The Mother-in-Law(66)
Tom had died the previous Friday of any upper respiratory infection. He’d requested to be at home, and Diana had fought hard for him to have his wish, but in the end they’d both had to accept that it wasn’t to be. His disease had progressed quickly, faster than anyone expected, and for the last few months he’d been unable to breathe or do anything for himself. Thankfully he had Diana to do it all for him.
Edie has been on Nettie’s hip most of the day, and the older kids tear around the house as though it’s a birthday party rather than a wake. Even Archie, who’d been quite overcome with emotion in the church, seems more relaxed now. He’s removed his tie, which he’d requested to wear and borrowed from Ollie, and now he’s chasing Harriet between the legs of the guests.
“Archie!” I shout-whisper. “Why don’t you go play upstairs? You can even turn on the television, if you’d like.”
Within seconds, both of them are gone.
Inside the house, waiters circulate with platters of food. Along one wall, a long table had been set up with sandwiches and soft drinks, cakes and wine. Somehow, Diana has managed to get the details exactly right, so it is welcoming but not festive, somber but not depressing. Tom would have been pleased.
My role, as handed to me by Diana, is to welcome guests as they arrive. There’s not a lot to it. People come in, talking about how it was a lovely service and they say they’re sorry. I welcome them and point out where they can find themselves a drink and a chicken sandwich. A year ago, I’d have assumed that Diana had given me this role to keep me out of her hair, or because I wasn’t capable of much more. But today, knowing she specifically gave me this post, I feel a strong sense of commitment to it.
From my post at the door, I catch glimpses of Diana every so often, standing on the edges of circles, accepting people’s condolences. She does so with the utmost composure and grace. Diana managed the funeral details single-handedly, with the exception of the eulogy, which she had delegated to Ollie and he’d done a wonderful job of it. I’d looked over at Diana during the funeral and found her sitting very still and I had a sudden urge to slide over to her in my pew, perhaps place a hand over hers. Now, I regret that I didn’t.
“Come in,” I say, as a new gaggle of mourners step through the gate. I take the arm of a woman who must be in her nineties and support her weight as she climbs the three steps to the house. She smiles at me and says, “Thank you, dear.”
It makes me think of my mother. Lucy, dear. Dinner’s ready. It had been a long time since someone called me dear. I’d forgotten how nice it felt to be dear to someone.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
When I turn, a waiter in a grey jacket who I’ve deduced is the headwaiter is standing before me. “I can’t seem to find Mrs. Goodwin.”
I glance around. The room has filled. The hum of chatter has risen and there are small plates of half-eaten canapés on tables and mantels. Diana is nowhere to be seen. “Oh . . . well, what is it you need?”
“I’d like to check if we should start serving coffee and tea?”
“I don’t see why not.” I glance at the front path and decide it’s safe to leave my station. “I’ll see if I can find Diana.”
I search the ground floor of the house. I find Nettie on the back patio, Edie still clamped to her hip.
“Lucy, where is the diaper bag? Edie is ready for a nap and I need to find pacifier and lambie.”
“It’s in the bedroom at the top of the stairs. The portacot is already set up in there. Have you seen your mum?”
Nettie shakes her head. “But Uncle Dave is looking for her, he and Auntie Rose are leaving, they want to say good-bye.”
Nettie takes Edie up the stairs and I keep pushing through the crowd, scanning the faces. Ollie is in the front room, listening to his cousin Pete reenact a story that appears to involve a donkey. “Lucy!” he calls out. “Where’s Mum? Everyone is asking.”
“On it.”
I take the stairs to the second floor without much hope—Diana and Tom haven’t used this floor for a year. The door to the first bedroom—the one where I’d set up the cot for Edie—is closed so I creep past. I peer into the next room where Harriet and Archie are spread out on the bed, watching the screen, their eyes and mouths wide open. The door to the next bedroom, Tom and Diana’s old bedroom, is closed too. I hesitate in front of it, then tap lightly.
“Diana?”
When there’s no response, I walk inside. I haven’t been inside this room before and it is, quite frankly, ridiculous. There’s a hallway, a sitting room, the actual bedroom (though Tom and Diana have been sleeping downstairs for over a year now), and a bathroom the size of our old worker’s cottage. Finally, behind the last door is a walk-in closet that would make Carrie Bradshaw weep, complete with shaker cabinetry and a ladder on a pulley that could slide from wall to wall. An ottoman is in the center of the room, and Diana is sitting on it, her head in her hands.
“Diana?”
She looks up. She’s crying, but her face has not swelled or become red. No eye makeup has smudged. Diana even cries with composure.
“Are you all right?”
There’s something about her, like this, so totally vulnerable. She gives me a pathetic excuse for a shrug, as if her shoulders were ultimately too heavy to lift. Then she sighs. “There’s only so many times you can say the same thing. Yes, it was a lovely service. Yes, the sun is beautiful. Yes, Tom would have loved this. I’d reached my quota, so I came in here, to hide.”