Mothers and Other Strangers

by Gina Sorell

  “I take it you and your mother didn’t share the same taste.”

  I could feel Mildred’s eyes taking in my own previously loved clothing-swap sweater and jeans.

  “I love secondhand clothes.” To my surprise she smiled, and we both relaxed a little more into our chairs. “According to your letter, I understand that my mother had an outstanding account?”

  “Yes, let’s see.” She stood up and returned with a leather journal. “Well, I owed her four hundred dollars for a Chanel sweater set and scarf, and she owed me six hundred for a Yves Saint Laurent winter coat, so her balance was two hundred dollars. I think everything else was settled up. Now, I can take a check, or if you like, in light of the circumstances, I could just wait until the rest of the jewelry is sold.”

  “The what?”

  “The jewelry. Your mother told me that she no longer had any use for it and that there was no one to leave it to.”

  “I never wear jewelry.” It just came out. It was partially true. I never wore it, because I never had any, and I never knew my mother did either.

  “Oh, well that explains it.”

  “But still, if you don’t mind, I should take another look. Maybe my, uh, sister…would like it.”

  “Of course. I never knew that your mother had two daughters.”

  Neither did I. But admitting that my mother didn’t even think to leave me her jewelry was an embarrassment too large to take on my own, so I invented one.

  “She was very private.” I smiled and smoothed my frizzy hair behind my ears.

  “Yes, the British usually are.”

  I coughed and sent tea spluttering down my chin. “Excuse me.” I wiped my face with the back of my hand and returned the teacup to the tray on the ottoman.

  My mother may have taken elocution lessons as a young woman to soften her South African accent, but she was hardly British. She had always disliked the hard, guttural sounds associated with the Dutch Afrikaners and had taken great pains to not be confused with them. Hers was a lovely low voice with a slightly more exotic than usual accent, her South African heritage only revealed in her use of expressions like shame, meaning poor thing, and the occasional ya instead of yes.

  I leaned over the jewelry counter as Mildred turned on the little interior light. It was packed with heirloom pieces, mostly gold with brightly colored stones. The kind of jewelry that older wealthy women wore to advertise how well their husbands were doing. A few pieces were understated and elegant—still expensive-looking, but in a much more subtle way. I was particularly struck by a gold bangle and a small white gold brooch with a cluster of tiny little rubies that looked like flowers. I was shocked to learn these pieces belonged to my mother.

  “Could I please see them up close?” I asked. Mildred removed both the items from the jewelry counter and placed them on a little black-velvet pad.

  The only jewelry I’d ever worn were things that people had given to me. Silver earrings and the occasional beaded necklace made up the entirety of my collection. With the exception of my wedding ring, a beautiful round sapphire-and-diamond setting that once belonged to Ted’s grandmother, I’d never owned anything of much value. I’d loved my wedding ring but chose to return it to Ted during our divorce, so that maybe one day he could give it to another, hopefully more permanent, wife.

  “These are really beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen them before. At least I can’t remember if I did.”

  “I see. Well, the diamond pin is a vintage piece from Van Cleef and Arpels. She said she got it in Paris. And the gold bangle is the last one from a stack that she had brought in. I believe it’s stamped,” said Mildred, turning it over and checking the inside. “Yes, eighteen carat. 1950.”

  “I don’t suppose you could check your book and tell me how many pieces she had sold?” I never knew my mother had so much jewelry.

  “I won’t be able to track them down for you, if that is what you’re thinking,” she said firmly.

  “I’m not. I just.…” I felt Mildred’s eyes burrowing into me and decided to just be honest. “I don’t have a sister. I had no idea that my mother had any of this jewelry, and I certainly didn’t know that she was selling it. I just wish I could ask her why. But I can’t.”

  Mildred’s face softened and she sighed. “I don’t usually disclose personal details about my clients, but seeing she’s.…” She stopped for a moment and then opened her notebook and turned it to me. There, across two pages, was a list of all the pieces my mother had sold over the years, the date and price written neatly in red beside each one. I ran my finger down the list, quickly adding up the numbers for each year. I suddenly had a much better idea of how she had been supporting herself.

  “She used to call it her severance package. I didn’t push. I just assumed there’d been a nasty divorce.”

  I closed the book and shook my head no.

  “I see. Well, there was one more thing. She brought it in separately, about a month ago.”

  She reached into a drawer underneath the jewelry case and removed a small felt bag. She untied its drawstring and took out a large ivory and diamond ring.

  I placed it on my ring finger, and in spite of my small hands, it fit.

  “It’s a very unusual piece,” said Mildred, “not the kind of thing that I would normally sell here, so I suggested we get it appraised before I put it in the showcase.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes.” She paused. “I had someone take a look at it, and he wrote up an appraisal for her. She was supposed to come and get it, and let me know, but she never did. And now I realize why.”

  I closed my fingers tightly around the ring and brought it up to my face for closer inspection. The ivory was cool and smooth, and the gold thread that wound through the ring shone as it caught the light. The center of the ring was carved with some sort of insignia, and a large diamond rested in the middle of it. I wasn’t an expert, but I’d seen enough sparklers on the hands of wealthy Angelenos to know a good one, and this one was amazing.

  Mildred slid the sealed appraisal along the counter toward me, and I tucked it into my pocket. “It looks good on you. If it really is a family heirloom, you may just want to keep it.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I left Mildred’s with my head full of questions. She had called the ivory and diamond ring a family heirloom, but my mother didn’t have any family, except me. And the Seekers. I felt a chill run down my spine as I thought of the letter they’d sent, Our beloved soul sister, the thoughts and prayers of all of your soul family are with you as the strength of your spirit and devotion are tested.

  Could this ring really be so valuable that the Seekers would risk breaking into her apartment to get it? I reached into my pocket for the appraisal and tore the envelope open. $150,000. Flawless, 3.5 carat diamond ring. Hand-carved antique ivory.

  My mouth fell open. What on earth was my mother doing with a ring like this?

  I stuffed my hand and the ring deeper into my pocket and tried to clear my head, letting the cold air freeze my face and thoughts. The sidewalks were icy and covered in salt, leaving little white rings around my boots and soaking the hems of my pants. It had been a long time since I’d had to deal with winter, and as much as I loathed the never-ending cold in my bones, I welcomed the opportunity the gray skies and slushy streets gave me to scowl at the world. In Los Angeles, where the sun never stopped shining and everyone answered “the weather” when asked why they lived there, it was a lot harder to justify my misanthropic attitude. It was as if somehow the fact that it was sunny all the time could make up for the rest of life’s disappointments.

  “I hate this fucking weather,” said a young woman trying to navigate the small lake that had formed at the edge of the sidewalk.

  It was the kind of thing that Torontonians said from November until April, and it always made me smile. I’d missed Toronto, but didn’t realize how much until I was actually back. It wasn’t like New York, which you raved abo
ut no matter where you lived. It was more like the underappreciated, always-striving-to-do-the-right-thing older sister of the popular and pretty girl, the one who is overlooked in movies by the leading man for her lack of exterior beauty. But in the end, after the popular girl breaks his heart, or the flashier city breaks his spirit and bank account, he returns to the plainer sister and sees her understated elegance and integrity, and finally values what he has taken for granted all along.

  Still, the weather stinks.

  By the time I arrived at my car, my pants were soaked from the knees down, and I was freezing. My head was spinning, and with the exception of a mouthful of a date square, I hadn’t eaten anything since the night before. I was all out of groceries, but the thought of going into a store and being surrounded by regular people going about their daily lives made me want to scream. I decided to ignore my empty stomach and grab a coffee from the coffee shop on the corner instead. It was an old bad habit, not eating, but a familiar one, and with no one around to keep me in check, I found myself returning to it when things got out of control. Nothing made sense right now, and somehow the gnawing in my stomach was strangely comforting. I headed back to Dalewood and spent the rest of the afternoon packing my mother’s apartment in a kind of fog. I went through the motions of sorting her things into piles, packing and labeling boxes for the different charitable organizations I’d arranged pickups with, my mind questioning each item’s possible appeal to someone else. Until learning of the jewelry, I didn’t think my mother had anything of value to steal. Now I wondered what else she had hidden from me.

  “Hello in there,” said Mrs. David as she rapped loudly on the door, making me shriek.

  “Just a minute,” I said, undoing the chain on the door.

  “Sorry to startle you.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’m just a little jumpy, that’s all,” I said, my heart racing.

  “Why don’t you join me for dinner?” She turned and left without waiting for me to reply and walked back into her apartment, leaving the door open.

  My stomach felt like it had started to eat itself, and I knew that nothing but cat food waited for me back at my place. I stuffed the appraisal deep into my purse, removed the ring from my hand, and tucked it into the front pocket of my jeans. Wearing it would hardly go unnoticed, and I didn’t want it to raise any questions. Questions that I couldn’t answer. I hit the lights and made sure I locked the door, double-checking it before walking away.

  “Help yourself. I won’t be long.” Mrs. David gestured to the open bottle of red wine on the dining room table and went into the kitchen.

  “Thanks.” I poured myself a big glass and took a large sip. The wine warmed my cheeks, and I felt my shoulders relax a little with the next sip. Mrs. David had her back to me while she tossed a salad, and I took the opportunity to take in my surroundings.

  It was a beautiful apartment. Floral fabric couches with matching wingback chairs made up the living room, and the dusty pink wall-to-wall carpet matched the heavy, tasseled silk drapes that framed the windows. Everything, from the china cabinet to the ornately carved side tables, was polished to a high sheen. It was definitely the interior of a once much larger Rosedale mansion, and its current incarnation as a two-bedroom apartment gave off a feeling of elegance and refinement.

  “Your place is beautiful.”

  “It’s colorful, that’s for sure. But spending most of my life working in black and white, I guess I needed a change.”

  “These are yours?” I moved closer to the framed black-and-white photographs that filled the walls.

  “Some of them; there are hundreds more. But I ran out of room.”

  The pictures were exquisite. I didn’t know much about photography except to know what I liked, and I loved these. There were photos of what I guessed were family, portraits done in living rooms: parents, children, and the pet. The settings were grand, with everything in its place and staged just so. They were the kind of photos people attached to cards and sent out at Christmas announcing how well everyone was doing. The kind of cards I would have loved to have sent out if I’d had a family. Then there were pictures one might see in a coffee-table book about European vacations: Greek Islands, Venice canals, the Spanish Steps in Rome, places I had only heard about or seen in photographs like these. But there were also candid shots of strangers: an old man feeding pigeons on a park bench, a young girl looking at her reflection in a puddle, people caught in a private moment, unaware of a photographer’s lens. These were my favorites.

  “Those are my favorites too,” said Mrs. David, as if reading my thoughts.

  “They’re wonderful.”

  “Yes. The others were about work, and these were just for me.”

  “I didn’t know you were a professional photographer.”

  “Why would you?”

  “True.”

  “Come, sit down.” She led us back to the dining room table, which was set for two. “It’s nothing fancy. Just quiche and salad.”

  “It’s more than I would have made.”

  “I figured.” She gave me the once-over in that way that only women do, unabashed about commenting on the weight of someone they hardly know.

  I took my seat next to the head of the table where she sat and let her dish up for me.

  “It’s mushroom. I didn’t know if you were a vegetarian like your mother.”

  “Thanks.”

  I waited until she sat before stuffing an enormous portion in my mouth. It was delicious, and I ate half my plate before complimenting her on her cooking.

  “Thank the Everyday Gourmet. It has been a long time since I actually cooked anything. Not much point when you’re just cooking for one.”

  I knew what she meant. “My mother used to love that place.”

  “I know. I’d see her there sometimes.” Mrs. David smiled and went back to eating.

  “How well did you know my mother?” I pushed my plate a little farther away, for fear of inhaling the whole thing.

  “Not well. But one lives next to somebody for years and, well, you get to know them a little.”

  “So you never became friends.”

  “Your mother was there for me when my husband was ill. It was a long and horrible death, and she would sit with him so I could shower or go to the store. I had nurses, but she would read to him, and he loved the sound of her voice. And when he died, she sat shiva with our family.”

  “Shiva? My mother? That doesn’t sound like her. She disdained organized religion. She insisted that group of hers was a philosophy, not a religion.” Although I didn’t know of any other philosophy that asked for donations.

  “She said as much. And yet she told me that she found the whole ritual strangely comforting, and that I was very lucky to not have to hide what I believed.”

  “Oh please, she chose to hide her beliefs. She was always very secretive about her group. She kept them hidden from me until I was fourteen.”

  Mrs. David paused for a moment and then smiled knowingly. “Well, she was definitely an interesting woman.”

  “That she was.” I took a big sip of my wine and let her top off my glass. The idea of my mother being so kind to a stranger stung, although it shouldn’t. She did best with strangers.

  “I’m sorry about your husband.”

  “Thank you. I was happy to return the favor when she was ill.”

  I looked at Mrs. David and felt my jaw tighten. “I didn’t know she was sick. We weren’t exactly on good terms. By the time I found out, she was already in the hospital. It was too late. She should’ve gone in earlier.” I wished she’d gone in earlier. It might have given us more time. I might have been able to say goodbye.

  “She didn’t want to die in the hospital; she said she wanted to go back home.”

  “Here?”

  “Africa.”

  Africa. The word hit me. My mother had never called Africa home. Why now? Why would she want to die there?

  “Why are you telling me t
his?” Josh at the vegan restaurant, Mildred, and now Mrs. David. Everyone knew my mother better than me. I stood up from the table and gripped my wine glass tightly. I was afraid I might crush it or scream or both.

  “Because you weren’t there. I am not blaming you. I can’t imagine a woman like that would be easy to have as a mother.”

  I waited to see if she would elaborate, but she didn’t. She didn’t need to. Judging by her photographs it was clear that Mrs. David knew what a family looked like, and in ours, I wasn’t in the picture.

  “You have no idea.”

  “I think you should know what happened. I’ve thought about whether or not to tell you since you came back. But I think she’d want you to know. Please sit down.”

  I loosened my grip on the glass and sat back down in my chair. I wasn’t hungry anymore, just exhausted and raw.

  “Know what?”

  “That she was sorry.”

  “For?”

  “I don’t know. She just kept saying that she was sorry and that she needed to make things right. That she wanted another chance. She called someone, and I heard her say, ‘we’re coming back,’ and then she collapsed.”

  “What do you mean we? Who did she call?” My heart was racing. Was it someone from the Seekers? Or someone back in Africa? And why didn’t she call me? I was always the last person on her list. I leaned back in my chair and tried to calm my breathing.

  “She was in a lot of pain at the end, and she wouldn’t take any medication for it. She was suffering on purpose. She said she deserved it. She said it was her karma. Do you know what she meant?”

  “That sounds like the kind of crap that she’d say after a meeting with her cult.”

  Mrs. David sat back in her chair and looked at me. “And I thought I was angry when my husband died.”

  “Except you weren’t angry at your husband.” I took a breath and continued, “I’m sorry. It’s just that my mother didn’t share her life with me, okay? And I am trying to move on, I really am. But she sure isn’t making it easy for me.”

  “No, she isn’t.”

  “She had plenty of time to apologize while she was alive.” I wondered if my mother had lain in her hospital bed full of remorse, her hand outstretched in apology. I would have taken it and held it tight. I would have listened to her stories like I did when I was a little girl, long before she stopped telling them to me. Long before she gave up being my parent.