What We Keep - Elizabeth Berg [71]
“What, the flowers?”
“Yes, embroidery.”
I shrugged. I only used to. She was not keeping up with us.
The living room, with its three large windows abutting each other and looking out onto the street, was the only room that had any natural light; still, my mother had the single floor lamp turned on. The only furniture was a large green sofa, its cushions nearly U-shaped, which was pushed against the windows. A well-worn burgundy rug on the floor emitted a faint smell of mothballs.
“I’ll be getting some more things, of course,” my mother said. “This is just for now.”
Neither Sharla nor I said anything. What could she possibly get that would work against the sadness of this place—the plaster-patched walls, the creaking floorboards, the chipping tile in the bathroom, the rust stains in both sinks?
“Did you buy this furniture?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, with some measure of pride. “I’ve sold two paintings already—out in Santa Fe. People pay for my art!”
She smiled at me, then at Sharla, then at me again. Next door, someone hawked; then the toilet flushed. “Uh-huh,” I said, finally. I wanted to punch Sharla. She wasn’t saying anything. I felt as though I might as well be here alone.
As if reading my mind, my mother said, “Sharla?”
She did not respond, at first. But then, “How can you live here?” she asked.
Not my question, exactly. Why are you living here, is what I wanted to know. And then there was this: Who are you?
“It’s what I can afford right now,” my mother said. “Later, I hope to have my own house.”
“Like Jasmine?” I asked.
“Well …” She went to the refrigerator, began taking things out: a package of chicken legs, lettuce. “Jasmine sold her house. Just last week.”
“She did?” I had not seen any activity in Jasmine’s house since she and my mother had left: no people, no sign saying the place was for sale.
“Yes. It was really quick—some family where the father got transferred. They only looked at it once, isn’t that something? They’ll be moving in in a few weeks.”
“We’re getting new neighbors?” I asked.
“Yes. I understand the children are quite young; maybe you can baby-sit.”
“But …” It irritated me that so much could have happened unbeknownst to me. “When did they look at it?”
“I suppose you might have been in school.”
“But what about all Jasmine’s stuff?”
“Well, that’s … I meant to talk to you about that. She will be having a truck come, a moving truck, next Friday. And they’ll … Well, I’m going to use it, too. To bring my things here. Just my things, you know, my clothes, and so on.”
“But you—”
“Jasmine will be moving back to Clear Falls, too,” my mother said. “That’s how we can share the truck. Isn’t that lucky?”
“Where is she moving?” Sharla, now. Angry.
“Nearby, I think,” my mother said.
She turned slowly, faced us. “You know, she’s become an awfully good friend to me. I—”
“I want to go home,” Sharla said.
“Just a minute,” my mother said. “Just a minute! You just got here! We need to talk about some things!”
Sharla would not look at our mother. She stood stiffly, her mouth a grim, straight line.
“Look,” our mother said, her voice softer, reasoning. “You won’t talk to me on the phone, not really. You won’t write to me. And now you just got here and you want to leave.”
Silence. The tap dripped.
Sharla continued to stare straight ahead. I thought of statues I’d seen, blankness where eyes should have been.
My mother walked partway over to Sharla, then stopped. “Sharla, I’m your mother, my God, I … look at me, why won’t you let me tell you anything!”
“I’m waiting outside for Dad.” Now Sharla’s face was flushed; I could see she was trying not to cry. She moved toward the door.
“Sharla,” my mother said quietly. “Please.”
Sharla opened the door and my mother rushed