What Makes a Family

Abby & Birdie

A week later I’m sitting in my office, staring at my computer screen. I’m having a hard time getting back into the swing of things. Sarah has started the new school year. Drum’s fall semester is under way. Reed’s too. I talk to Daddy every day; he’ll be cutting soy beans soon. He doesn’t want to talk about my mother. He just keeps saying she’ll be back when she’s good and ready. Mostly we talk about Mom Brodie, sharing memories. We laugh. Sometimes there are a few tears. But all in all, my father seems to be adjusting to the new normal for him. I can’t decide if that’s good or bad. He and my mother have been married almost fifty years, and it appears that she’s walked out on him. And he wants to talk about what soy beans are bringing at auction.

I’m the one who’s not adjusting. I miss Mom Brodie. It isn’t as if I talked to her every day, but I miss knowing she’s there if I need her. Strangely enough, I think I miss my mother more. Which seems irrational because what do I miss? The time we spent together or talking on the phone, I was mostly annoyed with her. She wasn’t my kind of person. But she was . . . is my mother.

I’m still staring at the first page of the textbook I’m supposed to be editing when my cell rings. It’s not a number in my contacts. I hope beyond hope that it’s Birdie. She said she’d call, but she hasn’t.

I like the way she says it. Mom. I don’t know why Abby’s decided to call me that now, after all these years. Maybe because she called Mrs. Brodie Mom. And now that Mrs. Brodie’s gone, there’s room for me? Doesn’t much matter why. I like it.

I take a sip of coffee from a Styrofoam cup and look out the window of my hotel room. The cliffs of Sedona are even prettier than in the photos in my scrapbook that went out with the trash. I could sit here all day and look at those red rock formations. But I’m not going to sit here all day. I’m going for a hike later. A walk, really. With two old ladies I met downstairs at the buffet breakfast. The food’s free with the room and half-decent, though their hot cakes are a bit heavy. I doubt they use buttermilk; buttermilk’s what makes a decent hot cake.

“I’m glad you called,” Abby says. “I’ve been worried about you.”

“I told you not to worry. I’m fine.”

“I can’t stop worrying just because you tell me to.”

She does sound worried. And a little scared, which makes me feel bad. But not bad enough to regret doing what I’ve done.

“Where are you?” Abby asks me.

I’ve been going back and forth as to whether or not to tell her where I’ve gone. I wouldn’t want anyone coming here, making a fuss, trying to get me to come home. Because I’m not going back to Brodie Island. Not ever. I had decided that by the time I drove over the bridge in the Caddy. I don’t know if I ever belonged there, but I know I don’t belong there anymore. Not with Mrs. Brodie gone.

“Arizona,” I tell her.

“Arizona?” She says it like I said I was on the moon. But then she gentles her tone. “Mom, what are you doing in Arizona?”

I slurp my coffee that’s just the right temperature. They’ve got a coffee pot right in the room here. You can make your own, day or night. “Always wanted to see it.”

“So . . . you decided to take a vacation?”

“Nope.” I set down the coffee cup, my gaze focused on the red wall of basalt and limestone out my window. “Decided to move here.”

Abby’s quiet long enough on the other end of the phone that I pull it away from my ear and look at it. I’ve never had a cell phone before. I got one of the fancy Apple ones like my kids have, so I can search things on the Internet on it. Nothing on the screen says she hung up. I put it back to my ear.

“You’ve left Daddy?” she says finally. Then, “Does he know that?”

“If he doesn’t, I suppose he’ll figure it out in good time.”

“Mom—” She stops and starts again. “You can’t just . . . walk away from your life.”

“Why not?” I reach for the coffee again. I don’t go on because I’m not ready to talk about it. I wouldn’t say I regret marrying Little Joe because I got Abby and Celeste out of that marriage. And Joseph. Who, when push comes to shove, I love as much as I love my girls. Maybe more, in some ways, because even though he didn’t come from my body, I think he understands me better than they do.

My daughter sputters on the other end of the phone, like she doesn’t know what to say. It makes me smile. I’ve never baffled anyone before. No one thought I was unpredictable. Because I never was. I’m enjoying it. “Your daddy get the car at the airport?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I guess he found the ticket to get out. I left it right on the dash with one hundred dollars in cash in an envelope. Wrote ticket to get out of the parking lot on the envelope.”

“Mom, where did you get the money to leave one hundred dollars for parking? How did you pay for a plane ticket? Where are you staying?”

“Hotel I found on the Internet. It’s a nice place with a pool and a breakfast buffet,” I tell her. “Not cheap, but the view’s worth every penny.” I pause to take a sip of coffee, thinking I might just have another cup before I head out for the day. I’ve never had time to drink two cups of coffee in one sitting. “Don’t you worry about me. I have money of my own,” I tell her. “Been saving my whole life. Well, since I was twelve or so. From eggs I sold. Jams and jellies. Stuff I returned. A penny pinched here or there. Money your father gave me to buy stuff that didn’t need buyin’. Got my own bank account with just my name on it. And a credit card of my own. Mrs. Brodie, she’s the one who told me a woman needs her own money.”

“I don’t understand,” Abby says. She almost sounds like she’s going to cry.

I hold the cell phone tight in my hand. I’m glad I’m here. This is the best place I’ve ever been in my life, but I don’t want to hurt Abby. I don’t want to hurt my kids. “I’m going to live on my pin money,” I say. “I got a lot of pin money.”

Again, she’s quiet longer than I expect her to be. But I wait.

“You mean . . . you’ve been saving money for fifty-some years, in anticipation of running away from home?”

“I didn’t run away from home. That makes it sound like I’m coming back. I’m not coming back. My time there is done. I’m done.”

“Mom . . .” Now I can hear that she’s crying, but not loud, sobby crying. The quiet kind. The deep kind. “I don’t understand,” she whispers.

“Can’t say I do, either,” I tell her, sighing. “But when I do . . . I’ll tell you.” I feel a strange calm come over me, calm like I’ve never felt before. And I feel a connection to my girl that I never felt before, either. “That be okay?” I ask. “If I tell you once I figure it out?”

“Yeah.” She sniffs. “Of course.”

I nod. “Good.” I take a breath. It never occurred to me I might be able to have a better relationship with my Abby away from Brodie Island than on it, but all of a sudden I feel the possibility. “You talk to your sister? I tried to call her. Just goes to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message. She won’t listen to it.”

Abby laughs. Which makes me smile.

“She’s in Paris,” she tells me. “She says she’s getting married.”

“Married!” That’s as surprising as my flying off to Arizona. “To who?”

“Some guy she met at The Gull the week Mom Brodie died. His name’s Bartholomew. He took her to Paris.”

“He a nice man?”

“I don’t know, but . . . Celeste seems happy. I told her about the money. Apparently she knew she’d been cut out of the will, but she didn’t seem that upset.”

“She still want money from you and Joseph?” I ask.

“Of course.”

We both laugh. Then I sigh again. I feel like we have a lot to say to each other, but we can’t just pour it out in one sitting. It’s going to take time. “I have to go, but if it’s okay, I might call you tonight. I need to talk to you about you and Drum and Sarah moving to Brodie Island. I’ve been thinking on it a while. Mrs. Brodie and I talked about it, and she thought it was a good idea, too.”

“Mom—”

“I said I don’t have time to talk about it now,” I interrupt. “I just want you to start thinking about it. Because . . . you and I both know it’s where you belong. ’Specially now that I’m gone. It’s where you’ve always belonged, Abby.”

She’s crying again, and I feel bad again. But Abby’s strong. She’ll be okay. I know she will.

“I have to go,” I say gently. “But I’ll call you. And you can call me. At this number. Only . . . don’t give this number to your daddy. I’ll call him. I’ll explain everything to him. I’m just . . . I’m not ready. I’ve still got things to work out in my own mind.”

“You’re really not coming home?” Abby whispers.

“No.” Now I’m tearing up. I didn’t even know I had tears. “But maybe you could come here to visit. You and Drum and Sarah and Reed. Maybe Joseph and Celeste and her husband might want to come too, sometime. It’s so beautiful.” I press my lips together and gaze out at the red cliffs again. “I’d like it if you come to see me, Abby. Will you come? Not now. I need to be by myself now. Never been alone. But maybe . . . maybe in a few months?”

“I’ll come.”

We’re both quiet. And then I say, “I always loved you. You know that, right?”

“I know,” she whispers.

When we hang up, I get to my feet and adjust the sparkly palm tree brooch on my sweater. Once it suits me, I reach for Joe’s John Deere ball cap on the bed and head out to see my red cliffs up close.