March–April 2015
Itasca, Minnesota
Liz did not like the feeling of waiting on things she could not control. And yet, nearly everything in her life was that way right now.
Her MRI had been pushed back a week, and Cecily’s recovery had been slow enough that her return home from The Pines was being delayed indefinitely. (Liz had started trying to find at-home twenty-four-hour care for her, but, even when it was for Cecily Larson, the old grande dame of Itasca’s medical community, good luck, especially without a known start date—and, Lord, the cost! Liz had not come close to imagining it, and Cecily didn’t have much money saved, after all her contributions to this and that community drive.)
And then, for some reason, these damn DNA results were niggling at Liz—as if she couldn’t stand to wait for them another day.
Caden had shown her on his laptop the family tree he was building on Ancestry.com—so far, just for his father, Evan’s, side. A sepia-toned photo of his great-great-grandfather Bouchard as a young man—uploaded by some other relative—had appeared. Incredible! Was it too much to hope that the Anderson/Larson side of Caden’s tree could be filled in to such a degree? Would there be a photo of one of Liz’s great-great-grandfathers or -grandmothers? Maybe Sam’s father’s father, who Liz understood had emigrated from Norway, or even—it was a stretch—a far-back ancestor on Cecily’s side? (If the DNA revealed who her parents were, Caden said, Ancestry would probably know who her grandparents were, too.)
As much as all this was on Liz’s mind, it was hard not to ask Cecily what else she might know, but Liz mostly held back, not wanting to tax Cecily. Besides, the couple times Liz tried, Cecily only said things like, “Oh, your father didn’t like to talk about his family, so I don’t really know, hon.” Or, “I barely remember anything that happened before I met your father at the San. Maybe the TB destroyed my memory!” (At this, Cecily laughed.)
It made Liz think, in a way that hadn’t ever occurred to her before, that her mother could be hiding something.
Well. Hiding something. Cecily wasn’t well, Liz had to remember. And, Cecily was nearly ninety-five—even if she’d never acted her age before, maybe it was catching up with her.
And maybe Liz just had too much time to think, after all, spending so many hours in her studio, turning piece after piece for the Empty Bowl. She’d managed two kiln firings and was completing the work for the third. It was in the evenings, mostly, that she could get to the studio, and, even when she felt so tired that it was difficult to keep working, let alone keep standing, she loved watching the sunsets splashing pink across the frozen lake—or, some nights, the snow sprinkling down—as she worked at the wheel or set the turned pieces in exact rows to dry. For each bowl she got trimmed and ready for firing, she made a satisfying pencil tally mark on the white-painted wall, which made her feel permanent in a way that she knew she was not. Her shoulders and back were stiff (not the cancer, spreading? she thought, with an alarm that simply could not be sustained, so she set the thought aside) from the work. She was experimenting with bolder glazes: reds and blues, rather than her usual earthen tones.
It was consoling to think that, at least when it came to making bowls, she had some control over the outcome.
Then, they were done. And none too soon. The first of April. The fundraiser was tomorrow, and Liz’s MRI in Duluth was the day after that. (The timing of everything was working out with a satisfying symmetry, after all.)
Molly came out to the lake house to help Liz wrap and pack the bowls, bringing cardboard boxes and brown wrapping paper, carting them through the slush down to the studio, and she couldn’t seem to stop talking about Evan.
“He’s had Caden on the phone every night, putting together this ridiculous Bouchard family tree. I guess they’re, like, Skyping, sharing the screen or something, I don’t know. They’re getting deep into all these records, going back, like, seven generations, and, meanwhile, Caden’s falling behind on other schoolwork. I texted Evan to say there needs to be more balance, especially with track season starting next week, and he just texted me back a thumbs-up emoji.” She rolled her eyes, shaking her head.
Liz knew Molly wasn’t over the divorce yet—wasn’t over Evan yet; that much had been clear when he was in town—and that these were serious, grown-up problems, but somehow, just to hear Molly prattling on made Liz so happy that she couldn’t help but laugh. “You know, if Caden was pursuing your side of the family tree like this, you’d say it showed his absolute wisdom, maturity, and devotion.”
“—Mom!” Then Molly brushed her platinum hair out of her eyes and laughed, too.
“One of our featured contributing artists today, Liz Larson Anderson, comes from a long line of community philanthropists, her parents being none other than Dr. Sam and Cecily Larson.” Vivvy Bengtson had always liked the sound of her own voice, ever since she and Liz had been in high school together, and today at the Empty Bowl, she had a captive audience of a size rarely gathered in Itasca: three hundred, all seated at long tables set up in the high school gym. Heaven, for Vivvy. She’d been talking for ten minutes already about the artists who’d contributed, the amazing arts community in Itasca, the need for everyone to be aware of food insecurity in the region, and the beauty of how it all came together, life sustaining life. Her thesis hadn’t exactly all made sense, but she’d made it sound—clearly to her own ears, at least—like poetry. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Liz had quietly rolled her eyes at Molly, seated across from her, who’d hidden a sly smile behind her napkin.
“Now, you all probably know,” Vivvy continued, “that Cecily Larson almost single-handedly raised the funds for both the new hospital and the performing arts center, and that hardly an event in Itasca these last sixty years hasn’t been graced by one of her spectacular fifteen-layer cakes.” Murmurs of appreciation. “And that Dr. Sam Larson—who was the son of Dr. Henrik Larson before him, who was the town doctor starting way back in 1910—now, Dr. Sam Larson, Liz’s father, cared for pretty much this whole town through the fifties, sixties, and seventies! And many of us of a certain age were delivered by him! Did you know, it’s a documented fact that he delivered five hundred and sixty-two babies over his career in Itasca!” Applause. Vivvy bowed her head and blushed modestly, as if she’d accomplished the feat herself.
Then she went on: “Now, for those of you who didn’t know, our Cecily suffered a broken hip a couple months ago and is in recovery at The Pines.” Murmurs of dismay, concern. Oh, Lord, Liz thought, here come the hotdishes. But that was just her high school self talking, out of habit resenting Vivvy and the small kindnesses of this town that could feel to Liz like burdens. Maybe some fresh flower arrangements would arrive for Cecily; maybe Cecily would allow some visitors again. That would be good. That could help Cecily. “So, let’s give Liz Larson Anderson a big hand for continuing to make good after all these years on her family’s legacy, and for fulfilling her commitment to make and donate a hundred and fourteen bowls today, even as she’s been caring for our Cecily!” There was a warm round of applause, a whistle or two. Liz gave a slight wave, uncomfortable with the attention.
Her mother, though, would’ve loved it—would’ve probably jumped up and made a speech, telling everyone her next big idea for Itasca, where their next contribution should go. Liz smiled to imagine it.
“Mom, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this before,” Molly said, pulling into her parking spot behind her office. Yesterday out at the house, they’d loaded the bowls into the back of Molly’s car; this morning, they’d ridden together to the high school to unload them. Now, with the event over, goodbyes and thank-yous and get-well-soons (to pass on to Cecily) all said, Liz, for reasons she could not explain, had finally broken the news about her MRI.
“You’ve had so much on your mind. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Well, that’s nice, Mom, but, also, ridiculous! You have a lump, it’s cancerous, and you’re having an MRI tomorrow to see if the cancer’s spread. That’s the kind of thing you tell your daughter as it’s happening. Does Grandma know?”
“No! No, I didn’t want to tell her. She’s not well enough for news like this. I want her focused on her own recovery.”
Molly’s face crumpled. She shook her head slightly. “Well, I’m going with you to Duluth tomorrow. I can reschedule my clients. I just wish you’d told me sooner.”
I have spared you weeks of worrying, Liz wanted to say. I didn’t have to tell you at all. “I’ll be fine on my own,” she said, though she wasn’t precisely sure. Maybe the suspicion that she might not be was what had made her finally speak up.
“We’re family, Mom,” Molly scolded. “Honestly.”
And Liz, for reasons she could not explain, just laughed out loud. Maybe it was all too much. Her son on the other side of the world. Her husband gone. Her dad gone. Her mom “in recovery,” but so very, very old. Liz would be the oldest generation soon—and its only representative. And how long would she last? It was all ridiculous, when you thought of it. The way time and life skated by. “I am aware of that, Molly. I was there when you were born, remember?”
Molly laughed. “Mom,” she chided good-naturedly—but there was a tear shining in her eye.
And suddenly Liz did something she almost never did—leaned over and fiercely hugged Molly. She wanted to say how sorry she was, for all her shortcomings and failures, all the ways she’d been disconnected and strange. Lost in her art, was how people in Itasca described her, she knew. She does beautiful work—have you seen?
No excuse, when you came right down to it.
“Oh, Molly,” she said, holding her daughter tight. “I’m sorry. Everything’s going to be okay.”
And this was the job of a mother, wasn’t it? To try to spare her children pain—even if it meant telling a lie.
And Liz realized suddenly: Cecily was hiding something.
She thought about their sending in Cecily’s DNA without Cecily’s knowledge or consent. The bad feeling she’d had since then. Oh, the feeling of general foreboding could be about the cancer, yes. But—what if it was a knowing, deep inside, that Cecily had been keeping something from her all these years?
Oh, honestly, she scolded herself. Probably everyone in the world had this feeling while waiting for DNA results, right? And when the results arrived and showed that all was as expected, you’d just laugh to think of the foolish things you’d imagined, in the back, dark recesses of your mind.
Yet. Liz remembered something. Back when she was about eleven, a young woman—a teenager, really—Marcy, had come to stay in the guest room at Liz’s parents’ house, arriving just after Christmas and staying until spring. She’d helped out a little around the house, but mostly stayed in her room and listened to records—“Rockin’ Robin,” “All I Have to Do Is Dream”; sometimes she’d let Liz inside and the two of them would dance—as the baby inside her belly grew and grew. When it was time for the birth, Liz’s father had delivered the baby in his office downstairs. Highly unusual. Liz still remembered Marcy’s screams.
But what she remembered most of all now was, the day her father got back from bringing Marcy and the baby to Minneapolis, Liz, who was walking down the back stairs because she’d heard his car pull into the driveway and wanted to greet him, overheard her parents in the kitchen, and the grave tones of their voices had made her stop to listen. Her father was saying something about how Marcy was brokenhearted, but it was for the best, as her parents would take her back, this way, and he had met the couple adopting the baby and they seemed like fine people, and Cecily was crying, saying, “I can’t do this again, Sam. I want to help them, but it’s just too hard!”
And Sam had said softly, “You know we’re not doing what was done to you.”
Liz had crept back up the stairs so they wouldn’t know she’d overheard, and, not having been able to make sense of what had been said, never thought much about it again. And Marcy was the only girl who’d ever stayed with them in order to have a baby, so there was no reason to think of it, really. But now she heard her father saying it: what was done to you.
What had been done to Cecily?
Was this DNA test going to turn up some baby she’d given up for adoption, before Liz was born? Some past trauma that, as the truth emerged and the memories resurfaced, could hurt Cecily—even kill her, at this stage? Yes, shocking news of any kind could probably actually kill her!
Oh, God, Liz thought, even as she stroked Molly’s hair. What have I done?