We sat on a bench, holding hands, gazing out at the kindly blue of the bay. There were sailboats even today, a rainbow of sails catching the fickle wind. I remembered what Anna had said about bringing Sumter here and realized how right she had been. I will do that, I promised her, no matter what happens. I will sit here and show him this miracle and tell him he’s loved for exactly the boy he’s becoming.
The wind shifted and blew toward us, sweet with rain and the sagey smell of the wetlands. It seemed to blow through me, in fact, soothing every cell in my body. It was like that moment in Poltergeist when JoBeth Williams feels the spirit of her daughter passing through her. “I can smell her,” she says, laughing with relief, and that’s just how it was with me. Not a remembered perfume or even the scent of her skin, but her essence, a condensation of her spirit. She was passing through me like sunlight through water, on her way to somewhere else. I looked at my watch.
“Should we be going?” asked Ben.
“I think so,” I told him.
Ben was driving the Prius up Noe Hill when the call came. I remember looking at Carlotta’s navigational map and seeing the Home icon appear on the screen.
Perfect, I thought. Perfect.
And the perfect messenger was bringing the news.
“Patreese,” I said quietly.
“Wassup, my brother?” (Shawna says that, too, sometimes, but I’ve never gotten used to it. A greeting offered as a question seems to lay the burden on the person being called, when the caller, by all rights, should be telling you what’s up.)
“Hangin’ in there,” I said.
“Listen, Michael—”
“It’s Mama, right?”
“Yeah. She passed about twenty minutes ago. I was talkin’ to Mohammed and saw your folks come in. I hope you don’t mind hearin’ it from me first.”
“I’d rather it be you,” I told him.
Ben looked over at me and laid his hand on my leg.
“She went peaceful,” said Patreese. “I was workin’ on her this morning, and she was…you know…fixin’ to leave already.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
“She wanted you to have something. You at your computer?”
“I will be in a little while.”
“Check your email, my man.”
Ten minutes later I did that. It was a photograph of Mama and Patreese, both grinning like kids at a prom as they posed for the camera. Patreese was sitting on her bed in a red T-shirt, his big mahogany arm lying gently on her frail shoulders.
Mama was holding the photograph of me and Ben at Big Sur.
27
Gibberish
Mary Ann hadn’t changed dramatically since the days of her adjustable-bed commercials. You could still see that person, at any rate. She was just as slim, just as naturally elegant as the mid-forties version of herself. Her hair was the big difference; short and silvery and feathered against her well-shaped head in Judi Dench fashion. As she sat on my sofa that morning, looking pretty in slacks and a sea-foam silk blouse, I wondered if the new hairdo had been the result of boredom or chemotherapy. That’s just how I think these days. Catastrophes are to be expected.
She seemed to read my mind. “Was it a mistake?” she asked, touching the side of her head. “It’s fairly new.”
“I like it,” I said.
“I’m not so sure.” She rolled her eyes in self-punishment. “Why am I talking about my hair?”
“Nerves,” I said, smiling. “In a minute I’ll be talking about mine.”
She smiled back. “You really do look good, Michael.”
“Thanks,” I said, shifting my extra weight in my Morris chair. She didn’t call me Mouse, I noticed. The name was an artifact now, part of who we used to be.
“Where are Brian and Shawna?” she asked.
“They’re already at Anna’s. I told them we’d meet them there.”
“Great…she’s home now, then?”
“Oh…no…I meant the hospital, actually.” I paused for a moment, choosing my words. “You should know…she’s still not awake. She may never be.”
Mary Ann nodded. “I understand.”
I had just begun to face this myself, but I’d already resolved, after lengthy discussions with Brian and Marguerite, to help create the sort of send-off that Anna would want: one without panic or regret or excessive sadness on the part of the survivors. We had that opportunity, after all. We had to make the most of it.
“I hope I didn’t put you on the spot,” I told Mary Ann. “Brian asked me to call you, but, frankly, I wasn’t sure if I even had the right to—”
“No. He was absolutely right. I’m glad you called.” She looked around the living room, taking it in. “This place just gets cozier and cozier.”
“Thanks. Eighteen years will do that.”
“And Thack’s…not around anymore?”
I shook my head. “He took off ten years ago.”
“Oh…I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I mean…it was awful at the time, but it brought me to where I am now. If you know what I mean,”
“I do…actually.” As she fiddled with the piping on the slipcover I could see that her hands were the only place where her age was evident. I’ve noticed this about myself as well. We can fool ourselves about our changing faces, but our hands creep up on us. One day we look down at them and realize they belong to our grandparents.
“Still,” she said, “you guys seemed happy. I was a little bit envious, to tell you the truth.”
“It was good,” I told her. “For a few years, at any rate. He just got more and more angry.”
“At you, you mean?”
“At the world mostly…but I was there. I had to live with it. You remember how he was sometimes. It just got worse.”
Mary Ann smiled in remembrance. “You called him your little Shiite.”
“Well, that’s what you do, don’t you? Put a cute name on the shit that really bothers you…so it looks like you knew what you were getting.”
“You’re right,” she said ruefully. I wondered if she was thinking of Brian (hadn’t she called him Mr. Mellow?) or the current husband, the retired CEO who flies his own jet and wears patchwork madras. She was clearly thinking of someone.
“The thing is,” I said, “Thack did me a favor by leaving. I might never have noticed how little I was getting if he hadn’t taken it away.”
She nodded slowly, arranging her hands carefully in her lap. “So…you’re single these days?”
I did something I’ve never done with another living soul: I held up my left hand and wiggled my wedding band at her. The gesture was straight out of Cleveland, tailor-made for Mary Ann. Or at least the Mary Ann I used to know.
She cooed appreciatively. “You went the whole route, eh?”
I nodded. “Down at City Hall.”
She smiled. “I thought about you when that happened.”
“Same here. I wanted you to meet him.”
“Really?” She widened her eyes. “So where is he?”
“Down at the hospital with the others.”
“How sweet that he cares about her so much.”
I went to the mantel and grabbed the Big Sur photo—the same shot I’d sent to my mother. “His name is Benjamin McKenna.”
“Well,” she said, perusing the photo, “he’s adorable.”
“Yeah.”
“And young.”
I nodded solemnly. “He was in the Explorers with your stepson. That’s how I found you.”
Her mouth went completely oval—like little Shirley Temple.
“Kidding,” I assured her.
“Oh, God…Mouse.” She giggled like the girl I used to know. “Why do you do that to me?”
“I dunno,” I said. “You’ve just always been so…easy. Where’s yours, by the way?”
“Where’s my what?”
“Husband.”
“Oh…back in the hotel. He’s having a gym day.”
“We
ll, that’s good…I mean, a good thing to do.”
“He’s kind of a…you know…straight-ahead guy, but…I’m really happy with him, Mouse.”
I nodded. “You seem to be.”
“And guess what…we were married the same week you were.”
Now I was the one playing Shirley Temple. “How did you know when Ben and I were…? Oh, right…the news.”
“Isn’t that amazing? It’s not like we could have planned it.”
“No…you’re right. We couldn’t have.”
There was a melancholy note in my reply, but she didn’t seem to notice. She just kept chattering away cheerfully—almost hysterically.
“And Robbie is the sweetest kid. He’s already certified as an EMT, and he’ll be driving the ambulance next year. And I like being a mom, you know…even at this advanced age. There’s something wonderful about passing on what you know to someone younger…even if it’s dumb stuff they have no use for whatsoever.”
As you might imagine, I was thinking of Ben now, but Mary Ann was already in the process of shifting gears. “I know you all hated me after I left…and you had every right to, Mouse, but I just couldn’t keep—”
“Look, Mary Ann, there’s no point in—”
“Yes there is. There is a point. Brian and I weren’t right for each other, and both of us knew it, and…I couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine. I made it about my career…and to some extent it was…but I just couldn’t do it anymore. And I knew he’d always have Shawna. I knew he wouldn’t be alone.”
“He hasn’t been,” I said quietly.
“And there was something else I couldn’t admit…even to myself: you were gonna die, Mouse, and I couldn’t…this is so awful….” She was pressing her fingertips under her eyes, the way well-bred ladies do to stop their tears. “I couldn’t bear the thought of watching you die the way Jon did. I couldn’t do that again. Not with you, Mouse. I couldn’t bear the thought of…that horror.”
“It’s okay,” I said softly. “I didn’t much care for it myself.”
Her laughter came in a short violent burst, and that set free her tears. I rose from my chair and joined her on the sofa, collecting her in my arms while she sobbed. She felt so tiny there and her hair smelled clean and lemony.
“Get it out,” I told her. “We’ve got a celebration to attend.”
It helped that we were all there for Anna. Brian and Shawna (and Mary Ann, for that matter) were largely relieved of the problem of finding something meaningful to say at their reunion. The afternoon was strictly about Anna, so there was only a brief exchange of hugs in the lobby and a heartbreaking moment—well, heartbreaking to me—when, on our way down the hallway, Mary Ann touched Shawna’s back and complimented her on her black onyx earrings. Brian, for the most part, remained stoic throughout, handling the other introductions—Ben and Jake and the flatmates—with surprising grace. He could pull it together when he wanted to.
Marguerite, as usual, provided the update:
“She’s off the respirator,” she told us.
I knew what that had meant in my mother’s case, so I wasn’t sure how to react. Was there cause for celebration or…cause for another type of celebration?
“What does that mean?” asked Shawna.
“She woke up briefly this morning and just yanked it off when the doctors weren’t here. She’s been sleeping without it.”
I was frowning now. “And the doctors said that’s okay?”
“Absolutely,” said Selina. “Her vital signs are definitely improving.” It was the longest phrase I’d heard her speak since Anna had been at the hospital, but there was something about her certainty that sounded wishful and forced.
“Is she able to talk?” asked Mary Ann.
“Just in her sleep,” said Jake. “It’s not makin’ a lotta sense.”
“Like what?” asked Brian.
“You know,” said Selina, obviously putting on a brave face. “The way anybody sounds when they talk in their sleep.”
Mary Ann nodded soberly, casting her eyes at Brian and Shawna.
Ben moved next to me and slipped his arm around my waist with a small but significant smile. He seemed to be telling me that we weren’t out of the woods yet.
Brain damage is what I was thinking.
All seven of us were in Anna’s room now. Her bed was no longer flat, but she was fast asleep. Someone—Selina or Marguerite, I presume—had made a gallant effort at making her presentable, fluffing her hair and adding color to her cheeks. Anna’s eyes were closed but fluttering as she murmured unintelligibly. Brian, as already agreed upon, stood next to her and did all the talking—at least initially.
“Anna…if you can hear me…everyone’s here now.”
He’s being the man of the family, I thought.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to wake up. We’re just here to tell you how much we love you and appreciate everything you’ve—”
He was interrupted by a groan from Anna, twitching in her sleep.
“—everything you’ve done for us.”
“Mona?” Anna murmured. “Is that you?”
My heart caught in my throat as Brian gazed toward me for guidance. I shook my head, telling him not to go there. Mary Ann caught this interaction and grimaced in confusion. She doesn’t know, I thought. We never even got to that.
“It’s Brian, Anna…and Mary Ann’s here, too. She flew in all the way from Connecticut just to see you. And Selina and Marguerite are here. They’re responsible for the beautiful red satin pajamas you’re wearing. And Ben and Michael, of course, and Shawna, who’s moving to New York next week to—”
Another moan from Anna, this one louder, more guttural.
“—to become the world’s best writer. Or at least the next Susie Bright, right? And we’re all very proud of her…”
Shawna leaned over and whispered, “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
Selina, I noticed, was already slipping out of the room, apparently shaken by Anna’s failure to respond to Brian’s wedding-reception-MC approach. Marguerite followed, whispering reassurances to her friend. Anna, meanwhile, was speaking again, her eyes still closed, her words slurred and cryptic.
“What’s she saying?” asked Mary Ann.
Brian leaned closer. Anna’s lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear much of anything from where I was standing.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” said Brian. “It’s gibberish.”
“Like what?” said Shawna.
“It sounded like ‘There is no…fisted nation.’”
“Fisted nation?” said Jake, wrinkling his nose.
Anna spoke again, apparently repeating herself, so Brian moved his ear closer to her mouth. “No,” he said, looking up at us, “it’s ‘fifth destination.’ She said, ‘There is no fifth destination.’”
It took a moment, but it hit me hard. “Oh my God.”
“What?” asked Mary Ann. “What does that mean?”
I was looking at Ben now, flabbergasted. “It’s what Carlotta says.”
“Who’s Carlotta?” asked Brian.
“Our car,” said Ben.
Mary Ann frowned. “Your car says things?”
I was still gaping at Ben, looking for the deeper meaning of this conundrum, this snake eating its tail. I remembered what Ben had said when we first heard Carlotta’s stern pronouncement on the fifth destination: If that’s the answer, what is the question? And here was Mrs. Madrigal, drifting in dreams between life and death, mumbling this phrase we’d already mocked and lovingly made our own.
Is this how she would leave, winking at us across the cosmos?
“This is the weirdest thing,” I said. “I can’t begin to imagine how—”
“I told her, honey.” Ben was smiling gently, having burst my metaphysical bubble. “After the hula show at the Palace. We had a good laugh about it.”
“Right,” said Shawna. “She was vaporizing that night.”
“God,
” said Mary Ann, “will somebody please speak English?”
The patient cleared her throat noisily. All eyes turned to the bed as Anna’s eyes fluttered open. She took us in, one at a time, with a smile blooming on her face.
“Children,” she said weakly.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mary Ann. “We’re here.”
“You’ll never guess…” Anna’s voice trailed off.
“What?” I asked. “Never guess what?”
“Where I’ve been,” she replied.
28
This Day Alone
On the day before Thanksgiving there were already fat red berries on the holly bush at the foot of our garden. Ben and I were stretched out on our double chaise beneath a blue enamel sky, discussing our contribution to Anna’s annual feast.
“What about blackberry cobbler?” I suggested.
Ben shook his head. “Brian’s doing dessert. And we’ll be eating it…by the way…in the Winnebago.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“He’s parking it across the street from Anna’s. Says he wants our vibes in there before he leaves for Mesa Verde.”
I thought for a moment. “Okay, then…sweet potatoes.”
“Kinda boring,” said Ben. “And we did that last year.”
“Did we?” I had no memory of that whatsoever.
Ben smiled at me indulgently.
“Hey,” I said, “some guys my age can’t remember the seventies. You’re getting off real easy with sweet potatoes.” (Faulty memory aside, I love the fact that we’re starting to repeat ourselves, settling into comfy familial rituals.)
“What about a green bean casserole?” Ben offered.
“No, wait! The brussels sprouts with maple syrup! Nobody’s had that one, for sure.”
“There’s a reason for that,” said Ben.