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She was no artist. She must have known that twenty-five years ago. That was why she hadnt pushed harder to attend grad school. Shed known the truth, or suspected it. Turning away from that road had saved her from this terrible moment.
She stayed in the bath until the water turned cold and her skin pruned. Then, reluctantly, she climbed out. Wrapped in a towel, she flopped on her bed.
She saw the phone, and she thought, Call Jack.
She wasnt sure why exactly, except that he had always been her safe place. She scooted toward the nightstand, picked up the phone, and punched in his number. Bits of conversation flitted through her mind as it rang. She searched for the perfect first sentence.
I love you. Nice and direct.
I miss you. Certainly true.
I need you. The Gods honest truth.
The answering machine clicked on, told her that Jack and Birdie were
nt home right now.
Jack and Birdie.
He hadnt changed the message. That gave her courage. "Hey, Jack," she said, rolling onto her back, staring up at the peaked ceiling. "I thought maybe it was time we talked about the future. " She paused, trying to think of what to say next, but nothing came to her. She was afraid that if she spoke, shed start to cry.
She hung up, then dialed her daughters number.
Another answering machine. She left a forcibly upbeat message, sneaked in a short apology and a thank-you for the flowers, then hung up.
She lay there a long time, staring up at her ceiling, watching a spider spin a web in the rafters. He was always there, that same little black spider, returning to his spot no matter how many times she dusted his web away. There was a life lesson in that.
There was a knock at her door. "Birdie, honey?"
Elizabeth closed her eyes. She really wanted to be left alone in her misery a while longer. "Im okay, Anita. "
"Dinners ready. "
"I cant eat. Sorry. But thanks for cooking. Ill see you in the morning. " She heard footsteps walking away . . . then coming back.
The door opened. Anita stood there, clutching a flat black metal strongbox. "Come on, Birdie. Its time for you to see this. " She patted the box in her arms. "This belonged to your mama. If you want to see whats inside, youd better come downstairs. " Then she turned and walked away.
Elizabeth didnt want to follow, but Anita had dangled the biggest carrot of all: Mama.
With a sigh, she rolled out of bed and got dressed.
Downstairs, she sat down on the sofa beside Anita. That metal box was on the coffee table now, waiting.
Elizabeth stared at it. For a blessed few seconds, she forgot about the debacle at the gallery.
She imagined a letter to a daughter, or better yet, a journal of precious memories. Photographs. Mementos. She turned to Anita.
Anita looked pale in the lamplight. Fragile. Shed chewed on her lower lip until it was raw. "I brought this with me. I knew Id know if the time was right to open it. " She tried to smile, but the transparent falsity of it only underscored her nervousness. "Your daddy loved you. More than anything on this earth. "
"I know that. "
"He was a man of his time and place, and he believed that men protected their women from anything . . . unpleasant. "
"Come on. I know that. "
Anita reached for the box, flipped the latch, and opened it. Elizabeth noticed that her stepmothers fingers were shaking as she handed the box over.
Elizabeth took it onto her lap.
