Vintage Page 17

  “Do I have preeclampsia?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so, but we can’t rule it out yet,” the doctor replied. “The protein levels in your urine sample came back normal, and you don’t have any swelling—”

  “Are you kidding me?” April gestured toward her middle.

  Dr. Hong laughed. “I mean abnormal swelling, like in your face or your arms and legs. Swelling of the abdomen is, as you know, perfectly normal. Anyway, besides the high blood pressure, you don’t have any of the telltale signs of preeclampsia. But just to be on the safe side, I’m going to order you on modified bed rest. I suspect the slight rise in your blood pressure is stress related and will go down on its own, but the bed rest will help that happen faster.”

  “What do you mean by modified bed rest?” April asked. “Do I have to be in bed all the time?” She pictured herself lying around, her muscles and mind atrophying as her pregnancy wore on.

  “No. You can sit on the couch with your feet elevated, and you can get up to go to the bathroom or shower, but I don’t want you lifting anything heavier than five pounds. I don’t want you going out and running errands or going to work or anything. And no sex.”

  “Well, the work and the sex won’t be a problem,” April said. “But my mom’s house is on the market and I’ve gotta get it cleaned out.”

  “Then you’ll have to ask someone or hire someone to do that for you. Do you need a note for your employer?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I lost my summer internship because I kind of blew up at my boss.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Dr. Hong typed something. “And how would you describe your mood lately?”

  April didn’t want to answer the question.

  “There’s no right or wrong answer here.” Dr. Hong’s eyes crinkled at the edges as she put on a sympathetic expression. “Just answer honestly.”

  April knew what was going on. She was being screened for depression, or some other mental health issue. Like her mom. She got the same series of questions at every office visit. Usually, she answered with a benign response like “a little tired, but otherwise okay.” Lately, though, April felt as though her life were a balloon she’d been holding by a string and, despite her careful calculations, she’d somehow lost her grip on it. She could see it floating away and she needed to jump up and grab it before it drifted too far.

  “April?”

  She focused on Dr. Hong’s face, but her voice sounded distant.

  April hugged the thin cotton gown to her body. She shivered, feeling exposed.

  “I’m going to take your response to mean ‘not good,’” Dr. Hong said. She removed her glasses. “All women are at risk of postpartum depression, but as you know, with your family history, you’re at greater risk, so I want to make sure we monitor you, not just after the birth, but now, too. Just to be extra cautious.”

  April thought about the note Violet had found in her mom’s pocket. “How am I supposed to know if something is actually wrong or I’m just being hormonal?” she asked.

  “It’s a good question. Your hormones are certainly on overdrive during pregnancy, so some emotional swings are to be expected. But if you start to feel like your moods are affecting your ability to go about living your daily life, then please let me know.”

  “Like freaking out at my boss, you mean?”

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions over a single incident.” Dr. Hong gave April a small smile. “Don’t beat yourself up too much about what happened. A lot of pregnant women have moments where they don’t feel quite like themselves. It might be worth it to talk to your boss.”

  April respected Dr. Hong, but she doubted talking to Violet would do much good. If she was going to get her internship back, then she would need to perform some sort of penance to make up for the trust she’d destroyed. A mere apology wouldn’t cut it.

  When she got home, April rummaged through the kitchen for some snacks to keep within arm’s reach to avoid having to get up for multiple trips. She put on one of her mom’s loose-fitting nightgown-and-robe sets, since her own pajamas no longer fit her, and settled into the couch with her laptop, trying not to think about how many hours she’d be spending in this same spot.

  She checked her e-mail and saw another new message from Charlie sitting in her inbox. All she had to do was ask and she knew he would come over. He’d probably feel sorry for her and she was pretty sure she could take advantage of that. It would be nice to see him, and even nicer to have him wait on her. But having Charlie around for a little while would only make it all the harder when he left for Boston in the fall, and anyway, she wasn’t ready to forgive him for the things he’d said and for calling off the wedding without so much as a phone call to let her know that cancellation cards were in the mail. Remembering Dr. Hong’s advice to avoid stress as much as possible, she hit delete without opening the message.

  The next several days passed in a groggy fog. April quickly grew tired of surfing the Internet and watching TV, and she didn’t have any good books to read. She spent her time either sleeping out of sheer boredom or examining her problems like they were wriggling specimens on a lab slide. All of the plans she’d made in the last several months had fallen apart. The wedding, her ideas for the store . . . she couldn’t help feeling like she’d even failed her child in some way. She knew how hard it had been for her mom to support and raise her as a single parent. Now she would have to face the same challenges, at an even younger age than her mother had.

  She hoped Charlie would be a part of their child’s life. She even hoped, when she allowed herself to admit it, that there was still a chance for the three of them to be together, as a family. But she knew that after Charlie moved to Boston, it wouldn’t be long before he built a life independent of hers. She’d seen it happen with her own father. The way that his contact became less frequent over the years, until he finally cut her off completely.

  Maybe Charlie would visit them on breaks from school, at first. He’d probably come to their baby’s first birthday party. And, of course, he’d be legally obligated to send child support, though she imagined it wouldn’t be much, given his student status. But for the everyday events—the doctor’s appointments, the bedtime stories, the first steps—Charlie would be hundreds of miles away. And it broke her heart.

  So slow and uneventful was her time on bed rest that April didn’t even know what day of the week it was when she got a call from Lane Lawton. She stared down at the name on the caller ID, debating whether or not to answer. She didn’t want to have to explain to Lane that, since they’d last spoken, she’d not only lost her job, but possibly was losing her mind as well. Then she thought of her mother, and how she used to shut people out when she needed them most.

  April picked up the phone.

  Lane’s voice sounded worried. “April? I haven’t seen you at rehearsals for the revue, and when I asked Violet about it, she said you were no longer interning at the store. Is everything okay? How’s the baby?”

  “The baby is fine, but I’m on bed rest.”

  “Oh, you poor—Danny, you get off that right now—sorry, what I meant to say is you poor thing. I had to be on bed rest for a while with my third, so I know it’s no picnic. Can I come over with a meal or something?”

  April looked down at her unwashed nightgown and was about to refuse, but again she thought of her mom and said, “That would be amazing.”

  “I can come over tonight after the kids—hands out of the butter dish, thank you, now go over to the sink and wash your hands.”

  “If this is a bad time, I can call you back.”

  “It’s not a bad time, just a regular old afternoon. Listen, I’ll come by after the kids are in bed tonight.”

  That evening, Lane let herself in, despite the fact that she’d never been to April’s house. She showed up with a Tupperware and handed April a stack of shiny gossip magazines.

  “Oh, my God,” April said as she looked at the feuding celebrity couple on the cover of on
e of the magazines. “How did you know what I needed without me even asking?”

  “Like I said, I was laid up during my last pregnancy, too. The only thing that kept me from being miserable was reading about other people’s miseries,” Lane said. “Do you mind if I open your cupboards to look for dishes? I brought you some dinner.”

  “Sure, dishes are in the cabinet next to the refrigerator.”

  April heard some clanging from the kitchen, and Lane came back with a bowl full of pasta salad and a fork. She handed them to April. “I don’t care if you’re not hungry. I can guarantee you that baby is hungry.”

  “Thanks.” April took a bite of pasta. “This is the only thing I’ve eaten all week that isn’t some variation of a peanut butter sandwich.”

  “I have to make a ton of food for my boys, anyway, so it’s no trouble to make a little more,” said Lane. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”

  Just having Lane in the room made April feel more relaxed than she had in weeks.

  In between big bites of pasta salad, she spewed out her story, starting with her mom’s possible suicide and ending at Dr. Hong’s office.

  “If my mom killed herself, it makes me wonder if any of the times we had together were ever really happy, or if I just remember them that way because I didn’t know what was going on with her,” she said.

  Lane reached over and patted April’s arm. “I’m sure they were happy times for her, too.”

  “My mind is going in circles, trying to figure out what really happened. And the only conclusion I keep coming to is that I’ll never really know, which isn’t much of a conclusion at all.”

  Lane took a rubber band from around her wrist and pulled her highlighted hair into a ponytail. “You’ve gotta let it go then,” she said.

  “But how? If my mom killed herself, then—”

  “Then what? It doesn’t mean she didn’t love you. It doesn’t change any of the good times you shared. Even if the worst is true, which is a big ‘if’ since you don’t have any proof one way or the other, your mom was still the person you remember her to be. How she died isn’t as important as how she lived.”

  “Yeah, but she didn’t exactly live the perfect life.”

  “None of us do. That’s not the point. God, I hope my kids never judge me by whether or not I was perfect. All I want is for them to know I love them.”

  That, at least, April knew. Realizing that fact gave her a sense of comfort she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  “So is my body ever going to feel normal again?” she asked after she’d chewed the last bite of pasta.

  Lane laughed. “Yes. And you’re in your third trimester already, so it’s all downhill from here.”

  “I’ve never understood that expression,” April said. “Is it supposed to mean that things are going to get better, or worse?”

  “In this case, better.”

  “But I’m so worried that I’m going to have the same problems my mom did. Mental-health-wise, I mean.”

  “You won’t.” Lane shook her head. “You won’t because you’re aware of what your mom went through, so you would never let yourself get to that point.”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t been feeling like myself. I haven’t felt like doing anything. How do I know I’m not two steps away from sinking into some awful hole?”

  “Honey, you’re on bed rest. Bed rest would make anyone feel depressed,” Lane said. “I’m no shrink, but I think the fact that you got through your mom’s death and most of your pregnancy without having a complete nervous breakdown says a lot for your sanity. You’ve had a rough few months, but that baby is strong and so are you.”

  “Thanks.” April missed her mom in that moment with a suffocating ache in her chest, but she was glad someone else cared.

  “And just to make sure of it, I’ll come over as often as I can until your doctor says it’s okay for you to be off bed rest,” Lane said. “How does that sound?”

  April nodded. She didn’t even try to object. She just said, “Thank you.”

  “It will need to be in the evenings, after my kids’ bedtime. If you need anything, you just call me and let me know what it is and I’ll get it for you.”

  After Lane had gone home, April thought about how quick she’d been to write her off as just another harried Midwestern mom. She had assumed Lane had taken the easy way out by setting her acting dreams aside to wipe drool off chins and fingerprints off furniture. Now April could see that there was a lot more to Lane than she’d suspected. It occurred to April that Lane’s leaving the theater to focus on her kids was not the result of Lane giving up on what she wanted but had likely been a choice, one that was thought out and desired just as much as a starring role.

  Chapter 17

  INVENTORY ITEM: teapot

  APPROXIMATE DATE: 1950s

  CONDITION: excellent

  ITEM DESCRIPTION: Royal Doulton china teapot, ivory with pink roses.

  SOURCE: Betsy Barrett

  Violet

  VIOLET PARKED HER CAR in Betsy’s semicircular driveway, then climbed the concrete path that wound through the August wildflowers in the front yard. Betsy’s house was the only place Violet had ever been where an employee always answered the door. A housekeeper showed her into the living room and gave her chamomile tea in a china cup. Violet sat back on the brocade sofa and looked out at Lake Mendota through the velvet-curtained windows. She tried to relax. Violet still hadn’t told Betsy she knew about her illness, and she feared her friend might have more bad news.

  Betsy walked into the room holding her own cup of tea. She looked bone thin in her gray linen dress but otherwise in good spirits. Violet stood up.

  “Oh, sit down, please,” Betsy said. “I see you have some tea. Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  Betsy sat down in a chair across from the sofa, and Violet noticed the older woman’s impeccable posture. Even though she was tall, Betsy sat up straight to appear even taller and held her chin high. She was a woman who didn’t apologize for being who she was—a quality Violet remembered about her own grandmother.

  Violet smiled as she recalled how, when she was a child, she would sit on the piano bench while Grandma Lou played. Her grandmother’s fingers, with their smooth, red nails, would fly across the keys and she’d rock back and forth, singing, “Would you like to swing on a star?” Violet would join in, reveling in how good it felt to belt out a song, deep from the diaphragm. In the safety of Grandma Lou’s living room, she never had to apologize for being herself.

  Betsy blew on the top of her tea, sending a puff of steam into the air. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” she said. “I wanted to say I’m so sorry to hear things didn’t work out with April. I want you to know I don’t hold you responsible. She’s been through a lot, that girl.”

  “Have you talked to her lately?” Violet asked.

  “Not since the day she called to tell me she’d quit. I tried to talk her out of it, but she’s got a mind of her own. I talked to her adviser at the university and they said they’d be willing to give partial credit for the internship.” Betsy sipped her tea. “Have you heard from her?”

  Violet shook her head.

  “How about you? Is everything all right?” Betsy asked. “You seem stressed.”

  Leave it to Betsy to be concerned about me when she’s the one who’s sick, Violet thought. “I’ve been fine,” she replied. “We’ve got the runway show coming up, and then there’s . . . well, things have been a bit complicated lately.”

  Betsy sighed. “Okay, I’ll come clean.”

  “Thank God,” Violet said. “I’ve been trying to figure out whether to say something.”

  “I’ve been wanting to tell you, too, but you have to understand that I’m in an awkward position. On the one hand, you’re a dear friend and I want your shop to succeed. On the other hand, I’ve got a lot of business connections I have to think about. The owner of the development group that’s been neg
otiating with your landlord is the president of my husband’s old company. Even though I sold out my interest after Walt died, I still feel like I have to keep up a good relationship.”

  Violet blinked. “I’m sorry, what are you talking about?”

  “The developer who’s buying your building,” Betsy said. “To turn it into condos? I thought that’s what we were talking about.”

  “No,” Violet said. “All my landlord told me was that they’re putting the building on the market, so they want me out.”

  “It doesn’t need to go on the market,” Betsy said. “The developer already had the plans approved by the city council to gut the building, put an addition on the back of it, and turn it into a four-unit luxury condo complex.”

  “So it’s a done deal?”

  “Well, nothing in real estate is really done until the ink on the deed is dry. But all signs point toward it happening. I thought you knew.”

  “I didn’t,” Violet said, feeling betrayed that Betsy hadn’t said anything earlier. Perhaps she and Betsy weren’t as close as she’d thought. But then she felt guilty for holding anything against Betsy, since she was sick. And Violet also felt like a hypocrite, because she was guilty of keeping quiet about certain important matters, too.

  What bothered Violet the most about the news of the development project was that it meant her landlord assumed that Violet wouldn’t—no, couldn’t afford—to exercise her right of first refusal on the building. They weren’t even waiting for her to decide what she was going to do before moving ahead with their plans. It was as if the chance of her buying the building was too remote to even worry about. It was remote, but Violet still clung to the possibility that, between the revue and maybe a miracle, she’d scrounge up enough money to make a down payment and qualify for a loan. Because if that didn’t happen, she didn’t know what she was going to do. She’d been poring over the classifieds every week, and the prospect of finding another affordable shop space in the neighborhood was looking grim.