“Come on, tell me for her. For her birthday,” I say as softly as I can without whispering.
“I, uh, what do you want to hear?” Clint suddenly stops fidgeting and then slouches back into his chair. “Okay. She’d laugh every time she told the story of the box turtle.”
“What box turtle? You never told me you had a turtle.” I cuddle in closer.
He shakes his head. “Not mine. Mom’s either. She must have been in maybe fourth grade on her way home from school. Walking all by herself. A silver-white car was coming toward her on Windham Center Road, driving a bit too fast. I, uh, like to imagine it as one ofthose Chrysler Thunderbolts with the sleek encased bodies. Know what I mean?”
I say nothing but smile big.
“Anyways, a huge box turtle was in the middle of the road. Without thinking, she ran to it and waved her arms. The car came to a screeching halt right in front of her. From the first time she told it, I’d squawk about her getting taken out, but she’d wave me off. She’d only say that the turtle would have been crushed. With the car waiting, she tried to encourage the beast to move, but at this point the turtle had retracted its whole body into the shell. So, she picked it up and ran to the side of the road. Just as she was about to place it in the stream, it poked its prehistoric head out and blinked at her. She tossed the turtle into the water as quick as a flash—her words—and then her whole body shook like her Aunt Bea’s tambourine. She turned around, and the man driving that cool car was laughing, not just chuckling but full open-mouthed, let-it-loose hysterics. Of course, she was mortified and grabbed her book bag and ran home.”
I giggle into Clint’s arm as I hear the huge smile in his words.
“When she’d share that story, she’d always try to shake like she did that day when that crazy turtle head looked at her. She said she could never make her body move that way again.”
“Can’t believe you never told me about the turtle.” I shove against his shoulder.
“Yeah.” He holds me tighter. “She was amazing. That’s why it’s so hard to fathom what my brother did.”
“I know.”
This is where we go every year. The unfinished anger that lingers and sprouts up on this day like the green nub of a bulb that’s been sleeping all winter.
“He killed her, you know.”
He’s never put it so bluntly. I squeeze his hand. “You were both still kids. He was only four years older than Erika is now.”
He pulls his hand back and stands.
Is that comparison as startling to him as it is to me?
“Every year I tell myself to let it go,” he mumbles.
“Maybe it’s time to see him. Talk it out. Maybe he can—”
“He left us, Meredith.” He turns on me with as much emotion as he did twenty years ago when he first told me the story. “We lost the house. She lost all hope. And in the end, all she wanted was him.”
I stand. “I know. I just wonder if it might help.”
His face hardens. “I know this day is unfair to you. I’ll do my best to snap out of it. I know we have bigger issues than something that happened decades ago.”
“I didn’t mean it wasn’t important. In fact, the opposite. I’ve been—”
Clint’s phone rings. He slides it out of his pocket and looks at it. His eyebrows knit together.
“Wait, I don’t want to leave talking about your mother.”
“No worries. I’ve got to take this.” He strolls from the kitchen.
I strangle the rail posts of my chair. I begin to let myself feel hope, and then, again, I’m dashed on the rocks of our crumbling marriage.
I park each of the chairs squarely under the table and then fetch an insulated bag. We’ll need to take some food to the cabin. I’m sure there are good take-out restaurants in the Poconos, but it would be nice to have solid snacks and breakfast supplies. I grab a couple freezer packs and then study the full refrigerator.
Everything will be all right. If I can nab the right food, keep it precisely cold enough, and serve it before anyone realizes they’re hungry, all the rest of the disasters will work themselves out. When all else fails, I just need to be the perfect wife and mom.
34
I FLIP THE LIGHT SWITCHin my home office and immediately shudder when I notice the lily wilting in the corner. I hate plants. Correction: I hate plants in my home. I love them in other people’s homes. Rubbing their silky leaves, I find myself agreeing to cuttings and listening to watering and fertilizing schedules as if I’ll intuitively comply. A big part of me knows, even from the first conversation, that I will regret accepting the new pot. But a small part of me is unreasonably optimistic. It’s not all my fault. Seems my friends ought to have discovered my murderous bent. They should’ve banned me from ever accepting another green baby. Now, I live with the knowledge that at any moment I could be asked,Meredith, where’s the gorgeous Boston fern that used to be in your front window?OrMeredith, where are you hiding the parlor palm Cathy gave you?
