My mother held the wife’s gaze firmly, feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes. She had never known the physical phenomenon of joyful tears. She spent so many years fully in control of her emotions that not even her sisters had ever witnessed the fall of a tear from her face.
Like a door swinging wide open, my mother’s iron resolve shattered and she was overcome by gratitude. She had a flash of the fear she had felt the night she left her father’s house. The blind rush of adrenaline that had propelled her down the dark empty streets to the safe house. She briefly recalled sharing bread with mothers and children huddled under heavy blankets in the back of rusty old trucks traveling away from the abuse their families had nurtured for generations. She wondered what had become of them, and offered thanks yet again for the blessings she had been given.
As the family prepared to leave the restaurant that night, emotionally spent and ready for the warm comfort of home, they each heard the moan of the heavy wooden door as it was pulled open. They chuckled to each other as they expected to hear the loud happy conversation of a couple heading inside for a final toast of the night.
Instead, all was quiet as the tall man entered. He was wind-blown, his cheeks dusted with color from the early spring chill. His eyes darted around as he adjusted his collar and raked his fingers through thick blond hair tousled by the breeze.
My mother described this to me many times. I always closed my eyes as if to drop myself into this memory as a quiet bystander watching from nearby.
She told me how she felt a tug deep inside her stomach that hitched her breath and forced her mouth wide open in search of air. No words formed inside her head as she felt a swarm of butterflies spread their wings along the sides of her chest. This was good, she had explained to me, because she could not have spoken anyway.
As the tall man looked in their direction, she could not help but stare. Then she could hardly understand why he suddenly broke into a trot, heading straight for her table. As he swept the wife into a bone-crushing bear hug, a lightning bolt of realization shook my mother to her very core.
This glorious man with the wide white grin and strong shoulders was none other than Easton! The doctor-to-be and beloved son of the two most treasured people in her young life was then turning toward my mother.
She extended a shaky hand in his direction only to have him bypass her outstretched fingers in favor of a chest-to-chest embrace. Her skin pulsing with what felt like electricity, she returned the hug feeling hard muscle and soft gentle hands on her back.
Finally, she stepped back and looked up into the face of the man who would become her husband.
Soon enough after that, he would become my father.
Chapter 7: Ella
There are days when I flat out adore New York City. I often get up early in the morning, taking a stroll during the time when the fog is still sticking to the sidewalks. I can be a gypsy here, free to float around the city at will, nameless and faceless and unrecognizable under my broad shades and torn jeans.
There’s nothing I can’t do here. Broadway glows twenty-four hours a day, and there is always a spotlight if you’re interested in standing under it. People follow their dreams to get here, and many times, they lose all hope during their stay. A dichotomy of life greets you at every corner. The stretch limo double-parked along the Avenue, idling in park and blowing through gas like water. Just down the way is the drunken bum who has not a penny to his name and no desire at all to do anything more than just watch people walk by. Every now and again, the elegant businessman hustling out to his awaiting car catches the eye of the poor downtrodden sucker laid out in his own vomit. They look at each other, but right through each other. Their lives intersecting for a moment in time, before one goes back to abject poverty and the other to his penthouse on the Upper East Side.
That’s New York for you, the best and brightest a heartbeat away from personal disaster.
I have a little time to kill before I have to head to the airport. I’m traveling pretty light, just a few pairs of jeans and t-shirts, couple of bathing suits if Lauren has enough time for a trip to the beach. There are no cute little dresses or stilettos included on this trip, I doubt either one of us will have the heart to leave her house once I suck out all the joy like a wind turbine in reverse.
I didn’t sleep all that much last night, my thoughts slamming around my head like marbles on a driveway. I tried to focus on the noises of the city, the coughs, the laughs, the blaring horns all rising through the air.
Lauren is under the impression I just needed a break from New York, some space to spread out and just chill. I wasn’t very generous about the details of my quick trip, basically just telling her I wanted to see her and catch up. This is the part that still tears me up inside. Aside from the chance that my boobs are about to be whacked off, and that horrifying feeling I’m trying to prepare for, when I run my fingers through my hair and it’s not there anymore, it’s the full disclosure I’m dreading most. Lauren will get an instant impression that something is wrong. She is so intuitive it’s spooky, especially about me. One look at my drawn face, and she’ll know all is not well. History will have her assuming it has something to do with my family. She knows they are a load and dealing with them is exhausting.
I walk with my head slightly angled down, lost in my own thoughts. It’s still early so the sidewalks are quiet as I stroll down to the twenty-four-hour CVS to grab a few things I need for my trip. As always, I am tucked away from my fellow streetwalkers by sunglasses that cover half of my face from my eyebrows down to mid-cheek. I’ll admit my sister has taught me one valuable thing as my family’s fame grew. For some odd reason, and one Kelby has a fiery anguish about, I was blessed with some rather unique eyes. “Blessed” is not the word I use, it’s hers, and it’s always preceded by “fucking, fricking, or goddamned” depending on how foul her mood is at the time. Kelby is herself one hot piece of ass, but apparently my single blessing really stings. I guess in her reluctant attempt to love me in spite of it, she has insisted I wear big dark sunglasses whenever I’m out alone to keep the ever-present and always annoying paparazzi off my heels. When my face is partially covered, my hair tucked under a hat, I can pretty much carry on unnoticed. Besides, New Yorkers are hardly the type to look at one moving object too long. My coworkers at Hyde still get a kick out of walking out the front door with me and getting a flashbulb in the face. Sometimes they even find themselves featured alongside me on Page Six, but being the most boring member of the Sheridan clan, that doesn’t happen all that often.
I’m careful to keep my eyes low as I pay for my travel size toothpaste, Excedrin to ward off my all for certain migraine when I land in L.A., and a new paperback to keep my mind off being suspended too far up in the air for six hours. I hope that the flight won’t be fully booked and I’ll have the entire row of first class to myself. In reality, there is a fat chance of that ever happening. Almost every single flight headed from New York to Los Angeles is packed tighter than Kelby’s ass in her True Religion jeans. That’s one of the reasons I splurged on my first class ticket, to lessen my chances of having to make small talk or even worse, get recognized and gawked at.