1
Another wave of alien space ships hovered triumphantly on the horizon, silhouetted in the dying embers of last night’s fire. The city, once the epicenter of commerce, lay smoked and charred, a remnant of its former greatness.
Erin reloaded. “It’s now or never!” she muttered under her breath, thumb hovering over the sensitive trigger. One tiny, exact movement, and the horizon would clear.
“Refill?” The waiter startled her, hovering with a pitcher of ice water.
“Yes—thank you.” Erin stammered, aliens exploding and spinning off the screen as she placed her iPhone on the table. Although she was fine with it, the knowledge that the slim 20-something waiter might know she was a space alien gamer made her feel over-exposed at 35. Was this the second or third glass now, she wondered? She couldn’t remember. Glancing at her watch and then the door, she noticed the steady stream of new faces, but Liz was not among them.
Where is my mother? It was approaching 20 minutes. It wasn’t like her to be late.
She checked the main screen of her phone for all the familiar markers. No text. No new mail. No phone messages. She re-arranged her silverware on the white table cloth and lined up the menu with the edge of the table for the eighth time.
Erin was at Trula’s in the ground floor of the Mayo Hotel in downtown Tulsa. Built in 1925, the 14-story hotel was listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Once an elite hotel which hosted such distinguished visitors as John F. Kennedy, Bob Hope, Charles Lindberg, Babe Ruth, Charlie Chaplin and Mae West, it had fallen on hard times in the 1980s and remained vacant for 20 years. In recent years, it had been renovated into loft apartments and a hotel. Much of the original art deco interior had been preserved and restored. The original coffee shop had been refurbished and put back into service as “Trula’s,” named after the proprietor of a downtown flower shop who lived in the Mayo for 25 years. A small but trendy restaurant,Trula’s was reverberant with lunch time chatter and felt warm despite the fall backdrop beyond its classic floor to ceiling windows. From right to left on the corner of 5th and Denver, Erin watched the panoramic stream of sweaters and backpacks glide in and out of view.
It’s that momentary self-doubt, the ‘did I get it wrong’ thought that started her dialing Liz’s number. Lifting the phone to her ear, she heard footsteps approaching the table. There in one gracious swoop came Liz.
They saw one another and Erin smiled.
Liz gave a tiny wave and a smile. Above the laughter and the clanking, beyond the thirty feet of distance, Erin exhaled relief.
Liz weaved her way through the cafe tables.
“I am so sorry, hon,” she breathlessly offered, slipping out of her black form-fitting car coat. “Traffic.” Rising to kiss her mom, Erin had that brief thankfulness for warmth, for life, for legacy. It was how she’s always envisioned it to be. Her beautiful mother and herself, two friends sitting over a white linen table cloth, laughing and sharing their lives.
Pulling out a chair and sitting down, Liz placed her purse on the floor. A strand of newly colored hair fell across her brow. Brushing it away, they began their exchange.
“Have you eaten here before? What’s good?” Erin’s mom slipped on her glasses and skimmed the one page menu. “Isn’t the weather beautiful today?”
Sliding the phone back into her small leather purse, Erin took in the moment.
“Yes, beautiful, Mom. You had me so worried!”
Liz’s deep green eyes peered over the readers at Erin, a curve of humor at the cheek bone, “You know I always show up, Erin, ” she said matter-of-factly, then she glanced back down at the carmelized trout offering. “You need to stop worrying about me. I’m the mother. I get to do that.”
Erin smiled back, comforted by the remark. She focused on the tossed green salad description.
“You’ve changed your hair, Mom,” Erin said without looking up. “It looks fantastic. When did you do that?”
“I got tired of trying to hide the grey,” Liz said. Her hair had been dyed cold black, with bright silver highlights. “Maybe this is more age-appropriate.”
Erin laughed. “Since when are you age appropriate, Mother?” She rolled her eyes. Liz was wearing a yellow and red scarf with her black coat. She absent-mindedly removed both while studying the menu.
Liz had never taken to her role as a middle-aged mother. Her only daughter, Erin, dressed far more conservatively than Liz.
“In my day,” Liz said, “it was considered wild to change your hair color. Only the ‘whores’ bleached their hair.”
“Not all of them, Mom, I mean, look at you …!”
Liz laughed. “Come on, Erin … One little slip-up.”
Erin had been the result of her mother’s brief affair with a boy named Bobby Brock, the captain of the football team during Liz’s senior year in high school. Liz remembered the homecoming game, a party at her best friend Jana’s older sister’s apartment, a keg of beer, and little else about her first date with Bobby. But that must have been when it happened. Once she was sober, and Bobby started acting like he owned her, she broke off their relationship.
When the signs of her pregnancy first began to surface, Liz had choices to make. Her own mother, Lucy, was divorced and in the final stages of a long-standing battle with cancer. Liz and her mother lived in a thousand-square-foot house in a questionable area of town that barely accommodated the two of them. Liz didn’t feel that it would be right to burden her with another child. Her feelings for Bobby were non-existent. The best thing to do was to terminate the pregnancy. After considerable research, Liz selected a doctor who could safely perform the procedure. She told her mother she was going to check out a college in Dallas and would be gone for a few days. The home health care workers provided by the insurance company would take care of Lucy while she was gone.
Liz took Lucy’s 1962 Chevy Impala, a huge boat of a car that rumbled down the street like a bag of loose parts. A streak of rust covered the left side where the car had been scraped several years earlier. Tufts of stuffing mushroomed from ripped seat coverings, some tamed back into place with duct tape. Perched on an orange sofa pillow she’d bought at a yard sale, Liz drove five hours until she reached the outskirts of Dallas. She selected a roadside park and exited the freeway to check the map and get her bearings.
It was sunny that day in February, one of those rare Winter days when the temperature unexpectedly tops 80 degrees, the first promise that Spring is not far away. Liz got out of the car with her map and sat down at a concrete picnic table. Flies buzzed erratically around her head, looking for food or something worse. Swatting them away, Liz spread out the map.
It wasn’t that Liz was an irresponsible person. Up until the evening of her adventure with Bobby Brock, she’d done exactly what was expected of her. She made the honor roll every semester. She had a part-time job as a cashier after school at Sandwich Island to help her mother with expenses. Since her mother had been ill, Liz took care of everything at home – laundry, cooking, house work, and taking Lucy to the doctor. She was, in reality, a model daughter. Except for this one “slip-up.”
Liz was marking the map with a ballpoint pen when it hit her. There it was again. She grimaced. She was referring to her child as a “slip-up.” In one instant, Liz saw it all – the birth of the child (it was a girl, Liz was sure of that), her first steps, her first words, learning to read and write, driving a car, going to college, getting a job – the child’s entire life passed in front of Liz’s eyes in a single burst. Liz sat in the roadside park, stunned with the clarity of what she knew. She had to have this child. She would deal with the consequences. As for her own mother – well, truthfully, Lucy probably wouldn’t live long enough to see her grand-daughter’s birth. The child was Liz’s responsibility, anyway. Liz’s daughter. She would not tell Bobby Brock. She did not want someone like Bobby, a casual acquaintance who cared nothing about her, having a role in her daughter’s life.
Liz