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Chapter Thirty
Vivian
Back in my parents’ old neighborhood I feel like a time traveler. I used to walk these pristinely manicured streets with my head down. My eyes were usually on my cell phone, checking email or taking a call. Whenever I visited for dinner I’d slip away from the table to work. My father often did the same. He understood the importance of handling issues expediently. Even on a Sunday. Even if it meant leaving your family at the dinner table.
Now, though, I walk along the sidewalk, head up. The trees wave in the wind, wiggling green-leaved fingers. The sky overhead is blue and fathomless. Despite the ache in my heart, today’s a good day.
My parents lived in the enormous house on the corner. It’s where I lived for nineteen years before I moved out on my own.
Yesterday, I visited my mother’s grave again. I laid fresh flowers on her headstone. I cried. I forgave her. I’m working on forgiving myself.
“Vivian?” A woman’s voice prompts me to turn around. My mother’s friend, Bette, is approaching, her puffy white dog at the end of a fluorescent green leash. I rack my brain trying to remember his name…it’s a food, I think.
“Bette. Hi.”
“I haven’t seen you in ages.” She grins. She’s my mother’s age—or the age my mother would have been if she was still alive. Bette engulfs me in a hug and automatically, I stiffen. My family didn’t have many friends left after Dad was arrested. “Goodness, honey, I’m so sorry.”
Her blond hair blows over her lip gloss and she peels the strands away. She’s in a shorts set and sneakers. Her dog barks hello.
“Hi, Marshmallow,” I remember suddenly. I stoop to pet his soft fur. He’s an American Eskimo. His features are ladylike and dainty, from a tiny pink tongue and pert black nose to dark, expressive eyes. “I wanted to visit the neighborhood again,” I tell Bette as I stand.
“New owners.” She pushes the sunglasses to the top of her head and casts an unsavory look toward my parents’ former house. “Hope you aren’t expecting a tour. They keep to themselves.”
I shake my head. “No, there’s nothing there for me any longer.”
“You’ve been through it, honey. Your mom was a good woman.” Bette was a good friend to her. “I quit drinking.”
“Really?”
She nods. I remember her and my mother casually imbibing. No wild parties or anything. I never thought of Bette as having a problem, but she never turned down a screwdriver or mimosa first thing in the morning either.
“I was relying on alcohol too much,” she admits. “And after my divorce from Bernie—”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I don’t know what kind of relationship they had, but it seemed okay.
“Don’t be. It was a long time coming. It’s great to see you. Would you like to stay for dinner? I’m cooking for one”—she points to herself—“but sometimes Alfie swings by to eat.”
Her son. He and my brother used to hang out. They’re the same age. “Oh, no, thank you. I have plans tonight with Walt.”
“How is he?” Her eyebrows bend with concern.
“He’s doing well. Back in Chicago.” I spare her the details. Who has the time?
“Good. You’re both back where you belong.”
As tempted as I am to let that platitude go, especially since she’s trying to be supportive, I don’t. “Do I belong in Chicago?”
I face my parents’ former house, remembering when I lived there. And after, when I lived in the city. I don’t belong here any longer. I am a stranger in this place, and to the woman I used to be.
My new life is a combination of my old one—privilege and money—and my new one—hustle and heart.
“I’m living in Ohio now,” I say, even though I haven’t been there for a week.
“Oh. How lovely.” She’s being polite. “What do you do there?”
“I manage a live-work property,” I lie. Most likely I’ll be begging Daniel for my job back now that Nate and I are through. Even if he would honor his word and employ me at Grand Marin, I wouldn’t feel right about accepting the position. I’ve put him through enough.
“How perfect for you,” Bette praises. “You were always such a good leader.”
