Going Out

It’s the day of the Donaldson’s Christmas party, the one they have every year at their house over in Greenbriar. She has no particular desire to go out, but she’s promised Rosalee Donaldson she’ll be there. She hasn’t been out in ages and the socializing will do her good. Or so she’s been told. She’ll bring her famous ladyfingers that she makes from scratch every year, and everyone will rave about them. She has always been coy about her secret recipe for the filling. It was passed down from her grandmother and it always seemed important somehow to guard it. For family posterity. How ridiculous, she thinks now, stepping out of the shower.

What to wear. She opens the closet and waits for something to catch her eye. Something red would be appropriate. Or something sparkly. She doesn’t feel sparkly. She just feels beige. She remembers that last year she’d worn the red cashmere with sequins. There was laughing and dancing. It had even snowed that week, and the lights twinkling on the snow-covered trees and houses had made her feel positively merry on the drive over. That was the thing about Christmas. You dressed up and you felt merry. When the weather cooperated, you just couldn’t feel depressed. But this year. She hasn’t noticed the weather one way or the other. She hasn’t decorated. The boxes of Christmas ornaments felt too heavy to lift. This year, she just feels beige. She pulls out a satin blouse. It’s beige but at least it’s satin so it will appear she’s made some kind of effort to look festive. Christmasy.

She usually wears her freshwater pearl earrings with the satin blouse. Where are they, she wonders, as she fingers through her jewelry box, pushing aside the gold chains, the silver locket, the Yurman bracelet. She remembers then that Kaitlyn borrowed them, months ago, the night of the prom, to go with the silk shantung gown she’d bought at the consignment shop. She had been happy to let her daughter borrow the earrings, happy that her daughter approved of them. Not like the time she’d offered Kaitlyn the use of her Burberry raincoat to wear to school that day last March when it rained so hard their backyard turned into a raging river. Kaitlyn had just rolled her eyes. Who cares about the stupid weather anyway? An argument ensued, and for the thousandth time she wished for those teenage years to just be over with already.

The earrings are probably in Kaitlyn’s room. She thinks for a moment maybe she should just wear something else. She wonders if anyone would notice if she wore the red cashmere two years in a row. Or she could go with the diamonds. The diamond studs are nice with satin. But the decision has already been made, and she walks down the hall to look for the earrings.

She summons her courage before opening the door. Her daughter is dead six months now but opening that door still feels as unnatural as the day the sheriff rang her doorbell at ten-thirty on a warm summer night to tell her about it. Her husband was away on business. She had been enjoying a quiet evening alone, a second glass of wine and reruns of Sex and the City on TV. She remembers the feeling of indulgence. Nobody’s bugging me. Don’t have to make dinner. A little buzz on. Watching trashy humor and liking it.

After the sheriff left, she had entered her daughter’s bedroom without its owner’s permission for the first time in . . . well, in a long time. Kaitlyn had laid down the law on that point the minute she turned thirteen. Mother! How about a little privacy? were the exact words that met her when she had barged in, uninvited, other exact words, though not accurate ones. The transformation from compliant daughter to belligerent stranger seemed to have occurred overnight. One day it was excitement over new shades of make-up, the next it was three new piercings, and not on her ears. Kaitlyn wasn’t belligerent anymore, or compliant either. Just dead. The privacy edict was lifted.

So after receiving the news, she went to her daughter’s bedroom as one might be drawn to a noise, and you walk toward it to discover its source. Laid out before her were the abandoned teenage possessions. The bed, unmade yet undisturbed. Yesterday’s clothing, strewn about the floor, still smelling of Pleasures, her favorite perfume. The college brochures, littered among the clothing, enticing her into the future with images of bucolic campuses and smiling co-eds. The computer, with its unread email, her MySpace profile beckoning new friends. As if she was still alive to greet them.

The room is tidy now. Kaitlyn’s clothes still hang in the closet. The computer is turned off, the black monitor reflecting nothing more than the changing light as one day rolls into the next. On the nightstand next to the neatly made bed is a carved wooden box, a souvenir from their trip to Mexico, filled with a colorful jumble of toe rings, ear studs and beads. She picks through the pieces, many now tarnished from exposure to the air and non-use. She finds one pearl earring, then the other, and leans in toward the mirror to put them on.

The accident killed two girls. The first obituary, not her daughter’s, appeared the very next day and ran for three straight days after that, both in print and online. There were extensive quotes from the girl’s father and a cousin. She was just such a good person, the cousin remembered. She loved everybody and always had a smile on her face. Donations would be accepted for a scholarship fund. That girl’s family didn’t waste any time, and seemed well along in the grieving process just twenty-four hours after receiving the news that their daughter, who loved everyone and was always smiling, was dead. It was as if they had been prepared for this particular contingency: If our daughter dies today, this is what we’ll say and this is what we’ll do.

Of course people never told the whole truth in an obituary. You couldn’t say, “Kaitlyn, age 17, screamed at her mother on a regular basis and was known to smoke pot in her bedroom whenever her parents were out.” You had to remember the positive and forget the rest.

Kaitlyn’s obituary did not appear until a week later, when the cremation was finished and she had had enough time to plan a suitable memorial service. The delay had the effect of making it seem like her death, though it occurred simultaneously with that of the other girl, was somehow delayed, or put on hiatus, like a favorite TV show in the summer. As if there was that slight possibility that she would be back, with unseen episodes, not cancelled on account of lousy ratings. As if such a thing was possible. Her daughter would not be back. It was just that the news hadn’t caught up with reality.

She is satisfied that the pearl earrings work with the satin blouse, and leaves Kaitlyn’s room, closing the door behind her, gently, as if not to disturb a sleeping child. She returns to her closet, and opts for the black velvet skirt, which obscures the hips that have widened since menopause struck two years ago. She pushes her hair back behind her ears. The pearls droop slightly downward, and she tightens the earring back against her lobe until it pinches. If her daughter had been there, she would have asked her opinion: How do I look? She smiles into the mirror. Stylin’, Mom. Totally. Whatever Kaitlyn didn’t like about her mother, she did like those earrings.

Kaitlyn was what they call “an only child.” They could not have children of their own, so they adopted her as an infant. She became their own, and there would be no more explaining about why, after all those years of marriage, they did not have children. It wasn’t polite to ask someone why they had only one child. Even though somehow people didn’t mind asking why they didn’t have any at all, back before they’d found her and brought her home. Though she had been their “only child,” in fact she could have had siblings, for all they knew. She had lived in an orphanage so she had no parents, but wasn’t it possible that the two people who had produced her, biologically speaking, had also produced a sibling or two? And the parents, the biological ones, could even be alive someplace, after having abandoned their baby at, where? A church? The orphanage? By the side of the road? It happened in Asia, it was not even that uncommon. Maybe she had been the youngest, and that was one too many. No matter. She was dead now. Still, strange to think her daughter might have a mother on the other side of the world that didn’t know.

She sits before the mirror and begins to apply her make-up. She starts with the foundation, smoothing it evenly across her forehead and over her cheekbones. She tries to reduce the web of crow’s feet that have deepened around her eyes over the past months. She draws a fine brown line under and over each eyelid, and gently brushes black mascara against her lashes. She tries the blush powder sample she’s gotten from the cosmetics counter and decides to stick with the mauve shade she’s been using for years. She looks good for her age. People will compliment her. It will give them something to say.

That question people love to ask: Do you have children? How will she answer it today? It will be intended politely enough. You are introduced to someone new, at a party, a dinner, some other social gathering. People are just trying to break the proverbial ice, to find some common ground. She has asked others the same question on occasion, always hoping the answer would be Yes. Yes leaves the door open to all kinds of follow-up conversation: Really? Boy or girl? How old? What school? Is she driving yet?

Is she driving yet.

She’s seventeen. Of course she’s driving. Was driving. She was driving when she hit that tree and ran up the embankment and flipped the SUV over four times and the girls in the back were trapped and the girl sitting next to her was crushed. Just like she was.

That car she was driving, the SUV. They had chosen it because of its advertised safety. Good crash test rating. Scored well in rollover tests. It made her feel confident. Confirmed that she was a good mother, always looking out for her child’s safety. Now the sight of an SUV—any SUV—made her feel sick. And the color—metallic orange—it was cool, was what Kaitlyn said. Image was everything to a teenager, wasn’t it? Would things have been different with the Buick? Kaitlyn had hated her father’s car. Mortified was the word she’d used. She was mortified to be seen in it. Not cool, Mom, she’d said. And they could afford that third car, and didn’t they want to give her everything? Wasn’t that the point of the whole adoption thing? She needed a home; they needed a baby. And so it all happened. The paperwork and the interviews. The trip to Korea and the homecoming. Instantly the childless couple was transformed into a family. Financial resources trumped nature. Gave them the wherewithal to cross over into the country of parenthood, leaving behind the barren landscape of childlessness. They were in the club and availed themselves of all its privileges. The schools, the friends, the birthdays. The dance lessons, the clothes, the ipod, the prom, the car. Then this. Instead of graduation, this.

At the hospital, where they identified Kaitlyn’s body, a well-meaning nurse had asked if they had any other children, as if an affirmative answer would lessen the trauma. You’ve lost one, but what the heck, at least you have others was the implication. Too bad for the nurse, there were no others. She’d have to come up with some other way to look on the bright side. Someone at the funeral said, It must have been her time. She remembers feeling confused. Was she supposed to accept the death of her teenage daughter because it was her time? The priest said God must have needed an angel. Apparently more than she needed a daughter, she thought. People she had never seen before, or since, hugged her and asked what they could do. By the end of the day she felt like she had been through a marathon of comforting other people, saying things to make them all feel better. I’ll call you if I need anything. Kaitlyn’s in a better place now. I’m doing okay under the circumstances. Thanks for coming. Thanks for your prayers.

She imagines the party tonight with the inevitable question: Do you have children?

Yes, I have a daughter.

Lucky you! How old?

She was seventeen when she died last year.

She imagines the door to further conversation will slam shut then and there. Perhaps she can expect an awkward I’m sorry, followed by a graceful exit. Excuse me for a minute, I’d like to refill my drink/I think my wife is looking for me/Do you know where the bathroom is? Or maybe curiosity will get the best of them: What happened? How did she die? And upon hearing the explanation (she already knows she will try to make her daughter sound blameless: She was in a car accident), the other person will share a story they’ve heard about a different accident, a different fatality, a different girl. A different way of finding common ground. But the truth is this: if you haven’t lost your child, sir, we have no common ground. Go refill your drink. Your wife was looking for you. The bathroom is upstairs, on the left.

Her husband is calling her. Are you ready to go yet? She says she’s coming. She finds her black suede pumps in the back of the closet and dusts them off. She slides the Yurman bracelet over her wrist and heads downstairs, her fingers brushing lightly against the closed bedroom door as she passes by. You look nice, her husband says as she appears in the kitchen.

On the drive over to Greenbriar, she stares at the lights dangling from people’s roofs, the wreathes nailed upon the siding of people’s houses, the mechanical reindeer lowering their heads as if to sample some imaginary morsels left on the lawn. The air in the car feels stuffy. She puts down the window, hoping for a blast of cold air to strike her face. But December is unseasonably warm this year and the temperature outside the car is no different.

As they pull up to the curb at the Donaldson’s brick colonial, she tells her husband to wait there. She walks up the cement sidewalk to the front porch and leaves the plate of ladyfingers on the welcome mat, the recipe carefully tucked under the cookies, before returning to the car. Let’s go home, she says.