she said. “By all means, I beg of you, do keep open the questions of youth. As if they’re the important thing.” She turned to go. “That’s what your father said, too, by the way. But perhaps you’ll need your mother’s name, if you’re going to be looking for her, and all.” She fell silent and waited.
Why was she waiting? As if she were holding her breath for me to choose to stay or choose to go. But she gave me a car! I had to go.
I had to.
“What was her name?” I asked, defiantly.
Emma lifted her teacup off the table, her gray face tight, her gray eyes sober. “Lorna Moor.”
Lorna Moor!
My mother hadn’t left a letter. But she did send a postcard. Emma showed it to me. It had daffodils on a Main Street and beyond them cliffs and a hard-breaking ocean. Mendocino, California, the card’s location read, and in small sloppy handwriting, “Say hi to Shelby.”
This is how you move toward the rest of your life: sometimes by repetition and, sometimes, by revolution.
It was a beautiful late June morning when I set off. I got to Gina’s house around nine. It had taken longer than expected to pack up and get out. I had told Gina to be ready at eight. I think I milled around for a few extra minutes to see if Emma would say something to me. What, no words of wisdom? She said, “Do you have what you need?”
And I said, “Yes.”
“You don’t.” She brought something out from my bedroom. “You forgot this.” She was holding my pillow with the pink cotton jersey cover. “You know how you don’t like to sleep without it.”
She was right, I didn’t like to sleep without my pillow. “I don’t want to take it, Emma,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m going to forget it in a motel room. I’d rather have it waiting for me when I come back.”
Emma laid it down on the kitchen table. “Okay.”
Absurdly I kept feeling my cash, all of it in one large manila folder. It made me feel vulnerable carrying it like that; one snatch, the whole trip over. I should have bought a purse. But what was I going to do, carry $2000 in my purse to the convenience stores to get a Coke? But now what to do with it? Leave it in the glove compartment? I opted for the bottom of my suitcase, all except twenty bucks in the back of my shorts for drinks and things.
Emma gave me a pat with a little squeeze. “Be well,” she said. “Be good.” She didn’t even say be careful. Personally I would’ve thought that was a prerequisite, but what do I know. Perhaps a mother would’ve said it.
At Gina’s house, her mother, Kathy Reed, was fussing over her like … well, like a mother whose eldest daughter was taking an unprecedented trek across the country. Morning, evening, Kathy Reed was always exceptionally coiffed and this morning was no exception. Made up and in a soft-knit skirt, she carried Gina’s suitcase to the car herself, stepping across the lawn in her beige three-inch heels. “Shelby! I haven’t seen you in ages.” She hugged me, smiled. “How’ve you been?”
“Very good, Mrs. Reed,” I said, but she was already walking back to the house to fetch another bag. I hoped it would fit in my trunk.
Gina’s grandmother was there, too, hobbling on her cane, muttering, trying to dispense advice. “Bring a jacket. You’ll get cold.” “Bring a book. Shelby, did you bring a book?” “Bring all the telephone numbers in case of emergency.”
All telephone numbers? I mouthed to Gina. Like all telephone numbers? She laughed.
“Bring quarters.” The dogs were barking, the cat was underfoot.
I kept my distance from the goings-on; to me Gina didn’t look ready to go, and I didn’t want to be in her way. I kept glancing at my watch, hoping that would give somebody a sense of urgency. We needed to get through New Jersey and Pennsylvania today, stop somewhere in Ohio. That was 500 miles away, but we could do it if we left immediately, hit only a little traffic going through New York City, maintained 50 mph on I-78 west, and kept the stops to a minimum. One for gas, one for drinks …
“Remember, don’t eat any of the cannoli,” I overheard Mrs. Reed instructing. “My sister loves these. She can’t get them in Baltimore.”
I came out of my geographical reverie, narrowed my eyes. Suddenly I was paying attention. Mrs. Reed might as well have slapped her hands together at the end of my nose.
“Um,” I said, aptly. “Um, excuse me, your sister?”
“Yes, you know Flo, Shelby,” said Mrs. Reed. “Gina’s aunt. You’ve met her many times at Christmas. She lives in Baltimore.”
“Of course. I like her very much. Does she … live in Baltimore? When did she move there?” I thought Flo lived right around the corner. Didn’t all aunts?
“Well, Kathy, actually, near Baltimore,” the mother-in-law, propped by her cane, corrected her daughter-in-law about the whereabouts of her daughter-in-law’s sister. “Near the airport.”
“Scottie,” said Mrs. Reed impatiently, “Glen Burnie is still considered Baltimore.”
“Well, it’s really its own little town. Probably better to say near Baltimore …”
I cleared my throat, trying to catch Gina’s eye and anybody’s attention. “Gina?”
Gina said nothing, busying herself with looking through her bag, muttering, “I hope I have everything …”
“Now, Gina, remember …”
“Wait, wait,” I cut in. “What does Baltimore have to do with us? We’re not going to Baltimore.”
“Not going to Baltimore?” said Mrs. Reed. “Then how are you going to get the Pomeranians to Aunt Flo if you’re not going to Baltimore?”
“The whatteranians?”
Gina was still studiously ascertaining if her bag was ready for travel. We were standing on the brick path near the front lawn, the birds were chirping and she was solemnly bent over, rummaging for hair clips. That’s when I noticed the barking cage. It was pointed out to me by Gina’s mother and grandmother, the latter with her cane, that was now a canine pointer-outer.
“Gina!” That was Mrs. Reed, not me. “You told me Shelby was all right with it. You told me you spoke to her!”
“I was going to, Mom, but we got so busy, and went away to Mystic, and it slipped my mind. Sorry, Sloane. Sorry, Mom.”
“But you told me you spoke to her!”
“Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Sloane. I thought you wouldn’t
