctor’s office for little Joanne’s third earache in a row, everyone understood. The “S” at the end of MOLS stood for “sometimes.” Nobody could be expected to show up more than sometimes.
Everyone thought MOLS would wear itself out after the children went to school, but it didn’t. It persisted through kindergarten and beyond; it persisted into the years when the mothers went out to work or took on heavy doses of volunteering. It turned a group of casual friends into something cohesive and lasting. Seven or eight women might still attend during the fine brisk days of fall and spring, dropping to just two or three in the heat of summer. Only once, during a blizzard, had no one shown up.
Julianne doesn’t usually take a lunch hour. Normally she packs a carton of yogurt or a tuna sandwich and eats whenever there’s a break at work. Like many busy medical practices, Peter Dunn’s office is officially closed from twelve to two, but it’s rarely empty or quiet. Julianne is at Arnie’s today only because Ginger called her yesterday and, with some urgency, asked her to come.
“Can you get away at eleven thirty instead of twelve? I have something I want to ask you about. You’re way overdue for a long lunch anyway.”
“Well, sure.” Julianne knows this must be about Paisley. She and Ginger have never been close, except that in their younger years, when so many of their carpool friends were totally and happily tied up with domestic arrangements, each of them had wanted, in addition to their families, meaningful outside