Morning Glory(21)

But why? Why does the human psyche seek out things to become bitter about? What has the morning glory ever done to Jim Clyde’s mother other than be beautiful?

We stop in front of the home with the beautiful potted plants. “Here we are,” Jim says. He opens the door, and I follow him inside. The avocado green walls and brown shag carpeting make me feel as if I’ve stepped into a day in the life of 1963, and perhaps I have. I recall that this is where Jim grew up. “Mom, are you decent?”

An old man appears in the hallway. He’s tall and thin and hunches over in a way that makes me wonder if he has osteoporosis. His trousers look three sizes too big, and his white cotton shirt is wrinkled and inside out. “Hi, Dad,” Jim says.

“Son?” He has a kind face.

“Yes, it’s me, Dad,” he says. “I’d like you to meet someone. This is Ada, our new neighbor.”

“Who?”

“Ada,” he says again.

He extends his hand automatically, but his face still looks very confused. “Gene Clyde. Pleased to meet you.”

“C’mon, Pop, let’s sit down,” Jim says.

In the living room, Gene asks me what novels I’m reading, and I tell him that I’ve picked up something at the airport, but can’t remember the title.

“Dad’s a former English professor,” Jim says with a wink.

“Now, Penny,” he says, “did you have a chance to start the novel I left on your porch yesterday?”

“Dad,” Jim says, a bit startled, “this is Ada.”

“I don’t mind,” I say, hoping Gene isn’t worried that I’ve been offended. I wonder what it must be like to live with dementia, and I also wonder who Penny is.

“Jim, dear!”

Behind me is Jim’s mother. She’s wearing a blue velour leisure suit. Her delicate skin is wrinkled and hangs over her high cheekbones. By the way she looks at me, I can tell that though her exterior may have aged, she’s still as sharp as a tack. “Who’s this young lady?” she asks, walking toward us with a bit of a limp. I remember her broken hip, and I’m surprised to see her out of bed.

“Mother,” Jim says with a tsk-tsk in his voice. “Should you be up walking?”

She kisses his cheek as her gray hair, cut into a blunt bob, swishes against her cheek. “I’m fine, dear,” she says. “Your father, on the other hand . . .” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “. . . is not having a good day.”

Jim nods. While his mother seems a little annoyed, he just looks saddened by his father’s state. “I know.”

“So who is this beauty?” she asks, looking at me. “Tells us about yourself, Miss . . . ?”

“Santorini,” I say.

“Oh, you’re an Italian? You don’t look Italian.” She’s blunt and bold, and I might take offense if she were thirty-five rather than pushing eighty.

“Yes,” I reply. “I mean, well, I was married to an Italian.”

“Ah, divorced,” she says. “Everyone is these days.”

“No,” I say a little more defensively than I intended. “My husband died.”

“I’m so sorry, dear,” she says, shaking her head. “What a pity.” She offers me her hand. “I’m Naomi.”

“So nice to meet you. You have a lovely home.” I don’t know why I said it. The home isn’t lovely. It’s actually dark, and the air smells like medicine and sadness. But I have a habit of talking too much when I’m nervous, and I’m nervous now.

“You’re tense,” she says. “Come sit down.”

“Mother worked as a psychiatrist for forty years,” Jim says in an apologetic tone. “She can’t help herself.”

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile.

“No, you’re not, dear,” Naomi says. “Where’s your grief coming from? The death of your husband?”

She is not like Dr. Evinson. Her eyes pierce the wounds I’ve tried to keep hidden, the ones that, after two years, still feel raw. She can sense my pain, and I feel as if her prodding isn’t the least bit therapeutic.

I glance at my watch. “It’s been lovely meeting you,” I say quickly, “but I really must go.”

Naomi smiles curiously at me, and her eyes follow me as I walk to the door.

Jim’s expression says, “Sorry,” and I nod to him, then look to the couch, where his father has fallen asleep.



No matter how much time passes, I know I won’t be able to stop cooking for two and a half. And as I warm the cast iron skillet and drizzle in a bit of olive oil, I can almost feel James’s arms around my waist, his lips against my neck. How many times did I push him away because I was too busy? How many times did I say, “Not tonight”? I drop the chicken breasts in the pan and listen to them sizzle. How I wish he were here now. How I wish I could have those moments back. All of the moments.