“Home sweet home,” she says, pushing a button to open the garage.
I won’t stay here with her; rather, I have a hotel, but we have agreed to start here. Jessie will come soon and then we’ll have breakfast.
Catherine leads the way and her garage is tidy. She has a few pieces of painted furniture, which resemble the furniture in Jo’s room.
In through the back door, past the laundry room, down a narrow hall, and we’re in an open area that is the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Trotting over to meet Catherine is a huge black cat. Another cat sits in the middle of the living room and it is a skeleton covered with hair.
“There’s my babies,” Catherine says. She talks baby talk and scoops up the smaller cat with its fur mottled the colors of beige, orange, gray, black, and white. The animal hangs as limp as dirty laundry. “This is Sadie,” Catherine explains, “she’s got cancer.”
I keep my hands behind my back—being allergic and all. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“I just love her so-oooo much,” Catherine says, nuzzling into the furry bones and poor Sadie has the face of a Muppet. That cat is very close to death.
Catherine lets Sadie drip to the floor and heaves the big black one into her arms.
“This is Shadow. He’s the one with diabetes. I have to give him a shot twice a day, which is why it’s so hard for me to travel.”
Catherine rolls the cat in her arms until his white belly is up and he bats around at her face.
The phone rings and Catherine rolls the big cat under her arm like he’s a sack of flour.
“That’s going to be Jessie,” she warns and her voice holds the question, Can she come? Already I pick up on the nuance and I’ve known her for less than a month.
“It’s fine.”
Catherine snaps open the phone and before even saying hi, she says, “Come over. It’s okay.”
While they chat, I wander around the living room. Her home feels like she feels. Tidy, contained, beautiful.
She has all-white furniture and white wall-to-wall carpeting. A crucifix hangs on the wall, there are vanilla-scented pillar candles, and a glass coffee table.
There is no garden in her yard; it’s just grass and big decorative stones. At the edge of her yard is a tall fence connecting her to all her neighbors.
“Well, dry your hair and come on over, honestly,” Catherine says into the phone, snapping with impatience. While I don’t care for her tone, it helps to hear her be pissed at someone else. I don’t take it so personally—or at least the earlier demonstrations of impatience don’t cut so deep.
Catherine flips her phone closed.
“She’ll be a few minutes, maybe twenty. Should I make coffee?”
“Coffee is good,” I say.
Catherine tosses Shadow down and the cat ambles a few steps before rolling on its side like a water balloon. It bats at the air with its black paws.
Catherine goes into her kitchen, talking about how she loves her little coffee machine, since it makes one cup at a time.
I drift down the hall, nodding like I’m listening, but I’m not.
She has a lot of flowers in her home, mostly made of silk. On the wall there are hanging plates painted with the faces of movie stars from the ’50s—Yul Brynner in The King and I, Clark Gable hunched over Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind. Down the hall and around the corner is her guest bath, all white with a white linen shower curtain. On the white counter, on a small plate, are pretty pastel shell-shaped soaps—which I know Jo would love.
In fact, what I think as I move through Catherine’s house is how she is so much like Jo. Feminine and delicate. There is a level of innocence here too.
Out of the bathroom and into the guest room, I stop at a row of photos and there is Jo looking up at me from a black-and-white photo of a little girl in a tutu, tights, and ballet shoes. But that’s not Jo. That’s my mother when she was little. I look at the black-and-white for a long time.
Was my mother well loved as a little girl?
From the looks of the photo—smiling child in a tutu—I would say yes.
I would also say she has been very lucky.
I WEAVE DOWN the hall and past her bedroom, which I do not go into. I feel like that is too personal a threshold. That is her private world but of course, I make note of all those pillows and the cozy bed. I have the same set up at home.
One more room is her office and I wander in, keeping my arms crossed over myself.
Catherine has a PC computer on a tidy desk and little-kid art is taped to the walls—modest little rainbows and stick figures holding hands. The message “We love you Grammy” is written in the hand of a child.
The art is subdued compared to Jo’s—she creates her work as if she were Chagall. Jo’s rainbows and princesses are a riot of color. She uses all of the white space on her paper too.
The fat cat, Shadow, positions himself in the door of the office. His chin is up and his eyes are slats regarding me as if to say, “Who the hell are you?”
I make my hand into a claw and hiss but the creature doesn’t even blink.
WHILE I STUDY a wall of framed photos, Catherine finally arrives with a flowered mug.
“I hope it’s okay, my looking around,” I say.
She waves her hand in that way, like brushing me off, and I guess this means that she doesn’t care at all. She gets the big cat in her arms again, cradling him like a baby and rocks from side to side.
“I want you to be comfortable in my house,” she says. “It’s fine.”
She has changed in the time I have been here. She is less angry and impatient. The edge has slipped away. She seems fragile and young.
I hold the mug she has offered, warming my hands, and I take a careful sip.
“This is great,” I say, “what did you put into it? ”
“Just Coffee-mate creamer,” she laughs, “and coffee.”
“It’s good.”
“I worried I added too much cream.”
“No, it’s perfect,” I say. And it’s true. It’s really good and I don’t even like coffee.
We stand together, a little awkward and unsure.
“Your house is very pretty,” I say.
“Thanks,” she says, looking around like seeing her world for the first time.
There is a clatter at the front of the house and Catherine jumps a little with surprise.
“Mom?” comes a voice.
“There’s Jessie,” Catherine says, dropping the cat on the floor.
She leaves me in the office and I hear their voices mix in the living room. They speak in hushed whispers.
Like a coward, I hide in the office. How will I handle a sibling? What is the protocol?
I look to Shadow, as if he can give some clue, but the cat is useless. He just folds over on his side and whacks at the air again.
Taking a deep breath, pulling on my stores of courage, I step over Shadow and walk up the hall.
BASED ON HER voice, I expected a pert, tiny woman with wide hips and a tight jaw but Jessie is something altogether different. She is Catherine with more dramatic coloring—dark hair and brows.
“Look at you,” I say, “my goodness you are so tall.”
“Me! Look at you,” Jessie says, grinning. She is just adorable. Her smile lights up her whole face.
As I put the mug on the counter, we share a quick, awkward embrace.
“Oh my god,” Jessie says, “she has my forehead and my chin.”
“And your hair,” Catherine says. “Feel her hair.”
Jessie touches my hair and I do the same, which feels like my own.
“She definitely has your jaw,” Jessie says, “and Daniel’s eyes.”
“She’s got Bill’s nose,” Catherine adds.
They talk about me as if I’m not there and you’d think it would be offensive. You’d think I’d want to distinguish myself and say I’m uniquely myself but I don’t want that, nor do I feel that. There is comfort in how I loo
k like them in hair and eyes and chin, part of a clan—familiar—family.
A hush falls over us and it’s like wind whistling over a lonely salt flat. An immeasurable feeling sweeps through me. I can tell in the quiet of my mother and sister that they are thinking, but what? What are they thinking?
“Let’s eat,” Catherine says.
“Good idea,” comes my instant agreement and we bundle out of the house and back into the big truck.
THE PLACE THEY choose for our first meal together is across from a mini mall. It’s like a retro burger joint—oversized laminated menus, red vinyl booths, and a white-and-black checkered floor.
Jessie makes a point to position me next to Catherine on one side of the booth, a move that feels weird since I think they are used to sitting next to each other. Jessie sits across from us, elbows on the table, and she grins as she looks from her mother to me and back to her mother again.
A waitress brings us huge, red, plastic tumblers of ice water and we order from the breakfast menu—bacon, pancakes, hash browns.
After she goes, they chat a little about their own lives and there is a comfort between them. They make easy jokes with each other and the relationship seems more like sisters than mother and daughter.
I just sit back and become observer of this life they’ve made without me, as if I never was.
Jessie pats the table with her hand and swings her attention to me again.
“When you first called,” Jessie says, “I went on the Internet and read everything ever written about you.”
“That’s right, she did,” Catherine agrees.
“I saw this article about how you baked your own muffins with fresh berries that you picked on some hiking trek. I called mom to say, ‘She’s like a hippie Martha Stewart.’ I would never do something like that.”
“That’s right,” Catherine agrees. “She sent me every one of those damn articles, like I have time to read them.”
“You should read them, geez.”
“I don’t have time to read all that crap; Daniel’s working me to death.”
“Tell him to knock it off.”
“Right, tell Daniel to knock it off.”
“I’m telling you, tell him to knock it off—want me to call? ”
“No, I don’t want you to call, I can handle Daniel myself.”
“Oh, like you are handling him now,” Jessie says.
Jessie lifts one dark eyebrow high on her forehead and looks at me like I might agree with the point she’s making, only I’m over here, clueless.
Hippie Martha Stewart?
I’m not a fucking hippie, I want to say. What the hell does that mean? Only, I guess to a Reno girl, I am a fucking hippie. I just sit there, a Ping-Pong ball that goes from being offended to being entertained. Irritated and then forgiving, I’m short-circuited and unable to process what’s been said.
And then there’s this story about the MIA brother Daniel and all I know is that Catherine works for him, at his cabinet company, and that they do not get along.
Should I jump into the family drama?
If I do, won’t that backfire on me?
And what do I know about it anyway?
Again, I am without words.
Thankfully, I don’t have to decide because the food comes and I am able to disappear into a stack of pancakes.
TWENTY-SEVEN
JACKPOT
AFTER MY MORNING with Catherine and then Jessie, I’m so worn down, I go to bed and sleep through to the next morning.
Of course, this response makes sense. Look at babies. They are with us for a while and then they sleep as if they were dead.
Since meeting Catherine, I sleep a deep exhausted sleep that feels like death. I don’t even dream and when I wake up, my whole body is heavy.
WHEN I FINALLY drag myself from bed, I draw a bath and float in the hottest water I can stand.
The telephone rings and I shake the water off my hand as I pick up the phone.
“Good morning,” I say.
“It’s not morning,” Catherine says.
“Good afternoon?”
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m in the tub,” I say. “Just hanging out.”
“Well, get out of the tub, get into some clothes,” she says. “We’re going to have lunch.”
“We are?”
“Actually,” she says, “Daniel is coming too, he just doesn’t know it yet.”
I sit up, bubbles skimming down my chest.
“What?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got this covered,” Catherine says, “half an hour.”
She hangs up and I lean back in the tub again.
Catherine is like a steamroller but then again, aren’t I exactly the same?
She’s so bossy and confident and annoying.
Aren’t I all those things?
I have to laugh at this new view of myself, which is not an entirely pleasant view. Taking a deep breath, I get myself into action. Half an hour isn’t much time.
IT’S A WORKDAY, Monday, and Catherine is dressed up for being in the office. She wears a silk blouse and slim-fitting pants in a pretty color of green. When she sees me in the lobby, she rushes over.
“There you are,” she says, taking hold of my arm. “I was worried. What took you so long? Are you okay? ”
She can already tell what’s going on inside of me—like a mother—and it’s unnerving. I feel like I am going to cry from being so nervous and scared. From what I’ve overheard, Daniel sounds like a very mean person. I don’t think I can handle mean today.
“I’m just nervous,” I say. “Is he here? ”
“Yes, he’s already sitting down. I’m sorry,” Catherine says, “I know I sprung this on you at the last minute but I just want to get this over with. Just meet him and then that will be done.”
She leads the way through the packed restaurant, a place called Chili’s, which is supposed to be a favorite of Daniel’s.
She holds my hand and walks with great, long, confident strides—pulling me along. I shake so hard, I feel like I will throw up.
She turns a corner and leads us down a long row of tables. Pretty soon, we are in front of a huge, red, plastic booth and there he is, the man I’ve seen in all the photos. Daniel.
When he looks up from his menu, his expression is not that of a stranger. He seems truly amazed to behold me.
“You’re Jennifer? ” he asks.
I nod like yes, of course.
He laughs and in that sound, I’d swear I’ve known him my entire life even though we look at each other for the first time.
Catherine stands back and laughs too, for her own reasons. “I told you,” she says. “I told you.”
Daniel tries to stand up, thighs hitting the table and it’s a little awkward to reach each other. After a scoot and push, finally he comes around the table and we hug each other. Daniel feels just great and what a skyscraper of a man. A brother. I’ve had a brother all this time.
Just what is the mystery contained in DNA? What is the energetic wavelength that moves within family units? What don’t we know, despite all our scientific strides and advances? As I hug my brother and see my own mysterious knowing fall into place, I can only say that I knew of his existence—I did.
Daniel ushers his wife out of the booth and says she is Rona. I offer my hand but then that seems weird and instead we hug too.
Why not? We’re one big happy family now, right?
Rona is a small woman with deep-set eyes and a pretty face. She says, “You sweet thing, you’re shaking like a leaf.” She holds my hands and seems very sincere.
WE ALL SETTLE into the booth again, the three of them on one side with Daniel in the middle and me on the other side. Alone.
Water arrives in giant, red, plastic tumblers as if they are standard issue here in the Biggest Little City in the World.
I stare over my megasized cup and study this brother.
Daniel, doing t
he same, puts his elbows on the table and holds his hands together, just like Jessie did yesterday at breakfast. I sit back and hold my own hands in my lap.
Somehow, like a miracle, food gets ordered and Catherine claps her hands like calling this meeting to order.
“Well, here we are,” Catherine says and she laughs as if she has told a joke.
Daniel laughs with her and then rolls his eyes like she’s on his last nerve. Rona laughs in the same way, coughing into her fist.
“When Catherine said we were all meeting for lunch ... ” Rona begins, from the far side of Daniel.
“... Well, I told her forget it. No way. I have a million things to do today,” Daniel says. He makes big gestures, like I do, like Catherine does, using his hands while he talks.
“Which isn’t to say he didn’t want to meet you ...” Rona explains.
“... No,” Daniel says, “of course not.”
“Daniel just has so much going on and Catherine caught us by surprise ...” Rona says.
The two women smile at each other and Catherine does a quick shrug like everyone just needs to get over it. “... I just wanted you to meet my daughter. After all, she’s here,” Catherine says, finishing the sentence.
“She has a way of catching us all by surprise,” Daniel says, with another eye roll.
More laughter all around.
I’m nodding like I understand and it all makes sense but really, I’m just stalling because I don’t know what to say. It’s like the breakfast with Jessie. I’m too amazed to speak more than a grunt and a few simple words.
When the laughter dies down, Daniel becomes serious.
“Mom says you’re a Buddhist, is that right?”
“Well, um,” I begin. I glance at Catherine and she grins and nods like I should go ahead and confess. “Something like that.”
Daniel is like a laser beam of focus, all business now, and I’d hate to negotiate with him. I bet he’s tough!
“So what’s the bottom line here? Do Buddhists believe in God?”
Blackbird: A Childhood Lost and Found Page 16