Leaving Unknown (3 page)

“Girl, I can’t get you out of town fast enough.” Jules laughed.

When I hung up, I hoped she knew I’d really been trying to say thanks for being a friend.

I was fidgeting anxiously as I stared at my possessions arrayed in an eclectic fire sale. The for-sale list read like a diagnosis of attention deficit disorder: Rollerblades next to a paint easel, an ice-cream maker sitting atop empty photo albums, a fishing rod leaning against a croquet set.

“Do you think we’re charging enough for the dartboard?” I asked Jules.

“Yes.” She ignored me as she arranged my DVDs, having spent days wrestling me to relinquish my attachment to superfluous inventory. I’d capitulated on everything but my treasured collection of books and my classic Pentax 35mm camera. Now I wasn’t so sure.

“But not too much?”

“No.”

Finished with the DVDs, Jules began to construct an attractive tower of beer steins. Early browsers were perusing what we’d dubbed the Apartment Store. That was back when it was funny. It didn’t feel funny now. I twitched watching people handle my things. A girl wearing a purple scarf over an orange sweater picked up one of my silver Marc Jacobs peep-toes. I jolted. Oh no. No way. She could
not
have those shoes.

“Maeve!” My mother exclaimed, quick eyes taking in the scene. My father, crowding in behind her, was beaming. When I’d told them over dinner about my plan, they’d been delighted, proud of my sacrificial initiative. In return, they’d been more than generous in discharging my debts. Dad had even given me a gas card with $200 to get me started.

“We’ve come to help!” bellowed my father. He was never spot-on with volume control. Several people turned to look, but I was too traumatized by my ongoing amputation to be embarrassed as usual.

“Great!” Jules beamed. “Here—wear this.” She produced a
sticker that said, “Ask me for help!” and handed it to my dad. I looked at her suspiciously. Funny that she’d had that lying around. I hadn’t been expecting my parents.

“Okey doke. Jules can tell you what to do.” My gaze returned to Tacky Girl. She’d slipped on the Marc Jacobs. They fit. I jumped. “I have to…” I started toward her.

“Actually”—my mother looped her arm through mine, redirecting me toward the door—“your father’s going to stay and help so that you and I can spend some mother-daughter time together! We thought you’d need a little break.”

“What a great idea!” Jules’s broad smile suggested it was she who was about to get a major break. Dad’s grin was equally shit-eating. I eyed them all.

“I don’t think…” Tacky now had the box tucked under her arm. “Oh.” I reflexively reached an arm toward the shoes, but my mother was an effervescent defensive back, herding me helplessly toward the door.

“Don’t you worry dear, your dad’s happy to help!”

Jules and my father waved like I was off to my first day of school, and just like that I went from a person who had everything to a girl with a moderate wad of cash and only ten pairs of shoes.

While my ownership of material possessions was being decimated, my mother distracted me with lunch. I never did have a good attention span.

“Your father and I discussed it, and we’d like to give you a parting gift,” she said as we shook out our napkins.

I frowned. “You’ve been too generous already.”

“Consider it a gift that keeps on giving. To us, specifically. We’ve decided to pay for your cell phone until you get to LA and get somewhat settled. I’ll feel better knowing we can reach you.”

“You sound like Vi.” I laughed. “You do know I’m going to the heavily populated American state of California and not to Borneo, right? I doubt I’ll be abducted into white slavery.”

“Don’t count yourself out. You’re a good-looking girl.” She opened her menu as I considered whether she was being facetious. Did I have to add abduction into white slavery to my list of road trip concerns, between sun poisoning, contaminated drinking water, and car problems? With my mother it was hard to tell.

We ordered our salads and discussed my planned route.

“And Laura’s expecting you?” My mother gave me her full attention.

“Oh yes,” I lied, giving my full attention to an imaginary piece of food I pretended to pick off my knife. “Job and apartment.”

“How remarkably generous given you haven’t seen each other in fifteen years.”

I made a noncommittal noise.

“We’re quite proud of you,” she said. My head jerked up. “It’s very brave to start over like this.”

“Thanks.” My voice was a little choked.

She reached across the table to touch my hand. “I know it’s been tough, Maeve. Would you like to talk about anything?”

I instinctively hunched as I shook my head.

“It’s not too late for you to reconsider postponing your departure a few weeks for Cameron’s memorial service.” My best friend’s birthday was approaching. She would have been twenty-eight.

“I can’t.” I said. “They don’t mean it. Seeing me only reminds them. Best to leave it and move forward.”

“Sometimes you have to move through something before you can move forward.” She ventured.

“Mom, I’m leaving soon, and who knows when I’ll be able
to come back for a visit. Can we make this about me and
not
Cameron?”

A flicker crossed her face, but all she said was, “Of course. Tell me more about this marathon.”

I lit up. “It’s my first. I’m really excited.”

“All that running you do, I’m sure you’ll have no problem.”

“Sprints. This marathon is a challenge.” My tone got a little smug. “Brick’s never run one either.” My brother and I were competitive about track.

My mother rolled her eyes. “He’s never had his period either, but I doubt he wants one just because you have.” My mother discouraged sibling rivalry. It didn’t mean that it didn’t exist though. It particularly cut when my baby brother managed to accomplish something I hadn’t. Brick was in college, following a normal four-year plan. My intense need to graduate before him had fueled an academic fervor last semester and I beat him by six months. I’d been in college since he was fifteen. But the marathon was mine alone.

The waitress delivered our salads.

“I lived in California for a brief time.” My mother surprised me.

“You did? When?”

A frown creased her forehead. Even though my forehead was smooth, I dragged an involuntary finger across my brow. Connellys were doomed to have divots. “Well, I don’t recall
exactly
,” she began. “It had to be around 1966, because it was before I met your father. There was this chemistry major at Berkeley, fervent guy…”

I was relieved the story didn’t end with the revelation that my mother under another name was on the FBI’s Most Wanted list for revolutionary activities in the sixties. We talked about everything and nothing. The check came, and I reverted to a child, not even pretending I’d contribute.

“I thought we might stop by the mall, pick up any last items you need,” my mother said after she paid.

“I do need film for my camera,” I said. I tended to burn through it. “And sunscreen.”

“Oh yes. I hope you’ll take lots of photos and share your journey with us.”

“Wouldn’t be able not to,” I confessed.

“Before we go, I have one last thing for you. A Connelly kind of road map.” She said, extracting a bundle from her bag.

Jules and I were collapsed on folding chairs in my barren living room, Oliver hopping about the apartment in an agitated manner, cataloguing empty space. Jules had done a pirate’s business, and sold almost everything through a clever series of price reductions as the day went on. Everything left in the apartment would either go home with Jules (various belts, shoes, cooking pots, and one string of chili-pepper lights that would come in handy for Cinco de Mayo), or be packed in my car bound for Los Angeles. The boxes of dog-eared books were stowed in my parents’ attic, though I’d had to fight to convince them I couldn’t possibly part with a single volume out of four moving boxes.

“Thanks, Jules. I really mean it.”

“No problem.” She wafted a hand in my direction. “S’long as you don’t change your mind about the Fiorinos. Did you have a good day?”

It
had
been a good day. After being muscled into the car, it’d hit me hard that it would be one of the last days I’d see my mom for a while. I’d felt like an ass for resisting. It’s funny how quickly you stop caring about inanimate objects once you’re sufficiently parted from them. People are harder to keep, but they matter more and their loss lingers longer.

“It was nice. We spent most of the day talking. You know
my mom lived in California once, and she and my dad drove cross-country together before I was born?”

“Hunh-uh. That’s cool,” Jules said. “Beer?”

“Let’s get boozy, Suzy.”

She handed me a can of Busch. No point in squandering the profits on the good stuff. We resumed our study of eight small statues perched on an empty box in front of us. Oliver danced along the box, approaching then retreating from them, not sure if they were friend or foe.

“So what are they again?” Jules asked.

“My mom made them for my trip.” I was touched that she’d paused work on her current sculpture commission for me. It was a big step. “She called them kachinas. I’m supposed to leave them along the way.” The eight figures were happy, partially anthropomorphized round animal-Buddha-type figures, each about the size of a pool ball. Each incorporated a combination of animals, or animal and human, most pairing selections a mystery to me, given the eclectic workings of my mother’s mind.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m supposed to spend time getting to know each one and identifying it with…something. Kind of like a Rorschach test—whatever I feel when I contemplate the kachina is its chakra. When that chakra is evoked, either because of how I’m personally feeling or because of how a place makes me feel, I’m supposed to commit the kachina to that place.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“See, like this one, it’s a knot of intertwined leaves and stems, like new shoots, and what looks like a hummingbird in there. It makes me think of new growth. So maybe I’d take it to my first day of my new job or leave in the yard of my new apartment or something.”

“And you can’t keep them?”

“I think it’s a metaphor that I shouldn’t regret selling my shoes.” I laughed. “Even items homemade by one’s mother are meant to be left behind, and all that.”

“I don’t know,” mused Jules. “It sounds pretty cool. Letting go of things. You can make them mean anything—fear, loss, a bad guy, a bad time—and then you leave them behind. Because you can’t really get attached to something you already know you’re going to leave somewhere. So maybe it’s more for…”

“Maybe.” I cut her off. I was feeling good and forward-looking. I didn’t want to dwell on past missteps. It didn’t help that the first kachina was a girl intertwined with a crab, looking backward. I had a pretty good idea what that one meant. “I’m supposed to keep the last one.”

“That one?” Jules gestured towards a statue Oliver had decided to befriend.

“Yes.” I’d noticed right away it was a combination of a plump female mother figure and an owl that resembled my favorite stuffed animal. My protectors.

“I’m glad you get to keep one. They’re so pretty it’ll be tough to leave them behind.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.

Jules finished her beer, then looked at me. “Well, I can’t have another or I can’t get home. And I’m stalling anyway. I guess it’s time to say good-bye.”

I nodded.

She unfolded her five foot eleven inches from her chair, and I stood also, two inches shorter. Two modern Amazons without weapons, unsure of what to do next.

“Take care of the bar,” I said. “I don’t want to hear from Brooks that you’ve been slacking. And make sure Joe doesn’t have a heart attack.” Translation: I’m going to miss you, Joe, and Brooks, but I can’t admit it and I refuse to cry.

“You, too, girl. Be careful driving, and call me. We’re going
to miss the hell out of you.” Jules, clearly, was much more in touch with her emotional side.

“You’re psyched to be the only hot gal at the bar!” I shifted us back to banter.

“Roger wilco.” She hugged me so hard I thought my ribs would crack. Since she initiated, I let her. More than that, I sank into liquid, let the love pour all over me, and drank it in like a greedy child. Just for a minute. Then I pulled away. We were both blinking.

“You call me, kid.” She didn’t look at me as she gathered her bags of my former stuff. We both knew I wouldn’t call often. It wasn’t really my thing. But for her I would, once in a while.

Jules stopped at the door. “You know, bad luck isn’t really a thing. It’s like weather. It happens, but it doesn’t follow you around specifically. Sometimes, when you think it’s bad, it’s actually a sign of good luck, like rain on your wedding day.” She looked at me, and recited one of our favorite silly Southern expressions. “I’m not sayin’…I’m just sayin’. There’s no such thing as attached bad luck. But frame of mind, now that stays with you forever.”

We held gazes for a moment. Then she smiled and said, “Come home soon.” And she was gone. I was breathing fast and shallow, from all the things that wanted to come out of my mouth but couldn’t. Seconds ticked by. Then adrenaline and the voice clamoring in my heart won over my inertia. I ran to the back of the room, then whirled to dash after her.

Her car was pulling out when I hit the sidewalk.

“Jules,” I screamed, waving my free arm. “Jules!” I reached her battered Saturn and battered it some more, willing it to stop with the intensity of my need. She hit the brakes and I ran to the driver’s-side window.

“I forgot…” I gasped, breathless from my sprint. “I forgot to give you these.” I offered the box.

Jules looked confused, then understanding. She took the brand-new pair of prized red suede boots that didn’t hurt my feet even a little bit.

“You didn’t have to”—she smiled—“but I’ll take them.”

“I did.” I still panted. “I did. I’m sorry,” I said for no clear reason. “Thank you.”

“Don’t ever be sorry and don’t ever feel you need to thank people for loving on you,” she said. “I’m your friend. Even when your ass is all the way in California.”