What We Keep - Elizabeth Berg [78]
“Millions,” he says.
“Yes,” Sharla says, “but how many millions?”
“‘Spose I said only one million. Could you afford it then?”
“No.”
“So what’s the difference?”
Sharla and I look at each other, squelch a giggle. Contrary to what we’ve been told, not everybody in California is in a good mood all the time.
“Just curious,” Sharla says.
“Well, it’s more than one million, I’ll tell you that.”
“I see. Well. Thank you very much.” She settles back against the seat, looks over at me. “Thanks for coming, Ginny.” She is speaking very quietly, so Mr. Congeniality can’t hear us.
“Well, of course I came.”
“It’s maybe just a cyst.”
“It’s on your ovary?”
“Yeah. But maybe it’s just a cyst.”
I take in a breath, steady myself. “When do they—”
“You know what?” Sharla says. “For days, I’ve been talking about nothing but this with Jonathan. I’m sort of sick of it. I mean, if it is, it is, I’ll deal with it. I’d really like this time to be … free of that.”
“You want to just lighten up a bit,” I say. “Forget about things.”
“Yeah.”
“Just … oh, you know, come and see your mother, who walked out of your life over thirty years ago, whom you’ve not seen since. A kind of spa, you might say.”
Sharla smiles. “You know, I don’t know if she really did that or not. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I don’t know if you could say she really walked out.”
“She left us.”
Sharla begins to answer me, but then, as we start going up a steep hill on a heavily wooded road, she asks, “Is this Summit already?”
“That’s what the sign says,” the driver mutters.
“Hey!” I say, loudly, and Sharla nudges me with her boot.
“No,” I tell her. And then, to the driver, “Hey!”
He looks at me in the rearview. “Yes?”
“Could you just … aren’t you supposed to be polite?”
“Yeah. I’m not being polite enough?”
I sigh, let it go. There are more important things to think about.
“God. We’re there,” Sharla says.
“But we didn’t talk about anything,” I say. “I don’t think I’m ready!”
“Well, the scenery. I just wanted to see it. I thought it would take longer to get here.” The car pulls into a driveway. Number 330 is stenciled on the garage. The house is evidently out of sight, down the hill, as were many of the houses we passed. The driver puts the car into park, starts filling out some paperwork. I feel my hands tighten on my purse, take a huge breath.
“Should we ask him to drive around for a while?” Sharla whispers. I look at the back of his head, the dejected slump of his shoulders.
“No,” I say. And then it comes to me to give him a tip, just to see his face. Sharla signs for the bill, and I pull a twenty out of my purse, hand it over the seat.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“A tip.”
“Included,” he says.
“Extra,” I insist.
His face softens, reluctantly. Then, “Sorry,” he says. “I’m not feeling well today. I’m sorry. ’Shouldn’t have come to work. But I need the money.” He laughs. “I’ll carry your bags in twice, okay?”
“No, thanks,” we say together. And I know why. The moment is crowded enough already.
It takes us two trips to bring the luggage down to the door of a beautiful, brown-shingled house with leaded glass windows. Flowers are everywhere—in window boxes, in scattered gardens. The landscape around the house is softly controlled, but still has a feeling of wildness. We can see the living room through one window; there is a piano there, some large, soft pieces of furniture, deep green; a Persian rug, many vases of flowers, a grandmother clock, paintings everywhere. I knock, we wait a breathless moment, and the door opens. And there she is. And Sharla is right, I would know her anywhere.
I start to say something, then put my hands over my face. I feel her pulling both of us toward her, saying syllables that are not words, that could not be, not if they were going to contain all that she is saying. A memory comes to