Heartstrings in B-Flat Minor

by Scott Johnson

  Ruth sees her daughter’s discomfort but doesn’t waver. “Take your time, dear.”

  Sheryl chokes on her words, saying, “Um, let me think this through a minute.”

  “Of course.”

  They concentrate on the invisible sun’s colorful but fading curtain until it gives way to nightfall and twinkling stars above the Pacific. “Unbelievable!” declares a lone voice in the beach crowd. Ruth and Sheryl people-watch under a starlit full-moon night.

  After a while, Ruth coyly asks, “So … were you going to tell me all about Jamaica?”

  “Oh yeah, Mom … err, make that ‘yeah, mon’!”

  They share a good laugh. Sheryl has no idea what her next words will be, but she senses that her mother feels more like being a friend or sister tonight, pressing, as she is, for inside gossip on Sheryl’s love life. Sadly, for Sheryl, that’s what Jamaica boils down to: gossip fodder. She knows this isn’t the type of gossip her mom is ready to hear. Sheryl also fears the heavy burden that keeping this story top secret would place on her mom. If Sheryl is ready to share her truths, it will have to be with complete confidentiality.

  Ruth interrupts her thoughts. “Are you all right, dear?”

  Sheryl didn’t realize she was spacing out; under the gun, now, it’s fact-facing time. Who else does she have for the sharing of such secrets? It has to be Mom. Sheryl has been wanting to talk with her about Sterling and her abortion for ages. The problem is, she’s never really decided whether or not talking about it all would be the right thing to do.

  Inwardly, though, Sheryl reasons, Maybe this is my only chance. I have to take this chance. Staring down Pacific rollers, she suddenly states aloud, “I could dance around a lot of stuff that happened down there, Mom, but the basic thing of it all is … I got involved with a man. Pretty seriously too, and he’s a black man.”

  Ruth looks unfazed. “Dear, your father and I both know you must run into romantic adventures on the road—I mean, that would be expected. And if you’re in Jamaica, I suppose the odds are it would be with a black man.”

  “So you understand?” asks Sheryl.

  “Of course, dear,” Ruth says with love yet concern.

  “Would Dad?”

  “You should talk with him yourself.”

  “I don’t know where it’s going, Mom, so why bring it up with Dad? I just thought I’d run it past you. So please, keep it between us—okay?” Sheryl is on the verge of tears.

  Ruth pauses for thought before answering. “I’m not used to keeping secrets from your father, so the thought of it stresses me greatly. But of course, Sheryl—just between us girls, I promise.”

  Overcome with emotion, Sheryl takes Ruth’s extended hand and clarifies, “By the way, Mom, he’s not Jamaican. He’s American.”

  “Oh.”

  “Does that make a difference?”

  “I don’t suppose it does. But with him being an American, at least you have that in common.”

  “Right,” concurs Sheryl, figuring her mom means they must have little else in common.

  “For starters,” Ruth says in an upbeat way, “that’s good to have that bond, considering how internationally you travel.” She laughs and continues, “It will remind you you’re still American. What else can you tell me about him? What’s his name?”

  “He’s a licensed doctor and an entrepreneur, a very interesting guy. Worked his way up from nothing. His name is Sterling.”

  “I see. He does sound interesting. Tell me how you met.”

  Sheryl starts from the beginning at Makeup Is Us and then recalls the long period in which they went their separate ways, starting off their careers, until the KTC reunion that led to his being hired for the Jamaican run of tours. She spares no details as she talks of her detour off the straight and narrow, starting with the moonlit night she first tried ganja.

  “Oh my,” declares Ruth, appearing dizzy over the whole scenario.

  “I know, Mom. I know. It gets worse.” Sheryl describes her frisky behavior under beach palms, and Ruth appears to be nearly in shock. Luckily for Sheryl, who knows the most shocking revelation is yet to come, the steadily cresting waves become an auditory and visual distraction. They periodically break the conversation under the light of a brilliant moon glowing down upon Diamond Head not so very far away. Surfers and canoeists have disappeared. Peace. Hawaii.

  Underneath it all, however, Sheryl aggressively questions herself about the wisdom of having laid out so much, so fast, for her mom. She can imagine how confusing it must be to hear of one’s sometimes-Bible-thumping daughter holing up with some guy in Jamaica, virtually on a sex romp from a mom’s point of view. Sheryl’s tortured imagination spins.

  She struggles to say, “Mom, you’re being wonderful about this.”

  “Nothing about this is easy, Sheryl. I’m really struggling to understand you now.”

  Sheryl stammers, “Oh, I just … I only wish there wasn’t more I have to confess, but—”

  Ruth cuts her off. “Wait a minute now, Sheryl—you don’t have to confess anything to me. That’s never been the case. Your option is to not say another word. You know that.”

  “I know.”

  Ruth sighs, adding, “But I’m here to hear it if that’s your intention.”

  “Which I appreciate,” chokes Sheryl. “That’s why I’m talking so much, Mommy.” She breaks into tears. So does Ruth. Metronomic wave action masks their teary discussion from the beach crowd. Everyone seems to be in their own little world.

  Sheryl cries, “I’ve been carrying shameful secrets. It’s just too much for me to bear alone. I have to tell somebody.” Her tears fall faster, and she begins hyperventilating.

  Ruth reaches for her hand. “Oh, my little girl, please, just tell Mommy.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Just let it out.”

  “I’ve had an abortion.”

  “Oh my God,” Ruth reflexively responds before going speechless.

  Sheryl fears that her mother, who was so relaxed, now has been staggered and stunned. She can only hope her mom will handle these new stresses that Sheryl has brought upon her as well and routinely as she’s always managed to handle everything else. Sheryl is pretty stunned in her own right.

  Finally, Ruth speaks. “It’s hard to find the words, Sheryl, but I’m sure you’ve paid quite a price. You can’t punish yourself forever. God forgives as long as we’ve sincerely changed our ways. You know that, so now remember that.”

  Wondering whether her mom simply forgot to say that she forgives her daughter too, Sheryl only manages to say, “Thanks, Mom,” while struggling with her emotions in public.

  There are, in fact, still no people watching them. Most gazes remain cast upon the moon or on a lover’s spellbound eyes. With their chaises huddled close together and set off a bit from others, Sheryl regains a sense of privacy and begins to calm down. She also thinks better of sharing her investment news with her mom on top of everything else.

  Recollecting the worst days of her life, Sheryl never has felt so ashamed. She is grateful when the trade winds pick up and gently massage her temples. Once more, the perpetually rolling Pacific takes command of her senses. Its steady wave of relaxing rollers further hypnotizes the entire beach crowd, already lost in admiring the astral nightscape.

  Somewhere on the beach, a lone ukulele plays “Tiny Bubbles.” A stray voice with training picks up on vocals to everyone’s amazement. So goes another magical night in Hawaii.

  The mother-and-child reunion lulls into its final countdown, their relationship now seeking new comfort and discomfort levels. With packing, shuttles, and a long flight ahead, this vacation officially ends now. In more than a few ways, it has been one for the books.

  Later, in her bed, Sheryl sobs into her pillow. “Aloha, Mom. I’m sorry.”

  Chapter 10
/>   MEXICAN STANDOFF

  American Cuisine Grill’s revolving door spews out Sheryl onto the shoveled and salted sidewalk. Lingering thoughts of Mom and Hawaii have her thinking of how that initial $20,000 investment in Sterling’s company by now has more than doubled in size. But she still has nothing to show for any of it except more stock certificates and paperwork promising luxury vehicles soon to come. Verbal promises also abound—of marriage, kids, and a great house near the lake.

  The revolving door next deposits Sterling outside behind her. The blustery winter weather has calmed, as though the eye of a wintry hurricane has settled over downtown. Silently, they trudge along Diversey past other hardy pedestrians blazing trails, everyone all bundled up against the cold. Some people must be in better moods than others, puffing out clouds of air while going wherever it is they are going.

  Sheryl is not so energetic. Her mood remains reflective. It seems this day is nothing but memories. It is as if her life is passing before her eyes, her thoughts darting back over the years, taking advantage of the continued silence between Sterling and her.

  She thinks of Acapulco, always a favorite stop this time of year. Acapulco is also memorable for having been her first destination trip after the tragic encounter with a scalpel.

  Her fondness for Acapulco makes it an ideal location for regaining her travel legs while recovering—on the surface anyway, at least physically. She hopes that a solo getaway trip there will help her emotional wounds as well.

  La Vista Hermosa del Mar Hotel sits on lushly landscaped grounds elevated high above an impeccable beach. Everything sparkles. It needs to—because Sheryl is far from sparkling mentally. She distracts herself with a brief private tour of the facilities, given that she also is scouting this new beachfront resort for KTC in trade-off for some of her expenses.

  After the tour, a tropically dressed Sheryl puts on her dark sunglasses and leaves behind her junior suite with a great view, heading for the grand veranda she saw on the tour. It overlooks a large infinity pool packed with baking tourists and the beach even further below. Along the way, she pauses at a makeshift bar dealing out free margaritas. Sheryl thinks, What the heck? When in Rome, eh?

  Drink now in hand, she wanders through a partying pool crowd, eventually reaching an ornately tiled staircase down to the sandy playa. Barefoot traffic moves both up and down the stairs, some revelers stepping in beat to the party music pulsating in the background from the pool. Everyone is seemingly having a good time; the crowd is energetic yet very laid-back.

  Sheryl sheds her sandals, spots an available palapa, and beats a beer-bellied competitor to the sheltered lounger. He bows out like a gentleman, though with a forced smile. She stretches back in her private beachfront perch and takes a long sip on the margarita.

  “Ah, so refreshing,” she can’t help saying aloud. Jeez, I’m drinking, she thinks in sudden wonderment, mildly aghast at the thought. Well, just this one, she thinks, and she means it.

  Sheryl spaces out on the great visuals of the beach and the bay itself, thinking that best of all about this Acapulco jaunt is that she’s not working. She told Sterling she was but more truthfully told Kearns she needed time away, solo. He asked no questions and got her a great deal. “Here’s to Thomas Kearns!” toasts Sheryl to the breeze, thinking what a wonderful boss she has had in him. I have to get back to thinking more of my career again! she resolves. This whole pregnancy crisis with Sterling really took me off-track. Sterling took me off-track, period. Luckily for her, it seems Kearns remains open to her full-time return.

  Lounging in comfort, thinking of how many beaches she’s enjoyed through the years, she admires the bay and its jaunty, nautical traffic. A few whitecaps are pleasing to her eye, just as a cacophony of sounds from the bay pleases her ear. Gradually, Sheryl notices a well-tanned couple in their fifties relaxing in the shade of a neighboring palapa. They’ve already noticed her.

  “Welcome,” says the man in a Canadian accent. “I’m Jack. This is my wife, Irene.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jack and Irene. I’m Sheryl.”

  Irene asks, “How do you like it so far?”

  “I was thinking it couldn’t be any better.”

  “That’s the spirit,” agrees Jack.

  “The whole truth,” warbles Irene.

  Approaching from down the beach is a large balding man, in his fifties like Jack and Irene. Obviously anxious and disturbed over something, he’s also crisply sunburned. He speaks urgently with an Italian accent. “Hey, Jack, you seen Carlita?”

  “Not today, Marco.” Turning to Irene, Jack asks, “How about you, Irene? Seen Carlita around?”

  “I’ve been here drinking with you all day, Jack. If you haven’t seen her, neither have I, you know.” Irene seems ambivalent about Marco and most certainly about Carlita.

  Jack, though, shows genuine concern. “Sorry, Marco. We’ll keep an eye out for her.”

  “Thanks. If you see her, tell her I’m looking for her.”

  “Of course,” promises Jack, “but don’t worry, man—you’ll find her.”

  “Yes, sure,” mutters Marco as he walks off, burned skin glistening in the sun.

  Jack dishes, “That Marco there, what a guy, down from Toronto. He has a little girlfriend here he visits once a year. Quite the ladies’ man.”

  Sheryl can’t see it. “This Marco guy?”

  “Believe it. Always some kind of trouble going on here for him,” Jack quips, “but he keeps coming back for more. And he’s about as Italian anymore as you or me. He’s been in Toronto twenty-five years but never lost the accent. Thinks it’s good for business.” Jack becomes distracted by a group of women in thongs passing in front of him on their way to the shoreline.

  Irene doesn’t skip a beat in response to Jack’s mental departure. She dutifully takes over, telling Sheryl, “Marco’s got a landscaping business and a wife and kids.”

  “Yeah,” Jack chimes in, “and every February, he’s down here for a landscapers’ convention. He got hooked up with this little Carlita five or six years ago.”

  Sheryl asks, “What’s his excuse now? This isn’t February. It’s prime season back home.”

  “Well, he’s pretty busy down here right now,” snipes Irene, turning back to her glass.

  Jack speculates, “Who knows what he told the little woman back home? But there’s trouble here in paradise, it seems, no denying it—with this Carlita and her family.”

  Irene snaps, “She’s pregnant. Bet on it.”

  “Oh, come on now,” counters Jack.

  “Come on where? That’s the trouble here,” insists Irene. “And what a show she put on prancing around the bar the other night in those cheap sheers, like some sexpot.”

  Jack chuckles. “By golly, she sure did make hotel security nervous. They don’t much like the local ladies partying with guests on the premises.”

  “That’s understandable,” Sheryl says. She finishes her drink. “Well, I think I’ll check out the rest of the beach.” Getting up, she gives a slight wave. “See you around.”

  “You betcha,” Jack and Irene respond together.

  Sheryl walks the shoreline along with an eclectic mix of vacationing foreigners, plus all types of locals, from panhandlers to the moneyed. Volleyball games and Frisbee-tossing beach bums are scattered along the beach. Parasailers fill the overhead sky. Boston Whaler rentals cruise with the big girls of the bay, a large double-decker booze-cruise boat and a three-masted sailing ship, the latter being a Mexican Navy midshipmen trainer. WaveRunners dart everywhere.

  Sheryl nears a pier at the far end of the beach that also attracts foot traffic from a nearby retail strip. She thoroughly enjoys her surroundings, taking it all in, including the sighting of a young girl walking a barking dog. The happy mutt longs to run, but his pubescent master maintains control of his leash.

  A shuttle bus a
rrives at the retail strip and begins to unload. Sheryl spots someone she recognizes among the emerging passengers: Marco, the Italian Canadian from the hotel. He’s not alone. Keeping pace with him in choppy little steps, thanks to stacked-sole sandals, is a little Mexican woman in hot pink short-shorts. Sheryl figures this must be Carlita. At around twenty-five, Sheryl guesses, she sports a second-trimester tummy peeking out from beneath a short blouse.

  The interesting couple heads for a little taco shop. Sheryl watches the two order through one window and then step to another to wait for their food. Seeing Carlita’s little baby bump brings memories of Sheryl’s unexpected pregnancy and the recent ending of it, draining all the fun out of what till now has been a great day. Her sad experience is a very new add-on to her life, always below the surface, resurfacing in waves of grief. So this is how it’s going to be, she reflects sadly. Reminders will be everywhere.

  She finds a bench and sits down beside a local woman. They trade smiles before Sheryl retreats to the drama playing out inside her head, a drama that now costars Carlita. Like a new word that suddenly keeps popping up, making a person wonder why she has never heard it before—Sheryl now worries that’s how it will be for her with pregnancies, never before much on her radar but now ever popping up, encroaching upon her life with unwanted memories. What a fate that would be, she thinks, torturing herself.

  Desperate to reset her day, Sheryl hops onto an architectural tour boat readying to launch from the pier. After all, she’s on vacation, right? Why not be spontaneous? As the double-decker tour boat departs to the scenic bay, she silently tries to cheer herself. Let’s brighten up! Nevertheless, she frets, Maybe I have this suffering coming—my sentence.

  Glorious sunlight drenches Sheryl on the large catamaran’s upper deck, helping melt her melancholy. The tour guide of the good ship Aca Tiki gives, in English, a complete history of all the hotels they are passing along the hotel zones. He also shares a wealth of knowledge about various harbors, navy docks, and once they are past all the congested areas of the bay, the many infamous private villas looking down from the cliffs high above.