Spinning Forward

by Terri DuLong

“That isn’t what I meant.”

  “Then, what exactly do you mean, Monica?” I could feel my anger rising.

  “I just…well…I mean I’m not sure it’s proper to be dating at this time.”

  “And that’s up to you to decide?” When I got no answer, I said, “Look, Monica, I’ve never interfered in your life, though God knows I didn’t always agree with it. But I backed off. I let you make your own choices. And I trusted you to do so.” Grabbing my cigarettes, I headed toward the door. “And now…I need you to do the same thing. Because you’re not responsible for my life or my choices. I’m quite capable of figuring those out on my own, despite what you might think.”

  I slammed the kitchen door and headed down the stairs.

  20

  I walked to the calendar in the yarn shop and flipped the page to May. Here it was the first day of May and still no word or contact from Sybile. Dora didn’t have much to report either. She said it appeared to be a closed subject.

  I turned around to see Saren walking in the door. “Hey, decided to take up knitting?”

  The man laughed. “Naw, ’fraid not. I sure wouldn’t know what to do with those sticks you gals use.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that. What can I do for you?”

  “Well…I was just wondering if you’d seen Sybile lately or has Miss Dora said anything about her?”

  Concern covered his face, causing me to feel bad for the old man. “I haven’t seen her, and Dora hasn’t said much. I have the feeling that Sybile is staying close to home lately. Just not feeling up to par.”

  He nodded his head. “That’s what I thought. I never see her walking around town anymore. Do you think it’s real bad?”

  “Gosh, Saren, I really don’t know what to say. She’s pretty sick, I do know that.”

  He paused a moment before asking, “She’s probably not going to get better, is she?”

  I shook my head. “Probably not.”

  He brushed his eye with a finger and nodded. “Okay, Miss Sydney. Sorry to bother you and thanks for being honest with me.”

  I watched him walk out the door. Why is it that love can sometimes hurt so deeply?

  Later that afternoon the phone in the yarn shop rang. “Spinning Forward,” I said, and heard Sybile’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “Yes, hello, Sydney. This is Sybile. I’d like you to come over to my house this Sunday…if you have no other plans.”

  I refrained from asking if it was to plead her case for euthanasia again. “I can be there. What time?”

  “Would around three be alright with you?”

  “That’ll be fine. See you then.”

  I realized my hand was trembling when I replaced the receiver. I also noticed two other things—it was the first time Sybile had called me by my given name and the woman had been more informal than previous encounters.

  I ascended the stairs to the Lighthouse wondering if Sybile was actually willing to share the details of my birth. I heard her holler “come in” when I knocked. Stepping inside, nothing appeared different or changed until my eyes fell on Sybile sitting on the sofa. She’d definitely lost weight in the short time since I’d last seen her. Her face was taking on a look of gauntness and her color was pale.

  “Come sit down. I thought you might enjoy some tea,” she said, pointing toward a silver tray filled with tea pot, cups, and saucers.

  “That would be nice.” I sat in the chair opposite. “Would you like me to pour?”

  Sybile nodded. “I imagine you know why I summoned you here?”

  The aroma of exotic spices filled the room from the cup I handed Sybile. “It’s about my birth.”

  “Dora tells me you were born at St. Vincent’s in New York City? On March nineteenth, nineteen fifty-five at two thirty-five A.M?”

  I nodded.

  Taking a deep breath, Sybile said, “Well, I suppose it would do no harm now. After all, I’m dying.” She adjusted the folds of the black and red caftan she was wearing. “I’d say that even without both of us submitting to a DNA test for scientific proof, that yes, you’re my daughter. I gave birth to a baby girl on that date, at that time, in that hospital.”

  There…she’s admitted to it, I thought. Then I wondered why I felt no emotion and realized my absence of sentiment was identical to Sybile’s. “I want details,” I said in a monotone voice. “I have a right to know the details.”

  “Legally, you don’t have any rights. You were adopted. But what do you want to know?”

  I heard the normal sassiness return to Sybile’s voice. “I want to know why, I guess. What were the circumstances that forced you to give a baby up for adoption? And who was my father? Was he married? Is that why you couldn’t keep me?”

  Sybile leaned forward to reach for her cigarette case but avoided lighting one. “No, that wasn’t my story. I will tell you some things—but I refuse to tell you about your father. It’s way too late for that now and wouldn’t do anybody any good. Is that clear?”

  I nodded.

  “You know I grew up here. I always wanted more than this island could give me, especially in the early fifties. I wasn’t like most girls of that time. I had no desire to get married and raise a family. I knew the one thing I had going for me was my looks and so—I made a plan to use those looks and make a life for myself.”

  “And a baby interfered with those plans,” I stated.

  “In a nutshell, yes. We had been careful and I was five months along before I’d accept that I was actually pregnant. I had a good friend—another model—and she took me under her wing when I told her. Molly Kisler came from money. Her father was a top attorney in Manhattan. Her parents were as kind to me as Molly was. They allowed me to stay with them in the Hamptons a few weeks prior to your birth and then they arranged for the adoption. It was the only thing I could do. I was doing well modeling and I knew I had potential.”

  I listened to Sybile speak. She could have been telling me about an insignificant movie she’d watched. Her voice was void of sentiment. My birth was that unimportant to her—an intrusion on the glamorous life she’d planned. An annoyance that had to be dealt with.

  As if reading my mind, Sybile said, “You’re probably shocked that I was deficient with maternal feelings. But I was. Not everyone is cut out to be a mother, you know. I didn’t have those raging hormones or motherly instincts. Not ever.”

  I had a flashback of the moment Monica was placed in my arms. We might have our differences now, but I would have killed for that child—still would. But I was also aware that Sybile was correct—not every woman wants to be a mother. I’d seen plenty of examples during my training in labor and delivery.

  “I don’t blame you, if that’s what you mean. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead. But I might not answer.”

  “Did you ever regret giving me away? Did you ever think of me over the years and wonder where I was? Who I was? If I was safe or happy? Or did you just forget me?”

  Sybile lit the cigarette she’d been holding and blew out smoke before answering. “Did I regret the adoption? No, I didn’t. But I’d be lying if I said I never gave you another thought after the day I left the hospital. I did think of you, but I also knew that a couple in Concord, Massachusetts, had adopted you. I was pretty sure they’d give you a good life.”

  “They did,” I said with emphasis. “Very much so.”

  “Now I have some questions for you. Did you ever wonder about your birth mother? Who she was and why she gave you away?”

  I shook my head. “Except for when I gave birth to my own daughter, not that much. Not until recently. I was never one of those adoptees that had a burning desire to find her roots. I guess I was very satisfied with the roots I’d been given. But yes, I did wonder about you and after I gave birth, I realized that what you did took enormous courage. You were very brave to do what you did.”

  Sybile took a long drag on the cigarette, snubbed it out in the ashtray and grunted. “B
rave? Hell, I wasn’t brave at all. Selfish I admit, but certainly not brave. I don’t even have the guts to die with dignity. I’m goddamn scared is what I am.”

  The honesty of Sybile’s words jolted me. Before even thinking I blurted, “I can help you die—but not in the way you asked me to.”

  Sybile’s head jerked up as she stared into my eyes that were a mirror image. “What do you mean? Help me die?”

  “Dying is simply a passing over. I can help you with the fear.”

  Sybile threw her head back laughing. “Now wouldn’t that just be something? I sure as hell didn’t live right, but I have a chance to die right? Leave it to me to get it all screwed up.”

  I smiled. “Your sense of humor will help.”

  “So where do we go from here? Will we stay in touch? Will I get to meet your daughter? Will the whole town hear about this revelation?”

  “Sybile, listen. When I first started suspecting that you could possibly be my birth mother my intention was never to upset your life. I wanted to know for me—and for Monica. So the ball’s in your court. You tell me where we go from here.”

  “I knew the first time I saw you at Cook’s, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That afternoon—when you stopped for coffee with your dog. I looked over and saw you and I knew…I knew you were my daughter. I didn’t understand how it could be possible, but I knew it was.”

  I leaned forward in my chair. Did a mother always recognize her own flesh and blood, no matter the circumstances? “You did? My God, I had no idea.”

  “When did you begin to suspect it might be true?”

  “Maybe I always did too, but I kept pushing it away.” I shook my head thinking how well I’d perfected the art of denial. Never listening to that inner voice—the feminine soul. “The whole idea of it was just bizarre. I’d have to say it was really Alison that forced me to figure it out.”

  “I’d rather the whole island doesn’t know about this right now. Dora tells me you and Monica are going to her house next weekend to meet Marin. She’s also invited me to be there.”

  “Do I take that to mean that you’d like for us to continue being in touch?”

  “That’s what I mean, with one condition.” For the first time that afternoon a grin covered her face. “Don’t even think about calling me mama.”

  21

  Walking into the kitchen of the B&B I found Twila Faye sitting at the table buttering a blueberry muffin.

  “Hey, girl,” she said. “Join me while I take my coffee break.”

  “Those muffins sure smell good.” I poured myself a cup of coffee. “Where’s Ali?” I asked, taking a bite of muffin.

  Twila Faye smiled. “Probably still wrapped up in Paul’s arms. She was in here pretty early, got breakfast ready, and then went back to her apartment. Haven’t seen her since.”

  “She’ll miss him when he has to leave.”

  “She’ll miss all that lovin’, no doubt.”

  “Shame on you for thinking such thoughts.”

  Twila Faye raised her eyebrows and laughed. “Yeah, right. Honey, it’s the natural way of things. Nothin’ wrong with lovemakin’ if you love the one you’re with.”

  I joined her laughter and recalled a song by that title.

  “Why, Twila, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you had a special someone in your life.”

  “Nah, ’fraid not. But the rumors I’ve been hearin’ tells me that you might.”

  “Me? Where’d you hear that?”

  “Yeah, you. Word travels fast on this island, ya know. Heard Mr. Noah sent you some mighty pretty flowers for your birthday and seems you were spotted out and about having dinner with him.”

  “Geez, it’s true. Nothing is sacred around here.” Getting up, I rinsed my cup in the sink. “He did send flowers…and we did have dinner.”

  “And?”

  I laughed. “And that’s all I have to say. Tell Sleeping Beauty when she emerges that I’m going into work and I’ll see her this evening.”

  The Monday-evening knitting class was a social as well as a learning session. The women varied each week but the regulars included Twila Faye, Polly, Raylene, and Dora. We sat sipping tea, needles clicking, while exchanging local gossip.

  “Land sakes alive,” Raylene contributed. “Have you heard the latest? The conductor’s uniform at the Historical Museum is missing.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” Dora questioned. “How can it be missing? Did somebody steal the mannequin?”

  “No, not quite that easy. I’m afraid Miss Lottie offered to take the uniform and get it cleaned. It was getting a bit dusty and needed sprucing up. But now poor Miss Lottie can’t remember which cleaners she took it to.”

  I let out a chuckle. “Are you serious?”

  Raylene nodded her head emphatically. “’Fraid so. We’ve called every cleaning shop in Chiefland, Ocala, and Gainesville and we can’t locate it.”

  I knew that Lottie Sullivan was well into her early nineties and one of the oldest docents at the museum. She was loyal and enjoyed sharing island history with everybody, but she was also forgetful.

  “Well, maybe you’ll be lucky and an honest person from the cleaners will call to let you know they have it,” I said.

  Raylene sniffed. “That uniform is an antique and worth some money. So that’ll probably happen when pigs fly.”

  “Raylene, you’re always doom and gloom. Sydney’s right,” Dora said. “That uniform could very well be returned. By the way, Sydney, I’m not sure you know but Cedar Key was famous for the cross-state railroad in the eighteen hundreds. It ran from Fernandina Beach on the east coast over here. The tracks are still there off Twenty-four in the area we call Kiss Me Quick and Hug Me Tight.”

  I threw my head back laughing. “Why do you call it that?” I asked, putting my knitting in my lap and leaning forward for Dora’s explanation.

  “A conductor for the railroad lived in that section of the island and upon boarding the train near his house his wife would kiss him before the train departed and a short way down at another stop, she’d run to hug him before he left for his scheduled run.”

  I smiled. “What a cute story. You have such great folklore on this island. I love hearing all the stories.”

  Twila Faye concentrated on the raspberry sweater she was making for her granddaughter, then asked, “Did anyone hear what happened out at the cemetery the other day? Remember when Jack Patterson died a few months back? Well, his wife Ethel had a big fight with the funeral parlor because they wanted to charge her an outrageous price for the urn to put Jack in. They ended up putting him into a metal box and sent her on her way.” Twila Faye paused to sip her herbal tea. “Ethel wanted to spread Jack’s ashes on the family plot at the cemetery, but that’s against the law. So last week she felt she’d had Jack in the house long enough—she called all the family and friends, told them to bring folding chairs and meet her at the family plot. They got there, set up their chairs, said a few words about Jack and tried to open the box, which was darn near impossible. They tried everything and finally somebody produced a crow bar—but the thing is, when they finally forced it open, poor Jack flew everywhere. And there was Ethel grasping at the air, trying to save as much of Jack as she could.”

  Laughter filled the knitting shop. “Serves her right,” Raylene said. “Ethel always was a tightwad. Bet she has the first dollar she ever made.”

  Polly wiped the tears from her eyes while shaking her head. “So I’d say it’s pretty safe to assume that ole Jack Patterson’s now a free spirit.”

  I shook my head laughing. These women were a delight to be with. Unassuming, down-to-earth, and outspoken.

  “I’m not sure about the next set of instructions on this pattern,” Twila Faye said, confusion covering her face.

  Getting up to reach for the pattern I heard Raylene say, “So what’s goin’ on, Dora? Is that sister of yours sick? Somebody said they saw her at Shands last week.” />
  “Lord above,” Dora said, a sarcastic edge to her tone. “Does everybody know everything on this island? She’s had a bit of a cold and if you must know more, you’ll have to ask Sybile yourself.”

  Properly chastised, Raylene tossed her head in the air. “Well, I was only asking. But then, Sybile always was the one on this island with the most secrets.”

  “This isn’t too difficult, Twila Faye. I’ll explain it to you, but let’s stop knitting for a few minutes while we enjoy some of that delicious blueberry cobbler that Raylene brought,” I said, swaying the conversation in a different direction.

  After passing out the plates, I joined the other women in front of the fireplace.

  “How’s the business going?” Polly questioned.

  “It’s actually begun to pick up a little the past few weeks. And with Dora helping me out, I found time to do a Web site. I got a few more mail orders this past week. I’m hoping in a month or so, I might be able to cut back my hours at the restaurant.”

  Dora threw me a grateful smile and I wasn’t sure if it was for the compliment or the fact I’d changed the subject about Sybile.

  “Hey, has anyone been into Noah Hale’s new gallery?” Twila Faye questioned.

  “I popped in the other day,” Polly said. “I have to admit he’s quite the artist. I was very impressed. And his looks aren’t hard to take either.”

  Everyone but me laughed.

  “Oh, got your eye on a new beau, do ya?” Raylene asked.

  Polly chuckled. “No, ’fraid not. He’s not my type—too artsy, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well, with his looks and charm I don’t think he’ll stay available for long on this island,” Twila Faye replied.

  Noticing my silence, Raylene said, “Now there’s a man for ya, Sydney. I’m sure a little flirting with him would go a long way.”

  “Yeah, except I don’t happen to be looking for a man. Come on,” I said, gathering up the plates. “Time to get back to knitting. I’ll help you with the pattern now, Twila Faye.”