by Laura Briggs
It was a decision that seemed easy in May; here, surrounded by the contents of her past, it had grown gradually more painful. A summer of bagging clothes for charity and sorting her mother's most beloved possessions into boxes for storage had whittled away at Drew's optimism while her classmates embarked on the great post-graduate adventures of job hunting. While her former college roommate was finding a new roommate for an apartment in Seattle, Drew was napping on the sofa in between emptying cupboards and cabinets.
Her emotional tipping point was the study — not her mother's, but her father's. Turning the key in the door her mother had kept locked, she understood the reasons why. It was not to shut out the pain, but to protect it. The most loving gesture Priscilla could make, keeping that lock fastened tightly and its key possessively displayed on her desk.
There were cobwebs across the desk and chair, a layer of dust over the framed photos of Drew and Willis, Willis and Priscilla. Carefully, Drew packed them in a box reserved for her personal things, alongside her mother's diploma and medical articles. A lump rose in her throat, followed by tears at the thought of rolling the chair out of the room; of strangers possessing the desk.
A steady gloom settled on her until the first signs of Christmas in December were unwelcome. The ornaments were back from the storage room — not for display, but for sorting into piles like the contents of the file cabinet. There might be carolers in the department stores in Boston and Salvation Army bell ringers on its corners, but for Drew, none of it mattered.
She lifted the flaps of the box and stared inside at the rows of gold and green. Some were chipped, from tumbling off branches in her childhood. A set of Lennox ornaments given to her parents as a wedding gift were carefully wrapped in tissue paper. A handmade paper-mache peacock was tucked in one corner, a school project from Drew's childhood.
The strength to put them on the tree wasn't in her — even if there had been a tree in her future, one of the Douglas firs unpacked in the last day or so on the familiar tree lot. She left them in the corner, just as she left the Christmas cards painfully — and accidentally — mailed to her mother by former colleagues and medical organizations.
If she skipped Christmas this year, who would blame her? A year may have passed since she lost her mother, but she was alone now. There was no one left; no reason to trim the tree or deck the halls.
She might never feel like celebrating again. Maybe this year would be the first of empty holidays spent sleeping off the months of work at a typical desk job or a starving artist's career. Her fingers daubed at the stinging tears threatening to spill over, refusing to let them escape. She swept the handful of cards into the garbage.
Lying in bed, she stared at the ceiling, ignoring the colored lights winking through the window from the house across the street. It was the same room she had slept in as a child; the same comforting sound of the train rumbling in the distance, the images of horses flickering across the wall in an endless, graceful stampede.
One of her mother's former colleagues, a professor of anatomy, had invited her to spend Christmas with her family. A kindly, aunt-like figure whom Drew remembered from a couple of dinner parties in her parents' past. Her friend Fiona from college had offered for her to drive over to Cambridge for a holiday dinner if she felt lonely.
She felt lonely, of course; but none of these things could cure it. Nothing could dam the tide of emotion that had broken free when she turned the key to this apartment after her mother died. Nor the feelings of depression that came when she emptied her father's desk drawers, one by one, into a box for the Goodwill.
On Monday morning, she emptied her mother's closet, partly in search of a duffel bag small enough to squeeze onto her passenger seat floorboard when it was time to move out with whatever was left of their past. She opened the leather flap and slipped her mother's jewelry box inside, along with a couple of framed family photos her mother had stored leaning against the wall. She slid her mother's garden clogs and ballet flats into the new giveaway box, along with a padded winter coat.
There were shoe boxes of letters from unfamiliar people and clippings from newspapers and magazines. Drew sorted through these boxes, hoping for some sign that these things were important to her mother.
She touched a thick envelope tucked beneath a pile of photos. Drew's name was written on the outside in marker, stirring her curiosity. It wasn't her birth certificate or baby photos, she knew, as her fingers broke the taped seal.
Inside was a piece of paper folded in half — a simple message handwritten on the inside. Arlene Davis, 21 Dry Street, Cactus Flats, TX. Drew's mother.
She held it between her fingers carefully, as if she were afraid it would dissolve beneath her touch. The memory of her mother's words the week before she left for college came back in a rush of emotion. The familiar clockwise swish of Priscilla's drinking glass. You don't have to wonder, that's all.
So Priscilla had known all along. Probably she and Willis had planned to someday hand this over to Drew, or help her find the rest of the answers online or through an intermediary if she wanted. They kept this little piece of her past waiting for her in a box in the closet.
For a split-second, she felt the rebellious urge to throw it away. Her fingers closed over it tightly, crushing it before she paused.
In her hand was the identity of the last person on earth who was truly connected to her by something other than friendship or business. For all she knew, this was the only family left alive to her. Perhaps that was the reason why Priscilla had offered her the chance earlier, when Drew wasn't ready to face how small and few her connections to the human world were.
She smoothed the piece of paper out again and stared at it. Raising her face to see the lights twinkling through the window, still glowing around the doorway of her neighbor's happy home.
Chapter Three
It was two days before Christmas, although signs of it across the landscape of the flat highway were scarce and could easily be mistaken for any other season of the year. No white snows like Boston, no holiday lights except for the occasional ranch house in the distance, a wreath tacked to the door.
Drew was in foreign country — Texas. Her car had eased across snow-covered bridges and the gloomy grey landscape of wintertime into the mildly green landscape of Oklahoma and the first signs of desert life which Drew had ever glimpsed. The sagebrush, the barbed wire fences, the crooked mounds of cacti like green pincushions piled together — it was all as surreal as the western movies made it seem.
She had flipped the radio dial in vain, searching for a signal beyond the faint pulse of Christmas music interrupted by static — apparently, her car's antenna didn't reach any radio waves broadcast from civilization. For civilization had vanished about a hundred miles ago, when she made her last stop for gas and a bag of Doritos. On impulse, she had browsed the racks of Western-inspired gear, purchasing a white cowboy's hat and a pair of boots whose shiny brown leather practically squeaked against the car's gas pedal. Was her birth mother a Western fan, she wondered? Or was she as much of an outsider as Drew, a transplant to other soil? Until now, it had never occurred to her to wonder about the point where her past connected to her mother's. Had she been born in Texas?
Not likely — since her birth certificate read "Wyoming" when she found it in the fireproof box of her mother's personal papers. Her adoption papers were finalized through a national adoption agency's branch in Massachusetts several months later, with her mother giving up custody freely to the Lormans.
When Drew first read the proof of her origins, she had felt a jolt of shock at knowing the truth in concrete words. When realization sank in — the knowledge that in some small part, she wasn't alone in the world — the sensible reaction was to write a letter introducing herself to her birth mother and explain herself using the pain of the last few months. To find a phone number online and make contact with a human voice in a tentative connection which could form a relationship in the future.
T
he lonely impulse to pack her bags and strike off for Cactus Flats was the last one she should have followed, but it was the one which explained where she was now. Perhaps it was Christmas. Perhaps it was the longing to escape the final weeks in the apartment before the lease vanished. But a girl with no clear plans or ambitions has time for last-minute holiday connections, as crazy as they might seem in a normal frame of mind.
She didn't permit herself to think about what would happen when she arrived at the address on the slip of paper, except to imagine seeing the place her birth mother called home. A tiny, perfect town of yellow-sided houses and plastic-toy lawns — if those things didn't melt in the heat of the desert? For the desert felt like her final destination, making her feel small and shrunken as the vast plains around her showcased boulders and rock mountains. Cattle grazed the lands, taking no notice of her car. There was a distinct possibility, she supposed, that her mother might be some sort of cattle rancher. Maybe a cowgirl who rode ranges and fixed fences, left heartbroken by a wild ranch hand in one of life's romantic tragedies.
Maybe when she found the courage to knock on her door, the two of them would have coffee together and become close; Drew would share stories of her childhood, listen eagerly to the chapters of her mother's life from the corner booth of a tinsel-covered cafe. Envisioning a holiday dinner in some homey ranch kitchen was out of the question, of course, although it seemed nice compared to the lonely thought of driving home on the highway. Or to what used to be home — any direction was the same, now that her home was no longer hers.
Was there a stepfather? Half-siblings? The thought took Drew's breath away, even in the blasting heat of her car's vents. She switched it off, discovering the knob controlling the temperatures was jammed. Strawberry hair was plastered to her forehead, her lip gloss sticky; the sweater and wool blazer she was wearing were clinging to her skin like a sealed cocoon.
Maybe she would just watch from a distance. Catch a glimpse of the woman who was once her mother, then drive away for good. That might be the safest plan, a tender moment open to fantasy, but no risk. No, she couldn't go this distance and not at least introduce herself, right?
The route to her destination was marked with a red highlighter, a meandering line ending with a faint speck on the map, a name more reminiscent of Snoopy and Charlie Brown than "B" Westerns on late-night television. She strained her eyes watching for a sign as dusk approached and the highway markers grew fewer and further between in the lonesome stretch of pastureland.
"Welcome to Cactus Flats". A wooden sign painted in bold letters was peeling slightly against the backdrop of sunset. No town appeared immediately behind it, even as Drew flicked her turn signal for the road that veered off from the highway at that point. A few buildings were visible in the distance, a few more beyond that.
The asphalt beneath Drew's tires grew bumpy with potholes as she neared the straggling signs of main street, or what she assumed must pass for it in Cactus Flats. A crowded row of buildings high and flat like wooden false fronts, peeling paint and faded brick exteriors suggesting more than one era of slow construction. A pair of long horns were mounted above the door for a farm supply store, a barber's pole secured to a white, weathered building with the words "General Store" fading out in paint high above. Through the glass door and windows of the nearest shop, she could see a secondhand shop's trademark racks of mismatched garments and shelves of faded books and records. Glancing up the street, she saw an ancient-looking gas pump on the corner, a quiet little shop behind it with windows alight for battery displays and snack food menus. A window decal of Santa in cowboy boots.
Drew turned the slip of paper in her hand right side up. Twenty-One Dry Street — where would that be in a town like this? She glanced around for street signs and saw none. Walking in the direction of the convenience store, she wondered what the odds were they had a map for the town somewhere inside. Maybe they would recognize the address immediately or .... She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight ahead. A restaurant — a cafe, maybe, its windows warm and glowing beneath strands of white twinkle lights. Green tin roof spotted here and there with rust, a sign dangling from the front as it swayed in the wind: Dry Street Barbecue.
She gazed at it for a moment, as if it were a sign from the universe. She turned and unlocked her car door, slipping inside and starting the engine again. The wheel turned in the direction of the sign, easing into one of the handful of parking spaces in front.
Tense and trembling, Drew took a deep breath. What happens now? She wasn't prepared to find her birth mother this soon. At the convenience store, she would have simply asked for the address — then given herself time to think of how she would approach this.
She could leave and come back later. That was the best plan. Go find a motel room, watch a Christmas movie on television and think carefully about what she wanted to say.
Instead, she lifted the door handle and pushed it open, stepping onto the gravel-strewn pavement. In her hand, she clutched the packet from Priscilla's box. Inside, her birth certificate, some childhood photos, her adoption papers: proof that she was really who she said she was.
It was now or never. Steps from her mother's home — or business — or whatever, in the place one of her birth parents now called home. Her skin tingled, knees wobbling slightly as she climbed the grey lumber steps and lifted the door handle.
It swung open, revealing a series of tables and chairs, worn floorboards, and the kind of ornaments that graced hunting lodges behind the polished wooden counter. A strong smell of onions and peppers and charcoal burning hot and smoky, conjuring images of sizzling chicken and beef. Two people were behind the counter. A plump woman in a chef's apron, and a young man with close-cropped hair and a tall figure. Both looked up when she entered.
Was that her mother? She eyed the figure whose evident facial lines and mature features would make it more than possible. Her eyes searched for a trace of herself, seeing nothing except possibly the straw-colored hair billowing like a cloud, a shade darker than the young man a few feet away.
Drew stepped forward, hesitant. "Excuse me," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I'm looking for — for Arlene Davis?" She glanced towards the woman. Holding her breath at the thought of the shock which would follow — if the truth tumbled forth in a moment from her paper envelope.
The woman offered her a puzzled smile. "Not around here, honey," she answered. "Now, can I get you something —"
"But this is her address," persisted Drew, with an inexplicable tenacity. "That is, this is the address someone gave me. For her." She clutched the slip of paper, aware that her face was growing hot beneath the gaze of these two people, particularly the young man who was pretending not to listen as he emptied one bottle of barbecue sauce into another.
"Arlene's mailing address," he volunteered, after a moment's pondering, apparently. "She has her mail sent here. No delivery where she lives." He looked up with a polite grin.
"Then you know her?" faltered Drew. "Does she — does she own this place?”
The woman behind the counter laughed. "I own this place," she corrected, good-humoredly. "Name's Tonni Marsh. But everybody 'round here knows Arlene Davis. She gets around, all right." The accompanying laugh with these words sent a flicker of doubt through Drew's mind.
"You a friend of hers?" asked the man. Drew glanced at him, conscious of the packet clutched in her hand all at once. Disappointment, frustration — these and a dozen more emotions possessed her at the ludicrousness of her position.
Tossing her hair aside impatiently, she switched the subject. "Can you tell me where I can find her?" she asked. "I need to...speak to her about something."
"Oh, she's left town for awhile," said the woman, who was now wiping down a pile of menus encased in plastic slipcovers.
"When will she be back?"
"Who can say?" The woman held up her hands as if posed in helplessness. "Could be any time. Now, would you like something from the menu? There's a special
today on hot wings."
Drew's eyes flickered closed momentarily. "Actually, I'd like directions to the nearest hotel, if you don't mind," she answered. "Whatever place isn't full for the holidays." A pang of regret stabbed her with these words — the first signs of a crushing breakdown that would assail her on the slow drive to Boston, she imagined.
The two people behind the counter glanced at each other uneasily. The man cleared his throat.
"There's no hotel around for ... well, fifty miles," he said. "And given it's almost Christmas, they're probably pretty full up right now." When his eyes met hers, she saw something of an apology in their depths, beneath a surface of blue-green. "I take it you're not from around here anywhere."
"I think it's real rude of Arlene to be gone when she's expecting company," said Tonni, in a kindly tone. "Here you've come all this way to see her..."
"She wasn't expecting me ... that is, it's sort of a surprise." The urge to cry was taking hold of Drew, blurring the miniature white lights strung above the counter, the deer antlers and rattlesnakes carved on the wooden beam. She blinked them back as her mind raced through options — driving a hundred miles to civilization, sleeping in her car.
"Great," she said. "Just great. Is it all right if I leave some kind of message for her here?" She didn't want to tell them the truth: in its bald-face form, it seemed more ludicrous than standing here right now. As she spoke, she stuffed the envelope into her purse, her fingers fumbling for a pen.
"Rats," she snapped, softly, as it eluded her grasp. She was aware that their eyes were focused on her as she propped her purse on the counter. She pictured them taking notice of her heavy sweater and fur-trimmed shoes on a Texas evening which could easily be short-sleeve weather.
"I'll get you a nice glass of cool water," said Tonni. "And one of our chili cinnamon cookies — on the house." She disappeared inside the kitchen in response to Drew's flat smile.