The Bird House A Novel - By Kelly Simmons Page 0,45

loved your mother,” she said. “We drank a toast to her.”

“Well, when I was a girl I didn’t appreciate her as much.”

I thought of my mother’s life after my father left; dressed up and going out to country clubs night after night when she lived at Aunt Caro’s. The earnest men in blue blazers she introduced me to at Christmas or Thanksgiving, men she dated for meals. Thinking of her shining face as they poured her a glass of sherry turns my stomach to this day.

We agreed to bring home a pint of strawberries instead of the cider doughnuts, and as I was digging in my purse, Tinsley’s phone bobbed to the surface.

“Did you pick up my mom’s phone by accident?” Ellie asked.

Her words shot straight to my heart. You don’t lie to a child like Ellie.

“No,” I replied.

“Did you get a new phone like hers?” she asked as we wove our way through the bales and bushels to our car.

I got into the car and started the engine.

“Ellie,” I said slowly, “I was worried that there might be a reason your mother never lets you touch her phone.”

She blinked. “Like because there are naughty pictures on there?”

Good lord, that had never occurred to me! It’s a sad day when your granddaughter knows more about pornography than you do.

“Uh, actually,” I stalled, knowing I was getting into dangerous territory. Maybe a half lie wouldn’t hurt? “I thought perhaps it’s broken. Perhaps I should check it.”

“But, Grandma?”

“Yes, dear?”

“That’s a BlackBerry. Do you even know how to work it?”

“Well…”

She held out her hand. “It turns on fine,” she said.

“Good,” I said. “Is there some sort of… directory? Of names and numbers?”

“Here are her contacts right here.”

“Wonderful!” I said and took the phone away before she stumbled on to something she shouldn’t. I scrolled down through them, the way I’d seen Ellie do, and Tom and Tinsley, for that matter, a thousand times. But there weren’t that many names on it—and most of them I remembered from the wedding and baby showers. Interestingly, there were no men other than Tom.

“Well, it seems to be working just fine,” I said as I got down to the end and saw the name “Zoe.” It struck me as an odd name for someone of Tinsley’s generation. Someone younger, Ellie’s age, perhaps.

“Do you have a friend named Zoe?” I asked her.

She shook her head, and didn’t mention her mother having one, either.

I had to stop for gas before I dropped Ellie at home, and I sent her into the mini-mart for a candy bar while I sneaked over to the pay phone. It was covered with graffiti and the metal cord was bent unnaturally. Please work, I thought as I tossed in my quarter and dialed the number listed under “Zoe.” The call was answered on the second ring.

“This is Zachary,” he said. “Hello? Anyone there?”

I hung up the phone and sighed. The breath in my chest felt so deep it was painful. I hadn’t really wanted to be right this time.

When I dropped Ellie off, I slipped Tinsley’s phone back into the pocket of a coat that was hanging in the foyer. It felt as if I was concealing a weapon.

August 12, 1967

no bath

THE NURSING HOME SAID I should come right away. I dialed Aunt Caro and she offered to pick me up. I assured her that I was fine to drive, but she hesitated on the line, as if she didn’t want to hang up. Finally she added, “Ann, do you want me to call Frank?”

My father’s name was jarring and heavy in the air; no one had said it in years. My mother simply called him “your father.” Half name, half accusation. He belongs to you, not me. You’re responsible for him now.

“Wh—”

“Ann,” she said patiently, “don’t you think he’d want to know?”

“Why?” I spat through my tears. “So he can try to strip her of something else? So he could take her death away from her, too?”

She sighed a long sigh. It was heavy and full of something she wasn’t saying. “Maybe, dear, he’d like to clear the air.”

“Apologize?”

“Perhaps, or certainly expl—”

“He should apologize to you,” I said. Apologize to the woman who had to pay for the last round of cancer specialists, the nursing home, the clothes, everything, since he left.

“No, dear, to her, to you, of course.”

“You’re a very optimistic woman, Aunt Caro.” I sighed and hung up the phone. You had to be optimistic to lose both your sisters to