The Garden Path by Kitty Burns Florey Read Free Book Online Page A

family—Peter, Uncle Jim, his wife Thelma, the cousins and their families—and she gave the smirky smile Rosie recalled so well from her daughter’s childhood, the smile designed solely to ingratiate, and said, “I wanted to see the family, too, of course. It’s been so long,” and pulled forward the hairy man who stood behind her like a footman. “This is my husband, everyone. Ivan Cord.” She waved her skinny hands around like a parody of someone with social graces. “Ivan, this is my Uncle Frank, I think … Uncle Jim? My brother Peter. This must be Aunt Thelma—”
    Rosie grabbed Susannah’s arm and turned her around. Though Rosie looked murderous, Susannah kept her smile, as if she was just about to introduce her mother, unctuously, to her husband, maybe even attempt a daughterly embrace. She was all bland affability, and she reminded Rosie at that moment of Edwin’s mother, old Mrs. Mortimer, whose self-satisfaction thinly disguised as goodwill hung around her like smog. Rosie said, “You don’t belong here. This isn’t your family any more. And don’t call her Grandma , you little bitch,” words that entered the family annals for keeps.
    In some part of her, Rosie was horrified to hear herself speak these words. Some tender little fold in her mind wanted her to hug Susannah, to forget everything and resolve to love her. She had just lost her own mother, and here she was driving her daughter away. And part of her also was appalled at the listening silence. She saw her cousin Deborah, with whom she had never gotten along, nudge her paunchy husband and roll her blue-shadowed eyes. Peter touched her shoulder—just a touch, as if to remind his mother. But she went on, and it was unfortunately true that while parts of her were dismayed, most of her thoroughly enjoyed the scene. She said things she hadn’t been able to say when Susannah was a child of ten.
    â€œYou have no right to be here. She wasn’t your grandmother. I’m not your mother. I want nothing to do with you. This isn’t your family any more than it’s his.” Rosie gestured toward Susannah’s silent, glowering mate, the ex-priest. “You get out of here, damn you, both of you. I won’t have you contaminating my last memories of my mother.”
    Susannah’s face was red, her smile had slipped away, but she stood there and defied Rosie, just as she used to at seven, eight, ten. “I loved her too, you know,” she said softly. “She was my Grandma, and I loved her.”
    That was when Rosie slapped her. “Get out of here before I strangle you with my bare hands,” she said. Her voice rose, then lowered to a snarl. “Get out, get out, get out.” Rosie could hear it still, could see it as if it were all on film: her hand raised, the palm hitting Susannah’s cheek, the girl’s head spinning to the side, and her twisted mouth, the low chant of “Get out, get out …” Susannah looked at Rosie in an odd way. She was angry, of course, and indignant, and stunned, but she also looked, in an instant, teary and woebegone—a poor-little-match-girl look that might have gone to her mother’s heart if she hadn’t hardened it so thoroughly for so long.
    Then Susannah’s husband took her by the arm, supporting her with his other hand around her waist, and led her out, both of them strangely silent, unresisting, looking at no one. They went out the open door and down the steps, heads bowed, his arm supporting her. Rosie noticed what thin legs she had and how inappropriately she had dressed, in a garish nylon print wrap-dress with long, hot sleeves. Then they disappeared around the corner to the parking lot.
    There was silence for a moment in the church, and no one moved. Then Rosie’s Aunt Thelma said, “Well,” and a buzz of conversation started. Peter put his hand back on her shoulder and