CHAPTER 7 Nancy

SPRING 1980

“Did I ever tell you about the cloak I made your mother for her wedding day?” Grandmama asks Nancy.

From her perch on a hard chair beside her grandmother’s bed at the nursing home, Nancy smiles. “No, I don’t think you have.”

She has, on a number of occasions, but Nancy plays along.

Her grandmama’s health has been declining for years. Back in the fall, after a serious incident involving a set of lace curtains that caught fire and nearly burned the house down—and much passive-aggressive posturing—Grandmama and Nancy’s mum agreed that a nursing home was the best place for her to live out her remaining years. Alternating between a very English stiff upper lip and a trembling lower one, Grandmama moved into St. Sebastian’s Home for the Aged. Nancy visits her every Tuesday night for a cup of tea and a chat, which almost always involves examinations of The Past.

Grandmama refers to it that way, too, the capitalization clear in her reverent tone and the way she waves her withered hand through the air as though casting a spell when she says it.

The Past, my dear.

All the many memories, the regrets and triumphs, joys and sorrows, incidents and mundanities that are stitched together by the threads of time and bound into the great tapestry of one’s life. The Past, depicted one square of fabric at a time. The squares that Grandmama likes to take out and examine whenever Nancy visits her.

Nancy often thinks Grandmama wants to review The Past with her more than anyone else because her granddaughter is an impartial judge. Whenever Grandmama presses her for an analytical eye, Nancy always stays neutral. What would it accomplish to criticize her grandmother’s decisions at this point in the old woman’s life? It’s not as though she can change them, and calling attention to glaring inconsistencies or times when her grandmother was unnecessarily harsh or unfair serves no purpose other than to distress a dying octogenarian.

“It was a freezing cold winter day when your parents got married,” Grandmama says now. “An evening ceremony, you know. In January. I told your mother a June wedding was more fitting, like her sisters had, but she wouldn’t agree, of course.”

Nancy’s mother and Grandmama butted heads about almost everything. Evidently, obstinacy is a proud family tradition.

“It was so soon after your father proposed at Christmastime, but I suspect she wanted to get going on having a baby. Didn’t want to wait any longer. And we all know how that turned out,” she adds, reaching a papery hand over to pat Nancy’s knee. “At any rate, I told her that if she simply insisted upon winter nuptials, she must at least allow me to make her a cloak to wear over her dress.

“White silk on the outside, it was, with a big hood, and I sewed a beautiful emerald velvet lining into it. When they came out of the church and stood on the front steps, the snow had just started falling. It was quite a sight, I must admit. Nothing compared to the sun and blooms of a June wedding, but still lovely in its own way.”

“It does sound lovely, Grandmama,” Nancy says. “I’ve seen photos, but she isn’t wearing the cloak. I think they were taken inside the church.”

“Your parents had the reception back at our house, your Grandpapa and I,” Grandmama continues. Nancy isn’t even sure she heard her reply. “A simple affair, but that’s what people did in those days. They didn’t have a house of their own yet. They were about to move into that little one out in the Danforth—tiny thing it was, too.”

Nancy half listens as her thoughts start to wander to the schoolwork waiting for her at home. An essay on the Vietnam War.

“It took another few years before they were able to afford that nice place in the Annex. I think that was right around the time they got you.”

Nancy’s mind is pulled back to the present. “Got me?” she asks. “You mean had me?”

As Grandmama has gotten closer to The End (also capitalized), she’s displayed less and less restraint while sorting through The Past. Lately, she hasn’t been careful with the delicate memories, and has let several fall and shatter at her own feet before muttering, “Never mind, dear, I didn’t mean that,” as she does now.

This time, though, Nancy is undeterred. “No, Grandmama, what do you mean by that? What do you mean ‘got me’?”

“Oh, Nancy,” Grandmama says, brushing away the incriminating words still lingering in the air between them. “I meant when they had you, of course. I misspoke. I’m tired, my dear. I think it’s best that you head home now. I’ll see you again next week. Come give us a kiss, now, and be on your way.”

But as Nancy descends the creaking staircase of the old manor house, a deeply uncomfortable suspicion begins to stir within her being. Because these disjointed pieces all add up to something. Questions to her mother that went unanswered as a child. The fact that she doesn’t really look like either of her parents—a reality her mother has continually written off with an airy wave of her hand as she chuckles. “Genes do sometimes skip a generation. More tea, dear?”

It’s just a series of gut feelings Nancy can’t seem to connect with anything stronger than the weakest thread.

Until now, the idea was just an undefined, shapeless shadow in a dark corner of Nancy’s brain. But her grandmama’s comments echo in her mind as she boards the subway car that takes her back to her apartment. The thoughts continue to whir when she arrives home and shuts her bedroom door behind her.

It’s as though something dark has latched onto her heart. She already knew it was there, though she couldn’t sense its edges yet. But when she crawls into bed still fully clothed, Nancy can finally feel the prickly outline of the shadow, a truth she had previously been determined to ignore.

---

Three days later, Nancy finds herself standing on the front porch of her parents’ house, staring at the familiar silver door knocker, a large M wrapped in twists of ivy. She considers the name for a brief moment, contemplates her own identity with it.

Of course you’re a Mitchell, she tells herself. This is ridiculous. You should just turn around and go home.

But a persistent voice in Nancy’s mind argues back.

Then why can’t you let this go? Why haven’t you just dismissed it as the ramblings of an old woman whose mind is on the decline?

And the truth is, she’s already starting to regret this plan. When she learned that her parents would be going out to dinner tonight with their friends the Morgensterns, she invited herself over for afternoon tea, telling her mother she needed a quiet place to study for the evening.

“I’m just going to do some homework here, Mum, if you don’t mind,” she’d said on the phone. “It gets too loud here at the apartment, and I really need to get down to work on this final English paper.” She crossed her legs at the ankle then, to keep her feet from jiggling with nerves. “Besides, your couch is way more comfortable than mine.”

Her mother sighed. “Well, you didn’t have to move out, you know.”

“I know, Mum.”

Except her apartment isn’t that noisy; her two roommates are generally reasonable. She’s here to search her parents’ room for information. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for, exactly. Just some form of confirmation that what Grandmama told her might be true.

Or hopefully not.

Screwing up her nerve, Nancy is just about to reach into her purse for her key when her mother opens the front door.

“Nancy, dear, whatever are you doing lurking out here on the porch? You’ll catch your death. It’s freezing out.”

“It’s ten degrees, Mum,” Nancy says, stepping over the threshold and shutting the door behind her. “And besides, that’s not how viruses work.”

Frances clicks her tongue at her daughter with an exaggerated eye roll. “Yes, yes, you’re very clever.”

“Good to see you, Mum,” Nancy says, planting a kiss on her heavily powdered cheek. Her mother air-kisses her back through salmon-pink lipstick.

Nancy hangs her coat and purse on a hook in the wall, kicks off her hiking boots, then sets them neatly on the boot tray as her mother watches with a critical eye. Frances reaches down and picks up a speck of mud that shook loose from the sole of Nancy’s boot, opens the front door, and tosses it out onto the porch. Nancy smiles tightly.

“Is the tea on already?” she asks, knowing it will be. “Can I lend a hand?”

“No, no, dear, come on in and sit down. I hate it when you act like a guest.”

“Sorry, Mum.”

“Oh, never mind,” Frances says. “Your father says you need your independence and all that. I’ve just never quite adjusted. You know that.”

Nancy nods and flops down on the couch. “I know. I’m sorry it’s hard for you.”

Frances pats a curl on top of her head. “Yes, well, time for tea, then.” She bustles off to the kitchen and returns a minute later with a platter of Peak Freans cookies and over-milked orange pekoe.

“Is Dad here?” Nancy asks, leaning forward to take a raspberry cream cookie.

“He’s just upstairs finishing getting ready. He’ll be down.” Frances settles herself on a large wing chair and pours tea for them both. “I have something for you, just there.” She indicates a shopping bag from the Bay that Nancy hadn’t noticed. “Open it!”

“Aw, Mum, you didn’t have to do that.” Nancy’s insides squirm with guilt.

“Yes, I did. I saw it and thought it was gorgeous, just your colors!”

Nancy pulls the bag toward her. Reaching in, she lifts out a dress. It’s blue and pink floral with puffy sleeves, something Nancy wouldn’t be caught dead in.

“I was just thinking you’ll want something nice for dates and things. You’ll never impress Mr. Right with all that denim you wear. And those big sweaters do nothing for your figure, dear.”

Nancy takes a deep breath and lowers the dress back into the bag. “Thanks, Mum, it’s lovely.”

Frances smiles over the rim of the Royal Doulton. “I’m glad you like it. And on the subject of dresses, I have some rather big news. Clara and Anthony are engaged to be married!”

“Oh my gosh, wow!” Nancy feigns surprise. Clara had called her a week ago to deliver the news, which Nancy felt was less than cause for celebration. For one thing, Nancy thought Clara could do a whole lot better than her mercurial, vituperative boyfriend Anthony. And for another, she knew this news would spark a renewed determination in Frances to see Nancy married off at the earliest opportunity. Nancy just hadn’t predicted that determination would arrive in the form of a puffy-sleeved floral dress.

“Lois called me yesterday to relay the news,” her mother continues. “It sounds like Clara’s decided not to go to school and to get married instead.” Her gaze lingers on her daughter.

“Mum,” Nancy says, “you can do both nowadays, you know. Marriage doesn’t have to preclude school, and vice versa.”

“There’ll be an announcement in this weekend’s paper,” Frances says, ignoring Nancy’s comment. “So I imagine we’ll all be off to a wedding not long from now. I thought maybe you could wear that new dress, too. I’m sure there will be lots of eligible young men there to catch your eye.”

She winks at Nancy, who forces down a sip of tea. As much as she likes Clara, she’s already considering how she can weasel out of having to attend the wedding. A poorly timed exam might do the trick. And besides, she’s had trouble seeing Clara at family events ever since That Night. The sight of her cousin just brings back a host of memories she’s tried very hard to forget.

Blond hair splayed out on a black pillowcase.

Blood on her jeans in a cold hospital waiting room.

A mysterious woman named Jane.

She and Clara haven’t ever spoken about it. What was there to talk about, really? It’s a secret between the two of them, no one else’s business. If Nancy were in Clara’s shoes, she would probably never want to talk about it again, either.

Just keep yourself to yourself.

“Are you quite all right, dear?” Frances’s voice filters through the images running through Nancy’s mind.

“Of course. Yeah. Very exciting for them.”

Nancy drinks her tea in silence and allows Frances to wax critical about the style of wedding Clara might have, taking into account her sister Lois’s dreadful taste in color palettes. Mercifully, Nancy’s dad emerges from upstairs a few minutes later.

“Hey, there, Beetle,” he says, pulling Nancy into a tight hug. “Good to see you. I overheard your mother pushing her marriage agenda on you. Thought you might need a rescue.”

“Bill!” Frances cries. “I was not—”

“Yes, you were, dear.”

Nancy chuckles, but softens at the hurt look on her mother’s face. “It’s okay, Mum. Thanks for the dress. You guys should, uh, get going.”

She swallows on a tight throat, considers whether to abandon this reconnaissance mission, which in all likelihood will turn up nothing at all.

“We should,” Frances agrees. “I just need to go freshen my lips. Be back in a wink. Oh, and Nancy,” she adds. “When you leave, be sure to check the freezer. I’ve set aside some shepherd’s pie leftovers for you to take back to the apartment.”

“Jesus H, Frances, the girl knows how to feed herself,” Nancy’s dad says.

“I know she can feed herself!” Frances says, stung. “A mother just has an inherent need to feed the child she loves. You two need to cut me a little slack, you know. I’m trying.”

Waiting in the hallway, Nancy does her best to shake off the dark shadow that’s settled around her shoulders. Five minutes later, she hugs both her parents and waves from the front porch as they pull out of the driveway. Her mother waves back out of the open car window, chubby hands stuffed into those silly out-of-date gloves that only English royalty wear anymore.

“It’s a mark of refinement for a lady to wear gloves to a fancy affair,” her mother always says, but Nancy knows Frances wears the gloves because they cover her perpetually bitten-down nails and ragged red cuticles, and the thick scar on the back of her left hand, a souvenir from a kitchen accident that occurred long before Nancy was born.

And it’s not just the gloves. There’s a decorative bowl on the dining room table that no one is allowed to move or use. Its only purpose in life is to camouflage a large watermark from a long-ago carelessly placed glass. Frances has repapered the upstairs hallway seven times over the past ten years, anytime a piece gets nicked or torn or starts to fade. Furniture gets rearranged to cover stains and the wear from foot traffic on the carpet. Her mother’s few early gray hairs are dyed at the hairdresser’s on a biweekly basis. Nancy has never even seen her without makeup on. Her mother has hidden all manner of imperfections for as long as Nancy can remember.

She waits in the living room to make sure her parents don’t return for anything; her mother almost always forgets to bring a shawl. The rest of the house is silent, but the huge old cherrywood grandfather clock ticks away as Nancy chews on her fingernails, staring blankly at the wings of the pink patterned armchair.

After fifteen minutes, Nancy is quite sure her parents aren’t coming back anytime soon. She doesn’t hesitate as she climbs the stairs and takes a right at the top of the landing instead of turning left toward her old bedroom. She doesn’t know the creaks in the floor on this side of the hallway, and it’s an unfamiliar feeling to turn the knob on her parents’ bedroom door. It seems like an invasion of their privacy, a display of her lack of trust. Her heart hurts at the thought.

But it’s true. I don’t trust them. Not about this, anyway.

What had her grandmama said? That was right around the time they got you. The words reverberate as Nancy wrestles down the anxiety that flickers in her chest. She pushes the door open and steps into the darkness of the large master bedroom. The air is still and smells strongly of her mother’s hair spray and perfume—a French jasmine blend Nancy’s father gives her every Christmas, even though he doesn’t like the scent. She would have spritzed herself in it before she pulled on those white lace gloves and set her hair for the fourth time.

Nancy’s fingers fumble on the wall just inside the door until she finds the light switch and flicks it on. She strides across the rug toward her mother’s dresser. If her parents are hiding something, she has a feeling that it will be in The Drawer.

The Drawer is a family reference of sorts, her mother’s hiding place for special birthday gifts, important documents like her parents’ marriage certificate, her father’s checkbook, and her mother’s two expensive pieces of jewelry: her engagement ring, too tight to be worn now, and a pearl necklace Grandmama gave her on her fortieth birthday. Nancy looks over her shoulder again, ears straining for the sound of a car door opening, a key in the lock, her father’s deep booming voice echoing up the stairs. But there’s nothing and no one to stop her.

She half wishes there were.

Nancy licks her dry lips and pulls The Drawer open with some difficulty. It isn’t often used and the mechanism doesn’t slide smoothly. She’s only opened this drawer once—back when she was a child and at her mother’s request—to retrieve the pearls. Her parents were off to “the fanciest damn wedding we’ve ever had to attend,” as her father put it. Nancy recalls that moment now as she looks down at the navy velvet box that holds the necklace.

There’s an assortment of other items: important-looking envelopes, a few sets of lace gloves, and the purple box Nancy assumes must contain the sapphire engagement ring that, with a strange twinge in her gut, she realizes will one day be hers. She takes note of the placement of the items and tries to commit it to memory so she can return everything to its proper place once she’s finished. Then, heart banging in her throat, Nancy lifts out the jewelry boxes and gloves, and inspects the envelopes one by one, careful not to tear any of the unsealed flaps. But it’s just the documents she already assumed were in there: wills and house deeds and other boring adult paperwork. She stacks them in a neat pile on the dresser, then checks the back of The Drawer. As she pushes aside her own ivory lace christening gown, her hand brushes soft leather. Nancy wiggles her fingers into the tight space and nudges the little case forward. With a leap in her stomach, she sets it on the carpet and kneels beside it.

She stares at the box for a moment. It’s unfamiliar, a small brown leather case with a little handle, not in keeping with her mother’s delicate, feminine taste, and she wonders if it’s her father’s. Tilting it up, Nancy sees the metal dials along the mouth of the box, not unlike the combination lock on a man’s briefcase. She tries to depress the latch, but the lock won’t open.

“Shoot.”

This must be it, Nancy thinks. Her parents don’t even have a lock on their own bedroom door. Generally speaking, they don’t have anything to hide. Or at least, that’s what Nancy had thought all her life, right up until this moment.

Nancy examines the box again. There are six brass dials, each with the numbers 0 through 9. Six digits. She sits back on her heels and chews her lip. What could possibly be so secret that her parents went to the trouble to lock it up and tuck it away from her, their only child? This box has something to do with her, she knows it. But what could it be?

Her school report cards aren’t important enough to be under lock and key. Old love letters from an ex, maybe? She can’t imagine either of her parents ever exchanging romantic letters with a lover, let alone keeping them after the flame was out. Is it her birth certificate, the one her mother says got lost and needs to be replaced?

Her birth certificate.

Her birthday?

Nancy holds her breath and spins the first dial to 0. She exhales and enters the remaining digits: 4—2—5—6—1. She jams her finger against the spring lock.

It doesn’t budge.

“Seriously?” she mutters. She was sure her birthday would work. Her mother isn’t very creative. Nancy’s legs are getting pins and needles from kneeling. She tries to stand, but stumbles and throws her arm out, catching the edge of the chest of drawers for support.

“Bloody foot.”

Bracing herself against the chest with one hand, Nancy reaches down and massages her toes, wincing against the discomfort. Then she smiles to herself. She may well be her mother’s daughter; the English slang has certainly rubbed off.

There is one beat of shivering time, just one tick of the clock on the wall before the thought slides into place in her mind. Nancy throws herself back down onto the carpet next to the box. Her foot is painful, but she hardly notices.

Her breath is suspended as she spins the first four dials again, entering her birth date first, then the month, the way the English do.

2—5—0—4—6—1…