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Authors: Jacquelyn Mitchard
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Diane and Ray want to take her in the pool at their hotel.”
“I suppose that’s all right.”
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A Theory of Relativity
43
“I told them it would be fine.”
“I don’t think she’ll go to them.”
“I think she will . . .” Mark sat down on the bed, then lay down, tucking Lorraine’s head under his chin, pulling her over onto his chest.
“Are you . . . do you want to get up and change, or anything?”
“Why, Mark? Do I look like a slob?” The first time they’d met her, Diane had just come in off the tennis court. “I hate this weather,” she’d said to Lorraine. “I hate to perspire. And it’s worse if you work out. I’m a bad Southerner, for sure,” she’d said, and extended one perfectly French-manicured hand, silky as talcum powder. When Lorraine complimented her on her skirted shorts, Diane confided, “Honey, I have to buy them in the girls department at Neiman-Marcus. The missy sizes just fall right off me. . . .”
Over Mark’s exasperated protests, Lorraine had spent the evening at the hotel in Jupiter, throwing away her own clothes.
Now, as he looked her over where she lay on the bed, Mark said to Lorraine, “I don’t think you look like a slob, sweetie. But you might want to put on something that’s not quite so . . .”
“So what?”
“Well, wrinkled.”
“Okay,” Lorraine sighed. She walked into their closet and turned on the light, offended by the sight of so many brightly colored articles of clothing, so many inanimate things that outlasted people. She pulled out her most comfortable jeans and a white shirt that was . . . well, not very wrinkled. She then reached for a soft jersey pin-striped dress, underwear, and stockings, laying out her clothes in the order she would put them on, as she had since she was a child, bra, pants, slip . . . Mark interrupted her.
“I don’t think you need to get that dressed up for the Nyes.”
“I’m not. I’ll just put on jeans. This is . . . it’s for tomorrow night.”
“Oh.”
“I just didn’t want to have to go back into the closet twice, Mark.
Sweetie, I can’t explain. I’m too tired to explain.” Lorraine slipped a white button-down shirt over her head, to avoid undoing the buttons, then pulled her hair back into a semblance of its customary bun. The doorbell rang.
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JACQUELYN MITCHARD
Nora was there, Keefer squirming in her arms. “Nora,” Lorraine said, “you know you don’t have to knock.”
“I know,” Nora said uneasily. “Just, things feel funny now.”
“Nana, Nana,” Keefer leaped into Lorraine’s water-weak arms, furiously pat-patting her grandmother’s back. “Mama, Mama. Kipper Mama?” In four words, the baby’s dilemma. Where was Keefer’s Mama?
How was Lorraine to explain?
“She was up all night,” Nora told them softly. “It’s as if she senses it.
Bradie got her to play with Dan’s drums a little. We took her to the barn to see the kitties . . .”
“Kitties,” said Keefer, her thumb tucked securely in the far back left corner of her mouth, fingers splayed against her temple. “Nana, Mama?”
“I told her Mommy and Daddy had gone away,” Nora said, wriggling her discomfort as Mark pillowed his head on the door frame and sighed, “I know it’s stupid. What else could I say?”
“Well,” Lorraine sat down heavily on the hall bench, “I guess we’ll just tell her the truth. I guess we’ll tell her the truth until she gets it.
That’s what Gordon thinks . . .”
“We can tell her that Mommy’s in a better place and she’s not sick anymore.”
“I don’t want her to hate Georgia for going to a better place without her,” Lorraine disagreed, “She’ll think they went to Disney World.” Keefer had fallen asleep by the time the Nyes arrived. Diane enfolded all of them in her thin arms; she looked incongruously bronzed and neat; her earrings matched her lapel
“I suppose that’s all right.”
Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 43
A Theory of Relativity
43
“I told them it would be fine.”
“I don’t think she’ll go to them.”
“I think she will . . .” Mark sat down on the bed, then lay down, tucking Lorraine’s head under his chin, pulling her over onto his chest.
“Are you . . . do you want to get up and change, or anything?”
“Why, Mark? Do I look like a slob?” The first time they’d met her, Diane had just come in off the tennis court. “I hate this weather,” she’d said to Lorraine. “I hate to perspire. And it’s worse if you work out. I’m a bad Southerner, for sure,” she’d said, and extended one perfectly French-manicured hand, silky as talcum powder. When Lorraine complimented her on her skirted shorts, Diane confided, “Honey, I have to buy them in the girls department at Neiman-Marcus. The missy sizes just fall right off me. . . .”
Over Mark’s exasperated protests, Lorraine had spent the evening at the hotel in Jupiter, throwing away her own clothes.
Now, as he looked her over where she lay on the bed, Mark said to Lorraine, “I don’t think you look like a slob, sweetie. But you might want to put on something that’s not quite so . . .”
“So what?”
“Well, wrinkled.”
“Okay,” Lorraine sighed. She walked into their closet and turned on the light, offended by the sight of so many brightly colored articles of clothing, so many inanimate things that outlasted people. She pulled out her most comfortable jeans and a white shirt that was . . . well, not very wrinkled. She then reached for a soft jersey pin-striped dress, underwear, and stockings, laying out her clothes in the order she would put them on, as she had since she was a child, bra, pants, slip . . . Mark interrupted her.
“I don’t think you need to get that dressed up for the Nyes.”
“I’m not. I’ll just put on jeans. This is . . . it’s for tomorrow night.”
“Oh.”
“I just didn’t want to have to go back into the closet twice, Mark.
Sweetie, I can’t explain. I’m too tired to explain.” Lorraine slipped a white button-down shirt over her head, to avoid undoing the buttons, then pulled her hair back into a semblance of its customary bun. The doorbell rang.
Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 44
44
JACQUELYN MITCHARD
Nora was there, Keefer squirming in her arms. “Nora,” Lorraine said, “you know you don’t have to knock.”
“I know,” Nora said uneasily. “Just, things feel funny now.”
“Nana, Nana,” Keefer leaped into Lorraine’s water-weak arms, furiously pat-patting her grandmother’s back. “Mama, Mama. Kipper Mama?” In four words, the baby’s dilemma. Where was Keefer’s Mama?
How was Lorraine to explain?
“She was up all night,” Nora told them softly. “It’s as if she senses it.
Bradie got her to play with Dan’s drums a little. We took her to the barn to see the kitties . . .”
“Kitties,” said Keefer, her thumb tucked securely in the far back left corner of her mouth, fingers splayed against her temple. “Nana, Mama?”
“I told her Mommy and Daddy had gone away,” Nora said, wriggling her discomfort as Mark pillowed his head on the door frame and sighed, “I know it’s stupid. What else could I say?”
“Well,” Lorraine sat down heavily on the hall bench, “I guess we’ll just tell her the truth. I guess we’ll tell her the truth until she gets it.
That’s what Gordon thinks . . .”
“We can tell her that Mommy’s in a better place and she’s not sick anymore.”
“I don’t want her to hate Georgia for going to a better place without her,” Lorraine disagreed, “She’ll think they went to Disney World.” Keefer had fallen asleep by the time the Nyes arrived. Diane enfolded all of them in her thin arms; she looked incongruously bronzed and neat; her earrings matched her lapel
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