Part 23 (1/2)
”Ah. That must have been hard.”
”I think it was. It was hard for Rose, anyway.”
Yos.h.i.+ nodded. ”My mother talks about the loneliness she felt when she first moved to California. It wasn't that she didn't like the United States. Just that no matter how long she stayed here, it never truly felt like home. Maybe that's why she and my father have been so willing to move every few years.”
”Well, it is lonely, isn't it, being by yourself in a new country? At least your mother had a phone. Rose and Joseph had letters that took three weeks to arrive, and no money.”
We walked on, stopping at The Green Bean to have some coffee. It wasn't crowded, so we got a table right by the water. I went to look for Avery, and when I couldn't find her, I left a note of apology in the kitchen, folded and taped to the stainless-steel fridge. A flock of ducks, a mother with her babies, floated by us, traveling down the outlet past the gla.s.sworks, where tourists were once again lined up waiting at the door. I didn't let myself think of Keegan handling fire inside, or the gla.s.s wavering and growing like a living thing. The ducks went on their way, floating and swimming with the current. They could follow this outlet to the Erie Ca.n.a.l, travel all the way to Buffalo, and beyond. But the place they pa.s.sed first was the dock of the gla.s.sworks, where I'd climbed into Keegan's boat with such a feeling of antic.i.p.ation just two days before.
”Yos.h.i.+,” I said. He looked up smiling, and I glanced away. By the time I looked back I could tell from his face-suddenly serious, so braced for bad news-that he knew something was wrong. I told him quickly that Keegan was the person I'd been dating when my father died, that I'd gone out on the boat with him, that I'd kissed him twice since I'd been here and stirred up the unfinished past, but that in the end I couldn't go forward, because it wasn't right.
”You mean morally right?” Yos.h.i.+ asked. ”Are you saying you'd see him if you broke up with me?”
”No. No, I mean it didn't feel feel right. It wasn't the right thing to do. I got confused, that's all, being back here, and seeing him again, and you were so far away. I'm so sorry, Yos.h.i.+. I was off balance. I've been off balance for a long time. You know that's true. Maybe since we went to j.a.pan. This was something I had to settle from the past. And now I have.” right. It wasn't the right thing to do. I got confused, that's all, being back here, and seeing him again, and you were so far away. I'm so sorry, Yos.h.i.+. I was off balance. I've been off balance for a long time. You know that's true. Maybe since we went to j.a.pan. This was something I had to settle from the past. And now I have.”
He didn't answer right away. He folded his arms and looked off across the water, keeping his emotions to himself. I tried to imagine how I would feel if the situation were reversed, and found that I was scared. Always before, I was the one to break things off. I was never the one who got hurt. But it was possible that this could happen now.
”Yos.h.i.+? I'm really sorry.”
He looked at me then, waved one hand. ”I can't talk about it,” he said. ”I'm so tired. I feel like I'm falling through s.p.a.ce.”
The water flowed by; we waited for our order. It seemed best not to break the silence. As the waitress brought us coffee and cinnamon bread, I had a flash of insight that seemed, on the surface, to have nothing to do with anything, but went back to the drive we'd made that morning, the green exit signs flas.h.i.+ng past: Canandaigua, Seneca Falls, Corning, and Elmira; back to just yesterday, to the letters I still carried in my purse.
And I feel glad to know that the famous author who once lived down the street was born and died in the same light beneath which I once stood, dreaming that the world would s.h.i.+ft and change, or even end.
Elmira, home to Mark Twain, who was born as Halley's Comet pa.s.sed over in 1835, and died in 1910, when it pa.s.sed over once again.
I took out my phone and did a search for the white pages in Elmira. And there she was, just like anyone else listed in the phone book: Stone, Iris J. Stone, Iris J.
”What are you doing?” Yos.h.i.+ asked.
His tone was normal; maybe we'd just carry on and everything would be okay. I moved my chair over so he could see the screen. ”Yos.h.i.+, look at this. It's Iris. I found her. She's in Elmira.”
And then I explained the essence of the story, how Rose had left her daughter and yet followed her from afar, how I'd found the letters. How Iris might not know about Rose at all, or about the windows, or about her mother's extraordinary life.
”Are you going to call?”
”Do you think I should?”
”Why not?”
”Right, you're right-why not?”
Still, I had to enter the numbers four different times before I could bring myself to press SEND. It might be the wrong person, or if it was the right Iris Stone, she might not want to talk. She'd be ninety-five years old, after all; she might not remember, or it might be such a shock that she'd collapse, or she just might hang up. But all the time I was thinking of Iris, I was also hesitating because of what it might mean for me to find her. It was like standing on a threshold, a door in the world that would open into a place you'd never expected to be, a place from which you couldn't return. Welcome or unwelcome, knowledge was something you could never undo.
”What are you waiting for?” Yos.h.i.+ asked.
”I don't know. It's just a little unsettling, that's all. I don't know what I'll find.”
He shook his head. ”Is it at all possible you won't call in the end?” he asked. ”Could you imagine finding her like this and never getting in touch?”
I laughed, glad for his calm, pragmatic view. ”No. Not really.”
”So why wait? What's the worst thing that could happen?”
”I don't know.” And I didn't-that was the problem. It wasn't so much about finding Iris as it was about finding out whatever she might reveal about my family. Still, I pressed the final b.u.t.ton. I let the phone ring. Six times, then seven. No answering machine, apparently. I was about to hang up, both disappointed and relieved, when a low voice spoke across the wires.
”This better not be a solicitor,” she said, severely. ”You got me out of the bath.”
”Don't you have an answering machine?” I asked, waving my hand at Yos.h.i.+'s quizzical look.
”Who is this?”
I took a deep breath. ”You don't know me,” I began.
”Good-bye, then. I'm not buying anything.”
”Look, please, don't hang up, okay? It's important. I'm not selling anything, I promise.”
”Well? What is it, then?”
”My name is Lucy Jarrett,” I said in a great rush. ”My father was Martin and his father was Joseph and so was his grandfather. I have an idea that we might be related.”
There was a silence so long that I wondered if we'd been disconnected, or if the shock of my call had been so much that she'd collapsed after all.
”h.e.l.lo?” I said. ”Mrs. Stone, are you all right?”
”I'm quite fine,” came the crisp reply.
”Good. I'm so sorry to call out of the blue. I know it must be a shock.”
”What's your name?”
”Lucy Jarrett.”
”And how old are you, Lucy Jarrett?”
”Twenty-nine. Thirty in October.”
”I see. Twenty-nine and thirty in October. Well, let me tell you this, Lucy Jarrett. I'm not interested in my roots. I cut my ties, do you understand? Long ago. Long before you were born. It's not personal. But I'm going to hang up now, and I don't want you to be calling me again. Do you understand me? Am I clear?”
”Yes, very clear, but please-let me give you my number. Because I have some information about Rose Jarrett. Maybe you knew her as Rose Westrum. That's who I want to talk about, when you're ready. If you're ready, I should say. About Rose.”
There was a long silence then, and when she spoke I had the sense that her voice was trembling a little, though that might have been the connection.
”What are you talking about?” she asked.