The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [98]
The younger generation is out in force: Brynne; Max; Rachel; Julianne’s son, Toby; even Courtney Chess with her shirtsleeves rolled up over a bandage that circles her arm like an honor badge. Andrea emerges from the house with a pitcher of lemonade, Julianne just behind her with a tray of sandwiches. The event is like a springtime barn raising, full of good fellowship and warmth. There is no sadness to this. Is that wrong, somehow? The only one missing from this picnic is Paisley.
All the same, aware of herself as the catalyst that set all this into motion, Ginger feels as if a heavy burden has been lifted from her shoulders. The burden of helplessness. She is infused with a sense of wonder. This is happening exactly as she envisioned it. It is not something she thought she could do.
The spa is in place before suppertime. It’s dark, but so warm that Ginger knows Paisley will be able to use it, once it is filled.
Always when she sells a spa, Ginger likes to visit the customer personally to bring a supply of chemicals as a gift and answer questions about how everything operates, though it’s simple enough. For cleaning, push the button, add a teaspoon of Clorox or other sanitizer. The pumps will run for ten minutes, then shut off. Under the circumstances, it seems ludicrous to go through this routine, but old habit demands it. She’ll remind Mason to be careful about children in the spa. No babies under two, and keep an eye on the older ones like Melody. Too much time in the hot water and their blood pressure can go up. He doesn’t need these warnings. He’s a careful man.
The Lamm house is quiet now. Trinket, the dog, lies prostrate on the back lawn beside the spa, exhausted from the day’s commotion. Paisley is already in the water, shoulder deep as she sits on the ledge, Mason beside her, discreetly holding her up. Her eyes are glazed partly with morphine and partly with pleasure as the water jets beat against her back.
“Thank you, Ginger,” she says. “This is heaven.”
She flashes her white, white teeth. They are lovely, just as Eddie once said.
What a waste, Ginger thinks.
She doesn’t wish this for Paisley. For herself, she’s glad she’s had the chance to do what she could.
Hours later, the treacherous warmth vanishes, just as everyone knew it must. The temperature plummets. Ice crystals coat the lawns. Ginger doesn’t know why she startles awake in the predawn darkness. Maybe because the house is so cold. She goes to turn up the heat and spots Rachel, in jeans and a heavy sweater, tiptoeing downstairs and opening the front door. Outside, all traces of summer are gone, and there is a sense in the congealing, frigid air that there will be no more of it for many months. On such a night, even the most tenacious tropical flower knows there is no point trying not to freeze. Ginger knows—and certainly Rachel knows—that Paisley is dead.
Outside, Brynne moves like a shadow beneath the streetlights, going from house to house, removing the ribbons still tied to the trees. Rachel spots her, runs back inside to grab a scissors from the kitchen, and sprints out to join Brynne.
Ginger watches as the two girls walk down the block, then separate so that Brynne is on one side of the street and Rachel on the other. In each front yard, they cut the ribbons carefully from the trees. By now the bows are soiled and ragged. The girls cradle them gently against their chests. When they disappear at the end of the street, Ginger knows they’ll continue until every ribbon is removed on every street in Brightwood Trace. When the neighborhood awakens, everyone will know.
Ginger sits at the window until they return. It’s dawn by then, and very cold. As the girls climb the hill onto Lindenwood Court, they are faced with the oddest sight. Ginger sees it, too. Except for a few threads of dark-blue clouds, the lightening sky is streaked entirely with pink. The whole vista of frigid air arcs above them in the warmest, most vivid pink any of them have ever seen. Neither girl says