Abby smiled and moved on to the other tables, distributing cheerfulness and cards, before seating herself close to the two other “fixtures,” Lillian’s name for the three people who arrived around nine every day and stayed until almost noon.
Bryony only knew the fixtures through their presence at the coffee shop. In addition to knowing their names, she had learned that Abby Dunaway had grown up locally. She graduated from high school ten years earlier and worked in the evenings at a nursing home. Abby always carried a bag of yarn. Hats, scarves, afghans, and doll clothes flew off her crochet hook.
Mr. Parker, retired postal worker, went through his mail, paid bills, read a newspaper cover to cover, worked the crossword puzzle, and ended the latter part of his morning stay with a paperback novel pulled from his back pants pocket.
Bryony knew nothing about Etta Corning except her name, which was written in black on her nylon computer sleeve. With spiked black hair, tattoos, a nose ring, and intense focus, Etta sat in front of her laptop every day, tapping away at who knew what.
The fixtures bought one cup of coffee each, which seemed to entitle them to take up an entire table until the noon crowd arrived. Initially, Lillian shared her worries about others joining them, taking up space during the busiest times—the morning rush, noon to one, and three to four-thirty.
Maybe having a few people sit around during the slow times makes the shop seem more inviting, Bryony remembered saying. She wondered if they were lonely. After a bit of coaching, Lillian agreed the fixtures could sit as long as they wanted, provided they did not interfere with customers who used the tables for eating or drinking and left in a timely manner, as God intended.
And they did not interfere.
The fixtures did not bother anybody, and nobody bothered them. As far as Bryony knew, Lillian never had to say a word to them, yet they knew when to leave. The first arrivals for the lunch rush cued their departure. Evidence such as this renewed Bryony’s faith in the natural ability of people to cooperate.
Lowering herself to the seat opposite, Lillian pushed the envelope from Abby toward Bryony and said, “Open it.” Lillian had one of her own. She slid her long, brown index finger under the flap and pulled out a handmade card with a crocheted heart sewn on the front. “You’ve hooked me, Valentine,” she read aloud from the inside of the card. “Hope your day is wrapped in love.” She held the card open for Bryony to see. “Look, there’s a picture of a woman wrapped in an afghan with hearts on it, crocheting.”
Bryony palmed her unopened card to the edge of the table, where she could easily grasp it with two fingers, and shoved it into the pocket of her skirt.
“Abby, honey,” Lillian called out to the young woman seated about fifteen feet away. “This is so sweet! Thank you!” She waved the card in the air.
“You’re welcome!” Abby called back.
Lillian turned her attention back to Bryony. “I’m so sorry I left right after the funeral.”
“You can stop apologizing,” Bryony said. “Being at the ER with your grandson made sense. I’m glad he only needed a few stitches.”
“How was the luncheon?” Lillian settled forward in her seat, grasping Bryony’s hand.
“Mitch drove Dad over to the church community room. People hung around until about two. The caterers packed up and left around two-thirty. Dad was awful. Mitch harped at me to move home.”
“What?” Lillian reared back her head. “What is wrong with that brother of yours? You have a home. You have a full-time job. Why doesn’t Mitch move back”—she finger-quoted “home?”
“Don’t worry, Lil.” Bryony managed a weak smile. “I have no intention of moving in with my father. We’d both be miserable.”
“Nice of your coworkers to show up for the funeral.” Lillian fiddled with the rose in the vase, turning the bloom toward Bryony. “Paul cornered me again about helping with the class reunion. He’s eager to put together a committee. Next one will be our fortieth.”
“You should do it. People who have never attended would probably come if you were in charge.” Bryony went every five years because Lillian insisted. Trips down memory lane held no appeal for Bryony. The particular path paved by a high school reunion usually resembled a—to quote a song title from her teenage years—highway to hell.
“I wasn’t popular,” Lillian said.
“You were nicer than the popular girls.” Bryony remembered them all as Charity and Susie’s She-Devil Squad. “And your popularity has grown in the past decade. Don’t underestimate the power of your presence. According to a trusted source”—she gestured to the framed Fieldstone Post article hanging on the wall—“you ‘singlehandedly brought new life to a dying downtown.’”
“I wish he hadn’t written that. I had so much help! Look at this place. You designed the whole thing.”
Beams and boards fourteen feet above were painted black to match the vent tubing. The floors were sanded and polyurethaned. The writer for the newspaper called it “Industrial Chic.” Bryony hadn’t known such a thing existed. Lillian and she designed the interior based on pictures ripped from magazines, neither of them bothering to read the articles.
Bryony picked the colors—pale green for the walls and black for the cabinets—and provided the plants, now grown into dark green vines spiraling down from pots, their stems entwined, a few reaching the floor. She would come in next week to feed and trim them.
Lillian patted Bryony’s hand and smiled. “Any other fallout from yesterday?”
“Dad didn’t want to pay the caterer.” Bryony brought the mug to her lips, sipped, and swallowed. “He pitched a huge fit until Mitch threatened to take over the checkbook.”
“Why didn’t he want to pay?” Lillian asked.
“He said I should have done the baking.”
“Because he knows your baked goods are better.” Lillian wrinkled her nose. “Those pastries were dry.”
“Because he thinks I should take care of all things domestic,” Bryony said. “I am the only woman in the family now, according to him.”
“What about Carol?” Lillian asked.
“Carol hasn’t been in Mom and Dad’s house five times in the four decades she and Mitch have been married.” Her brother’s wife possessed the personality of a sugar-free cookie—disappointing from the first bite, but still hard to put down. She did, however, make a fine mate for Mitch.
“Right.” Lillian nodded her head. “I remember. Something about her allergies. She sneezes every time she goes there.”
“She’s probably allergic to my father,” Bryony said. “He has an ill effect on everyone.”
With her mother gone, Bryony wondered what kind of relationship she would have with her father. In the past, her mother had buffered their interactions. When her mother became ill and her mind slipped, Bryony’s caregiving tasks created a barrier to the insults her father hurled in every way possible. If he was not saying something demeaning, he was scowling at her, or rolling his eyes, or walking away clucking disapproval. Funny how he never treated Mitch like that.
“Where’s Nathan?” Lillian asked.
“I don’t know. He should have flown home by now, but he hasn’t called.”
“You’re kidding!” Lillian said.
“I think he’s become enamored with snorkeling.” Nathan’s absence stung, but seemed a minor inconvenience when compared to the misery of watching her mother die. And his lack of communication was not all that unexpected. From boys to men, Bryony had a long history of being left behind without a word. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine on my own. Say hi to Rick and the kids. Please thank them for all they did to help.” She stood and slid her arms into her coat. “I’ve missed seeing them.”
“They miss you, too. Come over for Sunday dinner again. You used to come every week.” Lillian stood to wrap her arms around Bryony. “You are the sister I never had. You’re always welcome in my family, Bry. You know that, right?”
“I do.” Tears pooled in Bryony’s eyes. Though like an aunt to Lillian’s boys as they grew up, she had assumed they no longer needed her after they married. She lived with regret for not remaining a constant part of their lives.
She ended the hug first and told Lillian she would be in touch.
As soon as the coffee shop door shut behind her, a brisk wind hit Bryony’s cheeks, and the memory of her mother’s wooden face flooded her mind again. She had stared at it for two hours during the visitation, and before the casket closed for the service. Never again being able to look into her mother’s kind eyes—Bryony’s calm, safe place—seemed unbearable.
As she settled into the driver’s seat of her ten-year-old Chevy, deep sobs surfaced.
Per her father’s prediction, she’d become an old maid, and she would be one until she died. Unlike her mother, who Bry mourned deeply, no one—other than perhaps Lillian—would grieve her. She was a fixture in the lives of her family, co-workers, and clients, showing up and leaving when expected, minimally known, and easily replaced.
When the tears subsided, Bryony pushed the brake and started the car. On the way home, she would stop by to check on her father.
The last ten days had been hard on all of them, every possible moment spent first in the hospital, then the hospice unit, and finally the funeral home. She imagined empty cabinets in her parents’ kitchen, some dirty dishes, a few loads of laundry. She would do what she could, but she had no intention of trying to fill the shoes her mother had gradually vacated. Her father seemed to have done all right on his own up to now.
After she parked in front of the house where she grew up, Bryony sat for a moment taking stock. The whole place grumbled with neglect. Gutters needed work, and bushes trimming. She chastised herself for not noticing sooner.
Trudging up the steps, she looked across the wide cement porch to a swing hanging from two fat chains secured to the bead-board ceiling. As far back as she could remember, her mother had rocked forward and backward in that swing every spring, summer, and fall evening, until one day she stopped, her mind no longer able to lead her to pleasure. Now the swing sat idle, skeletal slats, no breath of movement, a ghostly reminder.
