She nearly fell down on the cellar stairs yesterday, but she caught herself on the railing that someone had had the sense to attach when Mother was still alive and clutching it saved her life. She’s got a huge bruise on the underside of her upper arm because her forearm had gotten lodged between the wall and bannister. She used her free hand to pull her arm out, and now her back is so sore she thinks she pulled a muscle. She was so shaken that called her nephew late last night, something she never does. She told him about the bruise, her pinched back and the swelling. Should she go to the doctor? Mostly assuredly, he told her, but as soon as Paul insisted, Char decided not to go. However, this morning, Dr. Veach’s office phoned, saying they had a spot for her this morning.
During the call, Char had gotten confused. Did she phone them? She wasn’t aware that she said this out loud, but she must have because the nurse enunciated slowly. “No, Ms. Glimmer, your nephew phoned. All the way from Sun Valley, California.”
How thoughtful, Char thinks, and what a comfort to have a loving family. But how will she get there? Frank’s taxi hasn’t run in years.
She must have said this aloud, too, for the nurse cleared her throat. “Naomi Waters from the Methodist Church is picking you up. The appointment is at ten. Will you be dressed and ready?”
“Of course, I will!” Char screeched into the phone. Did this woman know who she was talking to? She’s up and dressed by seven every morning. She’s not some floozy who fetches the morning paper in her nightgown!
Had she said this as well? Char isn’t sure. She’s aware of a long pause at the other end and she doesn’t know if the nurse has hung up, or maybe she’s not having this conversation at all. Suddenly, the nurse repeats that she needs to see the doctor. And Char repeats, yes, she can be ready at ten o’clock though she isn’t quite sure who Naomi Waters is. She hopes that she will recognize a nose or a set of eyes, or maybe strawberry colored hair from someone she knew long ago.
She returns from Dr. Veach’s office, relieved and exhausted. The bruise is large but there’s no internal bleeding. More times than she thought necessary he’d warned her about the stairs. Stay out of the cellar. On a bright note, she did know Naomi Waters, a woman near fifty who was Vivian’s first granddaughter. Viv has been gone for, oh, a good while, but she remembered when the girl was born and how happy Viv had been to have a granddaughter. The others had been boys.
She’d give anything to see Vivian again. Or Maxine, whom they’d called Maxie, then shortened to Max. Viv, Max and Char. Somehow, she’d been included with those two cut-ups. The somber note in their frivolity. But they were good girls. Even though they were cut-ups, they were good.
Char decides to take a box down from the hall closet. It’s not high; Father had had it made for himself. For all his importance, he wasn’t a tall man and didn’t want to stretch while reaching for his hat. Reaching doesn’t hurt her arm.
The box is full of photographs. Many of them are of Char. There she is in her christening gown. Mother looks beautiful with her hair upswept in a bun, wearing a lace gown that matches her own. Father, standing behind her with his hand on the Queen Anne chair, looks proud. Char studies her long narrow face encased in the bonnet and feels embarrassment even now. She looks unhappy at being born.
She sorts through the pictures, finding more of herself. Birthday parties where the children are unnaturally subdued, one in the porch swing with Mother. Another is of three girls with sleds. Whitehall Hill! That’s where Harmony Manor now stands. Char remembers that day. It’s the three of them – Max, Char and Viv—although she can’t tell who’s who because the photo is faded and all three are wearing padded snowsuits with toboggans pulled down. She might be the one on the left, the thinnest, but maybe not. Mother always made her wear two sets of clothes.
She remembers the cold on her cheeks, the freedom of speed, and the laughter that came from deep within. Afterwards, there’d been a huge bonfire with kettle corn and marshmallows on a stick. Frank McGee had sidled up to her, whiskey on his breath even then, and kept up a conversation. He was a rough boy from a rough family and most of his words ended up in his muffler, but she’d been thrilled. It was her first flirtation.
That night, safe in bed, she’d had her worst bout of St. Vitus yet.
to be continued.
