Goodbye, Miss February

by Sally O'Brien

  I thought about it for a long moment and knew she was right. And to be honest, Thelma would hate the snow. “Well, it’s an idea anyway, something to think about.” I hugged her. “I’ll come back as soon as I can. I’m an experienced flyer now, you know. Hard to believe just a few weeks ago I was afraid to fly and couldn’t merge.”

  Andy smiled. “And look at you now. You’ve bloomed.” Her face became serious. “Honestly, I don’t know how I’d have gotten through all this without you, and look what you did for the Stones. They’d never have found Elizabeth if it hadn’t been for you.” She put her hands on my shoulders. “I’m so proud of you. You came here plain Jane and are going back a noted child authority—from San Francisco.”

  We both started to laugh. It relieved some of the tension that had been building.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Andy said. “I’ll be fine. Quit treating me like the good china.”

  “I know, but I have to see how story hour’s progressing and check on Elizabeth and Florence. If Florence plies Earl with enough pot roast, I may have to come back for a wedding.” We didn’t mention Mrs. Laine’s funeral.

  “Sure,” Andy said. “Looking forward to it. Hey, did I tell you I’ve agreed to speak at the next Neighborhood Club meeting? And I said I’d help with the story hour since they won’t have you.”

  “That’s good. They won’t have . . . uh, anyone else either.” I meant Leland. Andy knew that.

  My mind scrambled for a different subject. “I wrote your next doctor appointment on that horse calendar in your office. What are you doing with a horse calendar anyway?” Back when calendars were on walls rather than inside phones, Andy had leaned toward Old Masters reproductions, or at least scenery.

  “Bob gave it to me. I kind of like it. February’s Shetland pony in that floppy hat made me think of you. Remember that one you got at the fair? You wore it until it was strings.”

  “Saw that but I had to turn the page. It’s March now. That horse is pulling a wagon—doing something useful.” I thought of Miss February sitting on her pillow looking pretty in my San Jose kitchen and shook my head. “It’s time to move on. Goodbye, February; hello, March.

  Andy gave me a long, level look. “March can merge,” she said.

  While we were mulling that over, Florence called. “I heard you were going back to California.” Heard? She’d probably verified my flight number and seat assignment. “Guess there’s a reason you have to leave so soon . . . someone, you know . . . waiting for you.”

  “Actually, there is.”

  “Oh?” Florence sounded eager.

  “My friend JoAnn had a heart attack. Remember?”

  Florence’s voice fell. “Oh, yeah. Well, just wanted to say goodbye. It was, you know, a pleasure meeting you. Will you be coming back soon? Maybe moving here in case your sister should need you? Iowa’s a lot nicer than California. I hear some of the people there aren’t real Americans. They speak, you know, Chinese.” Maybe Florence could write slogans for the Iowa Chamber of Commerce: Iowa, Where No One Speaks Chinese. After a brief hesitation, she continued. “Well, don’t worry about Andy. We’ll watch out for her.” Florence was probably looking at a copy of Esther’s instructions as she spoke.

  “I’ll be back, possibly later in the summer. When does the weather warm up?”

  “March. We figure on spring any time after the girls’ basketball tournament.” Did she not realize it was already March? “Andy feeling okay?”

  “Stronger all the time. Esther comes every day and makes sure she eats.”

  “I know.” Of course she did. “Say, did she get that pamphlet I left?”

  “Coping with Dying? Yes. Fortunately, it didn’t apply to her.”

  “Yeah, well, what I was wondering was . . . could I have it back? Ellen Herman‘s been having chest pains.”

  Acknowledgements

  This book is for my family—Julia, Veronica, Mike, Kathy, and Jean. Their patience and encouragement kept me going.

  Thank you to everyone—writers’ groups, friends, casual acquaintances--who contributed ideas or words.

  A special thank you to Jackie Jensen, who has no idea how talented she is. There would be no book without her helpful advice.