Stop Here

by Beverly Gologorsky

  “Think! Remember something for god’s sake.” She stares hard at him.

  “Jesus where’s the fucking waiter?” His hands open and close, his jaw slack. He used to be laid-back, pliable. Now he’s brittle enough to break, and he knows it. Jack comes to mind again, his ability to withstand turmoil, his voice asking her to lean on him.

  Two people talk softly in a nearby booth, their words hum past her ears. A few streaks of bright sun invade the room, land on the stained wooden floorboards. She takes a sip of the wine. It tastes old, rancid, vinegary, and she remembers the Chablis in her fridge.

  “I’m going up there to get another drink. Fucking waiter.” He grabs the table to steady himself. “Her name’s Lacy Marino.” Then sways toward the bar, his head bent beneath the mess of his life.

  • • •

  Home at last, the drive back was endless. Phone messages blink on the machine. Her flowers need fresh water. When they begin to wilt, she tosses them. These, though, meaty yellow roses, she bought yesterday. The girl’s name repeats in her head as it has since he said it. A name matters. A name gives substance, rhythm, color—allows an image to form. Lacy as a grown woman, a combination of Carl and herself, dark eyes for sure, thick, wavy hair. Maybe she’s petite like her or sturdy like Carl.

  She finds herself in the bedroom closet pushing aside shoeboxes, scarves, purses on the too-high shelf till her fingers press the soft leather-like surface of an old photo album, which she retrieves. Dropping on the bed, she turns pages, a picture of her mom—who loved her children—reading the newspaper, which she did from back to front, wanting to fill her head with trivia before letting in bad news. Photos of friends she hasn’t seen in years. And here’s one of her at Lacy’s age now. She’s wearing jeans and a tank top, leaning against some guy’s old jeep, holding back a curtain of hair to reveal what must’ve been new dangling earrings. She’s grinning. When she was Lacy’s age she flaunted her appeal yet worked hard, saved money, had lots of friends. Someone Lacy might approve of. Removing the photo carefully, she returns to the living room, slides it in the manila envelope on the coffee table. Then she picks up the cordless and calls Dina.

  “It’s me. There’s something else I never told you.”

  “Hold on.” She can almost hear Dina settling into her chair.

  “Yes, Rosalyn, what is it?” her friend careful not to sound eager.

  “When I was seventeen I had a baby . . .” she begins. It’s a story she no longer wants to keep secret, the names and events unfurling easily. Lacy, Carl, the Manhattan foundling home where she lived for the final trimester, the nuns who cared for her, Carl’s sister who took away the baby she never saw, her meeting with Carl today. She doesn’t stop there but goes on about the envelope on the table, which contains her will, her father’s address, other documents, and now a photo of her. “We’ll never meet but Lacy will have something of me, of mine. Don’t you see?”

  “Rosalyn, you should meet your daughter,” Dina declares.

  Her eyes flit to the black-and-white print on the wall that resembles a Rorschach blot. “Well I hadn’t thought.”

  “What’s to think about?”

  “Lacy, her family. I can’t just walk into their lives and—” Again, saying her name feels gratifying, proprietary.

  “She must be curious about you.”

  The phone at her ear, she pads across the gleaming terra-cotta floor, the aqua rug catching the last light of day, wondering what it would be like to actually see the girl. In the kitchen, she pours Chablis in a glass and takes a sip.

  “Are you there?”

  “I’m thinking. And drinking.”

  “I’ll say one thing: do what pleases you, never mind the result.”

  “You speaking from experience?” She’s aiming to tease her, but finds she’s listening intently.

  “I rarely did what pleased me, only what was necessary. After a while, I didn’t know the difference.”

  It’s not entirely true. Dina loved her work. Perhaps she’s speaking of Tim, but it’s too coded to get into now.

  “Dina, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s not the point. It’s a lesson to share. Or at least to ponder.”

  “I hear you.”

  “It won’t be that difficult to find her.”

  Suddenly the success of learning the girl’s name slips away, the closure she sought reopened. “Listen, I can’t talk about it right now.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “I know. See you tomorrow.” She clicks off. Though she’s not sorry she told Dina—her secrets less amazing to others than she would have expected—a claw of anxiety tears at her.

  The yellow-striped watering can sits on the counter. She fills it and steps out onto her small patio, scanning the darkening lawn, the starless sky. She hopes for a better night. The last two have been fitful. Sleep came late and only for several hours, kaleidoscopic images racing around her head leaving blurry smears.

  She waters the spider plants, their tendrils nearly touching the ground, then goes in to look at her messages. There are three. Two from Jack asking her to call him, he misses her, he’s worried, please phone him. One from Carl, whose slurry voice recites an address. She replays it twice to be certain.

  • • •

  Her car inches along in the early evening rush-hour traffic. The MapQ uest directions Bobby downloaded are on her lap. Reaching Bruckner Boulevard, the lanes fan out like fingers on a hand. It’s bewildering till she spies the North Bronx exit sign underscored on the map. Then it’s one bleak street after another toward Gun Hill Road. What a strange name. She’s never been in the Bronx, though her mother often talked about her childhood there. She tries to recall the stories but her memory has become selective, permits only events involving her. She understands. She’s rechewing experience, can taste it. It’s made her talkative.

  She chattered on and on the other night when Ava and Mila visited. She described her work as an escort, her dates that never mattered, except for Jack. Then Lacy, all about Lacy, how Carl wanted to marry, how her mother dissuaded her. How her father wants to know his granddaughter. How Dina suggested meeting her daughter. How what to do feels beyond her. Ava said little, refilling Rosalyn’s wineglass till she was dizzy with words and drink. Mila, though, made comments all along . . . mothers and daughters, great stuff, unbeatable, deep love but not easy, even after a million years together, and warned that the girl might not jump for joy on hearing from Rosalyn.

  Also on the phone with Jack, she gave him what he wanted, a dose of her life. Then she added her indecision about Lacy, her confusion about what to do next. To her surprise he didn’t recommend a path, instead assured her she’d figure it out. But she hasn’t. She thought about sending the girl a note. If no reply came, well, then it would be an answer of sorts. But she doesn’t want an answer. What does she want? A reconciliation, a meeting, a sighting . . . she has no idea. If she were a private eye, she’d park the car near where Lacy lived, camera at hand, hat pulled low. She has no hat, no camera, no plan, and no clue what the next hours will bring, only the destination.

  • • •

  Her car scales the lengthy incline of Gun Hill Road. Six-story buildings climb the hill with her, gray brick façades, small-paned windows, some curtained, some not, others protected with bars. Worn stone steps lead to run-down entrance courtyards. Covered garbage cans cluster in front of locked alleys. Do poor people live here? She sees no boarded-up or half-gated shops, broken pavements or skinny kids sitting on stoops. Is it more or less impoverished than other places in the city? It’s difficult to say.

  Cars are parked on both sides of the street. There’s an empty space in front of Lacy’s building and she pulls in.

  The summer’s evening light is waning, the sky a mass of clouds. She turns off the A/C, rolls down the windows. A weak breeze crosses her shoulders, bare
in a pale blue T-strap sundress; her head wrapped in a navy scarf. Choosing what to wear was a trip in itself, trying on and discarding one outfit after another. She felt she was preparing for an audition. Exasperated, Dina finally decided for her. How many times did she check her face in the mirror, thinner, longer, her eyes, thank god, no different. Her skin, though, not the least bit rosy.

  If Lacy appears—perhaps on her way home from work—will their glances meet in some mystical recognition? More likely the girl will walk past her. How will she know it’s her daughter? She’s given Lacy a height, a weight, even color and style of dressing, created an image out of a name. What if Lacy doesn’t resemble her or Carl? It happens. What image does Lacy have of her? The seventeen-year-old her adoptive mother glimpsed? Or one Lacy cobbled together from bits and pieces of overheard conversation. Whatever it is, it’s not a woman without hair, sick, pale, in bad repair.

  No doubt Carl told his sister that she plans to leave everything to Lacy. No doubt it’s how he got an address from her. But did anyone tell the girl? Her watch reads seven. Could be Lacy won’t get home till later. Could also be the girl’s in her apartment and won’t leave till morning. Does she sit here all night? She stares at the building. It’s a sixth-floor apartment. Does she have the strength to climb up? Maybe there’s an elevator? Doesn’t matter. She’ll get there, somehow, find 6J and ring the bell. The door will open. She’ll introduce herself. Lacy could freak out. Then what? Answer correctly and win a daughter? Answer incorrectly, and . . . one thing she does know, a mother is more than the woman who birthed her.

  And what is it she can add to her daughter’s life? Who is this visit for? If she invades that life and then disappears forever—because that’s what will happen—would that be fair? If she were going to be around for even a few years none of this would matter. They’d have time to know each other, time to compare likes and dislikes, disappointments as well as revelations. Without time, the girl will be left with sorrow, perhaps regret, what might have been, what isn’t. How can she chance that? How can she impose this perverse need on her daughter? Dina’s wrong. Consequences matter.

  Something else tugs at her, something she didn’t want to think about before driving here. Lacy could’ve found her if she’d wanted to. They were never more than an hour apart.

  Once more she stares at the gray building, its prison-like façade, littered courtyard, forbidding back ally. Her clean, pretty condo comes to mind, with its small patio, its array of plants, glass-topped table, pillowed chairs, so comfortable, so inviting. All of it will belong to her daughter who can sit there with a glass of wine, a husband, maybe children. It’s this she’ll take away from being here. It’s this she’ll hold on to.

  Carefully, she maneuvers the car out of the small space. The sky is darkening. Behind her, the streetlights brighten the pavement with an evening sun.

  • • •

  A jet flies low and loudly over the car as Dina pulls up in front of the departures building and pops the trunk. “Take your bag. I’ll park and meet you back here.”

  With trepidation, she watches Dina drive away. The crowds make her nervous. People push past her. It’s loud. Cars drive up to the curb nonstop. Redcaps hurry by, tugging trolleys of bags. Long lines form in front of outdoor check-in podiums. The every-which-way of it is confusing, how to get by, which direction to go? Figuring out anything here feels beyond her. A strong urge to be at home where it’s quiet, predictable, assails her.

  It’ll be better on the plane, she assures herself. In her own seat, calm, maybe she’ll sleep. She steps through the first set of automatic doors. A second set leads to the ticket counters, but she doesn’t enter, fearing Dina won’t find her. A spasm tightens her back. They occur more often now, but over-the-counter meds still help, though she has stronger stuff if she needs it. She fishes in her purse for the red pills, shakes out two, finds her water bottle and swallows them. Cars continue to pull up, unload, and drive away. Endless. Automatic doors open and close incessantly, hordes of people in and out. Where’s Dina?

  Jack’s call this morning, he wanted to erase any last-minute concerns. Said he was aching to see her, had taken care of every little detail. Repeated some of the many places he’d show her. How gorgeous the weather was, the ocean something else. His tone was gentle, his words meant to reassure. She didn’t say leaving home frightened her now.

  Leaning against a wall, tempted to close her eyes, she goes over the checklist. House and car keys, her father’s phone number and address to Dina. Done. Clearly marked envelope with will, deed, and financial stuff on coffee table should Dina need it in case she . . . Jesus, she’s only going for two weeks. Could she be any more dramatic?

  “Oh Dina,” she exhales, “I thought I lost you.” In her summery yellow dress and sandals, her friend looks cheery, youthful.

  “Check in and we’ll go sit somewhere. It’s early.”

  The line is long and disorderly, baggage everywhere. People study their tickets, eye children, each other, emanating anticipation, annoyance. And what does she feel? The last time she flew was ten years ago, to Florida. Her newly divorced friend was anxious the entire trip about leaving her children. It wasn’t much of a vacation, and nothing like what Jack has planned. Still, she’s never flown across the ocean. She’s never been unable to trust her body.

  “Did I give you Jack’s cell phone number?”

  “And his e-mail address at work. Yes. Relax. I’m exceedingly efficient. I ran the ICU, remember?” Dina glances at her, then away.

  From the ticket counter they weave through the crowd toward a small restaurant filled with travelers, tables crammed together, loud voices, scraping chairs. The bar is festooned in outer-space décor, silver stars shoot away from blue and red planets. They find a small table near a Plexiglas wall overlooking the tarmac, and order two cosmopolitans. Huge unmoving planes line up ready to take off, the weight and wingspans challenging the idea that they’ll do so. The ground crew in orange jackets as bright as their wands of light that cut through the air in semaphore code. She watches it all, a moving tableau that her plane will soon join. Dusk is beginning to settle, the late sun falling somewhere in the sky.

  The waitress sets down their drinks and hurries away. “Serving an airport crowd can’t be easy. It makes the diner seem like a breeze. Mila gave me a note from Willy. He wrote, Miss you, always will. Then asked when I’m coming back. I’m not, you know. I haven’t told Murray.”

  “I’m sure he figured it out.”

  “Ava says Murray actually wants to sell. Amazing, Murray no longer there. He’s a fixture.”

  “More like a relic.” Dina looks in her bag for a tissue, her expression troubled. “Something I’d like to ask you—it’s none of my business and you can say so.”

  Afraid to hear anything disquieting, she wants only protective custody from those around her, cages of love. How silly is that? “Go ahead,” she says, and takes a long pull of the drink. It’s strong, tangy, cold. She decides she’ll have another.

  “Why did you decide against more treatment?”

  She gazes at Dina, the small, round face, eyes that penetrate. She recalls the sleepless nights, anxious days weighing another round of chemo against the agony of side effects when no good outcome could be promised. Even now, the turmoil of that decision is easily resurrected.

  “Jack’s a cancer researcher. My doctors faxed him results after two rounds of chemo. He didn’t want to mix doctor with boyfriend but I begged him. My mother had only snippets of information. She had to intuit on a daily basis. I told him that would send me bonkers way before the disease got me.

  “He wasn’t happy with what he saw. A pernicious cancer, invasive. The stats on treatment weren’t promising. He said no one ever really knew how much time, that miracles happen . . . that word clarified things. Why spend the time I’ve got left throwing up, tasting mouth sores instead of food, becoming s
o weak I couldn’t walk by myself. You know the rest of it.”

  “Yes. I can’t imagine what I’d do,” Dina says more to herself. “I think you’re brave,” her friend’s eyes moist.

  “Dina, it’s okay—”

  “Sorry, Rosalyn. It’s not like me to be—”

  “I know it’s not. You’re all steel wool, right?”

  Dina smiles. “Not exactly, but after years in a hospital you grow some tough skin.”

  Her glass is nearly empty. “Let’s have another.”

  “You do. I’m driving.” Dina’s eyes watch her.

  Seeing the waitress zip from table to table, she decides to order at the bar, which is three deep with people whose raucousness tells her they’re pain-free. Two young men smile, bow, and part to make room for her. She grins. Ordinary consideration feels extraordinarily reassuring these days.

  “Damn, I forgot to throw out the flowers.” She places her drink on the table. “They’ll dry up and flake all over the . . . Christ, why am I still worrying about such unimportant crap? Is that crazy or what?”

  Dina says nothing.

  “Before you picked me up, I ran around the place, a bundle of indecision. Should I apply makeup at home, on the plane? Who cares . . . makeup for god’s sake? I’m dealing with life and . . . Dina I expected to let go of trivia, though what that would feel like is beyond me. It does happen. I’ve heard it said often enough, but maybe closer to the end.” Her throat tightens. She takes another pull of the drink.

  Dina’s hand slides across the table and squeezes hers. “I’ve been with lots of patients, and sick isn’t dead. Yours is a warm body to touch and a mind to think and feel. You’re alive, Rosalyn. Why shouldn’t everything matter?”

  “But the junk that fills my thoughts . . .” she shakes her head. “This morning . . . never mind.”

  “Oh go on, rattle away. Lord knows what goodies I’ll hear.”

  “I was in the shower. The shapes on the curtain reminded me of Halloween when I was a kid, maybe eight. My mother cut out the face of my pumpkin. She made one eye round, the other square. God knows why. I wanted them to match. She tried to fix it, but only made it worse. I stamped my feet, crying I wanted another pumpkin. My father grabbed the damn thing, opened the door, and flung it out as far as he could. I was inconsolable, hated him for days. But this morning the memory struck me as funny, my father, in uniform, heavy boots tramping across the living room floor to throw out a little pumpkin. I laughed out loud. It’s been that way recently. Events transformed by circumstance.”