Chapter Fifteen

Whitney was leaving. She wanted to go up to the university to spend some time with Jamal. “How romantic,” Marge had said, making kissing noises at her. She was expecting the typical response—a roll of the eyes, a petulant sigh. But her daughter just said, “Yeah, funny,” in a voice snipped from the rest of her body.

Whitney took Travis into her room and shut the door. And for dinner she complained of a stomachache from all that cabbage. Told her so, Marge thought, putting on Webster for Garrett as she grabbed for her basket of magazines. She tentatively sat on the couch, slowly settling herself on the opposite end of her son. It was something new she had been trying—getting close without him realizing it. He was so enthralled by the show, he didn’t notice.

The couch heaved beneath her weight. Marge had gained so much in the past several months that Dr. Butler had asked to take her blood pressure at Garrett’s last appointment. It had been offensively high, not just for the doctor but for Marge who felt personally attacked by the numbers. She had always been a bigger woman, and it seemed like nobody could leave her alone about it, not even useless medical equipment.

She hadn’t told Whitney. No need worrying her daughter about something she couldn’t control. But you can control it, Mother, she had heard back from the Whitney who lived in her head. It was the same one who berated her for eating an extra chicken leg or suggesting potato salad for dinner, the real Whitney’s face silently stony.

Marge hated that stoniness. It was always the undercurrent of every wave she rode, the fact that her daughter was sick of her. Maybe that was too harsh. But maybe it wasn’t. Marge hardly had a pulse on anything anymore, living constantly in everyone else’s world but wrapped tightly in her own little bubble.

“Isn’t that right?” She said aloud, almost scaring herself for having spoken. Her finger tracked the inside spine of a Southern Living magazine. She dared herself to look at her son, pretending that when she did, she’d see a face of empathy. Don’t worry about Sis, Mama. She loves you. She just has a hard time showing it, the other Garrett said. As mean as Whitney’s imaginary counterpart was, Garrett’s was the full-fledged opposite, loving Marge beyond what Marge deserved.

But when she looked up, her son was gawking at the television, still in undies and white tube socks because today had been a losing day, and no clothes were worn. She fought to find that tiny inchworm of love shoved deep in her gut, petted its head until it grew into a respectable size and shape for a mother to have towards a child. She petted and petted and ignored her envy of losing all sides of oneself to a blaring TV.

––––––––

The next morning, Whitney was almost gone before Marge could say goodbye. Her daughter was already in her coat with a duffle bag at her ankles. She looked terrible, like a woman withering into herself. That stupid diet, Marge thought, cerebrally patting her back for a second before remembering how hard she herself must look. She had tossed and turned all night, catching a deep sleep but then being jarred awake by noises that seemed to come within her own room. Even the floor seemed to creak at one point, but in a mole-like state—her internal whiskers sensing something close but not seen—she had drifted off again, not too concerned if anyone had the intention of offing her. Good riddance, she had softly and sadly noted.

“Where you going, Whit?” Whitney turned around and looked even worse than Marge had first assessed. 

“I told you. I’m going to see Jamal.”

“But you don’t look too good. And you said you were sick. Do you think—”

“I don’t think, I know, Mother. I can do whatever I darn well please, and I’d be grateful if you’d get off my case.” For a second, Marge wasn’t sure what she was looking at. It seemed like Whitney—the real one—but it talked like the angry one in Marge’s head. She had the deep desire to hug her daughter but felt like it would be akin to falling out of step in a chorus line. They both knew their moves. Best if they just stuck with them.

“All right,” Marge said, deciding not to point out that Whitney was leaving her son with her, so maybe Marge did have a right to a say in her plans. But she let it lie with an unrealized hug and watched her daughter make her way out the door.

––––––––

It was cold, so the boys needed to be bundled up. This was easy with Travis who liked the warmth from the puffy blue coat Marge bought him with the small amount she was able to save each month from the cans she recycled. Whitney hated recycling days, claiming they didn’t have to do things like that anymore, but Marge was no stranger to the world letting her down. They may be on top now, but based on history, it wouldn’t be long before they found themselves firmly on the floor again.

Now that Whitney was technically an adult and raising a family of her own, the stress had eased up a bit on all levels. Not only was her daughter gracious enough to keep them fed and (mostly) well, Anna, their social worker, no longer came by to check on them. Marge, for the most part, missed these calls. They had made up a good portion of her week—getting their old trailer ready to look presentable, deciding what snacks she’d serve when Anna finally arrived. 

“It’s a good thing, Mom,” Whitney had said, admonishing Marge even the tiniest bit of regret over leaving their old life.

“Sure, I know,” Marge replied, pondering on how many facets “good” seemed to have.

But perhaps her daughter was right. At least she could afford to buy her grandson a new coat now, a grandson who looked as cute and cozy as a teddy bear. Once she zipped him up, she turned to the large trench coat she had found in St. Anthony’s basement. It was black and made her son look like some sort of miscreant, but it was the only thing without zippers she could find. Garrett hated zippers. He panicked in last year’s coat, acting like Marge was walking him to the guillotine each time the shiny metal came anywhere near him. So, she found this one, a hideous oversized number with a cloth belt that was somehow less intimidating. But Marge was in such a good mood, not even Garrett’s ugly coat could throw her off. She had even managed to coax her son into a pair of khakis and a Lacoste polo, another basement find that was nearly perfect save for the small purple stain on the chest. Despite that, and the coat, and his bright white tennis shoes, he looked fairly put together. “Dare I say debonair,” she said to Travis who was trying to eat a stray raisin off the floor.

She thought about calling Whitney. She had received a short call from her at a truck stop outside of Clarksville but hadn’t heard from her since. She figured if there wasn’t a message on the machine once they got back, she’d give Jamal a call. She tried to ignore the worry knotting her stomach.

She had become used to the feeling over the years. If she wasn’t worried about her daughter, born so small and helpless, then she worried about her son who—although helpless—was no longer small. Where Whitney lacked in size, Garrett made up for it. And where Garrett lacked in general awareness—at least to Marge’s very naked eye—Whitney was excruciatingly aware of the circumstances that always seemed to hem them in. And she always had been.

Marge had gotten used to being judged by her daughter whose pale blue eyes were an unwanted reminder that Marge’s choices didn’t stop with herself. She had been a good mother, she told herself so, because what about all the nights she had made a roast straight from the oven and brought it to Lenny in one of her finest dresses? But even then, she remembered her daughter sitting on the floor, soaking her in. Even then, Marge felt the hard, hateful lump behind her breastbone that she tried her best to pretend wasn’t there. It felt like Whitney was mocking her, and deep down, Marge knew it only stung because she believed her daughter was right.

“A sham,” Marge said as she ushered Garrett out the door with Travis on her hip. She was wearing her soft gloves, neon pink and hard on the eyes, but the only pair Garrett would let her touch him with. She was even able to hold his hand, the look on his face one that she assumed was contentment, and she pretended Garrett was just that—content.

She wanted to go to the bakery. The feeling was an overwhelming sweep that must have been residing in the same dirty corners as all her other emotions. She just hadn’t noticed it before. She thought maybe Walt would know how to sort her out. She knew he’d be willing to forgive her. And she was angry for thinking about him so much.

“Let that be a lesson to you boys. Never open the door, not even a crack unless you’re prepared to get ransacked.” Travis bobbed his little head up and down in agreement, playing with the scarf tied tight around Marge’s neck, and Garrett was looking up at a flock of birds.

“South for the winter,” Marge said, unable to elaborate. The walk was already taking the wind out of her. She paused for a second, Garrett still looking straight up at the sky and Travis bucking on her hip as if trying to make her go. She took a shaky breath and started walking again. She found herself pointing out things, especially when she felt the eyes of other passersby on her. Look at that pile of leaves on the ground. Aren’t those colors pretty? Don’t worry, that man is supposed to be down there. He’s probably just fixing something in the sewer. She played the part of the attentive grandmother, the panic rising in the back of her throat forcing her to prattle on. She knew what these people were thinking. They were judging her. And she had to keep talking to keep from setting her grandson down and knocking a few heads.

Nobody said anything. Thank the heavens, Marge thought, her feet and Garrett’s landing perfectly inside a sidewalk square at the exact same time. And when she looked up, they were at the bakery.

She felt surrounded although nobody was near them. She wanted to duck down the alley but remembered what the alley was to her. When Whitney had first gotten her job, and they could afford to rent a nicer place, she found herself praying it would be on the other side of the world, or at the very least, a world away from the bakery. But they had moved within walking distance, her daughter seemingly unaware of how much this move had crushed her mother.

She was thinking about these things with her head bent and Travis holding on for dear life as he slipped down the side of her hip when she realized Garrett wasn’t with them. She looked down the sidewalk one way and then the other, her heart whipping as fast as her head, but he was nowhere. Travis giggled, pointing a finger at the large, inviting windows of Brightman’s Bakery where her son was trapped on the other side.