CHAPTER 24

One dish!

That was all Logan brought in from the dining room. And now he leaned against the screen doorframe, arms folded across the front of his button-down, spouting off about politics while Ben and I washed the dishes. Beth, who was in the living room looking through our mother’s books—Ben and I weren’t sure she ever read anything, especially novels—hadn’t even pretended to help.

“Mark my words,” Logan said. “It was a big mistake not to follow Saddam Hussein back to Baghdad and annihilate him and that entire piece of shit country. I don’t know why Bush didn’t do that. It makes us look weak. And we can’t afford to look weak in that part of the world. It’s just too important. Oil is too important. Dad doesn’t get that. He doesn’t understand how oil rules the world.”

“That’s not very nice, Logan, he can hear you.” I glanced out the window above the sink at Dad, who was in the driveway saying goodbye to Oliver.

Logan shrugged and took a long drink from his wine.

I looked at Ben, who was scrubbing a pot, his expression unchanged. That Logan was a Republican was only part of the problem. “The Prince is a pompous ass,” according to Ben, who tried never to engage with him. This drove Logan so crazy that it often made him more belligerent. Sometimes this cycle was too much. That we’d all had many bottles of wine made things even worse.

“I suppose you and Clare vote exactly like our parents,” Logan said.

Ben stopped scrubbing and looked up. He’d begun to sweat, just a thin line running down his temple, and the vein in his neck—the one that pulsed so noticeably when he was stressed or angry—had begun to throb. But his voice was neutral, casual. “Can you check the table to make sure all the dishes are off?”

Logan sighed, turned, and disappeared into the dining room. Ben rolled his eyes at me, and I grinned as I wrapped my arms around his waist and buried my head in his chest. He smelled familiar, like dirt and the wind, and I felt his heart beating slowly, steadily against my cheek. Then I let go, picked up a dishcloth and started drying wineglasses.

Dinner had been a success. The menu I’d finally decided on—grilled salmon with sautéed new potatoes with fresh dill, salad, and apple cobbler with homemade vanilla-maple ice cream—turned out great. We’d sat around the table, Aunt Denise and Uncle Phil, Aunt Diane and Uncle Richard and Oliver, too, until nearly eleven. Now they were on their way back to the inn and I was exhausted. The memorial service was to begin at ten tomorrow morning. It would be a big day.

“What did you think of Oliver?” I asked.

Ben shrugged. “Seemed okay. Smart. Quiet. Nice to finally meet someone from your mom’s side of the family.”

“Did you hear Logan tell him that he has a cook now?” I whispered. “What was Oliver supposed to think? Why does Logan need all of that help?”

Logan and Beth’s Manhattan apartment took up an entire floor. A cook, in addition to two maids, now meant that the staff outnumbered my brother and his fiancée. Logan worked hard for his money. But it was his attitude that bothered me.

“It’s the money, Clare,” Ben said. “I’ve seen it make even the most level-headed people crazy.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want it,” I said.

“Really? I wouldn’t mind having that house in the Hamptons.” Ben grinned and nodded toward the door. “Or her.”

I shoved him. “Right. Have you forgotten what you said about her? That she’s drawn so tight the wind could snap her in half?”

Ben laughed.

Logan walked back into the kitchen, set two plates on the counter, and then filled his glass, and Ben’s, with more wine. Ben kept on washing. They were such a contrast; Ben in sneakers, jeans, and his favorite blue polo shirt, faded from so many washings, and Logan in tan chinos, loafers, and white button-down that looked so new and stiff that I imagined it could stand on its own.

I wondered, as I sometimes did, what it would have been like had Logan married Elise (I never did write to her). Maybe nights like tonight would have been more fun. Maybe Logan and I would have been closer.

Our five-year age difference never allowed for an overlap of friends or interests. Still, I remembered a time—I couldn’t have been older than nine or ten—when Logan and I seemed connected. He’d often walk into whatever room I was in, pick me up, spin me around, and dump me on the floor, both of us laughing. Or he’d put me on his bike handlebars and ride into town for ice cream. We’d take the T to meet Dad for lunch, too. We always rode the waves together at Lucy Vincent.

And then everything changed. Seemingly overnight, he turned into an angry, distant grouch. He called our parents socialists and argued with them about everything from politics to the color of his bedroom. He spent most of his time with friends. He cut his hair and dressed in Lacoste polo shirts and argyle sweaters. And once he went off to Dartmouth, he rarely came home again. As I watched him lean against the counter, I thought that there was so much about him that I didn’t know. Did he have a best friend? Had he ever done something he was ashamed of? Did he truly love Beth? Did he miss Elise?

And then Dad was back in the kitchen. His shoulders seemed to swim in his button-down and his face was drawn and tired. Logan had talked my parents into a major renovation of the house just before my mother got sick. Now we had a new kitchen with more counter space, a porcelain sink, and shiny, new appliances. We expanded the dining room and built a guest bedroom and bath around the corner from the living room. We added a new bathroom upstairs and a high-quality outdoor shower. It was lovely and more comfortable, although I couldn’t help but feel that we’d sacrificed charm for resale value.

“Well, Clare, you outdid yourself,” my dad said. “Dinner was delicious. Everyone loved it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “How are you feeling? Are you tired?”

“Yes, I’m quite exhausted. Do you mind if I turn in?”

“No, no, go ahead,” Ben and I said together.

My dad gripped Ben’s arm with one hand and patted him on the back with the other. He kissed my forehead and then stopped in front of Logan. “Well, son, I want you to think about something. You don’t ever want to invade another country unless it’s absolutely necessary. We got the Iraqis out of Kuwait, where they didn’t belong, but we didn’t have the moral authority or the support from allies to follow them back to Baghdad. War is a terrible, terrible thing. You must never enter into it lightly. Now, good night. See you in the morning.”

He patted Logan’s cheek and turned for the living room.

Logan snorted and opened his mouth, no doubt to say something smartass.

“Can we lay off politics and war?” I asked. “I’m sick of both of them.”

Logan shrugged and dropped into a chair. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, less confrontational. “He seems okay, Clare? Yes?”

How irritating. Couldn’t he tell for himself whether Dad was okay or not? Couldn’t he ask him how he was? But I also felt proud that he looked to me for the answer. It was an acknowledgment of who I’d been and what I’d done, especially these last couple of years when I helped our dad and sat by our mother’s bedside while he was off in New York, Hong Kong, and God knows where else.

“It’s day to day,” I said. “He misses her, terribly.”

I almost added that we all missed her terribly, but I knew that wasn’t true. Even before she got sick, Logan had barely been around and I was still very much confused. I hadn’t told anyone, not even Ben, that the first emotion I felt after she passed was relief. How awful did that sound?

But it was true. Sitting with Dad and the visiting nurse as my mother took labored breaths, I kept asking myself questions. How much would her agony increase if she pulled through? How would Dad manage? How would I manage? And yet how would we survive her passing? But when my mother finally stopped breathing and the nurse leaned over her and said to us, she’s gone now, I felt a sudden lightness that made me cringe with guilt. I was relieved because I no longer had to take care of her.

I turned to the counter, picked up a small cutting board and brushed off bread crumbs into the sink. Then I studied the board. The tan wood was stained black and brown from so much use and the edges were chipped and ragged. When I made it during Girl Scouts in grade school, I hadn’t been convinced that this was the project I wanted to pursue. We could choose only one, and I wanted to make a necklace for myself out of pink and white shells.

But I’d wanted confirmation that this wasn’t selfish, that it was okay to think of myself. And so I asked my mother, the cutting board or the necklace for myself?

“Oh! I think a cutting board would be lovely,” she said.

I remembered eyeing the half dozen cutting boards on the counter. Big, small, new, old, round, and rectangular. All I had to do was tell her that I really wanted the necklace. But I couldn’t form the words. I didn’t know why. “The shells are from the Bahamas. It probably won’t be a very good cutting board.”

“But it would be special for me,” she said.

Yes, it’d be special. For her. I turned the cutting board over and saw my name burned into the lower right corner. To Mom, love Clare. Did she consider it special? Why didn’t I tell her that I wanted the necklace? I searched my mind for things I’d asked her for over the years. And that she’d given me. I started to feel a little panicked when I couldn’t come up with anything.

“How are you doing, sis?” he asked. “Holding up okay?”

I could tell by the way both sides of his mouth turned up and how he looked directly into my eyes that this question was sincere. But how could I trust him after his warmongering and obnoxious behavior at dinner?

“I’m okay,” I said, trying to buy time to figure out what to say. “And you?”

“Sure, okay.” He shrugged. “He’s pulling out all of the stops tomorrow, huh? Bringing in heavy hitters to read from her work?”

I nodded. Mom’s friends had promised a few superstars. Maybe even Mailer.

“Well, she’s finally getting her due,” Logan said. “The literary recognition that slipped through her fingers in life!”

“That’s terrible, Logan.” I leaned into the counter, the sharp edge cutting into my hip. I felt distressed, suddenly, that I was still defending her. When Ben handed me a plate, he held on to it a bit longer than necessary, but I wouldn’t look at him. I knew he was trying to tell me to stop engaging with him. But I couldn’t.

“It’s true,” he said. “She was a one-hit wonder. And it did her in.”

“Her one-hit wonder is considered a classic,” I said. “Dad still gets letters about it. And it’s taught in high schools across the country.”

“Good ole Phoebe and Whit,” Logan said. “Our cash cow.”

“Could you be a little more cynical?” But I dropped my eyes because my heart was only half in this.

He shrugged again, stood, and shoved the chair up to the table. “I see you’re still the keeper of the flame. It’s okay, little sis. Maybe someday you’ll be able to see our mum more clearly.”

“You see her clearly? You were never around long enough to see anything!”

“Anyone want more ice cream?” Ben pulled the Tupperware container filled with homemade ice cream out of the freezer and put it on the counter. He dug into the pale yellow mound and scooped out a spoonful. Then he shoved it into his mouth, smacked his lips, and smiled. But I saw the message in his eyes: Stop arguing with him!

“I like this guy! He never lets things get too serious.” Logan grinned as he turned for the living room. “Well, we should be going.”

I was so angry that I wanted to stomp out of the room, but Ben grabbed my hand and practically dragged me with him into the living room. Somewhere between here and the kitchen, Logan seemed to have forgotten our discussion because he suddenly pulled me in for a hug and told me that he’d see me tomorrow. Then he added, “Thanks for dinner, sis. You’re a good cook, you know that? And believe me, I know good food. When you’re ready to open a restaurant, I’ll fund it.”

As if nothing had happened in the kitchen. As if he hadn’t just accused me of being the flamethrower or whatever he’d said.

Beth, who towered over me with her long legs and torso, suddenly came alive now that they were leaving. She had a mouth full of shockingly white teeth, giant green eyes, long, silky blond hair, and cheekbones so pronounced that they looked like miniature shelves. When she stretched out her arms for a loose hug, the silver and gold bangles on her wrists slid nearly to her elbows. “Lovely evening. Would you two like to come back with us? Stefan gave us the keys to his wine cellar.”

Stefan was their friend from Manhattan who owned a house in Edgartown, on the water, where they were staying this weekend.

“Thanks, but it’s late.” I glanced at Ben, who nodded.

Neither Logan nor Beth tried to talk us into it. We followed them to the door and then waved as they drove away.

“I can’t believe him,” I groaned as I watched the car’s taillights, sharp and red, slowly fade. “He’s so cynical and condescending.”

“Let it go,” Ben said. “It’s not worth the energy.”

“But—”

“Don’t make it so complicated, Clare, when it doesn’t have to be. He likes to pull your chain. After tomorrow, you won’t see him for what, another year?”

I sighed and looked through the screen to the sky. The moon, round and silvery, hung low over the trees and cast gray shadows across the yard.

“Let’s go to bed,” Ben said.

“I’ll come soon,” I said. “I’m just going to close up.”

He kissed me on the cheek and started across the living room. I opened the screen door and walked onto the flagstone patio. The lawn furniture had been replaced, too, but in my mind I saw the old picnic table where my mother sat writing. Tap, tap, tap, zing! That sound often woke me.

Logan tried to get her to use a computer but she refused and continued to write on her typewriter, just as she had every day for as long as I could remember. I thought about the morning I woke and saw Lee standing here on the patio. I had forgotten to tell her that no one, under any circumstances, should interrupt my mother while she was writing. But Lee hadn’t let my mother intimidate her.

Had Lee been here tonight, we’d have rehashed everything. She’d have noticed how Logan and Beth wouldn’t clean up. How funny Uncle Richard was about riding the ferry. How Oliver had been so quiet. She’d have had something to say about all of it, too. She wouldn’t have minded things being so complicated.

But I was thinking of the Lee from before Florida, not the Lee from after.

When Sarah called after my mother died—I hadn’t spoken to her in nearly a year—she asked, again, why Lee and I weren’t speaking. But she was less argumentative than she’d been in the four previous years when she’d tried multiple times to broker a rapprochement between us.

“I don’t get it.” Her voice was gentle. “You two were best friends and now you don’t even talk. And you’ve basically disappeared. No one sees Lee anymore, either.”

I remembered gripping the phone so tightly that my hand began to sweat and feeling that familiar, sick sensation in my stomach. Disappointment. Anxiety. And guilt, too. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m not in better touch with everyone.”

“It’s about that night in Florida, isn’t it?” She didn’t wait for my response. “You know, Ducky and I were there, too. We all feel guilty about this.”

I didn’t say anything.

She sighed. “I work with rape victims in my emergency room, and I see the toll it takes on them. We should have insisted that Lee get help that night. It would have helped her to address the physical and psychological trauma. Actually, it would have helped all of us.”

Maybe. But you can’t undo what’s done. You can’t change what happened just because you want to or because you wish you’d behaved differently. As my mother used to say, you can’t wallow in it. You move forward. You get married, find a career, and eventually have children. You try to do your best. You try to be a good person.

I didn’t know where Lee was with all of this. Because if she’d learned something about that night that had given her peace, that might give me peace, too, then that meant she’d been thinking and maybe talking about it. Did she tell her husband? Had she been to a therapist? And did she tell both of them what I did?

Without Lee around, without the job of taking care of her, without that constant reminder of what I’d done, I’d been happier. Ben and I were good now and had had so many great times over the last couple of years. On vacation in the Caribbean. At his Christmas party in the hotel downtown when we drank champagne on the rooftop in the snow. The night we moved into our condo and sat on the living room floor, laughing as we celebrated. Not once during any of those times did I dwell on what had happened.

But now I had that letter and her request and I didn’t know what to do.

A cool breeze rushed across the lawn and blew the hair off my face. The air smelled like rotten leaves and decay—fall was approaching—and I shivered although I wasn’t cold. I moved the wrought iron chairs so they were neatly aligned against the side of the house, and then I reached up and put my hand flat against the window. The glass felt cold and smooth beneath my palm. I thought about one of the last lucid conversations I had with my mother, before the pain became unbearable and the morphine was increased and she began hallucinating about naked people in the bushes with guns.

“What ever happened to Lee?” she asked one Saturday in early August. She was lying in the hospital bed in the dining room, the windows open and a warm breeze blowing through the screens. Her bald head was wrapped in a flowered scarf and her skin had a sallow, almost translucent sheen to it. She was chilled and had blankets piled on her, but she wouldn’t let me close the windows. She hadn’t been able to work for days. I didn’t know it at the time, but she’d never work again.

“What do you mean?” I’d been reading to her from her heavily marked-up copy of Paradise Lost. My mother thought this poem showed Milton’s supreme command as a writer and it was filled with the contrasts she loved—Satan and Christ, heaven and hell, light and dark, good and evil, love and hate, humility and pride. I’d forgotten how much of this poem was about war.

“You were such thick friends during college and right afterward, and now you rarely speak of her,” she said. “Do you still see her?”

Over the years my parents had both said to me, why don’t you have Lee come up to the Vineyard? Why don’t we see her anymore? Where’s Lee? I hadn’t wanted to get into it with them. When I finally said that we’d had a falling-out and that over time I was sure we’d be fine, my mother seemed satisfied and didn’t ask me to elaborate. But that day in the dining room she seemed to want something more.

“We grew apart,” I said. What I’d done was so un-Phoebe-like. And so unlike anything her war heroes had done, either.

“So, there was no argument?”

I shifted in my seat. “Why do you want to know?”

My mother closed her eyes and I thought that was the end of it. But then they shot open, and she tilted her head toward me and said, “Except for your father, I never had a best friend. I’m afraid I wasn’t very good at all of that. But I was always impressed with you and Lee. You let her in, didn’t you?”

I was so surprised that I nearly fell off my chair. I’d never heard her admit that she wasn’t good at anything nor had I thought she’d given Lee or our friendship much thought. And it made me angry although I didn’t know why. Soon afterward, she fell into a restless sleep and I left and we never came back to this conversation.

But I’d thought about it a lot over the last year and knew why I was angry. Why didn’t we have more conversations like it? I thought about the cutting board and how I’d been unable to ask for, and tell her, what I needed and wanted. I’d always been hesitant like this with her. So, was our lack of communication my fault?

But she hadn’t made it easy. She was unknowable. Protective and secretive. Maybe if she’d been more open, more accessible, more—what was the word? Vulnerable. Maybe then she wouldn’t have been so confusing to me and to Logan although he’d never admit it. How much better would our lives have been if she’d allowed me, or anyone, in?

Lee once said that I had trouble being open and vulnerable, too.

But I’d tried. I’d let Lee in. Intimacy hadn’t been easy for her, either. I remembered what her aunt said that day in the bar while Lee was in the bathroom. She protected herself by not having many close friends. I protected myself, too. From people who wanted at my mother through me. And maybe for other reasons, too, although at the moment I wasn’t sure what they were.

I pulled my sweater across my stomach and looked up. Millions of stars dotted the dark, silent sky. I remembered a summer night years ago when Lee and I stretched out on the driveway, still warm from the afternoon sun, and counted shooting stars. Where was she right now? Did she think much about me anymore?

I shivered again and glanced at the house. Tomorrow morning would come quickly. While Ben was out running, I’d make oatmeal for him. I’d make sure that my dad ate it, too. They’d both be grateful for this.

I stared at the empty space where the picnic table had been and felt a sudden, familiar twinge of guilt. Why hadn’t I done more to help my mother? Maybe if I’d worked harder, probed more, circled back to the conversation about friends, I could have gotten her to open up. Instead, I’d sat at her bedside, day after day, reading, taking care of her, at times silently seething at something I couldn’t quite identify.

I glanced back at the house.

“Lycidas.”

Of course. It should be acknowledged at tomorrow’s service. I turned and started toward the door, certain that there was a copy on the shelf in the living room. And I felt a little better because this was something I could do for her.