What We Keep - Elizabeth Berg [82]
I lie back down on the sofa. I think of my father, whom I loved so much. I cannot tell him anything, now. I want to dig him up and shake him.
“Oh, my God,” I say, finally. And then, “So is that why you left, Mom?”
“Oh no. No. That was part of it. But him doing that just forced the issue. I mostly left because I wasn’t living a true life. I had something in me that needed out so badly. There was a night your father and I had a terrible fight and I—”
“We were awake,” Sharla says.
My mother looks at her. “You were?”
Sharla nods.
“Oh, I’m so sorry you heard that; what must you have felt? I was so confused. I thought after I got straightened out, I could come back for you. I thought my leaving would be like a break in the circle of you girls and me, that I’d come back and still have a place. But the circle closed, and I was on the outside, and I couldn’t get back in. And then you were just … gone from me. And frankly, it began to seem to me that you would be better off without me. The times I saw you, I could see how uncomfortable you were with me. No matter how I tried to explain things, I only confused you, hurt you. Well, I was so confused myself—best friends with a woman who had slept with my husband!”
“You just … forgave her?” Sharla asks.
My mother smiles, a faraway look in her eyes. “In an odd way, I ended up being happy she’d done what she did. She forced me to do something I wanted to do, gave me an excuse for doing it. And, she … had a way. You couldn’t resist her. You remember, don’t you? Anyway, I floundered about so badly for so long, while your father was basically very stable and kind. He loved you very much; he had a fine job; he could give you a good home. He ended up marrying a nice woman, at least she seemed like a nice woman. I saw you a few times with her and you all seemed happy.”
“You saw us together?” I say. “When?”
“Shortly after he married her. I would go to places you went—restaurants, movie theaters—hoping to run into you. And I would see you, sometimes. I knew you didn’t want me in your life anymore. I just … I had to be sure you were all right.”
“I don’t think I can stand this whole conversation,” I say. “This is ridiculous. For one thing, you … Mom, are you really sick? Are you?”
She comes to sit beside me, takes my hands. “I know how strange this all feels. Yes, I am sick. I have ovarian cancer. But there’s every chance that I can survive for a while with the treatments they’ll give me. But just in case I don’t, I wanted to try to see you two. I had to.”
I look at Sharla, whose expression is curiously blank. “So?” I say to her, meaning, What next? Now what do we do?
Sharla shrugs. “So it’s two in the morning—later for us. I guess we just go to bed.”
In fact, that is exactly what we do.
In the morning, I wake up alone. I go out into the kitchen to see Sharla and my mother sitting at the table, looking at a tattered book together.
“Good morning,” my mother says.
I nod irritably. My mouth is stuck to itself and I have a headache that makes the bright light unbearable. I pour myself a cup of coffee with hands that want very much to shake.
“Hangover?” Sharla asks brightly.
“No.”
I sit at the table and Sharla slides a bottle of aspirin toward me. I take three without looking at her.
“What’s that?” I ask, gesturing toward the book.
“It’s something you two used to love,” my mother says. “Your clown book. You used to fight over it.”
“I remember that! Let me see.” I flip through the book, and each illustration is so familiar to me. I can’t help smiling.
“She has lots of them,” Sharla says.
“Our old books?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s where they went!” Years before, I had searched the house, looking for the books I’d been read as a child. I’d wanted to read them to my own girls. But I couldn’t find them.
“I’m sorry,” my mother said. “I took them when I moved.