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“Ah, Nora,” he said, and she heard the familiar disappointment in his tone.
“You ask too much of me, Leo. ”
“And you ask too little, Nora. Youre so afraid of your past that-”
“Tell me something useful, Leo. Youre a parent, give me some advice. ”
“Talk to her. ”
“About what? How do we get past what happened eleven years ago?”
“One step at a time, thats how. Try this: tell her one personal thing about you every day. Just one, and try to find out one thing about her. That would be a start. ”
“One personal thing. ” Nora considered it.
Yes, she could do that. Shed just have to find a way to share one honest moment, a day with her daughter. It wasnt much, and it wouldnt change everything, but it felt . . . possible. For now, that was all she could hope for.
Ruby strode through the house, going from window to window, yanking the gingham cotton curtains open, letting what little sunlight was possible into every room. By now it was nearly three oclock. Soon there would be no daylight through the clouds at all. She wanted to catch what she could.
She was desperately tired all of a sudden. The middle-of-the-night phone call, the predawn flight, the drive to the islands . . . suddenly it all caught up with her and sapped her strength. If she wasnt careful, she could lose a fight with her own emotions and start crying at the sight of this old house.
At last, she found herself in the kitchen/dining room. Nothing had changed.
A round maple table sat tucked beneath the kitchen window, its four ladder-back chairs pulled in close. A centerpiece of dirty pink plastic dahlias was flanked by a set of porcelain salt and pepper shakers shaped like tiny lighthouses. A cookbook was in its rack on the kitchen counter, its pages open to a recipe for lemon squares. Four hand-embroidered dishcloths hung in a row across the front of the oven.
She passed beneath the archway that separated the kitchen from the living room, noticing the brass mariners clock that hung in the center of the archs plaster curl. That clock was silent now, its chimes-two quick ding-dings every half hour-had been a constant punctuation to their familys noisy soundtrack. But it had probably been years since anyone had remembered to change the batteries.
In the living room, an overstuffed sofa and two leather chairs faced a big, river-rock fireplace. On the back wall were bookcases filled with two generations worth of Readers Digest editions, and an RCA stereo. A red plastic milk box held all of the familys favorite albums. From here, Ruby could see the upper half of the top album: “Venus” by Bananarama.
That one was hers.
Next, the photographs on the mantel caught her eye. They were different frames than she remembered. Frowning, she walked toward the fireplace.
All the pictures were of Carolines children.
There was not a single shot of Ruby. Not even one of Ruby and Caroline.
“Nice, Caro,” she said, turning away. She headed for the stairs, but as she walked up the creaking narrow steps to the seco
nd floor she felt . . . forgotten
Her fingers trailed through the dust on the oak banister, leaving two squiggly lines. The second floor was small, barely big enough for a full-size bedroom. The bathroom-added by Grandpa Bridge in the early 1970"s--had once been a closet. It was barely big to bend over at the sink to brush your teeth. Ugly, avocado-green shag carpeting covered every inch of the floor.
She pushed the door open to her parents old bedroom and flicked the light switch.
A big brass bed filled the room, flanked by two French Provincial end tables. The bedside lamps were yellow, their green shades draped in golden plastic beads.
i her grandmother had often said, and with that unexpected memory, Ruby remembered her grandma, sitting in that corner rocker, her veiny hands making knitting needles work like pistons. You can never have too many afghans, shed said every time she started a new one. There had always been an Elvis album playing on the turntable when Grandma knitted . . .
It had been a long time since shed had so clear a memory of her Nana.
Maybe all shed needed to remember the good times was to see this place again. The room was exactly as Nana had made it; Nora had never bothered to redecorate. When Nana and Pop had died, Dad had moved their family into the bigger house on Lopez Island, and left this house for summer use.
Ruby crossed the room and went to the French doors, opening them wide. Sweet, rain-scented air made the lacy curtains tremble and dance. The bloated gray sky and steel-blue water were perfectly framed by twin Douglas firs, as thin and straight as pipe cleaners.
She stepped out onto the tiny second-floor balcony. A pair of white deck chairs sat on either side of her, their slatted backs beaded with rain.
For a split second, she couldnt imagine that shed ever lived in a valley so hot and airless that boiling water sometimes squirted out of ordinary green garden hoses.
