After lunch, Penny suggests that we can move through the house more quickly if we concentrate on one room at a time. Since we’ve felt Lillian’s presence with us ever since we arrived, we decide to tackle her bedroom first.
A restless energy invades my bones as we walk to the back bedroom and begin to clean. Rose moves her suitcase and personal belongings to a corner, and I can’t help feeling a bit ruthless as we open dresser drawers and toss items into bins. Worn slacks and shorts, underwear, and bathing suits all go into trash bags. Ditto for outdated shirts. The few pieces that could qualify as vintage fashion—a few dresses, suits, and a coat—are folded and placed into a box marked for the thrift store.
Rose pulls a patterned hatbox from a closet shelf and opens it, then begins to laugh. “What in the world?”
“What?” I glance in her direction. “Did you find a hat?”
“Not exactly.”
Rose lifts a beige garment and holds it up with both hands. Elastic tabs dangle from each leg, and the main structure appears to be made of shiny and unyielding fabric.
“That’s a girdle,” I tell her, grinning. “Probably from the forties or fifties.”
Rose flicks one of the elastic tabs with her index finger. “What are these things for?”
“They held up her stockings,” Penny says. “That was before the invention of control-top panty hose.”
Rose laughs and drops the girdle back into the hatbox. “What do you think? Would a museum like to have one of these?”
“Only if it has a special room for instruments of torture,” Penny answers. “I say you should throw them out.”
Rose looks at me to see if I have any objection, so I shrug.
“I’ve gotta hand it to Grandma,” Rose says as she drops the hatbox into a garbage bag. “She really cared about her appearance. Did you know she wore Spanx until the day she died?”
I take a wincing breath. “You’re kidding.”
Rose shakes her head. “I’m not. The week after she died, a nurse from the home called to tell me that the dentist wanted to know why Grandma hadn’t shown up at his office. Apparently she had an appointment to have her teeth whitened.”
Penny and I look at each other in astonishment, then Penny laughs. “Do you think she wanted to look good for her funeral?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Rose says.
I stop what I’m doing as Penny’s comment about Victoria’s Secret comes roaring back on a tide of guilt. Grandma cared about her appearance … was that how she kept Walter happy?
From a small drawer in the dresser, Penny pulls out a stack of neatly folded handkerchiefs. “Remember these?” she says, shaking out a yellowed square of fabric. “Remember how Grandma used to recite that story about the lady sitting on the bench?”
“The story where the lady fell over?” Rose picks up another handkerchief, then brings it close to her face. “Um, smell this. Still smells like Gran’s perfume.”
While Penny leans over for a sniff, I bite my tongue, which is itching to express my impatience. I feel like I’m working at double speed, applying more energy than usual to the task at hand, while my sisters are leisurely strolling down memory lane. But they aren’t to blame for the crisis looming over my head, and I probably shouldn’t rush them through this ritual of saying good-bye to Grandmother. In a sense, we are celebrating her life as we clean out her cottage and take stock of all she meant to us.
Maybe I need to do the same thing with my marriage. As Penny and Rose talk about our grandmother, maybe I should be thinking about Michael, making a mental list of the ways he’s influenced my life. The man has strengths and weaknesses, virtues and flaws, and the more rational I can be when dealing with him, the better off I’ll be.
I yank a blouse from a wire hanger and wince when the neckline rips. Maybe I need to tame the rage boiling beneath my skin, let it cool to at least a steady simmer before I make a list of Michael’s faults.
I toss the hanger and the blouse into a trash bag and draw a deep breath. I can do this.
I reach into the closet and pull out another shirt; this one slides easily from the hanger. I fold it and place it in the thrift store box for someone else’s grandmother.
Maybe I can contest the divorce and save our marriage. Michael will need to clean up his mess and take responsibility for his actions, of course. Though he may not have intended to, he has established a second family. That woman’s child will grow up looking like my sons, and while Michael may be unfaithful, a liar, and a skunk, he has always been a good father. He will want to play a role in this child’s life, which means he’ll want to have visitation and contact, and he’ll want to provide financial support.
Can I say nothing while a chunk of our household income goes to support Michael’s other family? Can I come home from work and paint on a smile while his child visits our house?
Yet staying married will be better for our sons. Staying married will allow me to keep my job. Staying married will preserve, to some extent, our family’s reputation for stability and integrity. No matter how vicious the rumors, after a while people will see that we’re still together and assume that the rumors must have been exaggerated … because, after all, if Michael had done something truly reprehensible, I wouldn’t have remained with him.
I pull out a white cotton shirt with a red paint stain on the sleeve; I toss it in the trash.
If I can somehow convince Michael to preserve our marriage, we’ll have to face potentially serious repercussions at the university. He may lose his job and have to find work elsewhere. He may have to sacrifice a great deal to maintain life as we presently know it.
And I will have to try to forgive … something my faith commands me to do, but an act easier to read about than carry out. I’ll have to live with Michael, continuing to serve his meals, clean his house, and sleep beside him, all the while wondering if he’s with me because he wants to be, or because I shamed him into acquiescence.
Postadultery life with Michael … What will it look like? I’m fairly sure I can maintain a cheerful facade in public, but what will I feel when we’re together behind closed doors? I can fulfill most of my wifely duties, but will I ever be able to make love to him again? Or will I forever cringe at his touch?
If I can’t find a way to accept and be happy in this new reality, the best thing for me to do is clear out. I would rather be lonely and resigned on my own than miserable and bitter in a sham of a marriage.
Can I do it? At this moment, I think I can. I can wipe Michael out of my life as resolutely as I can throw Lillian’s underwear away.
I pull a bathing suit off the closet shelf and stretch one of the leg openings, then chuckle when the elastic crumbles and the opening gapes like a mouth. “Let this be a lesson to us,” I say, my voice clipped as I pull other items from the shelf. “Elastic doesn’t hold up well over the years. Sort of like marriage.”
Penny snorts, but Rose only looks at me, her eyes troubled. Yet she should know what I mean. She may be happy with Wort, but she’s been in two other marriages that didn’t survive. And two out of three isn’t exactly a winning average.
“I think,” I announce, “that it may be time for me to start a new life. The boys are in college, I’ll have my inheritance for a nest egg, and I’m young enough to move to another community. I could do it—start over, I mean.”
Penny looks at me with bright eagerness, but Rose’s brows tangle in a knot over her eyes. “Don’t forget,” she says, “that Michael did drive down from Savannah in the middle of the night to talk to you. The man obviously loves you, Ginger.”
“You think?”
“I know. You shouldn’t make any rash decisions,” she cautions. “You’re gonna need lots of time to think about this. Make sure you weigh all your options—even the ones that seem far-fetched right now.”
For an instant I’m bemused by the realization that Rose is offering me advice, then I’m stupefied by the notion that Michael and I might somehow work things out and stay together. With a younger woman and a baby mixed into the equation, that solution is about as likely as the lines on my face vanishing without surgical intervention.