The Road of Life

by Lorena Franco

  “Whatheels?”Thedoormanasked,laughing.

  Ilookeddown.Iwasn’twearingheels,butapairofoldwhitesneakersinstead.Mygrey skirthadturnedintoapairofrippedjeans,myelegantandveryexpensivePradashirtwasa darkgrey,highneckjumperthatwasitchyandmyjacketandwonderfulcoatthathadcostme thefrivolousamountofeleventhousanddollars,hadturnedintoabluejacketthatlookedlikeit could have been purchased at any second-hand market. I looked like a beggar. What kind of cursehadbeenputonme?

  “Okay...What’sgoingonhere?”AllIwantedtodowascry.

  “I don’t know, ma’am. You tell me.” He replied coldly. “Or you leave now or I call the policeimmediately.

  Ididn’tfeellikespendingthenightinajailcell,so,obedientlyandnotunderstandingatall whatwasgoingon,IwalkeddowntotheparkinglotwhereatleastmybeautifulPorschewas waitingforme.Ididn’trecognizethepurseIwascarryingeither.TheoneIwascarryingwas ofafakebrownleathermaterialwithhorribletassels,butmykeyswereinsideit,atleast.That wasmyonlycomfort,Iwouldn’thavetosleeponthestreet.Iclimbedinsideandcursedatnot havingaspaciousfamilysizedcar,Istretchedouttohaveashortnap.

  The short nap turned into a deep sleep that lasted twelve hours. When I realized, it was already eight in the morning. Somewhat confused and quite cold, I put the keys in the engine anddecidedtogototheofficetospeaktoStuart.Irefusedtostayangryathim.Hehadplayed a cruel joke on me, okay... we were even. Everything would go back to normal after that strangenight.ButmyPorschedidn’tseemtowanttostart.Ilookedaround.Theseatswereno longerthewhiteleatherIknew,butwereofahorrendousgreycolorwithredspots.Igotoutof thecar and placedmy hands onmy head as Idiscovered that myelegant Porsche had turned intoarun-downandoldredFiat.SomebodyhadtakenmyPorsche.Theyhadtakenadvantage

  ofmydeepsleeptochangethecarwhileIsleptandtheyhadtakenit.Ihadnoexplanationfor myclothes...true.Butthejokehadgonewaytoofar.

  Imanagedtogettotheofficeatninethirtyinthemorning,butthelargesecuritygorillason thegatewouldn’tletmepass.

  “You’re making a terrible mistake! Do you have any idea who you’re talking to? You’re bothfired!”Securitygorillanumberonelaughedrightatme.

  “Withacrazywoman,I’mtalkingtoacrazywomanwithnoIDcard.Domeafavorandget outofmysight.”Securitygorillanumbertwosuggested.

  “IamNoraClayton!Executivevicepresidentofthiscompany!”Ihadtoputupwithmore laughterfromthetwogorillas.“Verywell,I’mgoingtocallMichael.I’msurethathehasn’t heardaboutthisstupidjokefromtheCaribbeanyet.”

  Ilookedformyponeinmybagtonoavail.Itwasn’tthere,ithadbeenstolen!

  “Fine,I’lltalktohimatanothertime.”Isaid,feelingembarrassed.

  “Come on, miss. Stop making a fool of yourself and get out of here.” Security gorilla numberonesaidthreateningly.

  Ilookedupatthecompanywithtearsinmyeyesandwiththelaughterofthetwosecurity gorillasbehindme.Ididn’tknowwhattodo,theyhadalsotakenmycreditcardsandIonly had ten measly dollars in a Hello Kitty purse and a card that I had never seen before in my life.

  Iturnedaroundanddecidedtodriveaimlesslyaroundthecity.Forthefirsttimeinmylife, Ididn’tcareabouttheheavytraffic,giventhatitwasalsothefirsttimeinmylifethatIwasn’t inahurry,nordidIhaveaplacetogo.Ithoughtaboutmymother.Ihadn’tthoughtaboutherfor alongtime.Ourrelationshipwasinexistent,shehadneveracceptedthatIhadwantedtoleave PennsylvaniatotrymyluckinNewYork.Iwassurethat,deepdown,shewasnothappyabout mysuccess.ShehadalwayswantedmetostayinKutztown,workingonthefarmthatshehad inherited from her parents. I hated Kutztown, but I really had no other place to go. It looked likeIhadabsolutelynothinginNewYork...notevenmygoddamnhighheeledshoes.Istarted crying again, thinking about Matt, who hadn’t even recognized his own mother, his mother! I hadneverbeenawayfromhimformorethanaweekandduringthiscraziness,itlookedlikeI hadnoplaceinhislifeatall.Ireallywasastrangertohim.Itdidn’tseemlikeajoke...itwas alltoostrange,somethingyouwouldonlyseeatthemoviesorreadinabook,whoseauthor musthavebeenhighonmarihuanatocreatestorieslikethat.

  I decided to leave New York without looking back and return to my origins in search of answers.Sometimes,youhavetostepbackadistancetobeabletofindthesolution.Thereare times,whenyouhavetogetlosttobeabletofindyourselfagain.

  RETURNINGTOKUTZTOWN

  AtadistanceoftwohoursawayfromNewYork,arrivinginKutztownwaslikegoingbackto mypast.ApastthatIhadleftbehindmealong,longtimeago...ThelasttimeIlefttheroadI was now driving down, the corn was high in the fields... it was the summer of 1994 and eighteenyearshadpassedsincethen.Theidyllicfarmswerestillthere,holdingoffthepassage oftimesincethetownhadbeenfoundedintheyear1815,withitbeingconsideredoneofthe oldesttownsofthecountyofBerks,afterthecityofReading.Themostpopularthingaboutthe townwhereIhadbeenbornwasthefolkloricfestivalwhichwascelebratedeachyearduring themonthofJuly,andwewerewellknownforourGerman-Americanculture.Manyvisitors from all around came for the food, music and crafts. They were the best days of the year...

  Aside from that, I had hated my life there and I couldn’t believe that I was returning to my origins.Throughoutthejourney,Icouldnotforgeteverythingthathadhappenedtomeinless thantwenty-fourhours.HowStuarthadrefusedtoletmeenterourhome,howmysonhadcried because a stranger wanted to get into his house... how the doorman had chucked me out and how the security guys at the company had laughed at me. I also couldn’t find a reasonable explanationformyexpensiveandelegantclothesturningintocheapragsorhowmyluxurious carhadchangedintoanother,verydifferentone.Iwasstillconvincedthatitwassomekindof terriblejoke... one thatwasn’t at allfunny. Yes, the TVcameras would bewaiting for me in Kutztownand,eventhoughIwouldnotfinditfunnyatfirst,Iwassurethatitwouldbeagreat anecdotetotellinthefuture.OrmaybeIwasdreaming...Ipinchedmycheek.Ithurt.Itwasa nightmare,anightmarethatIwouldwakeupfrom,lyingnexttoStuart,inmybeautifulbedwith mymarvelousquiltthatIboughtinLondon...Iwantedtoseemyson,topreparehislunchfor school,whichhewouldmostprobablythrowaway...andIwantedtoreturntomyoffice,the sameonethatIhadwantedtorunfromeachmorning,becauseIhadturnedintoahag.Icriedas Isawhowbeautifulthetownwasinwinter.Thegreenfieldsandthetypicalvegetablemarket withlocalproduce,alongwiththeaviationschool;allofthatwelcomedmebackand,onthe contrarytoNewYork,Icouldfeelthefreshairinmylungs,withtheroadtomyself,without anyheavytraffictodrivememad.

  The farms disappeared and gave way to the houses that I knew so well. In Kutztown, everybody knew each other and it didn’t matter if ten or even twenty years had passed, the housesremainedthesame...asdidthetownsfolk.SomeofthemgreetedmehappilyasIdrove byinmyshabbycar.Theystillrememberedme...Finally,Ireachedthehousebelongingtomy mother,Nicole.Although,inaway,itwasabitofarelieftohavesomewheretogo,another partofmepreferredtostayinthecar,drivingeternallywithouthavingtofacea... “Soyou’ve finallydecidedtocome.Itwasabouttime.”

  Momwasplantingnewflowersaroundtheweepingwillowinthefrontgarden.Shewas

  nevergoodwithflowers...thathadalwaysbeenmyfather’sjob,whodiedfromlungcancer twenty years ago. We had been left so alone... f
rom that moment on, my mother promised

  herself that there would always be flowers in the garden. Even if that meant that she had to changethemeveryfifteendaysbecausetheyalwaysdied.Therearesomepeoplethatyoujust don’thitoffwith,evenifthatpersonisyourmother.Supposedly,thewomanwhogaveachild lifehadtobeoneofthemainpeoplewhenitcametoaperson’sfate.Forme,shewasalways the woman who embarrassed me in front of others with her strange behavior, her outlandish clothes and her poorly refined personality. Mom did and said what she wanted, when she wanted,withouttakingintoaccountotherpeople’sfeelings.Eighteenyearswithoutseeingeach otherwasalongtime.Andnow...rightatthatmoment...shewasnotsupposedtobeagrandma, Iwasnotamother...thelifethatIknewnolongerexisted.Whatwashappeningtome?

  Shelookedatme,smilingand,afterafewsecondsthought,Ifinallydecidedtogetoutof thecar.

  “Himom...”Isaidshyly.

  “Aren’tyousupposedtobeworking,dear?”Sheasked,kissingmeonthecheek.

  “What?”Ididn’tunderstand.Shehadn’tseenmeforeighteenyearsandshewasaskingme aboutwork?Notahug,oranyharshwords,tellingmethatIhadforgottenaboutherandthatit hadbeenyearssinceIhadgonetovisither.

  “In your workshop. Yesterday you told me that you were doing really well. What you artistscallinspiration.”

  “Artist?Mom,whatareyousaying?Wehaven’tseeneachotherforeighteenyears...”

  “Sweetheart,areyousick?You’reactingverystrange.Comein,I’llmaketea.”

  Momremovedherdirtfilledglovesand,withincredibleenergy,forcedmetogoinsidethe house, but not before greeting the neighbor, Mrs. Collins, with a stiff nod of my head. We walkedintothekitchen.ItwasjusthowIrememberedittobe.Thedecorationhadn’tchanged onebitandtheembarrassingphotosofmychildhoodandteenswerestillabovethefireplace.

  Thatwastheworstpartaboutbeinganonlychild,eachandeveryoneofthephotosyouhad, evenifitlookedlikeyouhadn’tsleptinaweekorhadjustsmokedajoint,wereexposedfor everyone who walked into the house to see. I sat down, still confused and not really understandingwhatwasgoingon.Ilookedaroundmewiththeaimofdiscoveringthehidden cameras,buttherewasnobodyornothingthere.Justmymother,whowaspreparingapotof teathatsmelledfunny.Twominuteslater,sheservedmeacupandIdidn’tevenknowwhereto begin.

  “So,you’resayingthat...ithasn’tbeeneighteenyearssincewehaveseeneachother?”I asked.

  “Eighteenyears?Haveyousmokedsomethingfunny?Darling,weseeeachothereveryday.

  Youliveclosetohereandyouhaveyourworkshopinwhatusedtobethefarm’sstoreroom.”

  “Thefarm?DoIworkthere?”

  “No, you couldn’t take over the farm once you had so many orders coming in and we handeditovertoFrank...Darling,youknowallofthis.”Sheexplained,touchingmyforehead insearchofafever.

  “Frank!Howishe?”FrankandIhadknowneachotherforever.Hisonlygoalinlifewas toremaininthetownandliveaquietlife.Anyjobwasgoodforhim.Hedidn’treallyhavea lotofaspirations.

  “Frank?Butyouseeeachothereveryday!Istillthinkthere’ssomethinggoingonbetween youto,evenifyoudenyit.Darling,doyouhaveafever?”

  “Something going on with Frank? Seriously... Frank? Just thinking about it gave me the chills.

  MentioningMattwouldbemadness.TellingherthatIhadlivedinNewYorkforthepast eighteen years and that I was the executive vice president of one of the most important pharmaceuticalcompaniesinthecountrywasalsomadness.ExplainingthatIwasthedaughter-in-lawofoneoftheexecutivepresidents,thatIhadmarriedahotmodelandthatIlivedina luxuriousapartmentontheUpperEastSidewaspossiblytheworstideaatthatmoment.Unless Iwantedtobelockedupinanuthouse,insteadofstayinginKutztown.

  “Willyoucomewithmetotheworkshop?”Iwantedtocry.Ijustwantedtocryatseeing myself in a live that I could have chosen, but that hadn’t even been an option. What had happened?Iwantedtoseemyson!IwantedtobewithMatt!HowcouldIwakeupfromthis goddamnnightmare?

  “Ofcourse,dear.Butdrinkyourteafirst.”

  Theteawashorrible.Sourandfoul-smelling,itwasworsethanhavingtodrinkthenasty coughsyrupsthatmymotherhadforcedmetodrinkwhenIwasyoungerandhadacold.

  Myworkshop...Iwasapainter!Andagoodoneatthat.AsIwalkedintothebackroomthat had once been a storage room for all of the tools used on the farm, I saw loads of works of abstractartthatIwouldhaveboughtatanyNewYorkartgallerythatIusedtogotowhenever Ihadthetime.TheplacewhereIsupposedlycreatedtheseworksofartwaslocatedinfrontof theonlywindowintheroom;fromwhereIcouldseethevastforestthatsurroundedthefarmin which, by the looks of things, my friend Frank worked. My mother could see on my face a mixtureofconfusionandshockatwhatIwasseeing.Icouldn’tbelieveit.Icouldn’thavedone all of that... my job, (the one I knew) was not at all creative and here, there was art and creativityineachandeveryoneofthecornersoftheworkshop.

  “Darling,didyouhityourheadorsomething?”Mymotherasked,afraid.

  “No, mom! I haven’t hit my head. Really strange things are happening.” I said, walking aroundwhatwasmyworkshopandIstilldidn’tseeitassuch.

  Then,IrememberedapassingthoughthatIhadthoughtattheageoffifteen.Ihadwantedto studyArt,Ihadalwaysliketopaint,butitwassomethingthatIhadforgottencompletelydueto myfreneticlifeinNewYork.Ithought...Wasitpossiblethatthiswasn’tajoke?Oradream?

  WasitpossiblethatIwaslivinginsomesortofparallelworldinwhichIwasapainterwho livedinherhometown?Wasthatevenpossible?Icouldn’trememberhavingdrunkanything

  strange, aside from my mother’s tea... and everything had happened before that. I had quit smokingattheageoftwenty-five,soitcouldn’tbethateither.ThatwaswhenIsawtheashtray fullofcigarettebuttsnexttooneoftheunorganizedanddirtypaintstations.DidIcontinueto smokeinthisparallelworld?Seriously?Atmythirty-sixyearsofage?

  “Darling,let’sgotothedoctor.”Mymothercontinued.

  “Nodoctors.Iwantyoutotellmeaboutmylife.

  “Wellifyoudon’tknowaboutit...”

  “Mom,please.”

  “You’rethirtysixyearsold...”Shelaughed,rollinghereyesasifIwereplayingsomesort ofgamewithher,whenIstillhadthehopethatitwasapracticaljokeairedontelevision,kind oflike “TheTrumanShow.”... “YouhavenothadanyknownrelationshipsinceMarkwentto live in New York, although I still think there’s something between you and Frank...” She insisted, wrinkling her forehead more than usual. “You studied art at the Pennsylvania College...balancingyourstudieswithhelpingmeatthefarm.Then,youweresuccessfulasan artist and we handed the farm over to Frank... you live a very tranquil life, and I would say verysadandlonelyaswell.”

  “Sadandlonely?Mark?”IknewwhoMarkwas.AndIfounditimpossibletohavehada relationshipwithhim.Hewasalwayssopretentiousandself-centered,Ihadneverlikedhim.I hatedMark!

  “Yes,andIthinkyoushouldgiveupsmoking.”Sherecommended,pickinguptheashtray and, with a disgusted look on her face, she threw the cigarette butts into an enormous black trashbag.IsighedasIrememberedhowhardithadbeenformetostopsmokinginwhatnow seemedtobeacompletelydifferentlife.

  “AnddoyouandIgetalong?”

  “Of course. Since I was told that I have cancer, you don’t le
ave me alone even for a moment.”

  “What?”Myfacepaled.

  “Darling!It’sokay,wecametotermswithitagesago.”Shesmiled.

  Andthen,shetookoffherwig.Anhourbefore,whenIfirstsawhereaftereighteenyears,I hadn’t noticed anything strange. I just thought she had changed her hairstyle. She showed me herbaldheadandIinstantlysawtheseriousnessofthesituation.Mymotherwasgoingthrough chemotherapytreatmenttofightagainsthercancer.Anillnessthathadalreadytakenmyfather twenty years before. I couldn’t stop myself from crying like a little girl. My mother walked overtomeandhuggedme.Thelasttimeshehadhuggedmewaswhenmyfatherhaddied...

  One of her hugs was another way of saying “It’s going to be bad. But there is a solution.

  Everything will be alright in the end and if it’s not... we’ll fight through. We have no choice.”

  During the strangest hours of my entire life, I thought that the hardest part was not being abletoseeMatt.Theworstmoment,whenhehadaskedwhoIwas.Thesecondworstmoment wasthisone...findingoutthatmymotherhadcancerandnotknowingifshewouldgetbetteror ifthepossibilitiesoflosingthebattlewerehigh.Ifeltterriblewithmyselfandthesituation.

  Badforhavingabandonedher,usingourdifferentandincompatiblepersonalitiesasanexcuse toleave.BadforhavinglivedalifethatIhadthoughtIhadwantedandterribleforlivingthe

  onethatIhadneverchosen.WhywasIhere?Whatwashappening?Ilookedatmymother’s wigandimmediately,asifbyinertia,Itouchedmyhair.AndIrecalledthethinandveryshort employee with large eyes back at the company, who had pulled two hairs from my head and hadranoff.Ilookeddownatthefloor.Hadshedonesometypeofvoodooonme?Ihadnever believedinthatsortofstuff...butwhatelsecoulditbe?Thequestionsflewaroundmyhead, causingahorrendousmentalchaos.IfIsurvivedthisanddidn’tenduphavingastroke,Icould surviveanything.