Girlhearts

by Norma Fox Mazer

  “Oh, no, child! No, no. I’m trying to explain to you. There was something else, too. Bad feelings between the families. Your father was Jewish—do you know that?”

  “Mom told me. What are you saying, Aunt Netta? I’m proud of him. He was a good father; he loved me.”

  “I knew he would,” she said. “He was a good person; we knew that. But my sister Doreen and my brother-in-law Thomas and, truthfully, the rest of the family, we none of us liked it that Ben was of the Jewish faith. And the fact is, the Silvers, his folks, didn’t like us, either. And why should they have? We were angry about Ben, we blamed him, we thought he was arrogant, and we didn’t believe he would stand by Jane.”

  I listened then for a long time, without speaking. No wonder Mom had never told me any of this. I could hardly even take in the things she was saying about the two families, Halleys and Silvers, despising each other. Why? For no real reasons. For nothing. Because they were different religions. Because one family, the Halleys, had been in Hinchville longer than the other. Because one family, the Silvers, had professions and the other didn’t. I really didn’t understand how people could live by such stupid and heartless rules of life. And I almost laughed as I thought how much better they would all have been if they’d followed Mom’s “Rules for Life.”

  “We wanted to tear those children apart,” Aunt Netta was saying. “And what I’ve wondered so many times in the last few years is why we didn’t just try to stop the wind from blowing. We would have done as well.”

  We were there, talking, for hours. Another thing that Aunt Netta told me was that, four years ago, after he survived a stroke, my father’s father had called her. “Just to say hello, he said. Just to start doing the right thing, even if it was almost too late. So that was—good. And I was only sorry I hadn’t done it first,” she added.

  It was after midnight when I went upstairs. My wish was granted. I slept in the bed where Mom used to sleep when she visited her aunt Netta and her cousin Jeannie. It comforted me to be there. All through the night, I knew that Mom was close by.

  THIRTY-SIX

  At eight o’clock the next morning, sitting across the breakfast table from my great-aunt, I heard her say, “Sarabeth. There is someone I think you ought to meet. Her name is Traci Wells.”

  “A cousin?” I said, because she had been telling me about my mother’s cousins.

  “No,” Aunt Netta said in her firm way. “Your half sister.”

  Shortly before noon, she dropped me off downtown in front of a diner called Buzzy’s Place, not far from the drugstore where I’d phoned her the day before. “Do you want me to come in with you?” she said. “I don’t think it’s really necessary. You’ll do fine on your own. Ring me when you’re ready, and I’ll come around and get you. I told Traci’s mother I’d drop her off, too.”

  I nodded and opened the car door. My aunt had told me almost nothing about Traci, except that Benjamin Silver was her father, too. That information had crashed into my mind and occupied it completely for the last few hours.

  “Bye, Sarabeth, bye,” Jeannie called from the backseat of the Cadillac. “Have lots of fun and smiles.”

  As soon as I walked into the diner, I spotted Traci. She was around my age, dark-haired, and a little plump, and in some unmistakable way she resembled me. She was sitting in a booth toward the back, flipping through a magazine. I walked toward her, and she looked up.

  “Traci?” I sat down across from her and, for some reason, felt compelled to say my full name. “I’m Sarabeth Silver.”

  “And I’m Traci Wells,” she said almost mockingly. And then, “So here you are, the mystery sister! Too bad you’re a girl. I always hoped if I ever met you that you’d be a brother. I have three sisters already, and that’s plenty for me. So, what do you want to know?”

  Her brisk tone, her words, as if she was twice my age, and her cool, almost contemptuous glance froze me.

  “Well, if you’re not going to talk, I will,” she said. “I bet I know a whole lot more about you than you know about me.”

  “I don’t know anything about you,” I said.

  “Pity,” she said. “I know your mother’s name. It’s Jane. Am I right?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Mmmm,” she mimicked. “What are you, a snob because you come from the big bad city?”

  The waitress came over and, strangely, we both ordered the same thing, toasted cheese with tomato and a vanilla shake. When the waitress left, I leaned toward Traci and said, “I’m not a snob, no matter what you think. I’m just sort of in shock.”

  I had always believed my father was as near a saint as anyone could be and still be human. I had always believed Mom and he could not have loved anyone except each other or produced any child except me. But there was Traci. And though I was taller and skinnier, we looked like sisters. We both looked like our father.

  “How did you know about me?” I said. “I mean, before today.”

  “Well, of course, I didn’t know about the actual you,” she said. “I didn’t know your name or anything. What I know is about my father and how he ran away with your mother—”

  “Well, that’s wrong,” I snapped. “They didn’t run away. They made a decision to go where they could have a life without everyone disapproving of them.”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it? Wooo! You’re touchy. My mother told me about your parents. She waited until I was ten and I could understand stuff, and then she gave me the whole story about your mother and my bio father.”

  Bio father? Here was someone with whom I shared something that I shared with no other living soul on earth—my father—and all I could think was that I wished I liked her better.

  She didn’t notice anything. She went right on talking. Maybe we looked a little alike, but we were very different people.

  “My mother said Benjie and Jane were a major love item in school, but she had the big crush on Benjie anyway. He was totally cute. Do you agree?”

  “Why do you call my father Benjie?” I asked.

  “Why not? That’s who he is. Your father never did zip one for me. So when Jane and Benjie had a fight this one time—”

  “Would you mind, at least, not calling my mother by her first name?”

  “You want to hear this or not? Okay, like I was saying, when your mother and your father had a big fight and weren’t speaking to each other and everybody knew about it, my mother sort of went after Benjie—oops, Benjamin Silver. Is that better? She figured this was her chance, and they went out together, and then things happened. You know what I mean.” Suddenly looking pleased, she spread out her hands and said, “And so here I am. Ta da!”

  “It could be kind of upsetting to find out about yourself like that, especially if you’re just ten years old,” I said. “That’s not really very grown up.”

  “Believe it,” she said. Her face suddenly turned dark red. “When my mother told me, I was really freaked for a while. I mean, here I have this dad who I think is my real dad, and he brings me up from practically day one, so my friends say he is more my real dad than anyone, and I agree, except it turns out that he’s not, he’s my stepdad!”

  “But you’re older now,” I said, “so I guess it’s not so upsetting?”

  “I guess,” she said.

  “Did it take you a long time to get over it? I’m asking you because my mother died in November, and I’m still not over it. I don’t think I ever will be.”

  “Your mother died?” Her face flamed up again. “I’m sorry your mother died. That’s horrible! I’m really sorry, Sarabeth.”

  The waitress put down our plates, and we didn’t talk for a while, just concentrated on eating our sandwiches. Traci was a nibbler. She nibbled all around the edge of her sandwich, never just bit into it, like me. But that was when I noticed that we both had the same broad, flat thumbs. I’d always been self-conscious about them, even though Mom said I inherited them from my father.

  “Look,” I said, and I held up m
y thumb.

  “What?” Traci said.

  I took her hand and put it next to mine.

  “Cool!” she said.

  When we were on our shakes, she went back to the subject of her stepfather. “He is a great dad, and I think, no matter what, he is my real dad. Real. You know what I mean? That’s what I cling to. I mean, okay, you and I have the same bio father, but, Sarabeth, Benjie can be totally yours. You don’t have to worry about sharing him with me, okay? But do you think he would ever want to meet me?”

  “I think he would want to meet you, if he was here,” I said slowly. “If he knew about you, I really think he would want to meet you.”

  She smiled. “That could be kind of cool.”

  “Did your mom say if he knew about you when he left here? I mean, did he know your mom was pregnant with you?”

  “He didn’t know anything,” Traci said.

  “Really? Is that true?” I said, slumping with relief. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. My mom said it was so weird—she didn’t even know she was pregnant with me until she was six months gone. You might not believe it looking at me now, but I was a teensy baby. I weighed five pounds and not even three ounces, and she hardly gained any weight with me. She said that if Benjie had stayed around, she would have let him know about me, definitely. But, then, what did it matter? She met my dad, who she married when I was six months old and who adopted me before I was even a year old. He calls me his ‘lucky girl.’ I’m his oldest daughter. See what I mean about him being great?”

  “You are a lucky girl,” I said.

  She tapped my hand. “I guess we can be friends after all. I didn’t think so at first.”

  “I didn’t, either.”

  “You didn’t?” She sounded surprised.

  In a little while, I went off to call Aunt Netta. When I came back, I sat down next to Traci and said, “There’s one thing I haven’t told you yet, Traci.”

  “What? More surprises? You have a twin brother?”

  “Nothing like that. I wish it was. My father—I mean our father, or my father and your bio father, whatever you want to call him …”

  “Benjie,” she said, playfully.

  “Okay.” I nodded. “He was in an accident, years ago, and—”

  “What, he’s like in a wheelchair?”

  “No. Worse.”

  “He died?” She stared at me. “I always thought that someday I would meet him. You know, later on, like when I was sixteen or something. I thought there was plenty of time.”

  “I know,” I said. “That’s the way I was with Mom. Plenty of time—” I reached for a napkin to wipe my eyes.

  “Sarabeth.” Traci took my hand and squeezed it. She had a powerful grip. “If I said anything mean to you, I take it back right now. Let’s be sisters, okay?”

  “We are sisters,” I said. “We can’t help it. Our father made sure of that.”

  “He sure did,” Traci said. “Oh, wooo! Wait until Mom meets you. She’ll definitely want to meet my sister.”

  Someone tapped on the window just then, and when we looked, there was Aunt Netta, beckoning us and then pointing to her car parked at the curb.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Tell me everything,” the old woman said. She had thin white hair, pale lips, and pale, pale blue eyes.

  “What do you want me to tell you?” I asked, remembering that Aunt Netta had said not to talk too fast and to pitch my voice a little louder than usual. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “Start with your name, of course.”

  She fussed with the blanket on her lap. She was in a wheelchair, and her feet resting on the metal support were bare. Small feet, nails curving and yellow, skin slightly puffy, and the big toe on her right foot leaning into the next toe, exactly like Mom’s had.

  “My name is Sarabeth Silver,” I said, “and you’re my great-grandmother.”

  She looked astonished, as if she hadn’t heard me say the same thing not five minutes ago. “I’m your great-grandmother?”

  In the other bed a tiny woman lay curled up, sleeping, motionless. There was a TV in the room, a couple of chairs, and shelves holding little mementos. Plants lined the windowsill. Everything was cheerful. Next to my great-grandmother’s bed was a small table with a box of tissues, a clock, a hairbrush, a handful of blue plastic curlers, and a stuffed red heart that said BE MY VALENTINE.

  “Grandma,” I said, taking her hand—it was warm and soft—“my mom was Jane Halley. Her mother was Doreen. And you’re Doreen’s mother, so that makes you Jane’s grandmother, and my great-grandmother.”

  “That confuses me,” she said after a moment. “Sometimes I have trouble thinking these days. It used to be different, but it’s my head—it gets … cloudy.” She pursed her lips. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Is the food good here, Grandma?”

  “No! They think it’s good food. What do they know? I was a good cook; I loved to cook.”

  “I like to cook; too. I must have gotten that from you, Grandma. Do you think so?” I loved saying “Grandma.”

  She struggled to straighten herself in the wheelchair. “I made three meals a day for eighty-seven years. That’s right, I started cooking for my family when I was five years old. My mama died, and there was no one else to do it. Father and three little brothers? They couldn’t do it. My mama wasn’t even thirty, and she had a heart attack. Just fell over in her kitchen and died. And do you know something? My daughter Doreen died the same way, only just a little bit older. It’s a family thing, you see, but I missed it!’”

  She leaned toward me. “Are you my Janie?” Her breath blew on me, warm and smelly. “Maybe you are and maybe you’re not.”

  “Not, Grandma. I’m your Janie’s daughter.”

  “How can that be? She’s just a child herself. Where is she? Is she coming to visit me?”

  “She’s not … here today.”

  Aunt Netta had asked me not to say anything about Mom’s dying. “Jane was one of her favorite grandchildren,” she said. “She’s been waiting all these years for Jane to come back. It would be a terrible blow to her to hear that Jane is gone.”

  My great-grandmother looked around the room, then back at me. Her eyes, tiny and red-rimmed with age, examined my face. “Why am I having trouble remembering who you are?”

  “It’s understandable, Grandma. You just met me today, just a little while ago. Your daughter Netta brought me here.”

  “Netta brought you? Well, where is she, then? I would like to see her.”

  “She’s in the gift shop, Grandma. She’ll be here in a few minutes. She wanted to give us time to get to know each other.”

  Again, she looked around the room, from one object to another. “Where are we?” she asked. “What is this place?”

  “St. Mary’s Nursing Home, Grandma. It’s very nice, don’t you think?”

  She made a face. “Nice is as nice does. Why am I here? I’d like to go home. Who are you?”

  “I’m your great-granddaughter. I came to visit you, Grandma. I’m Sarabeth Silver.”

  “Sarabeth Silver,” she said, as if she was hearing this for the first time. “Do they call you Beth? That’s what they called me. Do you know my whole name? Elizabeth Jane Daugherty Wardly. Quite a mouthful, isn’t it?”

  “Grandma, I was just thinking that maybe the second part of my name, Beth, is after you.” How I wished that Mom had told me if this was so. “I’m Sara-beth and you’re Elizabeth.”

  “How did you know my name?” she asked, with that look of amazement.

  “My mother had it written down in a book,” I said. “Elizabeth Wardly.”

  “Elizabeth’s a fancy name,” she said with a sniff. “My mother, bless her, had fancy ideas.”

  “I like that name, Grandma. I’m glad it’s part of my name. I think my Mom named me in honor of you.”

  “In honor of me,” she said. “My goodness! I should get a medal. The ol
d-age medal. How old do you think I am? Nobody ever guesses my right age.”

  “Seventy-five?” I said, to please her.

  “Ha! They all think I’m younger. I’ve always looked younger. Ninety-two, that’s how old I am. And I did everything for myself until I broke my darned hip and had to come here.” Her eyes had cleared; the confused look had left her face. “Here is the death place,” she said.

  “Oh, Grandma—” I protested.

  “No,” she said firmly. “You come, and you don’t get out. This is the place of the walking dead. Or”—she looked down at her wheelchair—“should I say the riding dead?”

  We both laughed. “Grandma, I love you,” I said.

  “And I love you.” She took my hand to her lips and kissed it. She rubbed a finger over my cheek. “Why are you crying? Did I say something to make you sad?”

  “No, Grandma. These are … happy tears.”

  “Happy tears,” she said in a mulling voice. “And what’s making you happy, my little girl?”

  “You,” I said. “You’re my sweet grandma. I found you, and I never thought I would. I didn’t even know I was looking for you!”

  “Oh, that sounds like a joke,” she said. She paused. Her eyes went unfocused and her head dropped on her chest.

  I sat and watched her sleep. I tucked her shawl around her and smoothed the thin white hair. I watched how her eyelids fluttered, how her breath puffed out in a little whisper, and I thought, This is my great-grandmother. It seemed like a great miracle.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Aunt Netta saw me off on the bus that afternoon. She had paid for the ticket and insisted that I take what she called “an emergency fund.”

  “Do you remember what I told you?” she said.

  “You told me a lot of things.”

  “I mean that you are to call me if you need me. And you are to remember that we always have a place for you here.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Promise me,” she said sternly. The same thing she had said when we talked about what she called my “situation.”

  “Aunt Netta, I promise. And I also promise that I’ll come to see you and Jeannie again.”