Telling Lies

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mother sat at the table in her big kitchen, in a stream of bright morning sunlight, folding red linen napkins fresh from the laundry. It was a beautiful picture, the contrasts of the red napkins, her shiny silver hair, the pale, well-scrubbed pine table. She is a tall slender woman who holds herself very straight. But her hair was soft wisps, the collar of her cotton shirt was open at the throat, and there was a hole in the toe of her right sneaker.

She was facing the big bay windows, and now and then she looked out through the redwood trees in the backyard, gazing off toward Grizzly Peak. Through the window, I could see my father in a far corner of the yard, kneeling with a trowel in his hand at the edge of the small herb garden that was planted in the patch of yard that catches only the morning sun.

It was a beautiful morning. More like spring than Christmas Eve.

“Grandma,” Casey said softly. When Mother turned, Casey took Marc by the hand and led him over to the table. Max, Jaime, Aleda, Mike and I stayed back, voyeurs.

“Grandma, this is Marc.”

“Of course it is.” Mother stood up and pulled out a chair for him. Her eyes were very moist, but she remained com-posed as she looked at him. She put her slender hand on his shoulder. “You are very like your father. Anyone can see that.

“But I can see your mother in you, too. She has always been my favorite.”

He smiled. “You’re just the way my mother described you.”

“Well,” she laughed. “We’ll have to hear about that! Everyone come and sit. I have Bloody Marys ready. Casey, honey, please go tell Grandpa that his grandson has come home.”