Mothers and Other Strangers

by Gina Sorell

  It had been a long time since I thought about where I was born, and now every night I returned there in my dreams. All I had of my time in Africa were bits and pieces of stories that my mother had told me, none told as often or as clearly as the story of her gunpoint proposal. I had often wondered about our life before Canada. What happened to our family? According to my mother, she had no family. Her mother died in childbirth, and her father disappeared into his grief and passed away just before I was born. There were no aunts and uncles. No cousins for me to reach out to. And as for Howard, the answers about him always changed. For a long time, my mother told me that Howard didn’t want us anymore and so we left. Another time she told me that she had wanted a fresh start and seeing as Howard wasn’t my real father anyway, there was no point keeping in touch. But I didn’t care if he was my real father or not. He was the only father I knew. And though I didn’t remember much, I remembered that we’d once been a family: my nanny Lafina, who adored me, and Howard, who’d mess my curls and let me ride on his horse with him. It was more than we had in Canada, so I kept asking questions. And finally one day when I was ten years old, my mother, tired of me asking if I could write to him, told me he’d died of a heart attack. I was devastated and sobbed that we had no family. She said family’s what you make it, and I should be grateful for what I had. I wanted to be grateful, I did. But I longed for what I thought was a real mother, a real family, and a real home.

  Even though I’d grown up in Canada and lived in America, somehow Africa was home to me. But how could I long for a place that I hardly remembered? I knew it was more than just because it was where I was born; I knew it was because it was the last place I could remember being mothered, by Lafina. Those are your roots, Lafina used to say, pointing at my feet as I curled my toes into the dirt in our backyard. My roots. Was home where your roots were planted? And if so, did part of me remain severed there, my growth stunted by my leaving all those years ago? I had been searching for home for years, desperately trying to find it in the company of others—as a child with my best friend Arden, and as a young woman with the dancers I’d toured and lived with. I thought I’d finally found home when I married Ted, but all that changed when we got divorced.

  I was jolted from my thoughts by the sound of Shadow yowling. I turned off the water and pulled back the shower curtain to look for her, but she had left the bathroom. Her cries intensified and I quickly wrapped myself in a towel and went to find her. She was on the balcony hissing at something off in the darkness. I opened the door and pulled her inside, the air freezing against my skin and wet hair, and grabbed a blanket for the two of us.

  “You crazy cat,” I said, bundling us up. “What were you thinking?” Shadow was prone to getting into fights with other cats and the occasional raccoon that she was bold enough to taunt, but it was so cold, I was sure there were no other animals outside. She kept hissing loudly and I felt my whole body start to tremble as I realized that I had just pulled my balcony door open to get her. I was sure I’d locked that door. I always did. But if I had, how could she have gotten outside? I scanned the apartment, looking to see if I was alone. I checked under the bed and in the closet, and when I found nothing, ran downstairs to make sure the front door was locked. It was. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I saw that the porch light was out. I flicked the switch on and off from inside the house and it lit up again. It was an old house with old wiring, I told myself, but that did little to comfort me, and I ran back upstairs and locked my door. Shadow had stopped hissing, but she wouldn’t come away from the door to the balcony. I crouched down to her level and tried to find what she was looking at, but whatever it was had gone. And I knew that tonight there would be no sleep for either of us.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning, I headed off to the mailbox store, downtown near one of my mother’s favorite coffee shops. It was one of those chains that has tiny little brass boxes with numbers and keys, a couple of photocopiers, and bored staff slumped over their desks in their company-issued khakis and polo shirts. I shuffled up to the counter, hit the little service bell, and waited as puddles formed around my snow-covered boots. Slowly a young man got up from his computer station and came over.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I got a package in the mail for a Mrs. Ray Robins, and there’s mail in here that doesn’t belong to her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Her name was Robins.” I took off my glove, opened the package and handed him the incorrect mail. “Not Robi, not Rabino. Robins.” I sounded it out slowly.

  “I see. Let me check our log.”

  He took the envelope and looked at the post box number.

  “Two two seven.” He pulled out a black binder and opened it to number 227. “Yeah it’s the right number.”

  “I’m sure it’s the right number, but it’s the wrong mail.”

  “No, it’s not. These names are all registered to the P.O. box.” He turned around the log to face me and there, next to Mrs. Ray Robins, were all the other names.

  Of course they were. Why stop at one name and one credit card, I thought.

  “Thanks.” I took the mail and stuffed it back into the large envelope.

  Great. More for me to open.

  Outside, the cold air hit my wet skin and made me shiver. I got to my car just as a parking officer was leaving a ticket under the windshield wiper.

  “Oh, come on, it’s only been three extra minutes,” I yelled, pointing to my watch.

  “Sorry.”

  “Shit!” I watched as the officer crossed the street to ticket somebody’s car that double-parked in front of a little vegan restaurant. That was why my mother had chosen this particular mailbox store; it was across the street from one of her favorite lunch spots. I felt my chest tighten at the sight of the hand-painted sign that read The Willow. My mother and I had eaten there once, but like most things that she enjoyed, I had tried not to. It was her restaurant with her people and her kind of food, and she’d made a point of showing off just how much of a regular she was and how many people she knew. I felt like a party crasher, sitting quietly as she addressed the staff by name and talked animatedly to the people at the table next to us. I wasn’t her guest so much as her audience, a lesson that took me years to learn. Eventually, I excused myself and left, and she carried on as if I’d never been there.

  That was years ago, and now there would be no more lunches with her, terrible or otherwise. I decided it was stupid to let a restaurant make me feel bad and crossed the street to go in for coffee.

  “Sit anywhere you like,” said the tall young man behind the counter.

  “Thanks.” I chose a spot on a bench by the window and took off my coat. The restaurant was pretty, with soft yellow tones and dark wood tables accented with beautiful linen pendant lights. It was an upscale vegan joint, frequented by the kind of health nuts who had life coaches and no trouble spending twenty dollars on a lunch of vegetables and wheatgrass shots. Los Angeles was full of places like this, and I did my best to avoid them. I could never understand why anyone would want to talk about what came out of their body while putting food in their mouth. Not to mention I couldn’t afford to eat someplace where I’d leave the table hungry. And I was sure that the obligatory staff of young, good-looking professional backpackers wouldn’t be able to afford to eat at these places either if they didn’t work there.

  “What can I get you?” the young man shouted over the music. It was one of those Putumayo mixed CDs, African or Brazilian, world music for people who liked the sounds of other countries but knew nothing of the artists. My mother had a collection of them.

  “Coffee with milk, please.”

  “I’ve only got soy.”

  “Black, then.”

  I started sorting the letters that had been addressed to my mother’s aliases. It was more than half her mail. I knew from experience that the thin white envelopes with the clear plastic windows and typed names a
nd addresses were collection notices, utility bills, and magazine subscriptions. There was one from a local bookstore that had let her treat it like a lending library, taking books she had special-ordered and making small payments every few weeks. There was a yoga center for which, it turned out, she had never paid for classes, and dry cleaners, hair salons, and loans from people she had never paid back. Some of them wondered if she had returned from her trip abroad to Europe, Africa, South America. Others had recently discovered that she had passed away; those always started out with, To whom it may concern, my sympathies for your loss. Please forgive my timing but I am afraid that I still haven’t been repaid the loan for.… And then there were the overdue statements from credit card companies, second and third notices, addressed to Mrs. Robi and Mrs. Rabino.

  It didn’t surprise me that my mother wouldn’t bother opening her mail. Opening mail was a boring chore, and boring chores were always left for someone else. What surprised me was that she had debts. I’d always thought of her as a woman of means. Although she often reminded me that her resources weren’t unlimited, she had never worked a day in her life, and didn’t have to, or so I assumed. I had no idea where her money had gone or how she’d been supporting herself all these years. She had closed out her bank accounts, leaving just her checking account, from which she paid her mortgage and maintenance fees. And judging by her records, she kept little more than that to live on. Now that I knew all those names, and therefore all those credit cards, belonged to her, I had a better idea how she was getting by.

  “Here you go.” The waiter placed the coffee down in front of me. He was tall, with long, wavy blond hair, his forearms tattooed with koi fish and lotus flowers. “We don’t serve lunch for another hour, but we’ve got some baked goods.”

  “Do they taste like baked goods?”

  “Not a fan of the vegan muffins?” He cracked a smile and tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

  “Not so much.”

  “Strange choice of restaurant then, wouldn’t you say?”

  “My mother used to come here, it was one of her favorites. I was just in the area.”

  He reached down and picked up a letter off the table and read aloud. “Robins? Ray Robins?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Man. You said ‘was.’ Did she pass away?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. You knew her?”

  “Oh, yeah. Ray was a regular. But I hadn’t seen her since I got back from India. She told me some great places to go. That’s too bad. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  He nodded and walked away, shaking his head. I started to open a letter when he returned.

  “Here. On the house.” He set down a date square and another cup of coffee, and then plonked himself in the chair opposite me and extended his hand. “I’m Josh. Man, I can’t believe I didn’t get to say goodbye.” He took a sip of the second cup of coffee and looked out the window.

  “You’re not alone.” I tore off a piece of the date square and stuck it in my mouth. It was sweet and delicious. “That’s not vegan.”

  “Don’t tell.” He smiled and helped himself to a bite. “Look, I don’t know how to tell you this but.…”

  “My mother owed you money.”

  He looked surprised to hear me say it and answered. “Yeah. It’s not much, but we kind of let her keep a tab. She hardly ever had to use it. Most of the time people paid for her, but you know, the few times that didn’t work out, we’d float her.” He smiled and gave a small chuckle.

  “What do you mean people paid for her? Like a beggar?”

  “Oh, God, no, no, nothing like that.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. I kept my fingers still and wondered if it was rude not to squeeze back. I wasn’t used to being touched; I’m not much of a hugger. “No, not like a beggar, like a celebrity. You know, always getting free stuff?”

  “No, I don’t know.” I flattened my hand on the table and slid it out from underneath his.

  “Your mom could talk to anybody, and she always had great stories. She used to come here alone and strike up conversations with people and before you knew it, she was eating lunch with them and telling them about her travels and they’d pick up the tab. Sometimes, she’d even add something to the bill and they wouldn’t mind. A couple of the older suits would pay her tab whether they ate with her or not. You know, guys who wanted to be all spiritual and whatnot, but were still really just bankers who did yoga on the weekends. I think they liked that your mom could always give them advice and that she was the real deal.”

  I thought of that day we had come together and I had left, my mother charming the table next to us, talking about art and philosophy and debating with the two older gentlemen next to us. She’d been trying to find a way to pay for our lunch and I had no idea. My cheeks burned at the memory.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. How much did she owe you?” I snapped, busying myself with the letters on the table.

  “Uh, I’ll check.” He went behind the counter and returned with a little notepad. “Two hundred and twenty dollars.”

  “Put it on my card. The date square too.” I handed him my Visa and turned my attention back to the mail. I didn’t find the idea of my mother conning customers for meals charming. And I didn’t like that until recently I had no idea that she had to. I found a letter from a store not far from here and, after reading it, decided to go there. I finished my coffee, paid the bill, and left a twenty-percent tip, to make up for my mother.

  I checked the address on the envelope with the number on the door. It was the right place, but the sign read By Appointment Only. It was written in gold pen in cursive writing on a scalloped piece of paper and hung from a ribbon. The effect was vaguely Victorian, mirroring the dusty rose-colored furniture that lay behind the thick glass doors. Inside, the lights were on low, and I thought I could see someone leaning over the counter. I pressed my face to the glass, trying to get a better look, and rapped on the window, hoping to get their attention.

  “We’re closed,” a woman’s voice called out; she waved her hand, shooing me away.

  I knocked again, and again.

  “I said we’re closed! You’ll have to make an appointment.”

  “I don’t want an appointment. I want to ask you about this letter you sent.” I waved the gray envelope in my hand.

  I had gotten her attention and watched as she grabbed glasses that hung from a chain around her neck and put them on. She snatched her keys off the counter and made her way toward the door. She must’ve been at least a full foot shorter than me, and tiny. An older woman, she was stooped at the shoulders, with her head hanging forward at her neck. She was wearing a Chanel sweater set and a pleated black wool skirt that stopped just past her knee. Everything about her clothes and her antique-pearl earrings and choker announced that she was someone who invested in her fashion wisely. Everything, that was, with the exception of the heavy black orthopedic shoes, which seemed to be the only thing keeping her weighted to the ground.

  Snow was coming down heavily now, and I was sure by the way she arched her eyebrows and pursed her mouth as she gave me the once-over that I was not cutting an impressive figure.

  “You sent this letter to my mother, a Mrs. Robins, uh, Robi?”

  “And?”

  “Could I please talk to you about it?”

  “Have your mother call me.”

  “I can’t…she’s dead. Two weeks ago.” I was getting good at just blurting this out. I might as well use it while I can; it would lose impact as time went on. She stopped and studied my face, as if to see if I was telling the truth.

  “Please, it’s freezing out here and I’m soaking wet.”

  Finally she lifted her huge ring of keys, undid the lock, and let me inside.

  “Stand there on the rug, and take your shoes and coat off. You’re dripping.”

  I did as she said and hung my coat on the door handle, where it could drip onto th
e doormat, and removed my boots.

  “Wait.” She walked over to one of the large clothing racks that filled her store and took a huge shawl off the hanger and handed it to me.

  “Thank you.” I wrapped the thick wool shawl tightly around my body and followed her directions to sit on the pink velvet chaise that she pointed to. “I’m Elspeth, Ms. Robi’s daughter.”

  “Mildred. I’m very sorry about your mother. I didn’t know.” She walked into a small back room, emerging moments later with two cups of tea.

  “How did she die?” She handed me the tea and sat in the high-back armchair opposite me.

  “Cancer.”

  “I see. What kind?”

  “I don’t know. She waited until it was too late and it was everywhere. So much for knowing my family medical history.”

  She sipped from her teacup and set it down on the ottoman between us.

  It was a small store, packed with neat racks of expensive-looking clothes that had been arranged by designer. Calligraphied signs in little frames sat above the racks, proudly announcing Chanel, Oscar de la Renta, and Valentino, among others. I had passed by the shop times but had never thought to stop in, the prices being well beyond my reach. In truth, I’d never even had occasion to wear anything other than blue jeans and hand-knit sweaters.

  “Your things are lovely. I can see why my mother liked your store.”

  “Well, she had acquired quite a collection, and it was in excellent condition. That’s why she came here.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We’re consignment. Ladies sell their designer clothes here, and my clients purchase them at a generous discount. Of course, they have to be well taken care of, so no one will guess that they aren’t brand new.”

  “You mean these are all secondhand?”

  “Previously loved.”

  “I see.” It was my turn to sip tea and avoid the awkward silence, and I took my time doing so.