On the day of the funeral, she woke to a surprisingly bright and sunny morning. She showered carefully and conditioned her hair, although she was hopeless at styling it and, really, that cut had made little difference. She still had a vague Albert-Einstein-meets-old-hippie vibe going on. What could she do about it, though? Her wrinkled face and tired-looking eyes could not be helped by makeup. With her fading eyesight and unsteady hand, she’d probably end up looking like Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?
Still, she did her best. She brushed her teeth and dressed in her new clothes. She looked a little—very little—like Blythe Danner after a bad night with tequila, but her clothes were respectable.
She climbed onto her bike and rode into town, grateful beyond measure for the sunshine, but it was cold out.
Downtown, she splurged on a soy milk chai tea latte and waited impatiently for the bus, going through those sentences in her head again. When the bus pulled up, she got on.
She could do this. She could go to her daughter and help her. At last.
She stared out the window, seeing a ghostly version of her own face. Beyond was the freeway, and beyond that, an unexpected memory.
A parking lot full of cars. Maple trees providing shade, a city park with kids playing …
I am stoned out of my mind. It’s the only way.
I am here because my mother has died.
“Mom. Thank God you’re here.”
My daughter is so beautiful, and the sight of her makes me impossibly sad. Is she sixteen? How can I not know for sure? The darkness swells, slops over the edges, and I feel myself getting smaller, weaker.
“You knew I’d need you.”
Tully is smiling. Smiling.
I think of how often I have tried to be what this girl needed, and how often and how profoundly I have failed. Tully is talking, saying more, and I feel the start of tears. I stumble forward, say, “Look at me.”
“I’m looking.”
“No. Look. I can’t help you.”
Tully frowns and steps back. “But I need you.”
Dorothy turned away from the window. What had she said to her daughter on that day of her own mother’s funeral? She couldn’t remember now. All she remembered was leaving … and the dark, dark days—months, years—that followed. The men. The drugs.
She’d let her daughter become a ward of the state that day.
The bus pulled up to the ferry terminal and came to a wheezing stop. Dorothy disembarked and boarded the ferry for Bainbridge.
Had she ever been there before? She didn’t think so; or, if she had, she must have been drunk or high, because she couldn’t remember it.
The island was pretty in a well-tended way, with quaint shops and quiet streets. Definitely the kind of place where everybody knew everybody and someone like her would stand out, even in new, clean clothes.
She knew that if she weren’t on her meds she’d be whack right now. But with her meds she was okay. Fuzzy-thinking, a little dull in the mind, but steady, and that was what mattered. For years she’d hated the fuzziness of meds enough to suffer through the Ferris Wheel highs and subterranean lows. But now she would take steady any day.
Although, honestly, she wanted a drink. Just one.
She put her hand in her coat pocket and clutched the nine-month-clean chip she had earned at the last meeting. Soon, she’d get the ten-month. One day at a time.
She moved with the steady stream of locals and tourists, off the boat, up the terminal, and out into the sunshine. Following her directions, she walked through town, which was quiet on this early October day. The distance to the Catholic church was farther than she’d thought and so when she arrived, she was late. The service had already begun. The big double doors were closed. She had crashed a lot of things in her life, but she wasn’t about to go into that church alone.
She found a bench beneath a pair of maple trees at the edge of the parking lot and sat beneath their multicolored canopy. Above her, an autumn leaf released its last tenuous hold on life and fluttered to the ground. Dorothy brushed it from her face and stared down at her hands, thinking.
When she looked up again, Tully stood alone in front of the church. Dorothy got to her feet and started to move forward, but then she stopped.
The parking lot was filling up with people. Mourners poured out of the church. Several of them collected around Tully.
Kate’s family, probably. A gorgeous man, a beautiful teenaged girl, and two mop-headed boys.
Margie hugged Tully, who sobbed in her arms.
Dorothy stepped back into the shadows beneath the tree. She’d been an idiot to think she had a place here, that her presence would help.
Her daughter had people who cared about her, and about whom she cared. They would gather together on this day and ease their grief by sharing it. Wasn’t that what people did? What families did?
It made Dorothy feel inestimably sad and old and tired. She’d come all this way, following a beam of light that couldn’t be grasped.
* * *
It’s no good to pretend, you know. And we don’t have all the time in the world. I hear Kate’s voice, and honestly, I wish I didn’t. You see now, don’t you?
I am like a little kid, squeezing my eyes shut, certain that in my self-imposed darkness I can’t be seen. That’s what I want right now: to disappear. I don’t want to do this whole going-into-the-light/looking-back-on-your-life thing anymore. It hurts too much.
You’re hiding from me.
“Yeah. No shit. You dead people don’t miss a thing.”
I feel her coming closer; it is like firelight drawing near. Tiny yellow white stars burst across the black expanse of my vision. I smell lavender and Love’s Baby Soft spray and … pot smoke.
That takes me back.
Open your eyes.