Saving Gracie Part 7

Grace wondered the same thing. Easter would never be the same.

"Easter is special. So is Grandma." Hannah produced the most sensible answer.

After a month, the rest of the family's lives returned to a flimsy form of normalcy. Grace's sleeping habits still sucked, leaving her exhausted, which complimented her emptiness.

Rummaging through her closet, she ran across a book she'd been given by one of the hospice volunteers. At the time she'd readily tossed it aside knowing book reading, no matter how valuable the topic, was out of the question. But now her brain moved at a sludge-pace, making reading seem doable.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of her closet, Grace studied the t.i.tle, Final Gifts. She opened the book to the t.i.tle page, scanned the table of contents and then flipped to chapter seven, "Being In the Presence Of Someone Not Alive." After reading one short page, Grace suddenly knew and understood her mother's sister, Aunt Ruth's, reference before she died.

She finished the book in two days and wished, wished, wished, she had read it when the hospice volunteer first placed it in her hand.

"I think I know why the Easter baskets were so important to her." Grace sat the book between her and Adam at the breakfast table. "She needed to get them done before she could let go."

Adam raised his eyes from the sports page. "You got that from the book?"

"Yeah. Well, sorta." She found it so easy to second-guess herself. She tapped the cover beside her. "According to this, there's a lot to learn about people dying." She thought for a moment. "Maybe they do have some sort of control over their actual death. Remember how long I stayed beside her bed at the Patient Care Center? The one time I left the room, she stopped breathing." Her mother always had an agenda. The theory fit. "Sounds like Mom, doesn't it? Calling the shots?"

"Then why Easter Sunday?" Adam asked.

"I know." Grace ran a finger around the top of her coffee mug. "I haven't figured that one out yet."

"What about the grief support group?"

"What about it?" Grace shot the retort back at Adam.

"Just thought it might help."

Grace stared out the window. She hated when Adam made sense. Without her mother around to blame, Adam took all the nasty hits these days. "I'll think about it."

Grace reluctantly joined the hospice support group. However, the weekly bereavement meetings filled only a small portion of her week. The rest she spent in the secure darkness of her bed. A couple of times Janie, her close friend, forced her up for a late breakfast or early lunch. The meal depended how long it took her to get out the door. Aside from Janie's motherly nudges and the brief attempts to put on a smiley face for Adam and the kids she could easily wallow away entire days in bed.

"I'm depressed." She scowled at the drab person in the mirror. She shrugged. "Whatever." She hated the feeling. She hated everything; that hadn't changed. Depression transformed her life from Technicolor to dull shades of black and white.

"I'll give it another week." School would be out soon, which would certainly blow her cover. She'd call a hospice counselor...but not the psychiatrist-jerk. Yeah, so what if he'd been right about her mother dying? His bedside manner still sucked.

Wednesday afternoon Grace returned to her silent house after an extended lunch with Janie. Tossing keys and purse on the counter she made an honest effort to steer clear of the bed. She roamed the family room, stopped next to her mother's upright piano and lowered herself onto the bench. The keys felt smooth under her fingers. Becoming an accomplished pianist had been one of her mother's pa.s.sions; unfulfilled, but a pa.s.sion.

Grace screwed up her mouth. "What's my pa.s.sion?" Nothing came to mind. Moving away from the piano, she plopped onto the couch and stared upward.

"Just a short rest," she justified to the empty room. The dark wood blades of the ceiling fan rotated slowly, methodically, around...and around...and around, mirroring the monotony of her life. "G.o.d, how boring." She closed her eyes.

What was her pa.s.sion? And when had her life become so boring?

The answer immediately popped in her head. It had always been boring. She couldn't remember a single time she'd actually worked for something she wanted. Even Adam had fallen nicely into her lap.

She'd had a blind date soph.o.m.ore year with Adam Brookfield, who was a good-looking hunk with high standards, a sense of humor, no police record and no tattoos. Two years older and a senior, he was one of the few guys she knew who even had a degree plan. Christmas, he proposed. In May Adam graduated with a degree in Business Finance and landed a job with a well-known investment firm before the ink on his diploma dried. They married in June.

That was her Adam; dependable, solid, decisive, always had a plan.

He was the complete opposite of Grace. Her pursuit of an Elementary Education degree centered around two people; the first, naturally being her mother. As long as she could remember, Kathryn had told her she should be a teacher. Why? Grace had never bothered to ask...not unusual. The second, she blamed her guidance counselor for insisting she pick a major. How rude. She could care less about getting a degree or being a teacher. But, then again, it did get her mother off her back.

"You are a teacher," Kathryn said after Grace completed her student teaching. "Be a teacher."

"I don't want to." Grace argued, feeling five. "And besides, Adam doesn't care if I work or not." She folded her arms in a na-na-na-na-boo-boo stance.

She lay on the couch and reviewed her adulthood, which played like a bad B-rated movie: shallow plot, no substance. Besides having kids, which of course gave her great pleasure, Grace had done absolutely nothing with her life. Ambitions? Nada. Dreams? Zilch. And pa.s.sions? Once again, a blank slate-a complete and total ankle-deep existence. Pa-thetic.

What she needed was a plan. Without her mother around directing traffic in her life she realized the full extent of her emptiness; not pretty.

"I could start talking to myself. Mom always hated that," she remembered. "At least I'd have the last word." Once the phrase left her mouth, she realized that might not necessarily be true.

As a little girl Grace had an imaginary friend and, as she grew, her alter ego developed into an excessively outspoken wild-child personality. Almost every time Grace got in trouble, Grace #2-shortened to #2-had talked her into doing something she alone found too terrifying. The little she-devil who sat on her shoulder always got in the last word.

"Maybe #2 should show up." Then she'd have some help with the real Grace Brookfield. The real Grace Brookfield reminded her of the old 50's Game Show Network program, I've Got a Secret. She pictured three Grace look-alikes on one side, all claiming to be the real Grace Brookfield. A panel of well-known celeb judges sat opposite.

"Contestant #1, you say you are an adult," begins panelist, Kitty Carlisle. "How do you approach decision-making?"

Grace waited for one of the look-alikes to answer. Anyone?

"Hey there Suns.h.i.+ne," #2 said. "You sound like a commercial for old game shows."

And she's back. "I wondered how long it'd take you to surface."

"All you had to do was ask," #2 offered in her snarky tone. "Ready to serve."

"Yeah, I'm sure." Grace focused on the slow swirl of the ceiling fan and heard The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly theme song roll around in her head. "Okay, that does it." She bounded off the couch. She couldn't handle the mental jukebox thing, especially if #2 was going to play show tunes.

"It's better than a game show," #2 said. "And besides, I'm just warming up."

"Go home." Being in a horizontal position, fetal or otherwise, did not lead to productive thinking. New rule-no thinking while lying down.

"Shouldn't be a problem there, since critical thinking doesn't happen around you much anyway," #2 said. "Besides, I am home."

Grace ignored her alter ego. What a mistake it had been to think this crazy personality could help. Although, granted, #2 had snapped her off the couch.

"I think I'll cook tonight," Grace said. Hey...a decision.

"And all by your itty-bitty self." #2 wasted zero time piping in on having the last word ritual.

"Shut up." Grace opened the faux plantation blinds in the family room, allowing in the full glare of daylight. She squinted, realizing how dark she'd kept the house over the last month. Another point in the "being a drag" column. She stared out the window into the backyard. "That's what I'll do. I'll cook." She waited for what surely would be a sarcastic remark. None came. Good.

She grabbed the phone and pushed *1. Her family had survived on frozen entrees and fast food for weeks. Three rings later, Grace realized her mom wouldn't answer. She let it ring until she heard the recorded disconnect message. Pus.h.i.+ng end, she slumped onto a nearby bar stool, her shoulders dropped. The 'surprise-I'm-cooking-tonight' idea lost its punch. Pizza. Again.

"You wouldn't be ordering pizza, would you, Mom?" Still clutching the phone, it rang, startling her. She cleared her throat. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Good afternoon. May I speak to Grace Brookfield?" a female voice asked.

"This is Grace."

"And how are you today?" Tele-marketer code for 'I'm-going-to-try-my-d.a.m.nedest-to-sell-you-something-you-don't-need'.

Grace wrinkled her nose. "Fine."

"My name is Ellen Lyons and I'm calling from the school district's Deaf Education Department. I have your name on a list of possible interpreters. We're looking for volunteers for our summer program."

Silence.

"h.e.l.lo? Mrs. Brookfield?"

"Yes." Grace drew circle eights on the counter top.

"Wonderful," the woman gushed. "All I need is your email address. I'll send you the information."

"No."

Pause.

"No?"

"I mean, yes." Grace squeezed her eyes shut. "Wait." Heat flushed her cheeks. She rubbed her neck. "Can we start over?"

The woman fell silent for a moment, nothing but phone-fuzz coming from the receiver. Then finally, "At what part should I start over?"

Ouch. Word-slam. Good thing her mushy brain didn't care. She waited for something intelligent to pop into her mind. Zilch.

"Big surprise," #2 whispered.

"I'm sorry." Grace stuck her finger in her free ear.

"Ri-ght," the alter ego whispered. "Like that's going to stop me."

Grace gritted her teeth. "What I mean to say is yes, I'm the real Grace Brookfield." Cringe. Images of the game show blurred her mind.

"Nice one," #2 snickered.

"I mean...I'm Grace Brookfield." She rolled her eyes. Lame.

"Ok-ay. Would you like to volunteer for our summer program?" Ms. Lyons spoke as if addressing someone mentally challenged.

Grace stuck her tongue out at the phone. A second grade playground maneuver, but still, she did not like this woman. "Well, you see my mother recently died, and I'd love to help, but this really isn't a good time. My kids will be home all summer." Lie. "And I'm sure-"

"I see," Ice-woman interrupted. "Should I remove your name from our list?"

"No!" Grace iron-gripped the phone. "Any other time I'd be more than willing to help," she explained, hoping for a sympathy vote.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Brookfield," Emily Lyons responded. "Please keep in mind the department is always looking for those truly interested in a.s.sisting our auditory-impaired children. Perhaps you would prefer giving us a call when you're available." No sympathy vote, and another cheap shot.

"Yes, I'll do that."

"My number is 281-555-4636, extension 2424."

Grace scribbled the number on a napkin.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Brookfield." Click.

"b.i.t.c.h." Guilt and anger wrestled in Grace's insides for first place.

"You tell her, bad girl," #2 said.

"Mmph," Grace growled, ignoring the smart-a.s.s in her head. She slammed the phone on the counter and glanced at the clock. Ten to five.

It's five o'clock somewhere, Jimmy Buffett sang in her head. What's up with songs today?

"b.i.t.c.h," she repeated, unable to decide who deserved the insult more, the Lyons woman or #2. She wadded the napkin, tossed it into the trash and reached for a stemmed gla.s.s. Wine, pizza and heartburn-another day in paradise. d.a.m.n.

Later that evening after Hannah and Josh relocated to the family room, Grace and Adam sat at the kitchen table, now covered with pizza crust, cheese bread, and Buffalo wings.

"You won't believe the call I got." Grace launched into the crazy Ellen Lyons conversation. When finished, she waited expectantly for Adam's two cents on the insane idea.

Adam chewed on his last slice of pizza. Silence.

"Well? It's ridiculous, right?"

Adam took a sip of red wine and shrugged. "What's so crazy about it?"

"You're kidding."

"Gracie, you've got to start somewhere."

She raised her eyes to meet his. Her mother called her Gracie, not Adam.

"I know it'll be hard," he continued, "but at least it's something. Maybe it'd be good to start out volunteering." Adam used a napkin to wipe his mouth. "You've always wanted to do something with Deaf Ed. Maybe this is your opportunity."

Typical Adam, planting the seed. She knew he'd wait to see if she'd add the water. If she ever cursed Adam, she'd do it now. "So...you think I should?"

"I think it'd do you good to get out of the house."

Okay, Grace wondered, who squealed about my super-secret-under-the-covers lifestyle? Janie or #2? #2, she decided.