by Cari Noga
The mirror is full length and freestanding. You can spin and tilt it, too. All I see is me, wearing my fleece peace pajama bottoms and the Venice Beach T-shirt. I keep forgetting to put it in the wash. My hair is hanging in my face. I push it away and step closer to the mirror, tilting it toward me, staring so hard, trying to see again how we stood there, how our arms brushed, how she wrapped hers around my shoulder and held me close against her side. I squint into the mirror, trying to make myself see double. Just one more glimpse together. One more.
From the desk something beeps. Aunt Bonita’s reply! I rush back to the computer. A pop-up window is on the screen.
Message undeliverable. No known account.
Chapter 12
JANE
“Lucy. Lucy. What in the world got into you, sleeping in your mum’s closet?” I follow Deirdre’s voice into Gloria and Luis’s bedroom. She’s kneeling in the closet, shaking Lucy by the shoulder.
“Wake up, Lucy.”
Lucy, curled into a ball on the floor, opens her eyes.
“Your aunt’s leaving today, remember? She wanted to say goodbye,” Deirdre says.
Lucy nods stiffly, rubbing her arms, sitting up slowly.
“You’re freezing. What were you thinking, sleeping on the floor like that?” Deirdre opens a few drawers and finds a hoodie. It says Venice Beach, just like Lucy’s T-shirt. “Put this on.”
Watching Deirdre act so motherly, my brain starts to chant. Unfit. I drown it out by talking to Lucy.
“So, I guess this is goodbye for now.” I clear my throat. “I’ll call you in a few days, OK?”
Lucy nods, crossing her arms. The too-long sleeves cover up her hands.
“And I’ll see you in June for your first peek at Michigan.” Tentatively I reach out with one arm and wrap it around her shoulders, a half hug. I see us reflected in the full-length mirror, me in my jeans and fleece vest, Lucy’s dark hair against my shoulder. Tucked into me like that, enveloped in Gloria’s too-large hoodie, she looks younger, vulnerable. Cautiously I rub her back.
But she pulls away, turning her back on our dual reflection. “I’m hungry, Deirdre.”
In the cab, I exhale genuinely for the first time in a week, a gust of guilty relief. On the way back to JFK, I vacillate between damning myself for not trying harder with Lucy and feeling relieved about the two-month respite. Langley’s proposal that she finish the school year in New York was a life raft. Especially since it’s two months of spring. For the CSA it’s my critical season, but even before, it’s always been my favorite. Everything offers promise in spring. Except for Mom’s funeral, I haven’t been in a church in years. But when the waist-high snowbanks finally melt, when the crocus and forsythia blossom, something in me can conceive of the concept of benevolence freely bestowed.
I remember the Japanese tourists and their forsythia branches. Imagine, indeed. Imagine coming all that way to create their ephemeral tribute. Imagine—how does it go? The tune plays in my head, then segues into the slide show song, “Lucy in the Sky.” Does Lucy imagine Gloria and Luis are in heaven, watching over her, their diamond left on Earth? If you are, what in the world were you thinking? I ask the cab ceiling.
Aboard the plane, I shove the bulging briefcase Langley’s assistant packed with Lucy’s files and the gray velvet bag of jewelry in the overhead compartment, out of sight. As the plane rises above the clouds, obscuring the city, a sense of lightness swells up, like a fishing bobber riding a wave. I’m going home. Back to the farm, to my Old Mission aerie, to Plain Jane’s. Plain as in everyone else stripped away. Gloria and the reins she’s managed to control even in death. Lucy and her enormous needs. Away. To the familiar and simple life that I created for myself.
We only stayed in Houston a few years. Moving to Michigan was what actually started to lift my stupor. I’d never lived anyplace where all four seasons were experienced equally. The rhythm of it, the even pace, was soothing. The contrasts between seasons underscored the best of each: spring’s delicate promise, summer’s verdant fulfillment, autumn’s warm colors and crisp nights, winter’s austerity. It also made Plain Jane’s possible. Old Mission was full of farmers, and most had their own roadside stands. I signed Matt up for Little League and Jim as an assistant coach. During their long evenings at games, I’d go for walks and observe. One of the neighbors clued me in that our place was well suited for a garden.
“Raspberries, rhubarb, asparagus. Somebody had a garden around here once, and not a shabby one, either,” was Sally Martin’s assessment after her first visit. “If we clean up these raspberries, you could have a few pies yet this summer.”
That was the start. I froze the raspberries we didn’t eat that first summer. All winter, opening each pint felt like a gift. We cleaned up the rhubarb and asparagus beds, too. Next spring I harvested that and planted my first garden, a salsa one, to supply Sally. She and her husband, Don, ran a stand May to October.
Spending the days outside, alone, and in charge suited me. Peppers here. Tomatoes there. Cilantro here. A domain all my own, where I could keep everything orderly. Nothing changed unless I made it happen. Not to mention balm for the grief and guilt I still lugged, five years on from Alaska. In the soil, I saw that what I nurtured could truly flourish. Any mistakes were for a season, not a lifetime.
Sally and Don introduced me to the CSA business model, too, and proposed a partnership. I considered it, but got cold feet. It seemed too much to promise. Plus Jim suggested that maybe I should show up at Matt’s baseball games.
So I went to the games and expanded my garden instead. The third summer, I added strawberries, salad greens, potatoes, peas, beans, carrots, cukes, squash, tomatoes, and zucchini. And I kept records. Which tomato varieties fared the best, which greens made the crispest salads, which potatoes were the most flavorful.
By year four I was growing far more than we could eat and asked Jim to help me build a roadside stand. We had an ideal location, right on the main road to the lighthouse.
“It’s pretty busy at the station. We’re down a few guys. I’ll help in the fall, OK?”
That summed up our marriage by then. Polite, civil, but always putting each other off. Sally introduced me to Miguel, only a few years older than Matt and eager for any work. He had the stand built three days after we met. Solid, sturdy, painted a cheerful red. He built the compost bin next. There were always odd jobs I couldn’t get to, and work at the station never seemed to relent for Jim, that fall or next.
The local foodie scene took off. “Farm-to-table” became all the rage in restaurants. The flow of farm-stand customers grew. Matt started high school and added basketball to baseball. Parents weren’t asked to coach anymore. Jim spent more time at the station.
Then one February day, Sally called, late. “A stroke, they think. We’re in the ER.”
Her eyes were red, but her voice was steady when she came out to the waiting room. “The doctor said he’ll need months of rehab and who knows how much function and strength he’ll regain.”
“Oh, Sally. I’m so sorry.”
“I want you to take our CSA customers.”
I protested, but she wouldn’t take my no this time. And Plain Jane’s was born. Since then I’ve hung on, through the recession and despite losing Jim’s day-job income. Matt graduated and left for the army, a mission fulfilled, if not accomplished.
Now there’s Lucy. Another chance at a daughter, an optimist might say. Or a person of faith, neither of which I am. Still, was it right to leave her there for two months? Should I have moved to New York? I could bring Sarge. My customers would miss me, at least some, but they’d find another CSA. Miguel would find work. Langley was right: the only thing tying me to Old Mission is me. If I uproot again, Lucy doesn’t have to.
Then again, why deny that her life has changed forever? Isn’t that the first stage of grief, one she has to move on from? A fresh start might be best.
The plane banks, then emerges through the clouds. The grids of the
suburban Detroit streets, my layover city, appear.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent and should arrive on time. Those of you with connecting flights will find departure gate information in the terminal,” the flight attendant says.
The contradictions in the language strike me. Departure information in the terminal. Beginnings come from endings. All you can do is try to hang on to everything so it doesn’t get lost along the way.
Chapter 13
LUCY
An hour after the cab leaves, Aunt Jane seems like a ghost. The funeral feels like a dream, too. It seems like a regular Saturday morning, one where both Daddy and Mom are at the studio. For a second I want to believe that—that I could go there, sit in Mom’s anchor chair, and spin like I did when I was little, but spinning backward, rewinding the days until I get back to that day, and the field trip, and I’d let stupid Eli and Joel run away with my phone and not go anywhere near the grass.
Deirdre comes in with her travel coffee mug. “Right, Lucy, you’ll come with me on the errands this morning, OK?” One of her questions that isn’t.
“I want to stay home.” I push away the pretending. I’m not a little kid. I can’t rewind the days, and I don’t have many more left in New York. I want to get back into Daddy’s computer and Mom’s closet. There are boxes of family stuff behind the clothes on the top shelves. One might have more information about Daddy’s family.
“We’ll leave in ten minutes, then.” Deirdre’s checking her phone, not listening.
“But—” Before I finish, I change my mind about arguing. I know she doesn’t like me in their room, so better to keep my plans a secret.
“So we’re going to drop off your winter coat at the dry cleaner’s, pick up more multivitamins at the pharmacy, and get a few items at the grocery.” Deirdre talks briskly as we head down the elevator.
At the dry cleaner, Mrs. Kim is there as usual. “Mees Deedree. Mees Lucy. Lots for you today.”
Deirdre looks confused. “I wasn’t planning to pick anything up. Just this coat of Lucy’s to drop off.”
“Suits for Mrs. Santiago and Mr. Ortiz. Many. No one here for two weeks.” She pushes the button that makes the hanger rack spin. Just like I imagined doing on Mom’s chair.
“Oh dear.” Deirdre looks at me. “I never thought—I suppose they don’t get the news, either in English or Spanish.”
Abruptly, the rack stops spinning. All the clothes swing violently. Mrs. Kim unhooks two navy men’s suits and one charcoal gray. Daddy wore the gray one with a light-purple shirt. Whenever he did, I always tried to wear purple, too, so Mom would smile at us together. I can see her smile now. Mi guapo esposo, she’d tell Daddy. My handsome husband. Mi hermosa hija. My beautiful daughter. Mi preciosa familia. My precious family—all gone now. The clothes are like costumes for a family that used to be.
Four or five of her outfits hanging next to Daddy’s suits, each wrapped in its plastic sheath. An emerald-green dress that she wore with a cropped black blazer. A houndstooth jacket and skirt with a pink sheath underneath. Deirdre throws up her hands as it piles up. “We can’t even carry all that home.”
“One hundred seventy-two,” Mrs. Kim announces. Deirdre goes paler. “I didn’t bring that much with me.”
“Problem?” Mrs. Kim asks, turning her head between us.
“Well, yes. Rather so,” Deirdre says, her words halting. “You see, last week, Lucy’s parents—”
“Died,” I say, looking straight at Mrs. Kim. “In a car accident.”
“Car accident?” Mrs. Kim looks uncertainly between us.
I open my arms wide, then crash my fist into my other palm. Mrs. Kim’s eyebrows fly up her forehead.
“Quite. Yes, Lucy’s—Lucy’s pretty much summed it up there. So we don’t need the clothes, Mrs. Kim,” Deirdre says. “If you wanted to sell them yourself, in fact . . .”
“Sell them?” I turn to her.
Mrs. Kim’s face puzzles, then clears. “We keep?”
Deirdre nods.
“Wait a minute,” I say, but Mrs. Kim is talking louder.
“OK. Next Wednesday for Mees Lucy jacket, OK?”
“OK!” Deirdre pilots me out of the store. “Thank you.”
On the sidewalk, I hear Mrs. Kim hollering in Korean to someone. I turn on Deirdre in English.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“The clothes!”
“What about them?”
“You shouldn’t have given them away!” Tears, angry and sad, spring to my eyes. They may be costumes now, but they’re mine.
She looks surprised. “You wanted to keep them?”
“Yes!” I sniffle and swipe my arm against my nose.
“But why? Whatever would you do with them?”
I have no idea. I already feel a little babyish, sniffling and yelling on the street. “All my parents’ stuff is mine now. I just want to keep them.”
“Lucy, that’s not practical. You’re moving, you—”
“I don’t care! They’re mine! Just leave them alone, OK? Leave me alone.” I start running down the street.
“Lucy, wait!”
There’s a bus stop down the block. I’ll take the bus home and get money, then come back and pick up the clothes.
“Wait, Lucy!”
I can run faster than Deirdre. I get to the little shelter at the stop and look down the street. No bus. I look the other way. I can see Deirdre jog-walking down the street, slow in her boots with the pointy toes and heels. Come on, bus. Still nothing in sight. I look back. Deirdre’s getting closer. I slump down on the bench in the shelter, hoping the man waiting in a wheelchair shields me. I’m still wearing Mom’s hoodie, and it’s cold. I pull up the hood, then my knees, and squeeze them tight against my chest, trying to gather myself in as small as I can. I sniffle against my knees, turn my head back to check for the bus, and that’s when I see her.
Her blinding white smile. Her curly dark hair out to her shoulders. Her crossed arms inside black-and-white-checked jacket sleeves, the same one Deirdre just left at the dry cleaner.
Mom, standing there life-size, smiling at me. Words are stacked up against her body, from her shoulder to her hip.
A VOICE OF TRUST
BEST LATINA ANCHOR, NY MARKET, 2008, 2009, 2010
GLORIA SANTIAGO-ORTIZ
CHANNEL 10, 7–9 A.M. WEEKDAYS
¡NO LA PIERDAS!
Behind Mom’s picture, plastered to the bus shelter, the bus stops and opens its doors. The man in the wheelchair gets on. I don’t. At first I don’t think I can breathe. Then my chest starts heaving as I stare at that picture, locked in. The bus glides on. From the other direction Deirdre arrives, panting. “Lucy! You mustn’t run off like that. If I can’t trust you—”
She bends down to touch my shoulder. “You’re shaking. What—”
Then, from the corner of my eye I see her look where I’m looking. At the ad. At Mom. Her mouth falls open. “Lucy. Sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”
¡No la pierdas!
Don’t miss her. Oh, but I do.
Chapter 14
JANE
Miguel did a great job on the driveway, barely a bounce from road to house. At home Sarge is glad to see me, or me and my key, more like it. He’s out the door as soon as I’m in, bounding for the barn. Ready for a mouse after a week of cat food. I drop the heavy Lucy briefcase on the black-and-white-checkerboard kitchen floor and head to the fridge myself. Stark on the nearly bare shelves are yogurt, an apple, and a hunk of my favorite sourdough from Bay Bread. I eat standing up, gorging myself on everything that I’ve been homesick for this last week. The white cabinets that line the two walls, the counters that become an assembly line on CSA delivery eves. The double-basin iron sink that still holds my green Extension coffee mug with a leftover swallow. Above the sink, the kitchen window with what the Realtors call a “seasonal” view of West Bay, which I’ll lose all but a slice o
f when the leaves fill in next month, but for now stretches blue and peaceful to the Leelanau Peninsula.
My gaze shortens, sweeping from the bay to the precious swath of west-facing land between the house and the rear property line. These are the beds that need tilling and tending, the real strawberry fields. And garlic, salad greens, and rhubarb and everything else that follows, asparagus to zucchini. I drop my spoon into the coffee mug and toss the apple core into the compost. Time to get to work.
My spring to-do list is short: prep and plant. But it’s deceptively simple. To everything there is indeed a season, and that season is spring. Making my farm plan—everything from spacing out the distance between plants and rows to what goes with what and where to put the succession plantings so I’ve got a steady supply of lettuce and carrots and beans all summer long. Prepping the beds, installing the pea trellises. Pulling off the winter mulch. Then, when it gets warmer, this time of year, bringing the seed plugs I started in January out to the sun to acclimate, then back indoors for the chilly evenings.
That was one of Miguel’s to-dos. I’ll bet they’ve grown an inch, at least. Heading to my makeshift bedroom greenhouse, my toe bumps the briefcase, tipping it over. The catch bursts, spilling papers and files onto the black and white squares.
“Damn it.” I scoop them up, trying to keep the papers in the manila folders that Langley’s assistant neatly labeled: medical records, school records, insurance policies, bank and miscellaneous financial, car accident, apartment. Where to store all this? I keep meaning to turn Matt’s old room into a home office, get the computer out of the kitchen, into a place where I could fit a filing cabinet and get better organized. Whenever I’ve tried to start, though, something seems to get in my way.
Matt’s room feels like a tomb. The rolltop desk is closed, as are the blinds, casting everything into dimness. The blue plaid bedspread is tucked in smoothly and neatly, belying how it regularly hung askew whether Matt’s gangly frame was under it or not. The walls still bear his army poster and framed basketball and baseball team photos. The bookshelf is grounded by two and a half shelves of the Encyclopaedia Britannica that we hauled here from Houston. A year or two later the Internet rendered it obsolete. The rest of the shelves are crammed with more souvenirs of bygone boyhood: yearbooks, trophies, and medals from his years playing sports. Maybe it’s less of a tomb than a shrine, of sorts, a monument that I did try, which was more than my mom did after Esteban. I made an effort.