What We Keep - Elizabeth Berg [77]
Eventually, we got only postcards from our mother giving us her new addresses. Sometimes we saved them. Sometimes we did not. She eventually settled in California.
And then, so many years after that time of enormous change and loss, so many years later, Sharla called me to say, “Well, I got some news today.” And before the week was out, I was on a plane to see her and a mother I’d not laid eyes on for thirty-five years.
And here I am.
The walk to baggage claim seems to take forever. I see the two children I enjoyed listening to on the plane with their father way ahead of me, Martha a bit behind me. I slow down, wait for her.
“So. How was your ride?” I ask.
“Well, except for the part when I thought we were all going to die …”
“Yeah.” I smile.
“You know, I wanted to tell you,” Martha begins. But then she says, “Oh, never mind. Just … good luck.”
“What? What were you going to say?”
“Well, I was just going to say that it seems one of the things you have to do in order to finally grow up is to let that what-my-parents-did-to-me stuff go.”
I say nothing, watch my feet walking.
“But it’s none of my business. Why don’t I just go back to wishing you luck.”
“Thanks.”
Martha slows her pace a bit. I quicken mine.
When I arrive at the baggage claim, I see Sharla right away, dressed in jeans and a black sweater, a black suede jacket over her shoulders. She is wearing a belt with a huge silver buckle and fabulous-looking cowboy boots. She always looks as if she walked off of the pages of a magazine; I always look as though I am on the way to a meeting with the minister. It’s funny; I always thought Sharla would be the conservative one. But as we grew up, Sharla became the risk-taker, the wilder one.
Now I scan her face, trying not to look anxious, but failing. “Oh, for God’s sake, I’m all right,” she says.
I embrace her hard, say into her ear, “Oh, Sharla, I’m so sorry.”
She pulls away from me. “Hey. It’s not for sure, remember? I’ll know on Friday.”
“How can they do that? How can they say, ‘You might be terminally ill. We’ll let you know in a few days.’ How can they do that?”
“Well, it’s complicated,” Sharla says.
“What do you mean?”
“Why don’t you get your bags. We’ll talk on the way.”
I remember, all of a sudden, where we are, that we are here to see our mother. “Why am I not surprised that she didn’t bother to pick us up?”
“I told her not to,” Sharla said. “I wanted some time with you first. To get ready.”
“Yeah, well, maybe that was a good idea.” I see my small bag coming out, drag it off the belt.
“That’s all you brought?” Sharla asks.
“We’re only staying three days, right?”
“Yeah, but …” She shrugs. “I’ve got more.” She points to a pile of floral French luggage; there are four pieces.
“What did you bring?” I ask.
“I was nervous.”
“So, what, you’ve got bags full of tranquilizers?”
“No, just one vial.”
“Really?”
“Just Valium.”
“Can I have some?”
She pulls a slim plastic bottle from her purse. “One?”
“How many milligrams?”
“Five.”
“I’ll take two.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Okay, one. Oh, never mind. Forget it.”
Sharla puts the vial back in her purse. Then she loads her bags onto a cart. “I’ve got a car waiting.” She pulls her sunglasses out of her pocket, puts them on. If she’s ill, she sure doesn’t look it.
“Did you get a stretch limo?” I ask hopefully. “White?”
“You’re so tacky.”
“Well. That, or honest.”
“Saying you want a white stretch is not honest, it’s tacky,” Sharla says. “Trust me.” She sighs. “Where’d you get that blouse?”
The drive into Marin County is beautiful. Outside our windows is the breathtaking combination of sea and sky and land that you see in movies and think, Oh sure, show me where that is. But here it is.
“I can’t believe I’m so old and have never been here before,” I say.
Sharla looks at me over the top of her sunglasses.
“I know, but you could come here and not see her. I’m not sure I’d recognize her if I did see her.”
“I think you’d recognize