Rebound: Chapter 10

I’ve been staying with Granny Lucille for the last three days, and she finally dragged me outside today. Against the odds, I’m enjoying myself, and feeling the fall sunshine on my skin has done me good. The weather in Charleston is perfect at this time of year, and I almost forgot how beautiful it is. I suppose I almost forgot how beautiful anything is.

Waterfront Park is a pretty place with stunning views of the river and the harbor. We strolled here from her house in the French Quarter, waved off by her friend Vivienne, who stopped by for a late lunch. Now we’re sitting by the pineapple fountain, watching the sunset. This park, and the crazy fountain that is literally in the shape of a pineapple, was built when I was a little girl. There was always a real sense of excitement coming here. I used to love splashing around in the water and clambering onto the wooden swings under the pier. I would dance and cartwheel over the grassy spaces like a human tumbleweed, and Granny would treat me to ice cream, benne wafers, or crab cakes, depending on what mood we were in.

They were simpler times. Happy times. My memories of this place, of her quirky home in one of the most historic parts of the city, are pure and filled with joy. Granny has always been eccentric, but always felt warm and safe. She looked after me so well, and I knew I could count on her. Life here was the complete opposite of my life at school or at home with my parents. I loved my visits to Charleston and spent the rest of the year looking forward to summers full of endless hot, humid days. I never got tired of spending time with her, not even when I was a teenager.

Today, she is taking no shit. And when Granny Lucille decides to take no shit, she means it. At eighty-nine years old, she needs a cane to walk but is still fit and active. Her silver hair is in a short pixie cut, which suits her perfectly because she looks a little like a pixie at five foot nothing. There are signs of age, obviously—wrinkles and lines, liver spots on her skin, fingers twisted with arthritis—but she still gives off an amazing energy. She laughs easily and has a delicious Charleston accent that sounds like honey. I can’t say that I’m enjoying listening to it right now, though.

“You’ve got to stop feeling sorry for yourself, Bam-Bam,” she says, using the childhood nickname that she gave me. “I’ve let you hide away in your room long enough. It’s time to come out into the light, child.”

It is light, I think. The sky is streaked with pinks and reds as the sun slides down, the colors reflecting off the water. I wonder what it’s like in New York today. This time of year could mean anything from dazzling sunshine to a hailstorm. Of course, I then start to think about Elijah and what he might be doing. In the dazzling sunshine or the hailstorm. I have no clue how he is, because he respected my request and hasn’t contacted me. Or maybe he hasn’t contacted me because he hates my guts and has already moved on. Maybe his brothers are taking him to strip clubs and setting him up on dates with women named Sugar Lips or Busty. Maybe … No. Stop right now!

“Yes, Granny,” I say obediently, at least showing her that I’m listening. “I know.”

“Do you now, Bam-Bam? What is it that you know?”

“That I need to stop feeling sorry for myself. I get it. It’s deeply unattractive.”

She snorts with laughter and slaps her skinny thighs. “Unattractive? Who gives a damn about that? You’ve always cared way too much about what other people think. There’s a place for it, as long as they’re people whose opinions you value—but that’s not always the way with you, is it? You gave up ballet because that asshole Billy Kruger said you looked like a giraffe on pointe.”

“I was only fourteen. And anyway, he was right—I was already too tall.”

“Too tall for what? To be a prima ballerina, maybe, but to enjoy yourself? To love dancing? No such thing as too tall for that. You also listened to your mother when she said you needed to ‘drop a few pounds’ before your prom, and to your father when he told you men don’t like women to be too smart.”

I give her some side-eye. She’s absolutely right about all of those things.

“I also listened to you, Granny,” I say. “And I followed my heart. I believed in love. I married a man I adored. That didn’t work out so well.”

“Pah! Nonsense. Your marriage didn’t go wrong because you loved him too much. What a ridiculous thing to say. Although you still haven’t properly explained exactly did go wrong, have you? You’ve just been crying into your pillow for days on end.”

I sigh and stare at the sunset. It really is spectacular, like an abstract painting in the sky. If Verona were here, she would capture it beautifully. The wind is knocked out of me when I imagine her wearing the paint-spattered men’s dress shirt she favored—Elijah once told me about the time she absentmindedly grabbed one of Dalton’s thousand-dollar dress shirts when the urge to paint struck—one paintbrush caught between her teeth and another in her hand, the pineapple fountain splashing behind her. We had a trip planned. She and Granny Lucille met at the wedding but didn’t get to spend much time together. They would have gotten along like biscuits and gravy. But then the diagnosis came and the trip never did. I blow out a breath and force away the bittersweet memories.

“It’s complicated, Granny.”

She snorts again—it’s one of her favorite things. “I’m sure it is, Bam-Bam, I’m sure it is. I couldn’t possibly understand, could I, because your generation thinks they invented ‘complicated.’ Tell me one thing then. Do you still love him?”

“Yes,” I say matter-of-factly. “But I also can’t stand the way I feel when I’m around him.”

“What the fig does that mean? And look at me when I’m talking to you.”

I turn to face her, and her fierce expression softens when she sees my tears. She pats my cheek. “Oh, darling. Bless your heart. You’re really hurting, aren’t you?”

I nod, the gentleness of her tone making the tears spill. Sometimes, I only hold myself together with sheer will, and all it takes is a touch of sweetness to make me crumble. Come at me with an axe, I’ll fight you; come at me with a kind word and I’ll fall at your feet.

She holds my hand, and we sit together and watch a group of teenagers fly past on rollerblades. Once they are gone, she says, “What do you mean, you can’t stand the way you feel when you’re around him? What has he done to you? Because I might look frail and old, and he might be richer than Midas, but that doesn’t mean I can’t whoop his skinny New York ass.”

I giggle at the image. She is frail and old, but I don’t doubt she would try. And Elijah’s ass is far from skinny. Elijah’s ass is … a perfect manly peach of an ass.

How much do I reveal? She knows my story inside and out, apart from one particular part.

I’ll never forget that night, not as long as I live. I loved Verona James with all my heart—she was more of a mother to me than my own ever was. She was quick to find pleasure in life, full of warmth and humor. Elijah brought me home to meet his family when I was nineteen, and I was nervous as hell. She took me into her arms and gave me the kind of bear hug that her sons also specialized in. She made me feel welcome from day one, and when I married Elijah, I felt like I gained a mom as well as the love of my life.

That made it all so much worse. Not only was this precious woman dying, but she used up one of her last coherent conversations to tell me that I wasn’t good enough. To tell me I was broken—that’s the actual word she used.

“You shouldn’t have married my boy,” she said, “knowing that you were broken.”

I’ve tried to convince myself it wasn’t the real her. That it was the drugs and she didn’t mean those horrible words. But I’ve never quite managed to believe it. Part of me has always wondered if the drugs simply removed her inhibitions and allowed her to say the things that were in her heart.

The truth is, even if she didn’t really mean what she said, her words struck a chord. They echoed something I was already feeling. Elijah was supportive when we discovered I couldn’t have children, but I worried that was how he really felt deep down. For a man who wanted a whole tribe of kids, finding out his wife couldn’t give him any must have been a huge blow. I hated myself. Hated the fact that I couldn’t do what millions of women have done with ease throughout the history of humanity. Like Verona said, I was broken.

I never told Elijah. He was grieving, and so was I. The time never felt right to add to his already heavy load. That’s when the rot started to set in. I was wounded and started to pull away. Only a tiny bit at first, to give my pain some space. I hoped it would go away. Except it only got bigger and bigger, and he didn’t even notice. I forgive him for that. The loss of his mom was like a wrecking ball that swung through his whole family.

It was a messy and difficult time, and nothing was ever the same between us again. By extension, nothing was ever the same between me and his family either. Every time I visited their childhood home, I felt Dalton’s gray eyes on me and imagined I saw contempt and disappointment in them, like he felt cheated of the grandchildren he deserved. I got the feeling that when I walked into a room, they all went silent because they were talking about me. Poor barren Amber, the woman who trapped Elijah.

How much of this was real and how much was merely paranoia? I don’t know. But I kept withdrawing—from them and from him. It all hurt too much, and that was the only way I knew how to survive. Now I see how much worse it made everything. I should have told him. I should have reached out instead of closing down.

I swipe the tears from my face and gently squeeze Granny’s bony hand. The sun is finally sinking into the horizon. I have survived another day of this agony, and I will get stronger with each passing sunset.

“You don’t need to kick his ass, Granny. Knowing Elijah, he’s kicking his own ass already. He doesn’t like to fail.”

“This isn’t about failing, though, is it? It’s about happiness. It’s about love. And don’t you roll your eyes at me, madam, because I’m talking about the most important thing in the world here. You seemed so well suited. You seemed so … excited about each other. What went wrong, Bam-Bam? Please tell me it’s not because you couldn’t have children together. Not everybody needs to be a mother, you know. And some women, like your own mom, really shouldn’t be. Your pop won’t be winning any parenting awards either.”

I’ve never quite understood how Granny Lucille managed to raise a man like my father. She is made of emotion, and he is made of cast iron. He has never loved anything as much as his work. His dad died when he was only six, and Lucille raised him and his brothers alone. My uncles are nice men who pay attention to their loved ones, but my father barely knows they’re there.

“That was part of it.” Standing up, I hold out my hand to help her to her feet. She slaps me away and uses her cane instead. “But only part. It’s been bad for years, and we’ve both just … clung on, I suppose. We were both too weak to end things.”

“Until you weren’t?” she asks as we walk slowly back out of the park.

“Yes, I suppose so. Until I wasn’t. Except I’m absolutely terrified, Granny.”

“Of losing him? Or of finding out who you are without him? Because there is a difference between the two.”

“I know.” I follow her lead toward one of the cute little bars that are scattered around this part of downtown. “Where are we going?”

“To get drunk, obviously—woman cannot survive by herbal tea alone. Now, you go and get us a table, and I’ll be with you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

As ever, Lucille surprises me, but I’m more than happy to go along. I order myself a glass of pinot and a Planter’s Punch for her. She claims that pickling herself in rum has kept her healthy, and I can’t argue with the evidence.

The place is busy, bustling with artsy types and a few tourists, something bluesy playing over the speakers. I sip my wine and glance at my phone. Drake has called a couple times, but I spoke to nobody during my three-day Granny retreat. Now, a message lands from him, and I instantly feel guilty.

A whoosh of air leaves my lungs, and I type a quick reply.

I know he’ll have more to say, and sure enough, his response comes through in under a minute.

I laugh lightly and send back some kisses. I don’t want to get dragged into a big heart-to-heart with him, and I don’t want to divide his loyalties. After putting my phone on silent, I stash it in my bag. What I don’t see won’t hurt me.

It takes Granny ten minutes to join me, and she comes bearing a gift bag from one of the nearby galleries. “That lamb shook its tail real slow,” she says, passing the bag to me. Inside is a pen and a pretty notebook covered in yellow jessamine.

“What’s this for?”

“Well, honey, that’s called a pen, and people use them to make markings on paper called writing. You might have heard of it, even in New York.”

“Ha ha, very funny. Why are you giving them to me?”

“So you can make some lists. Don’t tell me you’ve been running Manhattan for all these years without making lists?”

I raise my eyebrows at her. She’s right, and I do love a good list—nothing is quite as satisfying as ticking things off when they’re done. I usually had three or four on the go at any given time, but since my Great Escape, I’ve abandoned them all. Other than Drake, the only people who have contacted me since I left are connected with the various social events I was either organizing or a guest at. I’ve been swimming in shallow waters, and I can’t say I miss it. I kept so busy to distract myself, to make myself feel useful. To get out of Elijah’s way, even. I have no clue what I will do now.

“Okay,” I say slowly, then sip my wine and eye her cautiously. It doesn’t pay to underestimate Lucille. “What kind of list did you have in mind?”

“Well, for a start, you should make a list of things you need to do next in this new life of yours. And then I’d suggest possibly a list of things you want to do. Even a list of things you’ve never tried before but should. Like, you know, getting a job?”

I choke on my wine. “Granny! I’ve had jobs.”

She dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “Five weeks at the Harbor Club busing tables one summer does not count, Bam-Bam. I know you’ve been busy with all your charity affairs, and I’m sure you gained some pretty useful skills doing that. You need to put them to good use.”

She’s right. I can organize events and plan galas, and I can liaise with multiple teams to make those things happen. That sounds great on paper, but I’m under no illusions—it was all made a lot easier by having unlimited resources at my fingertips.

“Plus, you have a degree. You’re college educated,” she adds. “Which is more than I ever had.”

“Granny, I’m a liberal arts grad—I’m not entirely sure how useful that is. And anyway, I’m not going to starve. Elijah isn’t … He wouldn’t …”

“Screw you over in a divorce? Nobody ever thinks that. But let’s say you’re right. Let’s say you get a fair settlement. You can live anywhere you want, do whatever you want. What does that look like to you? You’re young. You have decades of living left. What are you going to do with all that life, sweetheart? Or are you going to be content playing the poor little rich girl forever?” She sucks up her rum punch, her blue eyes sparkling in her wizened face.

If she’s trying to freak me out, it’s working. I have never lived alone, technically. I have never worried about money. I’ve never applied for credit or been to a big box store or gossiped with colleagues at the water cooler. My life has been far from perfect, but it has been privileged. What do I want to do? More to the point, what am I capable of?

“I’m scared, Granny,” I murmur, flicking open the pages of the notebook. “Scared of missing him so much I might die. Scared of building a new life without him. Of trying to figure out who I am and realizing I might be … nobody.”

“Bullcrap! You’ll always be somebody, Amber. You’re so much more than just someone’s wife or someone’s daughter—even someone’s grandchild. But it’s up to you to figure out what kind of someone you’re going to be. You need to be brave. Bold. You need to make a goddamn list.”

A few people glance over to see who is making the impassioned speech, and they’re probably surprised to see it’s a tiny silver-haired woman nearing ninety. I’m not surprised—Lucille has always been a force of nature. When I don’t reply immediately, she narrows her eyes at me. “You’re what? Forty years old?”

I grimace before I remember who I’m talking with, then prepare myself for the usual you’re-just-a-spring-chicken lecture. Instead, she simply nods. “I’m sure it does feel scary, starting over in the middle of your life. But you have to remember that it’s never too late to change. To grow. To find what makes you happy. I didn’t do it until I was seventy-three.”

I frown at her. What the hell happened to her sixteen years ago?

“That got you thinking, didn’t it, child? Well, when I was seventy-three, I met Vivienne at the farmers’ market.”

“Your friend Vivienne? The one who came to lunch today?” Vivienne is in her mid-sixties, with long white hair and the kind of fashion sense that reminds me of the aunties in Practical Magic. I can totally see her whipping up a round of midnight margaritas in the blender.

“Yes, she is my friend, Bam-Bam—but she’s also my lover. We’ve been a couple for all these years.”

I put my glass down before I drop it. Vivienne is her what now? Did I hear that correctly? Did my Granny Lucille just damn well come out to me?

“Close your mouth, sunshine, you’ll catch flies.”

I clamp my lips shut but still gawp at her. She has a small smile on her face and looks ever-so-slightly smug. If she was aiming to shock me out of my self-pitying stupor, she’s achieved her goal. “What … Why didn’t you tell me?” I splutter.

“It was none of your business. Besides, to start with, I was feeling my way through it all. I was perfectly happy with your granddaddy, but I was a virgin when I married him, and I didn’t have much to compare it to. There were a few other men after he passed, of course. I’m not a saint, even if I do live in the Holy City. Truthfully, Bam-Bam, I could never figure out what all the fuss was about. Until Vivienne. Then I figured it out. Anyway, I’m not telling you this to scandalize you, though that is fun—I just wanted to prove my own point. It’s never too late to find what makes you happy.”

“Huh.” I raise my hand to get the waiter’s attention. I’m going to need more wine. “And in your case, that’s other women?”

“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging. “I’ve only been with the one, and at my age I’m probably not about to go on a dating spree. But I’m happy, yes. More than ever. As you get older, you start to realize how short life is. You need to squeeze as much juice out of it as you can. Maybe add it to your list. The list of new things you should try.”

“Being a lesbian?”

“No, you horse’s ass—living life to the fullest. Although hey, why not give it a go?”

A big smile spreads across my face. I think it’s the first genuine smile I’ve managed since the night I told my husband I wanted a divorce. “I don’t think so, Granny,” I say, shaking my head. “I think I might like cock a little too much.”

She snorts so hard rum punch comes out of her nostrils, and I laugh out loud. I’ve managed to shock her, and it fills me with delight. She laughs along with me and wipes her face clean with a napkin.

“Oh Bam-Bam,” she says, her eyes glistening with amused tears. “Is it any wonder we get on so well? You’re as bad as I am.”

That, I decide, is very much a compliment. I look at the blank pages of the notebook in front of me. All those empty lines, waiting to be filled. All those lists waiting to be made. All that life, waiting to be lived.

I can do this, I tell myself. I can do this.