The Ghost of Hannah Mendes

by Naomi Ragen

  A sudden yawn took her by surprise. She’d been up at five, not to mention half the night, waking at intervals with lists in her head of things she mustn’t forget to take. From somewhere down the brightly lit corridor came the scent of freshly brewed coffee. She bought a cup, then hunted through the crowded cafeteria for a vacant table, hot coffee sloshing over her fingers.

  “Are you looking for a place to sit?”

  He was good-looking, clean, and clear-jawed, with a really fine set of blue eyes. A guy who—if he cornered you at a party or rang your bell for a blind date—would make your heart give a little blam of pleasure.

  Nevertheless: New York City. Her eyes scanned the room looking for an escape. But somehow it didn’t feel like the city anymore, with all its harsh, rigid rules of self-preservation. It seemed like a gentler country, calmer and more civilized. Besides, there really wasn’t any other place to sit. She nodded gratefully, watching his long legs move aside to make room for her.

  “Such a long flight.” He shook his head. “Three or four hours, okay, but this—what, eighteen, twenty-four? And just for a week?”

  “Where are you going?” she couldn’t resist asking.

  “Australia. Family wedding.”

  “That’s some trip just for a week,” she agreed demurely, afraid to encourage him with more than just a slight smile. She sat basking in his interest, in the expression on his face that seemed to say he’d found something valuable and unexpected.

  “But, it’s family, you know. Can’t quite say no…”

  “It depends, of course, on how close you are—”

  “Yes, exactly.” He was leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers clasped, pointing in her direction. His smile broadened and she began to feel a hot flash deep inside her stomach. Perhaps, she calmed herself, this is the way such things happen—the romances that life was supposed to throw the way of unmarried girls who kept all the magazine commandments: who dieted, exercised, and wore expensive clothes.

  “I’d do anything for my family,” he was saying. “Even travel thousands and thousands of miles just to be with them for a few days.”

  He had gray in his dark hair, which was short, except for a small braid hanging down on the right side. She stared at it. A little bohemian, yet not alarmingly so, she thought. An architect or an illustrator, perhaps? Something respectable, even if creative, and with a steady income.

  “Are you traveling alone?” he asked, interrupting her husband fantasies.

  “No. At least, I don’t think so.” She perused the crowds anxiously.

  “Late?”

  She nodded.

  “Boyfriend? Husband?”

  “Sister.”

  He took a deep, relaxed breath. “You’re lucky. Traveling alone can be awfully depressing. In fact, it’s no fun doing anything alone. Don’t you agree?” His eyes were warm and smiling.

  The boarding call for Quantas came through.

  “Well…” He cleared his throat. “That’s me.” He stood up.

  She studied his face, feeling unwarranted loss. “Have a good flight.”

  “You, too. I hope you find your sister.”

  She watched him disappear, sipping the rest of her coffee, which was cool and very sweet with just a hint of bitterness.

  This is not like me, she thought, sweating lightly, trying to concentrate on her watch. The flight was going to board any minute. Where in heaven’s name…! She got up and wandered around, searching fruitlessly for a flash of coppery-gold hair, disappointment laced with panic shooting through her with surprising harshness.

  Perhaps she’d simply changed her mind and wasn’t coming after all. The idea sank like a stone to the pit of her stomach. It really was awful to travel alone. Whatever else Suzanne was, she was certainly never boring.

  “Call for passengers boarding Flight three-oh-six to London. The plane is beginning to board.”

  The beginning, she thought, her heart pounding as she made her way toward the gate.

  Bad water and unclean streets and surly strangers.

  Romantic hideaways and brilliant, sophisticated men with charming manners, she argued back.

  “Last call for all passengers boarding Flight three-oh-six to London.”

  Alone, she thought, handing over her boarding pass and walking heavily down the platform to the plane.

  “Aisle or window?” she asked the stewardess, handing over her boarding pass. It suddenly seemed portentous.

  “Oh, it’s an emergency-exit row.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s means you’re very lucky, miss.”

  She hurried down the aisle. When she got to her seat, she knew it was true. It had both lots of leg room so that you could get out without making anyone get up, and a seat near the window with a clear view of the heavens. The best of all worlds, she exulted, settling back. Where divine cloud-gazing is not canceled out by the need to empty your bladder. A good omen. She glanced at the empty seat next to hers. If only…She gripped the handrest.

  “Ten minutes to takeoff. Please fasten your seat belts and make sure that overhead compartments are securely fastened.”

  She strapped herself in, listening to the plane door slide shut. Then, to everyone’s surprise, it suddenly opened again.

  “One more passenger,” the flight attendant apologized.

  “That’s cutting it close,” someone behind Francesca complained. “Some people!”

  She didn’t even have to look up. She just smiled, waiting for Suzanne to slide in beside her.

  11

  “Incredibly predictable.” Francesca shook her head.

  “Made it, didn’t I?” Suzanne grinned.

  “I left you a message on your machine offering to share a cab. Why didn’t you call me back?”

  “Did you? That was very nice of you.” She tapped her pale, chapped lip thoughtfully. “Actually, I haven’t rewound that tape in quite a while, so…”

  “I’m really glad you made it.”

  “Are you?” Suzanne looked surprised and pleased.

  “Of course. You’ve done a lot more traveling than I have. All this makes me nervous.”

  Suzanne flung one arm around her sister’s narrow shoulders. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from all the big, bad marauding men!” She grinned. “That’s what you’re scared of, isn’t it?”

  “I can take care of myself just fine in that department, sister!” Francesca protested. “In fact…”

  The plane began its clumsy roll toward the runway. She clutched the armrests in a panic, tightening her seat belt, feeling like prey hoisted in the claws of some winged predator. Forgetting Suzanne, she concentrated on the perky blond stewardess cheerfully demonstrating what to do if the plane ran out of oxygen, lost sudden altitude, crash-landed…

  “Oh, my G-d, let me out of here!” Francesca whispered, appalled, looking out at the clouds one met 35,000 feet off the ground. “I’ll never remember all that!”

  “Relax, Fran. If this toy stops working, you’ll only have to remember one thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “To put your head between your knees and kiss your ass good-bye.”

  So much for companionship, Francesca thought, glaring at her.

  “Okay. Now that that’s over, I think we should have a serious conversation,” Suzanne said when the stewardess had finished.

  “About what?”

  “About this fiasco we’ve embarked on to please Gran.”

  “Look, Suzanne, let’s get something straight. I don’t view what we’re doing as a fiasco. I look at it as a job. I intend to follow Gran’s instructions to the letter, and I think it’s perfectly reasonable that we might actually succeed. Furthermore, I’m planning to enjoy this flight. I’m going to watch the PG-thirteen movie, eat all the bad food, listen to the musical program on all nine channels, and read fascinating magazine articles about the queen. So please, don’t be negative.”

  “Don�
�t be negative? Don’t you think Gran’s condition is enough reason to feel a little negative about this whole thing?” Suzanne blurted out, amazed.

  Francesca turned around slowly. “What condition?”

  “Her medical condition.”

  Francesca looked at her blankly.

  “Oh, please, don’t tell me she hasn’t said a word to you, either? All right, fine. If that’s the way Gran wants to play this, then I’m not going to interfere. Let her do whatever she wants.” Suzanne threw up her hands, exasperated.

  “What’s going on, Suzanne?” she demanded.

  The drink cart rattled to their side.

  “Tomato juice, two of those little bottles of vodka for me, thanks,” Suzanne said, leaning back and ignoring Francesca’s question.

  “One minute,” Francesca insisted. “Let’s…”

  “I’m sorry, but vodka’s available only in first class,” the stewardess apologized.

  “Oh, couldn’t you, ple-a-s-e. I’ll get so airsick without it, and sometimes when I’m that airsick, I don’t even have time to reach for a bag.” Suzanne smiled sweetly.

  The stewardess handed over the small bottles.

  Suzanne poured them into the juice, gulping it down in one shot.

  “And for you, miss?” the stewardess asked Francesca.

  “Diet Coke, please,” she said distractedly, taking the drink and watching the stewardess move away. “Really, Suzanne. Bullying stewardesses!”

  “I don’t believe in false class structures based on economic tyranny. Why should first-class passengers be the only ones to get smashed? Hey, better hold on to that drink before it baptizes your dress,” Suzanne advised, closing her eyes and relishing the joyous alcoholic warmth spreading up from her stomach.

  “What’s going on with Gran that I don’t know about?” Francesca repeated. “Don’t play games with me, Suzanne!”

  “She told me she had some kind of medical condition that was very serious. But apparently, I’m the only one she told. Even Mom hadn’t heard anything. Mom, by the way, says it’s nonsense—that old people always think they’re dying.”

  Francesca stared at her in shocked silence. “Is Gran dying?”

  “We’re all dying, Francesca. The cells of every living creature begin to deteriorate the moment they’re born.”

  “Don’t give me this garbage! What do you know?”

  “I know that Gran wanted me to go on this trip. She said it was a dying woman’s request. She said it was the worst kind of blackmail.”

  “She admitted that?” Francesca asked, confused and a bit relieved. “You mean, she might have just made things out to be worse than they are just to get you to go along?”

  Suzanne opened her eyes, looking with sudden kindness at sweet, clueless Francesca sipping her diet Coke. “Who knows why old people do anything? I agreed to go for my own reasons. I view it as a trip to Europe, all expenses paid.”

  “That’s disgusting!”

  “Disgusting? And why, pray tell, are you here? Out of filial devotion, no doubt!”

  “This is a job. We’re being paid a salary.”

  “And you’re unemployed, right? You need the money. So why are you holier than I am?”

  “It’s not just about money! Well, of course it’s partly that…Okay, even maybe mainly, but I want to do the job well. I feel a sense of responsibility. Which is more than I can say for…”

  “So why’d the bank can you?”

  “It wasn’t me personally.” She bristled, shifting uncomfortably. “My whole department was let go because of some stupid merger.”

  “Did you get a gold watch, at least?”

  “No. I didn’t get anything.” Her eyes suddenly misted.

  “Hold on.” Suzanne chased the cart up the aisle. She returned with two minibottles of rum, which she poured into her sister’s plastic cup. “Drink up, Fran. It’s good for you.”

  “Stop calling me Fran! You know how I hate it! And this stuff is not good for you! It corrodes the liver and is full of calories,” she said morosely, drinking it down to the last drop. She stared out the window. “Things are not supposed to happen this way.” She wiped her eyes and crushed the flimsy cup in her fist. “I mean, one day you’re this hotshot they can’t do anything without, and the next day they throw you away. They treated me like some criminal, walking me out with my box and a guard. And I didn’t deserve it, Suzy. I worked really hard for them. I did a great job. And I have my mortgage payments….”

  “And all that money you owe Gran, and no boyfriend, to boot.”

  “It’s not funny. Since Peter, I haven’t even been asked out by anyone financially secure enough to make it worth my while.”

  “Mejor es tomar ombre sin paras, ke paras sin ombre.”

  “Huh?” Francesca opened her eyes in surprise.

  “Better a groom with no money than money and no groom.”

  “Where did you…?”

  “Grandpa Carl, of course. I can’t believe you don’t remember!”

  Francesca looked blank for a moment. Then her face lit up. “La yave de oro avre todas las puertas!”

  “The golden key opens all doors.” Suzanne giggled. “That’s what Grandpa Carl used to say whenever he had some business problem he needed to solve. And what about Gran’s favorite: El mundo…”

  “…pertenese a los pasensiozos,” Francesca continued. “The world belongs to the patient in spirit.” Do you remember when she used to take us to Radio City Music Hall right before Christmas and there would be these long lines…?”

  “Or when she took us shopping for Passover dresses, and she could never find one she liked, and we’d get all fidgety…”

  “El mundo pertenese a los pasensiozos,” they chorused, laughing.

  They were silent for a moment.

  “She looked a little worn out last time I saw her. Did you think so, too?”

  Suzanne shifted uncomfortably, crossing her legs and folding her fingers in her lap. “These damn seats are made for midgets…! Oh, I don’t know.” Suzanne studied her sister. “If Gran really is ill, does it matter? I mean, would you have acted any differently?”

  “I don’t know,” Francesca answered thoughtfully. “I really needed this job. But if Gran is ill, perhaps we should be there with her.”

  “Even if it’s her wish to send us on this quest instead of having us by her side to witness her slowly, painfully fade away?”

  “It’s a horrible choice. But maybe Mom is right. Old people do tend to have exaggerated fears about their health. And she isn’t getting any younger….” She leaned back, alcohol and exhaustion dulling her senses, making her sleepy. “I just hope she keeps getting older! That’s what I hope for myself, too. I mean, every year that passes and I haven’t contracted some fatal disease, or been shot in line at the cash machine, or murdered in my bed, I’m grateful. I don’t understand all these women who want to be twenty-nine forever. My goal is eighty-two, know what I mean? And every year I get closer to it, I’m grateful.”

  “I’m not afraid of getting older, either. We’ve got these beautiful women volunteers at the center who have done so much with their lives: raised big families, run businesses, traveled, helped out in a million worthy causes. Aging doesn’t worry me. I just don’t want to die. I never want to die.”

  “Never?”

  Suzanne stretched her legs luxuriously into the aisle, looking at the lovely length of them, so young and full of strength. “Never.”

  “Not even if you got paralyzed and could only communicate by typing on a computer with a pencil between your teeth?”

  “Look at Stephen Hawking! He managed to revolutionize physics—and even start a little romance on the side!”

  “Even if you had this horrible, disfiguring disease and you knew you were going to die slowly in great agony?”

  “Well, thank you so much, sister, for bringing that one to my attention. I hadn’t actually thought of that one!”

  “Okay, that w
as a bit extreme. But don’t you think it’s possible to just live this great life so that when it’s over—I mean, when you’ve lived your seventy-eighty-odd years—you’ll be able to say, ‘That was good; I’m happy with what I had and grateful, and now I’m ready.’ Sort of like what Gracia says in those memoirs. Pretty interesting stuff—the manuscript, I mean. Don’t you think?”

  “You honestly think so?” Suzanne sat up.

  “Well, I mean, she was this beautiful, incredibly wealthy businesswoman. Her husband was dead, and she had all those enemies after her money and her body. You’ve read the English translation Gran put in with the other stuff in the manila envelope, haven’t you, Suzanne?”

  “Well, not exactly.” She’d meant to, but kept putting it off. She had no patience with anything musty and old. She never went to flea markets, and she found antiques stores bad-smelling and pathetic: all those things hanging around when their time had passed, things no one really wanted or they’d be in some descendant’s living room instead of gathering dust, on sale to strangers. She’d imagined the memoirs to be some boring, flowery, medieval tribute to child-love and husband-care.

  “How can you take this job, Gran’s money, and not bother to even read it?!”

  “I told you, I will, eventually. So, she was a rich businesswoman, huh? And you’re crazy about her. Figures.”

  “It’s not just the wealth. It’s…she took no crap from any quarter. Kings, popes, princesses…. No, just think about it. Let’s say Hillary Clinton invited you to the White House and wanted to fix you up with this powerful but otherwise undesirable friend of hers. I mean, would you have the guts to say no? But that’s what she did. She just had this enormous sense of who she was, of having some mission. Talk about liberated women!” She paused reflectively. “Her life had a solid hub that no one and nothing could touch. Know what I mean?”

  Despite her misgivings, Suzanne was intrigued. “Tell me more.”

  “Read it yourself!”

  “I will. I guess I just figured…” She shrugged.

  “What?”

  “You know, all this stuff—family trees, ancestors—it’s just stuff losers flaunt so they can tell themselves they’re important, that their blood is redder than everybody else’s. I mean, look at the Daughters of the American Revolution, and all those pathetic social registers.”