A Simple Distance

by K. E. Silva

  That did it. I grabbed the phone from her limp wrist, demanded an explanation from the other end. Granny, this is Jean. I need to know what’s happening. What is my mom talking about? Why can’t she come home?

  The receiver to my ear, I heard her even through the distance. As skilled a politician as Uncle George ever was, Granny ignored my questions and answered instead with her own agenda. Apparently, the two of you don’t care that you have dragged this family’s name through the dirt. But I do. And I will not stand by to see you and your mother finish us off.

  Okay, Granny. If you have something to say to me, say it. I’m not sure what we’re talking about. I lied, waited to see if she had the courage to really air our laundry.

  And she did. Granny, tough as nails. Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about. That Hill girl came to George’s funeral on purpose. Just to rub your dirty business in our noses. But I tell you, I will not have it. You and your mummy can stay in California. This family does not need the likes of you.

  Death definitely brings out the worst in people. Yet, I must admit, I have never known anyone in my family, ever, to rise in a crisis. All of us sink, deep down, into our most primitive ways of being, ways that normally we see fit to hide.

  What do you mean? What does my mom have to do with this? What did she ever do to you? You can’t take Godwyn from her.

  You take me for a fool, don’t you. I give that house to her and it goes straight to you as soon as she’s gone. Not a chance. Not a chance, I tell you.

  That was why my mom needed the plane ticket. That was why she packed all her belongings, tried first for the safety of Auntie Lil in England. That was why she’d slept outside on a stranger’s porch; told me that morning she had no family left. It was all because of me. And Susan.

  I slammed down the phone. Turned to my mother, collapsed and coughing, amidst her bags on the futon, bloodred eyes streaming tears.

  * * *

  I couldn’t leave her alone. Not like that. But Cynthia’s hearing was in two days and I had to prepare. I had to get back to the office.

  I’ve always had this idea in my head I can’t seem to shake: that I’m too weak to be an attorney; that if tested, my grit would prove unable to withstand the first strong wind, and I’d crumble or wilt, like my mother after the divorce. I’d run to my bed at the first knock of adversity, like she always did when her men left her. Indeed, those days I did sleep a lot.

  But the thing that has always allowed me, ever since law school, to argue a point in public, has been this simple truth: As an advocate, the words coming out of my mouth are, by definition, not for me—they are for someone less able to articulate them.

  When I was a kid in elementary school, every year on Dr. Martin Luther King’s birthday, we went to the library to be read to about the 1960s, his work, his struggles, his assassination. I remember thinking, the only little brown head in the library, that I sure was glad Dr. King had won that fight before I was old enough to know a world of segregation, of Jim Crow.

  I mouthed the words to those songs, feeling weak and tiny, sure that, if tested, I’d prove unable to fight for myself, much less for my whole race. I was always glad, on those days, when our teachers assured us the civil rights movement had already been won and we no longer had to worry about such injustice.

  * * *

  There are two types of wrong in law. There are actions that are wrong because they are inherently bad, and there are actions that are wrong simply because they are somehow inconvenient. It is the difference between killing someone and making a right-hand turn against a red light in the wrong state.

  We would move to dismiss at the outset of the hearing on the ground that, in light of new law, Linda was no longer Sadie’s adoptive parent and, because of that, her complaint no longer stated a legal wrong. She had no rights regarding Sadie. No recourse in this forum.

  But we still needed a backup plan. Just in case. There was always a chance things wouldn’t go as anticipated. All it would take to make parentage an issue, ripe for argument, would be for the judge to allow both sides to speak. There’d be a tug of war: between the cases that helped Cynthia, saying that a child belongs only to the one who bore her; and the cases that helped Linda, saying parents are those who act like them.

  Granted, Linda’s line of cases lacked Cynthia’s strength of precedent, but not necessarily its merit. So I needed to organize our facts, make a plan for their admission into evidence, anticipate responses.

  I had to get back to the office. My mother was a heap on the floor of my studio and I had no time for indulgence. I had to get to work.

  After her stunt sleeping on the stranger’s front porch, though, and then the call to Granny, I couldn’t leave her alone. She’d have to come with me.

  I squatted at her side, explained quietly and firmly, Mom, I have to go to work … You’ll have to come with me today. No touch. Mom, we have to go now. Get up off the floor.

  When I was a child, I used to listen from the top of the stairs to my mother in bed, on the phone. Wait for her to get up on her own. But she never did. Not until Harold. For all those years I had so much patience.

  But not anymore; I screamed, Get up! Get off the floor! Then stopped. Stared at us both, caught like my father’s fist, raised to strike.

  * * *

  Again, we drove in silence, crossed back over the same bridge the opposite way. Oakland to San Francisco. Gaining no ground.

  If I could just get in a good two or three hours, I would be okay. But the fog had thickened into rain and slowed our progress.

  By the time we reached my building, the support staff had gone to lunch, the attorneys busy behind closed doors. Good. No need to explain my mother’s presence, her bloodshot eyes.

  She’d never seen my office, my diplomas professionally framed, didn’t comment on them or on anything else as I motioned her to the low leather couch against the far wall, through which she could see a view of Oakland, back across the bay—if she ever looked up.

  This is my office. I fished for a crumb of recognition I’d done something noteworthy, sought validation though I knew I shouldn’t.

  My mom lay down on the couch, prepared for sleep as the rain misted my window, floor to ceiling. Dark clouds comforted me with their closeness. I turned to my cabinet, pulled the file, sat at my desk.

  The documents that composed Cynthia and Linda’s life together were these: joint title to their flat; statements from their single account at Wells Fargo; Sadie’s birth certificate; the court order from Linda’s second-parent adoption; Linda’s will; her tax returns claiming Sadie as a full dependent; photos of Sadie and their pet corgi.

  Two lives as intertwined as any man and wife; all those documents, except one, arguing Linda’s case, supporting the fairness of shared custody. Right on top sat my copy of the Sharon S. decision, invalidating any legal significance at their attempt to simulate a marriage. That is what it meant to be gay: to secure your whole emotional being with anchors invisible to the rest of the world. The ballast of second-parent adoptions cut loose by the court.

  I became an attorney because I wanted to speak for people with voices smaller than mine. I should’ve been Linda’s attorney, not Cynthia’s. It was as if the woman Cynthia had been all those years was merely a masquerade.

  Ten years ago, I thought I knew what it meant to be a lesbian. I thought it was about sex, about sleeping with women. Gender taboos. But what was the mere touching of tongues compared to all those plans, Linda and Cynthia’s, before their break?

  I rose from my desk, heavy with the weight of the words I was to speak on behalf of my client, walked toward the kitchenette to boil water for tea. As I passed the reception area, I glanced toward my secretary’s desk, upon which sat a tiny gold frame, white embroidery on black cloth that read: No man is worth crying over. And the one that is, won’t make you cry.

  The law states two kinds of wrong. Which one, though, was at hand?

  My mother slept on th
e couch.

  * * *

  Paper can’t speak for itself. The organizing of documents not enough, I called Cynthia in to run through her testimony should the court deny our initial Motion to Dismiss. On their own, those pieces of paper—their title in joint tenancy, wills and adoption orders—couldn’t be considered by the court until they were admitted into evidence through the words of a living, breathing witness. Someone to verify their significance.

  I walked into the reception area to grab a few Sunset magazines from the coffee table to keep my mom occupied if she were to wake. She liked the landscaping ideas, often turned to them for inspiration at Godwyn. For years she experimented with rows of purple cabbage—edible landscaping—out back by the shed, but the villagers from Sommerset kept stealing them for soup. Every Christmas I got her a new subscription.

  When Cynthia arrived, I put on my professional façade, a wide, wide smile.

  Cynthia! Hello. Welcome. I reached for her right hand with both of mine, magazines momentarily set aside on my secretary’s desk, right next to her plaque and its meticulous stitching. I picked up the magazines and motioned Cynthia down the hall to my office. Can I get you anything before we start? Some coffee, water? It will take us some time this morning.

  No. No. I’m okay. Just a little nervous. I didn’t realize I’d get this nervous.

  She looked smaller than the last time I saw her. Less sure of herself. Her hands were trembling when I took them in mine.

  It was my job to put her at ease, to radiate a confidence in the strength of her case and the righteousness of our strategy even if I didn’t believe in it, to infuse her with the ability to step up on the stand the next day, sure of foot.

  I threw my head back, laughed a deep, dismissive laugh, told her, Good. That means you’re ready to get to work. Let’s give that extra energy something productive to do.

  I placed my free arm formally around Cynthia’s shoulders—a coach calming her player’s pre-game jitters—and entered my office to find my mother snoring from the couch.

  At that point, I couldn’t afford to let my client see even the thinnest fissure in my composure. I was constantly to assure her I had everything under control, or she’d lose faith in me, in her case, in herself; it was my job to make sure that didn’t happen.

  I gestured to the snoring lump on my low-lying couch and, with sarcastic formality, introduced my mother: Cynthia, this is my mother, Sophia Pascal Souza. I placed the magazines on the table next to the couch, retrieved Cynthia’s file from my desk. Let us now proceed to the conference room.

  My mom snorted in her sleep.

  Cynthia smiled, relaxed a bit; perhaps comforted by seeing that tie to the maternal in her lawyer’s life on the eve of her fight for exclusive control over her own daughter.

  We entered the conference room and started reviewing the documents she’d need to identify, and explain, at the hearing.

  I picked up the first piece of paper, the title in joint tenancy to their flat, just off Ocean Beach. Joint tenancy with rights of survivorship, meaning if one of them were to die, the other would inherit that house, as opposed to the relatives of the deceased. After their breakup, Linda moved in with her brother, but still covered half the mortgage through automatic monthly payments directly to the bank, because she still owned half the house and wanted to make sure Sadie’s living situation stayed stable.

  I handed Cynthia the title. We’re going to explain to the judge that even if she disregards the law as it stands, Sadie is still better off in your sole custody because you were always, as you continue to be, not only her biological mother, but also the central parental figure in her world.

  I continued, Linda will argue that documents like this, pointing to the paper in her hand, this title in joint tenancy, proves that she cared as much about Sadie’s stability and future as you did. In fact, didn’t Linda pay for most of the down payment?

  Cynthia’s eyes widened, and her mother’s chest, heavy and low, began to rise and fall faster and faster. She felt attacked, faltered. It’s not my fault that Linda makes more money than I do. She always has. I didn’t think this was going to be about money, or houses, or things like that. She looked over at the stack of documents I’d compiled, looked to be on the verge of tears. Started to shake.

  I raised my hand in front of her face to stop her speech, index finger in the air for emphasis. Perfect. Stop right there. That’s exactly how you will respond tomorrow. I jotted down some notes on my legal pad. Okay, now tell me the things that aren’t about money that you give to Sadie. And remember, I’m on your side. The attorney tomorrow won’t be. So before you answer each question, take a slow, deep breath. Practice being calm with me. I reached out, placed my hand on her shoulder, offered her the detachment of someone with less at stake than the loss of a child.

  Well … life. I gave her life. Isn’t that enough? Half question. Half not. Her tone anchored by a mother’s indignation.

  Ha! My mom’s laugh, piercing the calm I’d created with Cynthia, shot from behind us, grazed my temple. She had followed us into the conference room. Ha! You’re asking Jean?! She doesn’t even know how to be a daughter. How could she tell you what it is to be a mother?

  Cynthia and I were silent, not knowing what to say.

  My mom lit into me with all she had: You act like you’re her family. You treat her better than you do your own mother. She pursed her lips, looked at us in disgust, sucked her teeth. And, on the exhale, fell to the floor.

  * * *

  When I was little, my mother’s hands, combing through my hair, seemed so big. But as I ran to her side, grabbed her wrist for a pulse, I saw how small she actually was.

  Oh my God! Mom! Mom! Wake up! Get up! I slapped her face two or three times. Probably too hard.

  Cynthia was at the phone. Should I call an ambulance?

  I don’t know. I don’t know. I began to panic, started to scream, Mom! Mom! My lungs were working, moving in and out, at double-speed, but I couldn’t breathe.

  Three weeks earlier, my mother’s younger brother passed in her arms. George is dead! George is dead! That’s how they said it in Baobique.

  There in my office, the storm finally hit California. Cynthia left the phone, ran over to us on the floor, and took my mother from my arms. She laid her flat and blew, simply blew on her face.

  My mom came to.

  Jean, go get me something citrus from the kitchen. And slice it in half. Cynthia’s voice was soft, metered, but firm. I sat and stared at the two of them. Cynthia needed to tell me again. Jean. Go.

  I went.

  By the time I returned to the conference room with the two halves of orange, my mother was sitting upright against the wall. Cynthia, sitting next to her, took a piece of the fruit from my hand and placed it in my mom’s. Hold this under your nose. It will bring you back.

  The inside of the orange was red. Like my mother’s eyes, staring straight through me.

  I fell back into the closest chair alongside the large oak conference table; felt as though I had the wind knocked out of me.

  I pressed the other half of the orange under my own nose, stared at my mom, collapsed for the second time in two days.

  My mother was unraveling right before my eyes. How could I not shelter her?

  I can’t do it. My words surprised me as much as them. They stared up at me. Cynthia, I have to take my mother home. She’s obviously not well … But we are not ready yet for tomorrow’s hearing. We’ve barely begun to go through your testimony. We’ll have to get a continuance. I’ll ask opposing counsel to agree to an additional week. I’ll just tell them the truth. I have to deal with a family emergency … I’m sorry.

  And I think that for the rest of my life, the sharp smell of citrus will be enough to stop me in my tracks. Sometimes a big red flag means blood.

  CHAPTER 12

  The day I was supposed to be trying the biggest hearing of my young career, I wasn’t even close. The judge had granted our request for
a continuance. By then, those things that lived in the ground would have begun to eat through the wood veneer of my uncle’s casket out back beneath the guava and spreading baobab trees at Godwyn. Translucent lizards the size of my fist sat atop his gravestone, listened to the low growl of the waves crashing along the reef, watched the thunder clouds rolling in with their storms, the rough Atlantic turning green with the coming of hurricanes.

  My mother’s imbalance and Granny’s iron fist tipped us to the ground. The two of us tumbled to the airport, onto a plane, and headed toward Baobique.

  I did not want to go. More than anything in the world, I did not want to go and face her family. Last they’d seen me—rolling around behind Godwyn with Susan—they’d asked me, in no uncertain terms, to take my American morals and leave their island. But my mom’s voice, hoarse from her sore throat, had no force against Granny’s anymore. And she couldn’t afford to lose another home.

  We were entering the last leg of our trip, just hours away, at the international airport in San Juan.

  My mother was fast asleep across two of the black plastic and metal chairs near our departure gate.

  I left my post at the top of that particular staircase, hoped no one would try to steal her passport—or at least would catch her oozing pink eye if they did.

  In San Juan, I took all I could get: wandered the corridors eliciting simple nods of recognition with my mismatched eyes and loopy curls. There, I looked like I belonged. Keeping silent when addressed—by a lost traveler, a janitor, a banker—they greeted me in Spanish, continued until the blankness in my expression gave me away. It was only then they treated me as an American, switched to English.

  After using up nearly one of my two hours in the airport, I took a seat opposite my mother, among the other Baobiquens bound for Beckford Hall.

  The first time I flew to Baobique with my mom, I was ten. She’d managed to stay awake the entire trip. She’d also managed to remember I needed a passport and sat me under the big electric dryer, pink plastic curlers rolled into four lines from my forehead to my neck, for two hours the night before I had to take my photo, styling my hair in two cascading ringlets on either side of my head, so Granny wouldn’t complain when she asked to see my passport. That was the same year she sent me to school on Picture Day at Lincoln with my hair completely uncombed, deciding not to purchase the results either because the ten dollars was better spent on cereal, eggs, and low-fat milk, or because she couldn’t possibly claim a child who could look so unkempt. Small wonder she cut all my hair off before we actually left for Baobique; my mom was not up to the task of remaining my hairdresser.