Love And Miss Communication Part 6

"What difference does it make? Bette was clear that she didn't want you to worry until we had more information. We all know you've got a lot going on," Fran said cautiously.

What did that mean? She had nothing going on. Literally nothing. It was as if the absence of having anything in her life made her this fragile person whose sanity everyone was afraid to dismantle. Was her nothingness so great that it was becoming a "something"?

"Anyway, why don't you hop a train and come up to see us today if you can? Grandma would love to see you."

"Of course, I'll leave for Grand Central now," she said. She jumped into a taxi, inappropriately thinking how circ.u.mstances were conspiring to keep her from ever visiting a museum.

The train wasn't crowded, thankfully, so Evie was able to have an entire row to herself. She was in no mood to put up with sweaty commuters dripping meatball sub juice or slurping Big Gulps. Without the distraction of a neighbor, she was able to process what she'd just found out. The image of Bette's ring finger waving in her face flashed through her mind. How she never expected that one day she'd look back on that with nostalgia? She would love to burst through the doors of Fran and Winston's house and say, "Surprise, Grandma, I'm engaged! You may have cancer but look at my rock!" Bette vould probably say, "Evie-le, if I had known my getting cancer vould get you get married, I vould have gotten sick a long time ago." And she would have meant it.

Bette and Evie were always a tight pair, so much so that Fran would accuse her daughter of being all Rosen and no Applebaum. But Lola Applebaum of Great Neck, Fran's mother, never took the time to get to know Evie. She was too busy keeping up with the Joneses (in her case, the Kleins and the Cantors) to pay much mind to anything other than when she'd be able to lease a new Mercedes to park in her circular drive. Bette was totally different. She would often take her to school when Fran was working, and she sat front row at every one of Evie's dance and piano recitals (despite her obvious lack of talent). In grade school Bette showered Evie with lollipops (usually given on the walk to school before 8:00 A.M.) and Barbies, then twenty-dollar bills in high school, and then pearls of wisdom like "no one buys ze cow if zey get ze milk for free" in college. When Evie was dumped by her high school boyfriend the day before the homecoming dance, Bette stroked her back and watched Family Ties reruns with her until she fell asleep. When her first SAT score came back about 100 points light, Bette coaxed her into the car and drove all the way to New York to distract her with a favorite activity, pretending to shop for a very important customer at the Decoration & Design Building on Third Avenue.

They hatched a story during the four-hour drive that they were the two princ.i.p.als of the formidable design team Rosen & Rosen, based in Baltimore, and were tasked with finding imported damask silk woven with real gemstones for an "A-list" celebrity client. After delivering their spiel a few times with straight faces, they collapsed in laughter at Scalamandre, a purveyor of wall coverings so luxurious they made Evie's knees weak, and suddenly her poor showing on the math section of the SAT seemed to matter quite a bit less.

But after Henry died, their bond really climaxed. They-the generational bookends-seized on to each other like life preservers, and the thought of losing her grandmother now made Evie feel like she was drowning. She s.h.i.+vered on the over-air-conditioned train, wrapping her scarf more tightly around her.

At the New Roch.e.l.le stop, two ladies shuffled up the train steps. Out of an empty car, they selected the row right behind Evie. The women appeared to be about Bette's age. They announced their arrival on the train with the heavy scent of Chanel No. 5 and the clanging of gold bracelets.

"I'm worried about her, Gladys," one of the women said. "She's no spring chicken."

"Edith, relax. What is she again? Thirty-two?"

Evie felt her shoulders tense. She knew she should get up right now and switch seats, but some m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic tendency forced her to stay put.

"She's almost thirty-three. And not a single boyfriend in the last year. Imagine my Gayle, as pretty as she is, an old maid. Look at this picture."

Evie heard Edith fis.h.i.+ng around in her oversize purse. She was curious to see the photo, curious if Gayle was more or less attractive than she was.

"She's a beauty, all right. Lovely skin," Gladys said, after Edith must have produced the picture. "And she's not going to end up an old maid. No one would dream of calling her that until she's at least forty."

"You're crazy. People probably already call her that. Or they will soon enough," Edith said. "Her standards are too high. Of course, you think she listens to me? Of course not. I'm just an old-fas.h.i.+oned bubbe with too much to say."

Evie was tempted to turn around and invite these women for lunch in Greenwich. They could have a nice chat with Bette over rugelach and iced tea.

"None of them do. They're too busy on those Blueberry things to listen to anyone," Gladys said.

"It's called a BlackBerry. Don't those nine grandchildren of yours teach you anything?" Edith asked. Evie couldn't help but smile.

When she descended the train in Greenwich, Evie popped into the station bathroom to look herself over. She pinched her cheeks to flush them with color and fished around for lipstick in her tote. She had no other makeup with her, so she slicked some gloss on her eyelids. It was a trick she had read about in a fas.h.i.+on magazine. What stupidity. The stickiness made it impossible to blink naturally. She yanked out her ponytail holder and a.s.sembled her hair in the best style she could without a brush. At least Bette wouldn't fret that her single granddaughter was running around Manhattan looking like Raggedy Ann.

Winston and Fran lived just a short walk from the train station. When she tapped on the front door, she was surprised to see May on the other side of it. She hadn't counted on one of the f.u.c.king TWASPs being there.

"Hey," Evie said casually, trying to hide her annoyance. "I thought you guys would be up at school already. Orientation must be over by now."

May twirled her long blond ponytail, which was tied up with a yellow grosgrain ribbon, about one inch wide. Ribbons in hair, postelementary school, were a thing. Evie learned that in college, when she saw the blond field hockey players lined up with ponytails tied up with different colored bows.

"April's at school, but I came home for the weekend to do some shopping," May said. "Oh, and to visit Bette," she added, as what could only be described as whatever comes after an afterthought. "Sorry that she's sick."

"Thanks. Where is she?"

"Huh?" May was distracted by her phone. More nimble fingers were hard to imagine.

Evie s.h.i.+fted her weight. They were still standing in the doorway of the house.

"I asked where my grandma is."

"Oh, sorry," May said, without raising her gaze. "My friend Lonny just Snapchatted that she's getting a pedicure next to Scarlett Johansson. She says her feet are nasty and covered in blisters. Uch, I'm so jealous. I mean, on the Vineyard, April saw Justin Timberlake picking his nose, but she couldn't get close enough to get a picture of it. She probably could've gotten a lot of money if she e-mailed it to US Weekly or something. Do you think my friend should take a picture of Scarlett's feet?"

"May," Evie repeated, "where is my grandma?"

"Sorry, she's in the guest room."

Evie climbed the stairs two at a time but paused at the top. It was always weird for her when she reached the second-floor landing. Technically she had a bedroom there, a perfectly comfortable room at the end of the hall, across from the master suite. Over the years she had subtly replaced the needlepoint throw pillows and floral lamp shades she despised. But noticeably absent, to her, were the academic awards and the framed photos of her friends that had embellished the walls and lined the desk of her childhood bedroom. The TWASPs' rooms, labeled with their names in decorative paint, were totally different. Instead of looking like fungible guest rooms in a bed-and-breakfast, they were crowded with mementos and imprinted with their individual style.

The door to the small guest room was open, and Bette was sitting in a chair, gazing out the window. She looked well dressed in a red cardigan over a cream blouse with a navy skirt. Grandma Bette never wore pants. Several chains rounded her neck, including a necklace with the figure of a little girl that Evie knew was meant to symbolize her. The only thing off about her appearance was her hair, which was styled in its usual beehive fas.h.i.+on but had an inch of gray roots separating her forehead and the bluish-black tint to which Evie was accustomed.

"Grandma," Evie said, and flung her arms around her.

"Evie, bubbela, I'm okay."

In a more hushed tone her grandmother said, "I'm sorry she's here. After fourteen years, I still can't remember vhich one's vhich."

"Grandma, April and May are not even identical," Evie chastised gently, but Bette waved her arms as if to say, "Zey are interchangeable to me."

"Hi, sweetheart," Fran said, standing in the doorway to the guest room. She walked over to give Evie a kiss on the cheek, and up close Evie saw dark circles r.i.m.m.i.n.g her mother's eyes. "Is everything okay? Why have you been so out of touch? I was thinking about checking up on you in the city this week."

It wasn't the right time to delve into her resolution to quit the Internet. It was so inconsequential compared to Bette's illness. She was seven days into her digital cleanse so far, which was six days and four hours longer than she lasted on the BluePrint juice fast she signed up for with Tracy last year.

"Oh, that. My computer is broken. It may be a while before it's fixed." Evie looked contritely at her grandmother. She knew Bette would disapprove of her move off-line, now that she was educated in JDate. Thanks a lot, Louise Hammerman's grandson.

"So, Evie, any news?" her grandmother asked, holding up her ring finger.

"Grandma! How can you even be thinking about me right now?"

Bette snorted. "Oh please. If Hitler couldn't kill me, breast cancer can't either."

But my being single might be the death of you?

"So when did you get the diagnosis?" Evie asked, refusing to go off-topic. "What kind of treatment will you need?"

"Don't vorry about me. I'll be fine," Bette said. But her face showed signs of drowsiness, and Evie found it hard not to grow even more concerned by her grandmother's uncharacteristic lack of energy. She couldn't remember the last time Bette didn't hop out of her chair to hug Evie when she came to visit.

"Stop it, Grandma. I want to help you."

"Vell, one thing you could do is come vith me vhen I meet vith the breast surgeon. Your mother has done too much for me and you are already in Manhattan," Bette said.

"Of course, Grandma," Evie said. "Is this your first time meeting the doctor?"

"No, I met vith two different surgeons vhen I came up to New York, I knew right away vhich one I vanted."

"Why? What was wrong with the other one?" Evie asked.

"Nothing. She vas lovely," Bette said hazily, leaving Evie bewildered.

"Evie, let's let Grandma relax a bit. She's been shuttled back and forth quite a lot the past week for appointments and tests. We'll talk in the kitchen," Fran said.

"Is that okay, Grandma? Do you want us to stay?" Evie asked, but Bette's eyes had given in to the weight of her lids. She wanted to embrace Bette again-to wrap her youthful arms around Bette's wrinkled body and inhale the motley scent of her hairspray, perfume, and peppermint-tea breath-but she didn't want to disturb her rest.

She and Fran were almost at the stairs when Bette's voice sounded behind them.

"Evie-le, come back."

"Yes, Grandma? Do you want something from the kitchen?"

"No, no, I'm fine. I'm not eating any more fatty m.u.f.fins your mother is alvays making."

"What is it then?"

"You didn't answer me before. Are you seeing anyone?"

Evie's heart sank as the image of Jack getting married in a lush Turkish garden pixilated in her brain again.

"No, not right now."

"Vell, I'm not going to be around forever," Bette said. "But if I needed to hora at your vedding, I'm sure I'd have ze strength to fight off zis cancer."

Evie bit her tongue. Bette "Guilt" Rosen strikes again.

Chapter 6.

When Fran and Evie returned from a quick run into town to buy groceries and pick up Bette's medication, Winston was at the kitchen counter, clad in his signature pink b.u.t.ton-down and khakis, handing a wad of twenty-dollar bills to May.

"Welcome, Evie," he said, giving her a hearty hug. He was warm, as always, but the "welcome" only served to remind her that she was just a guest in Greenwich. She plopped down at the table, next to May, and watched her swig a Red Bull while texting. She wondered how she appeared to her much younger stepsister: Old? Probably. Successful? Possibly. Single? Obviously.

"So, May, how's school going? Do you like your roommate?" Evie forced the overture even though May still had not asked her a single question about Yale. It had gone from surprising to hurtful to slap-in-the-face offensive. "I remember being so nervous before school started. I even drove up to Yale a few weeks before so I could find my way around on the first day. Not that it helped."

May looked at Evie blankly and said, "I'm not nervous. I already know a ton of people."

"From orientation?" Evie asked, and then corrected herself. "Oh, you mean from boarding school. There must be a lot of kids going with you."

"Yeah, a bunch. But I know like the entire freshman cla.s.s at Yale. Like eleven hundred of them. Out of thirteen hundred."

"How is that possible?" Evie asked, confused.

"We're all friends on Facebook. Some computer dork started a group called New Bulldogs and got like almost the entire incoming cla.s.s to join. I feel like I already know who my friends are going to be. A group of us arranged to meet up at Toad's Place for drinks," May said, and then looked at Evie apologetically. "Oh, wait, Toad's Place is like the best place to party on campus now. Not sure if it was there when you were there."

Evie wanted to strangle the little TWASPy twit, but her dad was right there. She summoned her most patronizing voice and said, "Yes, I'm familiar with Toad's. It's been around since the 1970s. The Rolling Stones played there."

"Oh, well, I didn't know that. Now it's just like a cool place to drink and dance. I guess it changed."

"No, it was like that when I was in school too . . . whatever. Never mind."

"Someone from Dartmouth did the same thing. April said this really funny girl from Hotchkiss has been Instagramming all the things she's been getting for her dorm room. It's kind of cool."

Evie thought about asking why anyone would care that someone they've never met bought an IKEA floor lamp. If Facebook had been around when she had started college, she probably would have steered clear of the very girls who became her closest friends.

Tracy's Facebook page made her seem like a demented bookworm, with her Emily d.i.c.kinson profile picture, unsolicited critiques of anything on the New York Times bestseller list, and members.h.i.+p in the group "I'd Go Gay for Jane Austen."

Stasia's page was no better. She had posted almost a dozen pictures of herself shaking the president's hand in her father's Capitol Hill office as well as the results from quizzes like "Which Element On The Periodic Table Most Resembles You?"

Caroline's profile was a virtual love letter to Texas. She was the millionth fan of the group "Everything Is Better Deep-Fried."

Evie's own Facebook presence left much to be desired. It had nice pictures and links to interesting articles, but in an ongoing attempt not to turn off potential suitors or make waves at the office, it was kept relatively neutral. Put less euphemistically, it was lame, down to her reserved, safe profile picture-that side shot that literally was a "profile." She didn't join the group "People Who Don't Pick Up After Their Dogs Should Be Tasered," though she strongly supported the cause. She didn't "like" The Jerry Springer Show, even though she never flipped away from it. She didn't post about being starstruck when she saw Miley Cyrus in line for the bathroom at Dunkin' Donuts. It wasn't the real her; though how much could a virtual profile accurately portray any person?

She was tempted to tell all of this to May, to warn her about choosing friends based on 140-character drivel and check-the-box, prepackaged personal descriptions on Facebook. But Evie knew better than to tell a "back in my day" story, especially to the TWASPs. She just thanked her lucky stars smartphones weren't ubiquitous when she was in college. It was bad enough having to face the people who saw her b.o.o.bs flying about when her tube top slipped off at a freshman crush party. If that had been memorialized on the Internet, dropping out would have been her only viable option. She may have been jealous of the TWASPs' youth, but she wouldn't actually want to trade places.

"May, honey," Fran said. "Thanks so much for visiting Bette. You really didn't have to do that."

Yes she did, thought Evie. Winston literally paid her to show up.

Fran gave her a kiss and a big, gracious hug, and Evie found herself feeling envious. Her mother married Winston when the TWASPs were only four years old, and while they lived primarily with their mother in Westchester, Fran was a big part of their lives. Evie felt like an outsider. She had hoped her mother would complain about them when they were out running errands and Winston wasn't around, but she didn't.

"May, let me help you load up your car," Winston said, grabbing the keys off the kitchen counter.

Evie's stepsister didn't have to be told twice she was free to go. Once she left, Evie melted more comfortably into the yellow and green vinyl chair at the kitchen table. Winston's house looked like it had been frozen in time. Fran couldn't much be bothered with interior design, which is why she was perfectly fine leaving the 1970s furnis.h.i.+ngs. The Rosen home in Baltimore was a two-story Colonial Revival with a wraparound porch, a charming house whose blue front door Evie still missed walking through. She longed for the smell of potpourri spilling out of the powder room into the foyer. Winston's house smelled like cigars.

Fran settled down in the chair opposite Evie and broke off a few grapes from a bunch in a ceramic bowl on the table. Evie eyed the m.u.f.fins sitting on the countertop but refrained. It didn't seem right that her grandmother was calorie counting and she wasn't.

"It's been a long week," Fran said, after a deep exhale.

"A whole week already?" Evie gasped. "How could you not tell me sooner?"

"You have a lot going on, Evie."

There was that line again. She didn't like it one bit.

"Honestly," Fran continued, "I think if Bette weren't getting treated in New York, she would have tried to keep you from even knowing she was sick. She was worried about you. After losing Dad, you know. She knows how sensitive you are."

Did loving someone-hoping to hold on to them for a long time-mean she was especially sensitive? That couldn't be. Anyone would be shattered by the prospect of losing a beloved family member. She always thought Bette would be one of those grannies with her face on the Smuckers jar having her hundredth birthday announced on the Today show. Willard Scott, or whoever would be his equally jolly replacement, would say, "Happy Birthday to Bette Rosen of South Florida. Said she attributes her longevity to a good diet, laying on guilt trips, and telling it like it is."