no warning and a playful growl, Beth Ann picked up the two-year-old, smothering Bernie’s fat cheeks and squirming neck rolls with kisses. Bernie screamed, giggled, but didn’t renew her objection as Beth Ann pulled down her pajama bottoms, stripped off the still clean diaper and plopped her on the potty before answering the phone on its fourth ring with a breathless, “Hello?”
Bernie made a move to get up, but Beth Ann gave her the evil eye and Bernie settled back down.
“Bethy.” A familiar, deep voice chuckled.
“Read me that,” Bernie commanded loudly, pointing like a queen to her pile of books next to the potty.
“Why don’t you read the book?” Beth Ann suggested. “You sit on the potty and read to Fluff while I talk to Pop-pop.” Beth Ann pushed Bernie’s favorite stuffed bear and a book into her outstretched arms.
“Fuffy!”
“Glenn.” Beth Ann breathed a sigh of relief as Bernie babbled behind her, instructing the ragged brown bear to listen carefully. “Am I glad to hear from you. You were supposed to be here by now.”
“Is he there yet?”
Beth Ann looked out the window, searching for an unfamiliar car, but the fog obliterated any view she could have of the driveway. “No. Not yet. Where are you?”
“Stuck on 101 by Morgan Hill. A big rig spilled something and they’re taking their sweet time cleaning it up.”
“Morgan Hill?” She tried not to sound disappointed. “It’ll take you at least an hour to get here.”
“At least,” Glenn agreed. “You going to be okay?”
“I suppose. I just have nothing to say to him.” Beth Ann tried to make her voice neutral, but noticed that her hands shook as she cleared away the breakfast dishes. She wiped a hot dishcloth over Bernie’s high chair and sighed as she stepped on a soggy Oatie-O. And then another. Cereal everywhere. It was a wonder Bernie got any sustenance at all. Beth Ann used her thumbnail to scrape a mashed oat round off the well-worn hardwood floor. “I’m just nuts. I can’t wait until he says his piece and then moves on. What could he want anyway? He didn’t even ask about Bernie. I don’t want to see him—”
“He’s your sister’s husband.”
“Was,” Beth Ann corrected, blinking back her tears. “And we know what kind of husband he was.”
“Actually, we don’t,” Glenn said reasonably. “We know only what Carrie wanted us to know. You have no idea whatsoever what kind of husband or what kind of man he is.”
“I’m not listening.” Beth Ann began to hum loudly.
“So are you about eleven now?” Glenn asked with exasperation. “Carrie wasn’t perfect.”
“But she shouldn’t be dead,” blurted out of her mouth before she could stop it.
She had waited a long time for Carrie to come back and get Bernie. After two weeks, she had called and was told by the maid that Carrie hadn’t yet returned home but was expected back in six weeks. Just six weeks, Beth Ann had told herself. During that turbulent time of adjustment, Beth Ann tried the best she could to meet her art obligations so her first show would open on time, strapping Bernie to her chest as she painted. To Bernie’s credit, she slept most of the time, seemingly comforted by the close proximity to Beth Ann. By the end of the six weeks, even though Beth Ann had not carried Bernie in her womb, she carried her in her heart. So much so, that Beth Ann secretly hoped Carrie would never return. Then, more weeks slipped by and they received the phone call from the Elliott’s family attorney.
There was a long silence. Glenn cleared his throat, his voice subdued. “Yes. You’re right. She shouldn’t be dead.”
“I know we weren’t close anymore, but I miss her—”
“I done,” Bernie announced, threw Fluff and the book onto the floor and stood up.
“Wait,” Beth Ann said more sharply than she intended, putting a restraining hand on Bernie’s shoulder and peering into the potty-chair bowl. “Just a minute, Glenn. Bernie, you’re done when there’s poop or pee in the potty.”
“I done,” Bernie repeated, her voice a hairs-breadth trigger from a tantrum.
“When there’s poop in the potty,” Beth Ann said firmly.
“No poop,” Bernie insisted in a plaintive whine.
“I think you do. You always have poop after breakfast. Can you make a poop for Mommy?” she cajoled, willing Bernie’s bowels to move in the potty rather than the diaper.
“Poop, poop, poop, poop, poop,” Bernie chanted.
Beth Ann could hear Glenn hold back a laugh. The sound of a bedroom door creaking made Beth Ann turn quickly. The bright ruffle of a pink petticoat caught the corner of her eye as it whizzed past the open entryway to the kitchen and down the hall. The front door opened and then banged shut.
“Oh, jeez! Grans! Stop!” Beth Ann called futilely and then spoke hurriedly to Glenn, “Iris just took off. Be careful when you get on this side of Pacheco Pass. We’re socked in.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Glenn assured her, his voice patient. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
Beth Ann wished she could believe him. She poked her head out the front door and craned her neck to see if she could spot Iris but the only thing she saw was opaque fog. For a woman a year from ninety, Iris could travel alarmingly fast, even in a pink petticoat with ruffles. It was no small consolation that their bungalow was surrounded on three sides by vast parcels of farmland belonging to the family dairy behind her. There were a thousand places for Iris to hide. The fog only created more of a problem.
“Come on, Bernie. Let’s go get Nana,” she said hurriedly. She peeked into the potty, relieved to find a small tinkle if no poop. “Good girl, Bernie. You tinkled in the potty.”
Beth Ann grabbed a wipe and attended to Bernie, refastening the disposable diaper around the toddler’s chubby legs, pulling up her pj’s, stuffing her arms into her winter coat with practiced speed. Setting the toddler on a hip, Beth Ann raced out of the house desperate to find some sign of Iris. She could be lost for hours in this fog, wearing only a petticoat. It was insane. Not insane, Beth Ann corrected herself, feeling a muscle strain in her right shoulder from Bernie’s weight. Touched.
Beth Ann took a deep breath willing herself not to panic. Iris had good days and bad days. On good days, she was an older version of the same woman who had single-handedly raised two unruly, prepubescent girls during a time when her peers were enjoying their retirement. On Iris’s bad days, Beth Ann could only mourn the woman Iris had been, a small part of Beth Ann dying with every subsequent episode Iris experienced. At those times, Beth Ann was partly grateful Carrie wasn’t present to see Iris’s decline and partly resentful that she now bore the burden alone. She bore many of Carrie’s burdens, the least of which wriggled impatiently on her hip.
After having surveyed the boundaries of the acre parcel, looking up in all the fruit trees, checking the storage sheds—all of Iris’s favorite hiding places—Beth Ann realized with a sinking heart that Iris must have left the
