Fixing Delilah Page 5

  Rachel shifts in the doorway and I catch her fidgeting with her pocket. The air is magically infused with essence of oranges, but I don’t think any of it gets on Mom, and she presses ahead.

  “I’m your mother, Delilah Hannaford, and I do want to talk about it.”

  “Are you kidding me? You never want to talk about anything!” I don’t name the things that have gone unsaid between us for so long, but they’re here, rising up like steam in the heat of this place. Tears creep back into my eyes, and it’s a monumental effort to keep my butt on the bed, to keep my feet from carrying me right back down to the lake.

  Before Mom can respond, Rachel is in front of us, clapping her hands together. “Too much negative energy. Let’s all take a deep, cleansing breath”—she sucks in, waving at us to do the same—“now exhale.”

  We obey, repeating it three times.

  “Much better,” Rachel says. “It’s obvious we all have a lot to work through, but we just got here. We haven’t even unpacked. Someone has died, remember?”

  Mom closes her eyes. “Rachel’s right,” she says, rubbing her temples. “I’m sorry, Del. One day at a time, okay?”

  “Fine, Mom. But—”

  “Let me do the cards,” Rachel says. “They’ll help clarify our thoughts.”

  I used to love Rachel’s tarot readings on my D.C. visits, but that was way back when my future didn’t look so bleak. Now, I just don’t have the emotional fortitude for those tricky little death cards and devils and half-naked girls prancing around in front of Nana’s needles and bobbins and blouse patterns. “No thanks,” I say. “Mom won’t go for it, anyway.”

  Rachel laughs. “Hey, I got her to turn her cell phone off for the rest of the night. Stranger things, right?”

  Mom shrugs. “After the weekend I’ve had? I’ll go along with anything. Count me in.”

  Rachel turns over my last card, laying it face up on a square black cloth dotted with silver stars and moons. “This,” she says, “is your final outcome.”

  “There are boys in tights in my final outcome? Perfect.”

  “It’s the Page of Cups,” she says. “He represents the birth of something.”

  Mom picks up the card for a closer look, as if the answers to all of my problems are inscribed on the Page’s golden chalice. “Please don’t tell me you’re pregnant, Delilah.”

  “It can mean a child,” Rachel says, glaring at Mom, “but in this case, it’s probably the birth of a new relationship or friendship. Kind of like an unexpected new beginning. It might mean a situation, but if it’s telling us about a person, it’s usually someone imaginative and artistic. Passionate. A dreamer. What do you think, Del?”

  I avert my eyes from the house next door, splashes of blue peeking in through the window. “What do you think? You’re the fortune-teller.”

  “It’s not fortune-telling,” Rachel says. “The cards are just a way to pick up messages from the universe. I can only tell you what they mean in the positions they’re drawn. It’s up to you to figure out what they’re trying to say. There’s a lot going on in this spread, but it’s not inherently negative.”

  I look at the card in the immediate future position: the Fool, a young boy playing the flute with his eyes closed, happily dancing toward the edge of a cliff. Tra-la-la!

  “No?” I ask.

  “No. I want you to pay particular attention to this outcome card,” Rachel says, pointing to the page, “especially considering the Five of Cups in the crossing position. She’s the spilled-milk card, whereas the Page of Cups signifies a time of emotional rebirth. With the Five here speaking to a loss, maybe the ending of a relationship, the Page is saying that it’s okay to trust again. Don’t shut yourself off to new possibilities. But be mindful of the Fool, and don’t dive into anything with your eyes closed. Does any of this strike a chord?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, glancing over the spread. “Is it about… well… being back in Vermont? Family stuff?”

  Mom leans in for a closer look, but Rachel shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Usually in a family spread for you, we’d see more of the mother cards, like queens or the Empress. This one’s probably about friendships. It could be about your friends at school, or new friends you might meet here in Red Falls. Could also be about your relationship with yourself. That’s for you to figure out.”

  I look back over the cards again, accidentally thinking of Patrick. Is he the artistic dreamer? Is the Page of Cups heralding a passionate… no. Another non on the non-boyfriend list is the last thing I need. The only card that rings true here is the Fool, because that’s what I am for even considering this stuff right now, stuck out here in the middle of maple sugarville with all these secrets and a broken family that can scarcely go an hour without fighting.

  Rachel puts the cards back together and shuffles the deck. “Now, let’s see what the universe is trying to tell your mom.”

  Her first card is a woman, tied up, blindfolded, and surrounded by swords. “In your case,” Rachel says, “the Eight of Swords likely refers to the burdens of a successful career.”

  “I don’t feel burdened,” Mom says, her fingers tracing the delicate gold links of her watchband. “I love my career. Things at DKI are great. I’ve worked for this kind of opportunity my whole life, and now I have it.”

  “Like I told Delilah, everything is open to your interpretation. See—this next one looks scarier than it is.” The card depicts a woman being ferried across the water in a small wooden boat. Like the woman in Mom’s first card, she’s surrounded by a cage of swords. “They’re in rough water,” Rachel says, “but it smoothes out ahead. The swords don’t completely surround her, either. This could be about forgiveness, or facing and overcoming a difficult situation.”

  “Interesting.” Mom picks up the card, looking at it with squinted eyes.

  “Definitely something to think about while we’re here,” Rachel says. She describes a few more cards, mostly about career and hard work and material comforts, and turns over Mom’s final outcome.

  “Ah,” she says, her fingers trailing over the image of two children standing on a path in the sunlight, sharing large cups of flowers. “I was wondering when this would turn up.”

  “What is it?” Mom asks.

  “Six of Cups. Funny that it appeared as your final outcome. The Six of Cups has to do with childhood memories,” Rachel says. “It’s the nostalgia card.”

  Mom looks at her sister, then the cards, then at me. She runs her hand along my ponytail and stands, crossing out of the room and down the hall, her bedroom door clicking closed behind her. Rachel silently reassembles the deck of cards and slides them back into their velvet drawstring bag, folding the stars-and-moon cloth into a small, perfect triangle, leaving me alone with the Hellmann’s jar formerly known as Little Ollie.

  Everything is open to your interpretation.

  Chapter eight

  After last night’s crystal-balling, the voices that float up the stairwell this morning seem exaggerated and unreal, my mind still stuck halfway in a nightmare in which a pack of mythical, two-dimensional characters imprisoned on laminated cards comes alive, rising up from the lake to warn me against impending doom.

  But the voices remain sure and solid, growing louder as I open my eyes and stretch away the lingering sleep. Warm air blows in through the open window over the bed. My stomach grumbles.

  Downstairs, Megan the Baker, along with an older woman and a girl about my age, are assembled around the table with Mom and Rachel, all of them picking from a plate of cut fruit and the pastries we got yesterday at Crasner’s.

  “Delilah,” Rachel calls, waving me over. “Come meet the rest of Megan’s family. This is Luna, her mother. She owns the coffee shop we saw in town.”

  “I remember when you were just a little thing,” Luna says, standing for a hug. “Hard to believe you’re the same age as my niece.”

  “Hey,” the girl says. “I’m Emily.” Patrick’s Emily. She smi
les at me from behind a curtain of shoulder-length brown hair, big blue eyes warm and genuine. “I’m working at the café all summer. You should check it out—way better than all the corporate stuff at the other end of town.”

  “Definitely.” I sit next to her and grab a maple walnut muffin from the plate. She smiles again and I let my shoulders relax, just a little. Maybe the summer won’t be so horrible after all.

  After Emily tells me more about the coffee shop and her time so far in Red Falls, Luna and Megan catch us up on eight years of missed news. No one seems to hold a grudge or question Mom and Rachel about why we left, though the conversation is dotted with the awkward pauses of those who aren’t quite sure. Those who want to ask but can’t find the words. Those who know part of the story but need the rest of the pieces to put it all together.

  “We’re glad you’re here again,” Luna says to Mom as Rachel puts on another pot of coffee. “I’m just sorry it’s not under happier circumstances.”

  Mom covers Luna’s hand with her own and thanks them for coming, but I can see behind her smile that she’s anxious to start work on the house. To map out plans for the rest of the summer—plans that probably don’t include entertaining guests from our past. But with no sign of moving toward the door, Luna accepts another cup of coffee and Megan refills the pastry plate from the bakery box on the counter, everyone jumping back into the conversation as if we have only today to make up for all the missing years.

  We’re halfway through the second pot of coffee when the first car rolls into the driveway, followed by another, then another. Emily and I step outside to see who’s here, and from a row of boat-size Buicks, a parade of white-haired women bearing foil-covered trays marches in a crooked line to the porch, introducing themselves as friends of Elizabeth’s.

  “We are so sorry for your loss, sweat pea,” they say, lowering their eyes and moving toward the screen door as if called to the house by the spirits within, ghosts old and new branding us a family in mourning.

  One in need of many pounds of coffee cake.

  Elizabeth Hannaford knew a lot of people. And those people sure love coffee cake. And they sure love talking. Rachel keeps their coffee and tea cups full as they share stories about my grandmother’s famous potato salad and her volunteer work at the hospital and, oh my, look how big Delilah is, and it’s wonderful to see you all again after so many years, but we sure are sorry it’s for Elizabeth’s funeral. They ask about plans for the service and if there’s anything we need, and all of the outside parts of my mother seem to be smiling, seem to lean forward in her chair and welcome their kindness. But beneath it all, Claire Hannaford Speaking struggles to climb out and get to work. When she ducks into the living room and pulls the tin of pills from her purse, I offer to tell everyone that she has a headache so she can retreat to her room.

  “Thanks, Del. Unfortunately, there’s no time to lie down on the job today. The neighbors are coming later to discuss plans for the remodel. Rachel’s cooking and I need to get some supplies ready before they get here. You remember Jack and Little Ricky, right?”

  The side door on the porch opens and closes a thousand times today, groups of visitors rotating in and out from morning until late in the afternoon, clearing out only as the dinner hour approaches. Finally, I see the shapes of Patrick and his father walking toward the house from the sidewalk, and when I hear their footsteps on the creaky porch step, I rush to meet them. Patrick leans in for a hug through the open doorway, and in his arms I’m reminded of the other dream I had last night, which… oh… which I immediately stamp out of my mind, hoping that no one else noticed the temperature in the room shoot up about five hundred degrees. Could my subconscious be any more inappropriate?

  “We ran into each other at the lake yesterday,” Patrick says, answering the question on Mom’s face. “We’re old friends again. All caught up. How’s your head?” he asks me.

  My hand rubs the spot where I whacked it under the bleachers yesterday. “No bump. Guess I’ll live.”

  Rachel smirks at me over her mug, but I ignore her, shaking off the lingering smoke of my dream. I know what she’s thinking about—that “passionate dreamer” stuff is all over her face. Yes, there goes my favorite aunt, destiny-mongering around New England with her merry band of tarot characters.

  Jack, Patrick’s father, stands in the doorway with open arms. “Delilah! My God, you’re beautiful. All grown-up.”

  “I remember you.” I smile up at him, standing on tiptoes to reach him, the reunion of his arms like a warm blanket. Jack wants to know all about the last eight years, asking me about Key and school and future plans, but Mom clears her throat like she’s got a bit of food stuck, standing behind me with an armload of notebooks, pencils, and sticky notes. We have never in my life run out of office supplies. If our house got blown down by a freak storm, I’m confident we could build a fortress out of mail sorters and thumbtacks with hanging folders for shingles and survive just fine, and here she is again, ready to avert another potential disaster with the click of her Bic.

  “Thanks for coming,” Mom says, all of us now at attention around the table as Rachel dishes out her baked squash casserole and spinach salad. “Just so we all know what we’re dealing with, the plan is for Patrick and Jack to help us prep the house for a listing. Since they’ve worked here before, they know the major obstacles and how each of us can best help.”

  Jack gives us an update on the work-in-progress in the sunroom. “I think we already have the materials, so that shouldn’t be an issue. That’s the only room that needed a major overhaul,” he says. “We’ll have to see what the exterior looks like. Might need to get some painters out here.”

  Mom makes a few notes as the rest of us eat, mumbling to herself about materials and painting estimates as her food goes cold. “Rachel and I will tackle the internal property and decide what to trash, donate, or tag for the estate sale,” she says. “And Delilah will help wherever we need her. I’m hoping to have it on the market no later than early August so we can feel out the interest level before we leave. We may sell it furnished, but we’ll probably need at least three estate sales to clear out the rest of the junk.”

  I think of all the stuff upstairs and wonder where it will end up—the fabric and thread and patterns, and from the closet, the coats and shoes Nana walked around in for all the winters of her life. Images of Mom’s bedroom back in Key flit in front of me like gnats. I swat and blink them away.

  “I’m going to do as much as I can,” Mom tells Jack, “but as my sister and Delilah know, I’m somewhat chained to my desk. For major decisions or issues, check with me or Rachel. Otherwise, I trust your judgment. You’ve been doing this a lot longer than we have.”

  Jack nods.

  “No problem, Miss H,” Patrick says.

  “Are we all on the same page, Delilah?”

  The same page? I don’t think we’re even in the same library, but no need to bring that up. I nod.

  “Great,” she says. “Starting tomorrow, I think it would be helpful for you to follow Patrick around with a notebook to assess the exterior. Whatever he tells you to write, you write. I need you to stay close to the house—got it?”

  “Sure, Mom.” There are worse punishments than tailing Patrick all summer. Don’t contractors usually work without shirts?

  “Okay, then.” Mom claps her hands together once—her version of Go, team! “Any questions?” Apparently, her annual bonus depends on our ability to complete this mission on time and under budget.

  “No,” Jack says. “But Claire—and Rachel and Delilah, too—I just want to say again how sorry I am about Liz.” He pushes a casserole mushroom around his plate. “She was—”

  “Thanks, Jack. We appreciate all you’ve done for her.” Mom’s gentle nod sugarcoats her interruption, but she’s got the face. The You’re Skating on Thin Ice, Delilah face. Only this time, it’s meant for someone dead.

  Jack nods and pops the mushroom into his mouth, eyes fixed on
the now-empty plate before him as if he can’t remember how it got that way.

  “All right,” Rachel says, clearing the dishes. “Who’s ready for some coffee cake?”

  Chapter nine

  “We’ll start here and work our way around,” Patrick says, propping a ladder against the back of the house. “The gutters are probably the worst of it—they look pretty nasty.”

  I stand near the ladder as he climbs, pencil poised to catch his running commentary. It’s manual labor, but I’m glad to be out in the sun, away from the kitchen and day two of the seemingly endless paying of condolences by the coffee-cake bakers of Red Falls.

  “Sorry about last night,” I say, squinting into the sun to see him. “I mean, my mother. She gets a little demanding sometimes. Well, most times.”

  Patrick pokes around the gutters, dropping a pile of leaves behind him. “No biggie. My dad has his moments, too. Write this down—back gutters stable. Need cleaning.”

  I scribble down what he says. “Parents, right?”

  “Tell me about it. So what would you be doing all summer if you didn’t have the honor of inspecting gutters with me?”

  “Oh, you know. Typical summer stuff,” I say, avoiding all the taboo topics: Finn. Cell phone pictures. Seven Mile Creek. Google-stalking my father. I kick at the dirt with my flip-flop but don’t get much traction and stub my toe on a rock instead.

  “Such as?” Patrick asks, still poking around the muck of the gutter.

  “Movies. Hanging out. Reading. Whatever. Not much going on in Pennsylvania.”

  “Yes, but in Pennsylvania, you’ve got a friend.”

  “Huh?”

  “The slogan—you know?” Patrick puts his hand on his heart and sings, straight out of the old tourism commercials. “You’ve got a friend, in Penn-syl-van-ia!”

  “What about Vermont?”

  “It’s ‘Vermont, naturally.’ No song, though.”

  “Naturally.” I laugh.