Part 3: 6 - Hideaway
2008, Lisa seeks out The Storyteller and learns some truth
Things That Can’t Be Broken is a novel presented as a live draft, one chapter every week.
Last week: Part 3: 5 - The Cafe • 2008, check in with Barb twenty years later
Part 3 | A Storm Blowing from Paradise
6 - Hideaway
Lisa Cartwright
August 17, 2008
San Diego, California
Lisa’s mind flitted from thought to thought, never settling. It was already afternoon and she had nothing but a half-folded load of laundry, one stuffed envelope, and a cold pot of peppermint tea to show for it. She sat at the kitchen table, where the breeze was best, and stared past her computer and through the front screen door, listening as another Sunday slipped by.
Running into Barb yesterday at the café was a shock. She had changed so much. It wasn’t just that she was twenty years older than the teen she remembered from so long ago. Barb had to be nearly forty, but she seemed to have aged beyond that. Her face was so different, her eyes puffy and her cheeks lined. She was reminded of her own mother’s face before she left.
What had become of my mother? Who would I have been if my mother had not given up? Had not left? Where did she go? . . . Would Dani have fallen into the same mental illness my mother suffered? Or would she have been resilient and healthy as Tim always thought? . . . When was Tim going to call? It seemed he called later and later on Dani’s birthdays. It would probably be close to midnight his time before he picked up the phone, but he would. He would call. It would be short. Then it would be over. . . What meaningful thing can I do to honor the day Dani would have turned thirty—besides waiting for my ex-husband to call?
The neighborhood echoed the distant thump of car doors and happy greetings. Soon the enticing smell of backyard grills would invade to complete her lonely paralysis—whether Tim called or not.
Am I going to let Tim’s call hold me captive all day?
Lisa’s feet took charge, placing themselves firmly beneath her. She lifted her purse from the back of the chair and pulled out the old scrap of paper with the storyteller’s address on it. Then her feet took her down the hall to her bedroom, past the picture of her mother with Elvis, and the portrait of toddler Dani on the shaggy pony. They found her flip-flops and she grabbed the keys from the wall and made her escape.
It was time to do something different, to make something happen. Maybe there were answers to some of her questions at the address in her hand. Maybe not. But at least she was out of the house now. She drove to Old Town, parking as near as she could to the dampening address pinched between her thumb and forefinger. She continued on foot, past the shade trees, tourists, and restaurants, turning the corner into a neighborhood of stylish houses crowded together by generations of room additions, where cement, stucco, and fence lines converged among miniscule remnants of lawns and gardens.
There it was, a tiny cottage painted butter yellow, looking like a toy dollhouse in an oasis of greenery. The simple black numbers 2 2 9 were neatly stacked on a front porch column. A row of clay pots overcome by the dark leaves and bright flowers of geraniums led to a welcoming red front door. The backyard garden burgeoning forward claimed every inch of soil and peeked around the house’s corners in search of more.
I guess this is it. But does she still live here?
As if in answer to her question, a tall round woman in cotton candy pink from t-shirt to crocs, came around the far corner pushing a small wheelchair. The woman in the chair could be none other than The Storyteller. Miss Clara’s long braid now white against her dark skin, her thin arms weighted as always with dozens of thin metal bangles and beaded bracelets.
“Hello,” said the tall woman, her face alight with friendliness, “Can I help you find something?”
“Actually,” Lisa glanced up at the woman and then back to Miss Clara with a smile. “I’m looking for Miss Clara.”
Miss Clara raised one hand to her mouth. “Lisa?”
Lisa put out her hand to The Storyteller, who grasped her arm warmly with both hands, her eyes welling as if greeting a long lost child.
After a long moment, the tall woman said, “It appears you two know each other.” A wide smile appled her cheeks as she offered Lisa her own hand. “I’m Carol. I work for Miss Clara.”
“Lisa Cartwright,” said Lisa, shaking the hand and catching the smile.
“I am so glad you came,” said Miss Clara, shaking her head.
Lisa looked around at the street as she nodded. “Me too. It took me a while.”
“Come in. Come in,” Carol piped cheerily as she wheeled Miss Clara up the ramp to the door. “I’ll put on the coffee.”
“Yes, we have much to talk about,” said Miss Clara.
Carol set a plate of ginger cookies between them on the little dining table while a pot of brewing coffee gurgled behind her. A blend of cooking spices permeated the cupboards and curtains: oregano and cumin, garlic and onion, peppers. . . the recent sweet ginger and coffee only partially overtaking them for the moment. It was charming. Lisa wanted nothing more than to take a bite of the ginger cookie and let Miss Clara carry her far away in a story as she had in her childhood.
But instead, Miss Clara brought her into the moment with her words. “I am sorry. I am so sorry for the loss of your beautiful daughter. And for the loss of your mother as well. She was like a little sister to me.”
Lisa paused, placing her fingertips on the edge of the table and sighing into them before she spoke. “I remember what you said that day when we brought Dani to see you. All those years. When I was a child I only knew you as The Storyteller. We went to see you on Sunday afternoons in the park. Those days are among the happiest memories of my childhood. . . But. . . my parents never let on that they knew you.”
Miss Clara did not skip a beat. “Your grandmother took me in when I was twelve and I helped out with all of your aunts and uncles, but Alessia, your mother, was the youngest. When she was small she was always by my side. Things changed as she reached adulthood. Sometimes she was the sweetest happiest young lady, with a bright glow she spread to everyone around her. It must have been irresistible to your father. But as time went on, she had higher ups and lower downs than most people.
I’m sure you know she was not always right in her mind. There was a time when you were very small that your father called upon me for help. I cared for you while your father was at work during a time when your mother was unable to deal with a busy toddler. You were a joy to me, but I had overstepped. When she emerged from her depression and watched you avoid her and toddle over to me, she became jealous, afraid I would try to take you from her. It was never true, but I could not convince her.
For years, I was not allowed to visit. But you were precious to me and I would not give up. We came to an agreement. She and your father would bring you for stories, as long as I never let you know that I knew you. It was the best I could hope for, so I agreed. But as you grew into adolescence, they stopped bringing you for stories, and I did not see you again until the day you brought your own daughter to the hotel courtyard. I knew, but did not entirely believe, that your mother was gone until I saw it in your face that day.
When I gave you my address, I thought that the time to explain had come. There is something I have longed to tell you. I believe your mother may have contacted me. I cannot be completely sure. But not long before I saw you with your family, I received a collect call. The recording said, “You have received a collect call from, ‘It’s-Lisa-I’m-at-the-Tropicana. . .’”
I did not recognize the recorded voice. It was rough, slurred and desperate. When I tried to accept the call there was no one there. I called the Tropicana. They could not help me of course. The call haunted me, but I did not know your mother as Lisa. She was Alessia. And the voice was nothing like what I recalled.
At the time, I thought this poor soul was calling for help and she called the wrong number. However, Alessia often came to my mind when I thought of the call, because she was a person I knew who might have been such a situation. It pained me. And there was nothing I could do.
It was not until I saw you at the hotel that I made the connection. It may sound far fetched, but I now believe it was your mother who called me. She was in Las Vegas. And God help me, she tried to call. When I realized it, I tried to call your father.
Lisa had her hands steepled in front of her face. “He moved to Connecticut around eighty-five.”
Miss Clara nodded and watched quietly as Lisa processed it all. Carol set two cups of coffee on saucers in front of them and stepped away.
Lisa held her cup to her nose for a moment, breathing the steam. The cup rattled shakily as she replaced it on the saucer. “Las Vegas. Of course. Elvis. And we always thought she went to Mexico.”
Lisa didn’t remember turning the key or moving away from the curb when she found herself at the freeway entrance. For a flash, she thought to pull over and call her therapist, but the thought left as quickly as it came. When she got home, if she still felt like this, she would call.
But Lisa passed the off-ramp toward home. She continued northeast, the freeway pulling her along. When she stopped for gas in Riverside her hands were still shaking. She continued north, her focus blurred with tears. Past Barstow, she wound around the curves and hills as the sun dropped, sending its glow through the grasses and brush on the hills.
She hated the hills for daring to be beautiful while the world was so full of pain. The sun smote her for her thoughts, shining straight into her eyes as she rounded the curve. She put down the visor and lifted a hand to her eyes but she still couldn’t see anything.
She heard a metallic pop when a semi’s shredded tire flew over the car in front of her and a BAM! when it hit the front of her car. For an impossibly long time, there was nothing but a blur of spinning road aglow with golden light and tall shadows. The sideways spin became a flip. She inhaled as her view inverted, sliding, and scraping into darkness.
Next
Part 3 | A Storm Blowing from Paradise
7 - Untethering
Behind-the-Scenes Extra
This week I traveled north to Idaho where I’ve been revisiting memories of one of the great storytellers in my family, my Uncle Richard, who passed away two weeks ago. My aunts, cousins, and I have been riding together on the way-back machine, celebrating a life that was not only fully lived, but well-told.
He did wild things, played practical jokes, had a stint as an amusement park gunfighter, built wooden toys, collected trinkets valued for their stories, loved to dance, and never held back love or laughter.
Here’s to all the great storytellers!
Wow this is a twist! You are very good at endings!
You know, sometimes, I think "celebrating a life that was not only fully lived, but well-told" is the highest, truest goal we should all strive for in life. Only most of us never seem to realize that.