That Certain Summer: A Novel Page 2

  On the threshold of the living room, she paused as her mother flipped through the TV channels. “I heard you, Mom. But it might be nice to wait for Val. I’m sure she’ll be ready for some food after the long drive.”

  “The theater business is unpredictable. She probably got tied up.”

  Her blood pressure edged up another notch. “She teaches high school drama. She’s not on Broadway.”

  “She could have been. I never understood why she didn’t try harder to make a name for herself. Help me into the kitchen.”

  In silence, Karen moved beside her. By the time she managed to hoist her mother out of the easy chair, she was breathing hard.

  “You need to get in shape. A young woman like you shouldn’t be winded from a little exercise.”

  Compressing her lips, Karen counted to three; she didn’t have the luxury of ten this time. “I don’t have a spare minute to go to the gym.” And you’re not exactly a lightweight.

  “Val never went to the gym, and she was always thin.”

  Sure. Rub it in.

  “Maybe her metabolism is different.” The comment came out sharper than she intended.

  “You don’t have to get huffy about it.”

  Biting back another retort, Karen handed her mother her cane. Too bad she hadn’t insisted Margaret take the walker or wheelchair that had been offered, despite her mother’s protest that she didn’t want to look like an invalid.

  But the assertive gene seemed to have passed her by.

  At least physical therapy should restore full function to her mother’s left arm and leg—and the sooner the better; her shoulder screamed in protest as they inched toward the kitchen, Margaret’s weight dragging her down.

  “What’s for dinner?” Margaret settled into her chair and readjusted her cutlery, straightening the knife and spoon, putting a more precise crease in the napkin, moving her water glass two inches to the right.

  Her stomach knotted. She couldn’t even set a table to her mother’s satisfaction.

  Let it go, Karen.

  She tried, even managing to infuse her voice with a dash of animation. “One of your favorites. Shepherd’s pie. And since there’s nothing to cut, you should be able to manage on your own.”

  “You didn’t use canned carrots, did you?”

  Karen turned her back to retrieve the casserole from the oven. Lord, give me patience and strength. “No. I followed your recipe.”

  She set the casserole on the table. It was a little crisp around the edges, but it had held up well despite the delay. The mashed potato crust was golden and the aroma enticing. “Smells good, doesn’t it?” Karen dished out two generous servings.

  “The test is in the tasting.” Margaret gave the crust a prim, exploratory poke with her fork.

  No thanks for going to the trouble of making the involved dish. No comment about how appetizing it looked. No enthusiasm.

  Typical.

  Shaking her head, Karen covered the rest of the casserole with foil and put it back in the oven. After sliding into her seat at the table, she bowed her head.

  “Lord, we thank you for this food and for the many gifts you give us. We ask you to keep us in your care and continue to provide for all of our needs, both physical and spiritual. Nourish our souls with your love, as you nourish our bodies with this food. Amen.”

  Margaret scooped up a forkful of potato. “It’s too bad some of your faith didn’t rub off on your daughter.”

  So much for any hope of a pleasant dinner conversation.

  “Kristen’s just going through the usual teenage rebellious stage. She’ll find her way back to God.”

  “Hmph. God isn’t the only one she’s deserted. I haven’t had more than a glimpse of her since my stroke.”

  “It’s hard for her to get around with the broken leg.”

  “It wouldn’t kill her to make a little effort to see her grandmother.”

  “How’s the shepherd’s pie?”

  The question came out before Karen could stop it. Prompted in part by a need to change the subject, but more by the need to win her mother’s approval about something.

  “Too much salt.” Despite that critique, her mother continued to eat with gusto.

  The last vestige of Karen’s appetite vanished, and pressure built behind her eyes.

  No! Don’t you dare cry! Just hang on a few more minutes. As soon as Val gets here, you can escape.

  Two minutes later, after she managed to choke down a couple more bites, she heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway.

  Yes!

  She was already pulling open the back door as Val lifted her arm to knock.

  As her sister’s hand froze, Karen did a quick inventory. In the year since she’d seen her younger sibling, Val hadn’t changed much. Same sleek blonde hair. Same perfect figure. Same chic taste in clothes. Same aura of glamour.

  In other words, her polar opposite.

  Karen smoothed down her crumpled khaki skirt and rubbed at a spatter of grease on her blouse. She already knew she was a slightly overweight woman approaching middle age, with dull brown hair, drab clothes, and a mundane life—but standing next to Val, she felt downright dowdy.

  Then again, what else was new?

  Val inclined her head toward the table and spoke softly. “A little anxious for relief, are we?”

  Karen stiffened. “You’re late.”

  “There was major road construction an hour north of here. My cell was dead or I’d have called. I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”

  “Kristen’s waiting for me at home. She hasn’t eaten yet. I held dinner as long as I could, but Mom was hungry. I left you some in the oven.”

  “Close the door! You’re letting all the cool air out. My electric bill will be sky high.” Margaret waved a fork in their direction. “It shouldn’t be this hot in the middle of May. Must be that global warming they keep talking about. The world is going to pot, if you ask me.”

  A humorless smile twisted Val’s lips. “I see she hasn’t changed.”

  “She’s sick.”

  “She’s always been like this, sick or well.” Val took a deep breath. “Okay, I guess I have to face the lion.” She resettled her purse on her shoulder, stood up straighter, and stepped past Karen. “Hi, Mom. Your prodigal daughter has returned.”

  “It’s about time.” Margaret looked her up and down and sniffed.

  “It’s good to see you too.”

  “Hmph.” Margaret pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “Well, of course I’m glad you’re home. Karen can’t keep up, and I need help.”

  “That’s true.” Val’s reply sounded innocuous, but Karen caught the double meaning.

  Margaret didn’t.

  “We’ll have to talk in the morning.” Margaret chased the last minuscule morsel of ground beef around her plate and forked it into her mouth. “I need to lie down. Karen, help me into the bedroom.”

  “I’m here now, Mom. I can take over those kinds of chores.” Val dropped her purse on the table and moved to Margaret’s side.

  “You’re too thin to have any strength. Let Karen help. She has more meat on her bones.”

  A warm flush suffused Karen’s cheeks.

  That’s right, Mom, just keep rubbing it in.

  “We’ll both help.” Val flexed one of her arms. “I’ve been doing weight training. You might be surprised how strong I am.” She motioned Karen to the other side of Margaret’s chair.

  Karen moved into position, and between the two of them they had Margaret into her room and ready for bed in fifteen minutes flat. Once she was settled, they returned to the kitchen.

  “I made shepherd’s pie.” Karen picked up a pot holder. “There’s enough for you and Kristen. I thought you might be hungry after the long drive.”

  “I appreciate that, but I stopped and got a salad along the way.”

  “That’s all you’re eating for dinner? Lettuce?”

  “There was chicken in it.”

&
nbsp; “That’s not much of a dinner. This is a lot heartier.”

  Without comment, Val moved toward the counter as Karen peeled back the foil.

  Unfortunately, the dish hadn’t held up as well the second time around. The filling had spread over the bottom of the casserole, and small pools of grease dotted the surface. The once-fluffy potato topping had caved in and dried out, and the carrots were tired and limp.

  Karen caught the curl of distaste on Val’s lips before her sister masked it.

  Her blood pressure moved into the danger range.

  “It looked a lot better an hour or two ago, when you were supposed to be here.” Hot spots burned in her cheeks.

  “Hey, I appreciate the thought. But the salad was all I needed.”

  Turning away, Karen recrimped the foil over the casserole and shoved the dish into a thermal tote. “I have a daughter at home who’s probably starving. I’m sure she’ll be happy to eat your share.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I know you went to a lot of trouble. This is one of Mom’s favorites, isn’t it? I bet she enjoyed it.”

  “Not that you’d notice. She said it was too salty.” Once more, tears pushed against the back of her eyes. Once more, she fought them into submission.

  “That sounds like Mom.”

  “Sometimes I wonder why I even try.” Karen zipped the tote with more force than necessary.

  “So do I.”

  She fisted her hands and faced her sister. “Look, I don’t need any more criticism tonight, okay? I try because I have no choice. I live here. I have to make an effort to get along with her.”

  For a moment, Val regarded her in silence. “You do have a choice, you know. And maybe you try too hard.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t deal with her every day.”

  “By choice.”

  “I couldn’t walk away.”

  “Why not?”

  “My life was here. I was married.”

  “Also a choice.”

  And not a good one.

  Although Val didn’t say the words, the message resonated.

  Karen picked up the casserole. “I need to leave.”

  “I did too.”

  There was an odd undertone in her sister’s quiet response, but she was too angry to dwell on it. “That didn’t absolve you of family obligations. I’ve had to do everything around here since you went off to college seventeen years ago and never came back. Didn’t you ever feel guilty?”

  A shadow crossed Val’s eyes. “Why don’t we leave this discussion for another day? I’m tired and you’re stressed.”

  “Fine with me.” Karen hoisted the casserole into the crook of her arm and grabbed her purse. “Call me tomorrow and I’ll fill you in on Mom’s therapy schedule and medications. Do you need any help bringing your stuff in from the car?”

  “I can manage.”

  “I made up your old room for you. There are fresh towels in the guest bath.”

  “Thanks.”

  At the door, Karen paused. Val was leaning against the nicked Formica countertop that had been in the kitchen for as long as she could remember. Not much had changed in the house since they were kids.

  In any way.

  But walking out in a huff wasn’t going to improve things.

  “I don’t know how we got into all that stuff tonight, but I do appreciate your willingness to help.” Her words came out stiff. Grudging instead of grateful. But she’d been at her mother’s beck and call for years. This was only fair.

  Val lifted one shoulder. “It was my turn.”

  “Don’t let Mom get to you.”

  “I’ll cope.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Being their mother’s favorite hadn’t spared Val from Margaret’s acerbic tongue, but she hadn’t let the criticism bother her. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Welcome home.”

  “Thanks.”

  The response was perfunctory—but from Val’s tone and expression, Karen knew that home was the last place her sister wanted to be.

  The TV was blaring when Karen stepped through her own kitchen door ten minutes later, and the pounding in her temples went from easy-listening bass to heavy metal.

  “Kristen? I’m home!”

  No response as she set the casserole on the counter. Given the volume on the TV, that didn’t surprise her.

  Girding herself for the onslaught, she waded into the noise.

  She found Kristen in the family room, angled away from the door, her thigh-high cast propped on an ottoman while she typed on her laptop. She wore headphones and was tapping her uninjured foot to a beat only she could hear.

  Shaking her head, Karen picked up the TV remote and punched the off button. Blessed silence descended.

  With a frown, Kristen pulled the buds from her ears. “I was watching that.”

  “It’s impossible to do three things at once.”

  Kristen scowled at her. “It’s called multitasking. Kids do it all the time.”

  “So do adults. But you constantly have to switch back and forth. That takes a lot of effort and it’s not very efficient.” She motioned toward the blank TV screen. “And that particular program wasn’t worth the effort.”

  “You don’t like anything on TV.”

  “Not much. Are you hungry?”

  “I had some chips earlier. I thought you were going to be home sooner.”

  “Val was late. I tried to call twice, but the line was busy.”

  “I was talking to Gary.” Kristen gave her a defiant look.

  Karen resisted the bait. She might not care for Kristen’s latest heartthrob, but she wasn’t up to another argument tonight. “I brought you dinner. Come on. I’ll help you up.”

  Far lighter and much more agile than Margaret, Kristen didn’t need much assistance. Once her daughter was on her feet, Karen picked up the crutches from the floor and handed them to her.

  “This broken leg stinks.” Kristen grimaced at the cast as she fitted the crutches under her arms.

  “It could have been worse.”

  Kristen rolled her eyes and expelled a noisy breath. “Are you going to bring up Steven again?”

  “You did it for me. Thinking about him should give you some perspective. Being forced to use a pair of crutches for a few weeks is a lot better than spending the rest of your life as a paraplegic. He’s got a tough road ahead.”

  “Yeah.” Kristen furrowed her brow. “The accident was awful. I feel bad for him.”

  “I hope you also pray for him.”

  “It won’t do any good.” Her daughter’s features hardened. “He isn’t going to get better. And why did God let him get hurt in the first place?”

  “I don’t know. Only God has that answer. That’s where faith—and trust—come in.”

  “That doesn’t make bad stuff any easier to accept.” Kristen stared down at the iridescent purple toenails sticking out of the bottom of the cast. “Erin said she heard from her boyfriend, who’s Steven’s cousin, that he tried to kill himself.”

  Karen’s heart stuttered. “When?”

  “After he came home from the hospital.”

  “Then we need to pray harder.”

  “God doesn’t listen to my prayers.” Kristen’s jaw firmed. “I prayed you and Dad would get back together, but you got divorced instead.”

  The pounding in Karen’s head intensified. “There were problems in our marriage that couldn’t be overcome.”

  “You didn’t even try! You sat back and let Stephanie take Dad away from you! Why didn’t you stand up to him? Tell him to stay with us, where he belonged? You always let him walk all over you, just like you let Grandma boss you around!”

  Karen drew in a sharp breath. “Kristen! That’s enough!”

  “It’s true!”

  Instead of responding, she turned on her heel and spoke over her shoulder. “I’ll put your dinner out.”

  Thirty seconds later, the zipper balking under her shaky fingers, she opened the thermal tote. Sh
e shouldn’t let Kristen get away with that kind of disrespectful behavior, but she hated confrontations—especially with her daughter.

  Besides, Kristen was right.

  She had let Michael walk all over her. She’d put up with his moodiness, his demeaning comments, his autocratic manner. Had deferred to his opinion and his judgment, hoping her acquiescence would keep peace in the household. She’d done the same with her mother, convinced that if she was docile, if she did what she was told, the relationship would improve.

  But that approach hadn’t worked with either of them. Margaret continued to fault-find and Michael had left for greener pastures. Namely, Stephanie.

  The creak of crutches signaled Kristen’s arrival, and Karen lifted the foil off the casserole. The food was in worse shape than it had been earlier, and Kristen’s reaction mirrored Val’s. In fact, with her long blonde hair and vivid blue eyes, her daughter bore a striking resemblance to her aunt at the same age.

  “What is it?” Kristen wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  “Shepherd’s pie.”

  “Gross.” With one more glance at the sorry casserole, she turned away. “Can I order Chinese?”

  Swallowing past the tightness in her throat, she choked out a single-word response. “Fine.”

  As Kristen clumped away, Karen surveyed the pie and blinked back tears. Her daughter was right. It was a mess.

  Just like her life.

  Even through the thick plaster walls of the solid brick bungalow she’d called home for the first eighteen years of her life, Val could hear her mother snoring.

  At least someone was sleeping.

  Rising on one elbow, she peered at the bedside clock. Two in the morning.

  There wasn’t going to be much sleep this night—but her mother’s snoring wasn’t to blame.

  She flopped back on the pillow and stared at the dark ceiling. Nights were the pits. In her idle mind, the unwanted memories crept from the darkness and swooped like hawks stalking their prey.

  After twenty more minutes of tossing, Val gave up the battle and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked in protest when she rose, then the room fell silent again as she moved through the shadows, letting her fingers brush over a beauty pageant trophy, a framed program from a school play, a blue ribbon for a dramatic reading she’d done while on the speech team.