EIGHT

The next morning, her mother stood by the front door, suitcase in hand. “I’ll see you when I get back,” she said.

Angie nodded. She wanted to say, “I’m sorry,” but the words wouldn’t come.

Denise tooted her car horn in the driveway and their mother headed out. Angie went to the door, waved goodbye. Denise lowered her car window. “Don’t throw any wild parties now that you got the house to yourself!”

“Don’t give me ideas!” said Angie, forcing a playful tone for her mother’s benefit.

Nanette got into the car. Angie waved frantically, desperate to apologize yet not wanting to do so in front of Denise, time running out.

Her mother waved back. “Be safe.” She got in the passenger side. Angie watched as the car rolled out of the driveway and down the block. She waved again, knowing they couldn’t see her.

As soon as she re-entered the house, she started prepping. By day’s end, she’d set up an appointment for her travel shots, purchased a plane ticket on her credit card, withdrawn money from the joint account she shared with her mother—careful to take out only her portion of the insurance money—and found out where she’d have to go during a layover in New York to get a visa-stamp in her passport. The next few days were a flurry of work, preparation for her trip, work, prep. She told Lana she’d be leaving for a while. Lana promised Angie she’d try her best to hold the job for her. “You’re one of my best salesgirls,” she said.

When her mother called to say she’d be staying in Atlanta for another couple days, (“Just over the weekend, back by Monday”), Angie faced a dilemma. She’d selected her departure date, June 14, based on her mother being back. Now she’d be leaving before her mother returned, unless she changed her ticket. She didn’t know what to do.

To calm her nerves, she reread Ella’s letters. Like sacred texts, the familiar words had a restorative effect. They transported her back to those precious few months, years before, when everything had been in front of her. Ella was well and seemingly happy in Nigeria, and Angie was in college, newly in love, and thinking of visiting her sister on the continent. After a long time of worry over Ella, she’d felt the space in her world open up, came to know her own capacity for joy. She’d gotten her life back.

She dozed off and when she woke up the letters were scattered across her bed; one had fallen to the floor. As she carefully retrieved them, kissed each one, she decided not to change her travel plans.

The morning of her flight, Angie sat on the sofa and stared at her new American Tourister luggage. She’d been determined to limit herself to one bag, but it was bulging. She hadn’t really known what to take, had finally settled on a few crinkly Indian skirts, jeans, tops, a nightgown, and a plethora of toiletries. Plus the gold pen and journal Ella had given her as a high school graduation present. And all of Ella’s letters. It dawned on her that there’d be two long plane rides and at the last minute she threw in Toni Morrison’s new novel Beloved and Ella’s favorite novel—an old paperback copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude.

She picked up the phone, started to push the buttons for Denise’s number, stopped. She tried again. Her sister answered on the third ring. Gospel played in the background.

“Hey!” said Denise. “Is everything OK?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’m just asking, Angie. You are there alone.”

“Everything is fine,” she said. “Let me speak to Mama.”

“She’s not here. She’s out having breakfast with that guy Franklin. I think they’re actually getting along really well!” Denise was obviously tickled. “Can you believe it? After all these years?”

“Wow,” said Angie, oppressed by the news. “I guess you’ll have to tell her bye for me.” As she said it, Angie realized she preferred things this way. She hadn’t known how she was going to tell her mother herself.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m leaving for Nigeria today.”

“You’re what?”

“You heard me.”

“Wait a minute. Does Mama know?”

“Yeah, we discussed it.”

“She didn’t say anything to me about this. I mean, she mentioned you talking about it, yeah, but—”

“Maybe she doesn’t tell you everything after all,” said Angie.

Denise sighed, exasperated. Angie had heard that sigh all her life, that you’re-five-and-a-half-years-younger-than-me-and-so-immature sigh. “Look, when Mama gets back, I’ll have her call and you two can discuss this.”

“I can’t wait until she gets back. My flight leaves at two.”

“Girl, you can’t just up and go across the world, to Africa of all places, just like that!”

“Yes I can.” She paused. “Tell Mama I love her, OK?”

“Whoa, Angie. You’re not even gonna say bye to her yourself?”

“You can do it for me. And tell her I’m sorry, OK?”

“For what?”

“She’ll know. I gotta go.”

“Listen! Call as soon as you get there!”

“Denise, the phones over there don’t always work,” she said, totally unsure whether this was true.

“Check in with the US embassy as soon as you arrive, you hear me? And do not let anything happen to you over there! I cannot bear the thought of delivering more bad news to Mama.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. And then she added: “Love you, OK?”

“Angie, wait a minute—”

“Bye, Denise.”

“Angie! Wait!”

She hung up. As soon as she did, the phone rang. She put her hand on the receiver, felt the vibration as the phone rang and rang. She counted fifteen rings before Denise gave up. She put her hand to her cheek; it was warm from the heat generated by the ringing phone. She kept it there as she sat on the sofa, looking around the living room, taking it in. Her eyes landed on Denise’s watercolor painting that hung above the sofa, a rendering of their father’s prized horse, Thumbsucker. She sat for a long time, staring at the dark beauty, at the exuberant brush strokes of swishing tail and elegant, bent legs.

Then she got up and called a taxi.