Chapter Eight

Eugenia

It is well past eight by the time I get the kitchen cleaned. Alexander has ended his nightly bait fest with me and he’s upstairs in his room. I will get ready for bed and then write my letter to Minnie. I look around my kitchen with satisfaction. White cabinets, butcher block counter tops and blue mosaic backsplash pop against the neutral grays of the walls. Two years ago, I had the whole kitchen gutted and redone. For the moment, things seem right.

I have just switched off the kitchen lights when the doorbell rings. I hesitate, then go to check the ring camera on my phone. Lily Renquist’s face floats like a pale moon on the screen.

“Shit,” I mutter, before opening the door.

It is raining and she looks wet and bedraggled. She has never been here before, but I am not surprised that Lily Renquist has landed without warning on my doorstep.

It has been more than a year since I last saw her at the school auction. Even though she is in her mid fifties, she looks ten years older. Tonight she is wearing bedroom slippers. A trench coat is thrown haphazardly over a nightgown. There has always been something disheveled about her, as though motherhood gave her permission to to let go of self care. But standing there in the watery light of my front stoop, she seems to have lost all dignity.

She walks through the vestibule and follows me to the living room without bothering to wipe her slippers.

Lily stands at the edge of the sofa, refusing to sit.

“Let me get you something,” I offer.

“I’m not staying.”

I nod.

“Claude came this close – this close –“ she puts her thumb and forefinger together, “to being bitten by a rattle snake last week!”

“Oh my God,” I begin.

“And when her food rations run out, she goes hungry. She’s losing weight. This is not good.”

When Minnie entered the program, we were warned not to get sucked into her complaints about living conditions. The wilderness was not to be negotiated, and there would be a scarcity of comforts. As caregivers, we were instructed to stand our ground and steer clear of catastrophic thinking, no matter how much our children begged us to come and take them home.

“Now isn’t the time to race to her rescue –“ I offer.

But Lily is not listening. She is looking around my living room. She eyes the exposed brick walls, the cherry wood floors, the floor to ceiling bookcases. Couch and love seat are softly curved, with floral pillows. The contemporary glass coffee table is a striking contrast with red antique end tables that are the color of a farmhouse. Scattered about are mementos of my past. On the coffee table are pewter candlesticks from one movie set, a paper weight from another. Victorian bric a brac and framed photos of me decorate the end tables and bookshelves. White china teacups, small figurines of a shepherdess, a pair of pink porcelain hands in prayer are all relics of my starring role in “Til Death They Returned.” A round silver locket on the coffee table holds a lock of my blonde hair, from when I appeared in my first Broadway play, “Belle of the Ball.”

Lily is quiet, staring.

I bristle. Through her eyes, the room seems mismatched and ill conceived. I am certain that despite Lily’s messy appearance, her own apartment is expensively spare, modern and linear.

She turns to me. “My child is bored. She’s conquered the wilderness by now. And of course she’s mastered survival skills with flying colors. Well ahead of everyone else.”

I nod.

“It’s time for Claude to come home.”

“Is that what they recommend? So soon?”

“She’s surrounded by drug addicts and juvenile delinquents from all over the country.” Lily shudders. “I’ve handed my daughter over to the rehab mafia. Who knows what awful habits she’s picking up?”

She shudders again. “I’m no longer interested in what they recommend.”

“Maybe now is not the time –“

“My daughter deserves better.”

Without another word, she turns and walks to the front door. Suddenly, she turns around: “Thank you, Eugenia. For all of this.” And then she disappears, in slippers and nightgown, into the rain.

One night, when Alexander was about twelve, I came home late. I was so drunk that to this day I don’t remember where I had been. Unsteadily, I made my way through the front door and up the stairs, to the second floor. I slipped down the hall towards Alexander’s bedroom, where he had been asleep for hours. Standing in the doorway, I watched my child, my life, my heart, softly lit by the nightlight of revolving planets on his bed stand. Blankets were pushed back and one arm was thrown behind his head. Mouth was slightly open, and I could hear him breathing.

Legs were splayed, toes almost touching the edges of the mattress. When had he gotten so lanky? Quietly, I moved towards him, longing to sit next to him, pulling him close while I sank deep into sleep. Instead, I leaned down to kiss him lightly on the forehead.

Immediately, I recoiled.

In the dim, flickering light of the planets, I could see the beginnings of a mustache darkly feathering his upper lip. Was that the nose he was meant to live with for the rest of his life? And good lord, the hair on those legs. I sniffed the air. It was slightly rank, like wet sneakers. His breath was a little stale against my cheek. When had he stopped smelling like buttered cinnamon toast? Overnight, it seemed, my rosy toddler, supple as cookie dough, had been transformed into an unrecognizably stinky brew.

Hurriedly, I backed away from the room. I was overcome, but I’m not sure by what. Guilt? Regrets for years missed? Disgust?

Ah well, I sighed, shutting the door behind me. Lawrence was snoring as I crawled into our bed. In a few years, Alexander would become a full fledged adolescent.

And then what?

I disappeared into sleep. The dirty work of worry was best left to those who knew what to do with it. Thank heavens for my husband and our well compensated housekeeper.