by Josie Brown
Ally glared back at him. “Not on your life.” She grabbed her daughter and her bags, and headed out the door. “Thanks. For…whatever.”
Barry winced. “You don’t have to say it, really. I mean, what are friends for?”
Ally glowered back. “When I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”
She slammed the door behind her.
10:15 a.m.
Like most Bolinas, California natives, Lorna figured out early in life that the best time of year to venture out on the tiny coastal burg’s infamous nude beach was in January, when the brisk, frigid air ensured that only a few brave souls were exposing themselves.
She averted her eyes from any flesh that was goose-pimply, shriveled, perky, or standing at attention, all the while wishing those around her had the good graces to give her the same courtesy. But no. Since Lorna was fully clothed, she was indeed an oddity to be stared at.
She was also a stranger, which was rare in a town where the inhabitants tore down state road signs so no outsiders could find their little coastal village. This had been the case since the ‘70s, when Bolinas became a haven for hippies looking to trade the hustle, hassle and fog of San Francisco for the rolling mist-kissed cliffs, crashing surf, and secluded beaches of this tiny live-and-let-live town.
Truth be known, she was wearing the same sleek Michael Kors print jeans and form-fitting Dolce & Gabbana blazer since Tuesday afternoon, when she left Dante in Matthew’s arms.
It had taken her ninety minutes to drive up the coast. But it had taken her two nights to get the nerve to walk down to the beach.
She spent those evenings in a hotel room above a local hangout called Smiley’s Schooner Saloon. While some bluegrass bandleader wailed about lost love and dark roads under full moons, she worked on her computer, pulling up every bit of research she could find regarding genetic tracers for autism. By doing so, she could see why Matthew would question her, why he would seek to find the answer to the cause of his son’s diagnosis.
She couldn’t blame him. If the shoe were on the other foot, she’d be doing the same.
The rest of her time was spent pacing the threadbare carpet as she practiced what she would say to the one person she knew could assuage her guilt about Dante’s condition:
Her mother.
But the time of reckoning had come. It was now or never, if she were to get home in time to attend the PHM&T club celebratory luncheon.
If she wanted to save her marriage.
And if she wanted to save her son from a lifetime of misunderstanding and cruelty.
The gray, wet sand seeped and sifted through her open-toed Kate Spade pumps as she marched down the beach toward the lagoon that separated Bolinas’ beach from the long, slim spit that was the tail end of Stinson, the beach for Bolinas’ neighboring town.
Although she wore large sunglasses, she held up a palm to ward off the warm rays emanating from the still low sun in the east, scanning the dunes until she found what she was looking for: a large red tent. From its peaked roof, a triangular flag adorned with the image of eight Roman goddesses of fertility or childbirth—Bona Dea, Candelifera, Carmenta, Fecunditas, Feronia, Libera, Lucinda and Juno—snapped crisply in the wind.
As she made her way over, she repeated to herself, I can do this…I can do this…I can do this…for Dante.
When she finally reached the door of the tent, she smacked it gently a few times. “Hera? Hera, are you there? It’s me…Lorna.”
At first, she heard nothing. Then there was rustling inside the tent and loud whispers. A moment later two heads popped out from behind the tent’s flap. They belonged to women—twins, in fact. They were pop-eyed, all smiles, and in their late fifties. Their hair, more zinc now in color than what once was a bright copper hue, was long and wavy.
“Are you her?” one asked.
Lorna paused before answering. It had been years since she’d seen her mother. But knowing the woman who had birthed her as well as she did, there was certainly reason to believe it was a loaded question in more ways than one.
“If you’re asking me if I’m Hera’s daughter, then…Yes, I am.”
There. She said it out loud. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that.
They stared at her as if she were an apparition. Finally, a voice from within the tent said, “Let her enter.”
The women beckoned her in.
Aw hell, there’s no turning back now, Lorna thought.
***
The tent was large enough to hold ten. All were women. Most were naked, pregnant, and chanting with their eyes closed. One of the twins whispered, “Silence, please! We’re in the middle of a pre-birth Wiccan ceremony!”
Workshops and Wiccan ceremonies were how her mother made her living. Well, Lorna thought, everyone has to put food on the table somehow.
The twins led Lorna behind a sheer curtain in the back of the tent. It took a while for her eyes to adjust before she made out her mother: Hera Harmony. The older woman sat in front of a stone altar adorned with seashells, herbs, and sand dollars. Acknowledging Lorna with a nod, she then rose gracefully off her haunches. Chimes tinkled as she moved, barefoot, toward her daughter.
When finally they were face-to-face, Lorna hesitated at first, but then she put her arms around her mother.
Hera stood there, motionless.
Well, what did I expect? Lorna chided herself silently.
Her mother was just as she remembered her: slim and deliberate, bright blue eyes wide and alert. It had been nearly a decade. So yes, there were some physical changes. Long lines were clearly etched in her forehead and around her mouth. Her hair, cropped gamine short, was now almost completely white.
And she still did not approve of Lorna’s choices.
This was evident in her very first question to her daughter: “Do you know how many Chinese orphans will be crippled, blinded, or beaten in the making of that designer dreck you’re wearing?”
Lorna sighed. “No. But I’ve no doubt you do, and that you’re now going to tell me.”
“Most are teenagers or younger. They work in abysmal conditions, and are paid only a quarter of what they need to survive. Whatever meager wages they do make, seventy-five percent of it goes to feed themselves and their families. Now, aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
“Hera, I came to tell you that I’m married.”
“Ah!” Hera’s eyes widened as she took in this news. “I guess congratulations are in order. What is your bride’s name?”
Lorna stifled another sigh. “Matthew. Sorry to disappoint you, but I married a man.”
Hera rolled her eyes. “I guess we are who we are.” She shrugged. “So tell me, who are you now?”
Lorna knew Hera could not care less that she graduated cum laude from Berkeley. If she had, she would’ve come when Lorna invited her to the graduation. And her mother certainly didn’t want to hear about their home on Russian Hill or that she drove a gas-guzzling SUV.
Instead, she gave the answer she knew her mother was looking for. “I am a satisfied being.”
Hera arched a brow. “Merely ‘satisfied?’ Not blissful?”
Lorna closed her eyes. Why must she always judge me? Why does she parse my words? Does she want me to be happy? Lorna wondered. Don’t all mothers want that for their children? Or is it that they want their children to need them, always and forever?
Dante would always need her; she knew that now. He would never know the kind of independence she’d had, both growing up with a mother who had raised her not to depend on anyone and an absentee father. For that, she felt sorry for her son.
On the other hand, Dante’s condition would be the true test of her love for him. She planned on living up to the challenge.
She was relieved her mother had never been tested the same way. Her guess is that Hera would’ve failed miserably. She’d always made Lorna feel like a burden, her cross to bear. Her Earth Mother principles were great in theory, but never in practice.
Hera is right in one regard, Lorna thought. We are who we are.
She had one favor to ask of Hera. Hopefully, this one time she wouldn’t fail Lorna. “Hera, I’d like you to meet Matt. And also our son, Dante.”
Hera blinked. “Oh! A son?”
“Yes,” Lorna declared firmly. “He’s going on twenty months. I want you to be a part of his life. He’ll need all of us.”
Her mother tilted her head. “Why is that?”
“Dante’s been diagnosed with autism.” Lorna bowed her head. “The doctor is running tests. We’re doing everything we can to nurture him, but it will be an uphill battle.” She hesitated. “There are some theories that the condition may be genetic.”
Hera rolled her eyes. “You’re wrong. Do you feed him foods with gluten? And I’ll bet you vaccinated him. Am I right? Ha! I thought so! Have you checked his mercury level? I’m guessing it’s sky high. By the way, I know a shaman who does healing work in this area—”
“Hera, no, please! No shamans! Let’s just…” Lorna clenched her fists at her side. “I’d rather the doctor take the lead on this. All I’m asking of you is to meet my husband and your grandson, and to give me your moral support.”
“‘Nutty New Age theories?’” Hera pursed her thin lips. Finally, she nodded. “Okay, Lorna. Just tell me what you want me to do.”
Lorna’s hand shook as she opened her purse and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Here’s my telephone number and address. Perhaps you can come over, say, next Thursday, in the afternoon? And…I hate to ask, but since we’re looking into all sorts of causes for Dante’s condition, perhaps you’d be willing to give a DNA sample? There is this theory that it could be genetic chromosomal damage. If that’s the case—”
Hera shook her head. “If that’s the case, it’s too late to do anything about it now.”
Lorna knew she was right. Nothing would change Dante’s situation.
But the more love and support he has, the better his future would be. Here is Hera’s opportunity to be a part of it, she thought.
“It was stupid of me to ask. Forget I brought it up. In any case, I look forward to you meeting them on Thursday. That is, if you still want to come.”
Hera smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
What have I gotten myself into? Lorna thought.
She turned to leave, then remembered the last question she had for her mother.
“Hera, where is Peter nowadays?”
Hera laughed. “Peter? Oh my goddess, he could be anywhere! Last I heard, he was down in Costa Rica. No, wait…Venice Beach. If you still feel the need to find the weakest link, your father certainly fits the bill. We both know it.” Hera shrugged. “Lorna, Fate has played its hand. As for blame, there’s always enough of it to go around.”
***
Lorna made it back to the house just a few minutes before noon. She was frantic. If Matt hadn’t gotten her text or hadn’t heeded it, she’d be rushing to get Dante into something decent. Having been gone for two days, she was sure the laundry was sky high with his dirty toddler togs.
As it turned out, Matt was sitting on the front stoop with Dante in his lap. Their toddler was dressed in the little tuxedo she’d bought for him back before Labor Day when she’d received the notice of her probationary acceptance to the PHM&T.
When she got out of the car, Matt stood up. “We’re glad you’re home,” was all he said, but he wasn’t smiling as he handed Dante over to her.
Seeing the astonished look on her face, Matt said, “Now that he’s officially in the club, he should dress the part.”
She nodded gratefully. “I appreciate you doing all this. I’m not saying that your suggestion last time of the track suit was off base or anything—”
“You didn’t have to say it. I overheard Bettina’s sarcastic jokes about it at Mother’s house.” He shrugged. “His future will be filled with people looking to poke holes in his happiness. He doesn’t need any help from his idiot father.”
Tenderly, she touched Matt’s cheek. “Matt, please don’t call yourself an idiot. You’re one of the smartest men I know. And one of the sweetest.”
He took her in his arms and kissed her, long and hard.
When, finally, they parted, they were both crying. He raised his eyes so they’d meet hers. “I’ll always be right here for you, Lorna. And I’ll be here for Dante, too.” His smile was bittersweet. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
She nodded. “I owed it to my mother to ask her to meet my family—you and Dante—in person. Hera is looking forward to it. She’ll be here next Thursday. I’m sure she’ll be open to answering any questions you may have about me. And also about her and…my father. Of course, Hera doesn’t know where he is. For now, that may be for the best.”
She buried her head in Dante’s back. The sweet scent of baby powder and lotion revived her and gave her the resolve she needed to add, “Matt, I started out by asking her for a DNA sample. But I didn’t press the issue. What’s the point? Do we need to have someone to blame? It won’t change anything.”
He shrugged. “I know. I was acting like a jerk. It’s just that I feel so—so hopeless.”
“I do too. We just have to take this one day at a time.”
“I'm glad you feel that way. In fact, I’m hoping you’ll agree to go with me to a marriage counselor. We both need reassurance that…that we’re in this together.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, of course.”
“Good.” He seemed relieved. “And I want to be with Dante during all his tests. I’ve also set up bi-weekly appointments with a physical therapist whose specialty is autistic infants—of course, on the days he’s not hanging with his PHM&T buds.”
She rewarded his declaration with a teary smile.
Matt looked away. “Lorna, I haven’t mentioned Dante’s condition yet, to anyone.”
Lorna knew he was referring to Eleanor and Bettina. “I understand. In fact, I’m glad you’ll be meeting Hera without any other family distractions.”
He laughed. “Yeah, in this case, the more does not equal ‘the merrier.’” He kissed her forehead. “You’d better go shower and change your clothes. Whatever fresh hell Bettina has in store for you and your pals will seem less devious if you’re in one of your killer designer dresses.”
She laughed. He was right. And he knew her so well.
It was great to be home.
Even Bettina couldn’t ruin that for her.
12:20 p.m.
This is my fiefdom, Bettina thought as she gazed proudly at all the other mothers who were gliding toward their assigned seats at the annual Pacific Heights Moms & Tots Club New Year’s Kick-Off Luncheon held as always at the St. Francis Yacht Club.
Bettina’s great-grandfather had been one of its founding members. Without hesitation, the club’s directors did what they could to accommodate her whims for making the event perfect. The dining room, which had an incomparable panoramic view of the Golden Gate Bridge, was laid out with five circular tables that sat ten, the number of mothers in each of the age-specific groups within the club. Beside place cards, one of two floral themes graced each place setting: pink (with pink rose buds) or blue (with hydrangeas of that hue), depending on the sex of the child whose mother was to sit there.
This particular gathering would also introduce the four probationary Onesies applicants who, after several months of highly competitive challenges, had won full membership in the Pacific Heights Moms & Tots Club. Having read Bettina’s veiled threat in the carefully worded invitation, which stated “Your presence to this event is appreciated on or before eleven forty-five a.m.,” many PHM&T members and their fidgety offspring had lined up outside the yacht club’s double doors as early as eleven.
“They must think Apple is here to unveil another damn iPhone,” the doorman muttered under his breath as he peered out at the growing crowd.
The early birds included the six legacy Onesies moms: Hillary Trumbull and h
er daughter, Ava; Marcia Broderick and her daughter, Ella; Bella Adams with her son, Liam; Doreen Landau and her son, Ethan; Janine Ledbetter and her son, Jackson; and Gwen Markham and her son, Nathan. Everyone already had a child in one of the other age groups.
By eleven thirty, all the members were seated, and their children were already ensconced in the adjacent “children’s party room” where healthy snacks had been set up and twelve of the city’s most highly regarded sitters were standing by to feed, diaper, and play age-appropriate games.
Excitement was already crackling through the air.
Perfect, Bettina thought. Now as each of the winners arrive, I’ll walk her in and personally reintroduce her to the club.
The first probationer to come in was Lorna with Dante in tow. Bettina grimaced. Too bad it wasn’t one of the other winners. Her ears pricked up, alert to any faint murmurs of nepotism. She need not worry. The emotional choke collar around her members’ necks was always held tight within her slim fingers. No one wanted to be yanked onto the carpet, let alone exiled from the club for grousing about their fearless founder.
“You’re prompt. How refreshing,” Bettina murmured in Lorna’s ear as she air-kissed her sister-in-law and patted her solemn little nephew on his check. Then she shuttled Lorna into the dining room and announced in a loud voice, “Ladies, your attention! The first of our newest members has arrived. Please welcome Lorna Connaught, who brought the revenue from our recipe book fundraiser to Olympian heights!”
The applause was enthusiastic. Too much so for Bettina’s liking. She nodded at Mallory Wickett, who took the hint and practically shoved Lorna in the direction of her assigned table.
Just at that moment, Jade walked in, holding Oliver. Bettina’s eyes swept over her appraisingly. “Ah, and here is another of our newest members, Jade Pierce.” She held out her hand to Jade, who took it hesitantly. “Such a fashion plate! Is that Valentino?...I thought so. Black lace over white poplin and buttoned to the collar! So innocently school-girlish! You carry it off soooo well. And such a wonderful addition to our club! We’ll never forget your pumpkin patch event.” She turned toward the other mothers. “Am I right, ladies?”