Page 27 of When People Leave

Abby

A s Abby, Morgan, and Charlie headed to their mother’s childhood home, Abby concentrated on breathing in the fresh air and enjoying the tiny bit of sun peeking through the dark clouds.

Brooklyn had turned out to be much better than Abby expected. It had beautiful brownstones, cool boutiques, and hipster restaurants, although, she thought the best part was the art galleries. Abby felt a tinge of sadness as she remembered how she and her mom shared a love of art.

When Abby was thirteen, Carla took her and her sisters to the Getty Museum.

Morgan and Charlie spent the afternoon complaining about how bored they were and how much their feet hurt, but Abby was entranced.

After that, Carla created ‘Art Day’, where she and Abby spent special time together at least twice a year discovering new artists.

Each gallery that Abby passed created a deep longing for her mother and a realization they’d never again go to the Getty together.

Abby loved those days with Carla, and no matter how many new artists she learned about, Picasso had been her favorite---especially his Cubism-style paintings.

Abby could have stood for hours marveling at Picasso’s ability to show multiple perspectives in one picture.

As she grew older and wiser, she became an expert at interpreting his work as joyful and, at other times, tumultuous, kind of the way she viewed her own life.

Abby’s relationship with Alex had been steady for more years than she could remember, but at times, she’d wondered if having no experiences with other men had stifled her. Picasso had so many lovers; did those relationships help make him the creative he became?

The sisters crossed the street and turned down the next block. Abby stopped suddenly in front of a stylish boutique, staring at a dress in the window. Morgan and Charlie stopped to see what had caught her eye.

“If it looks that good on the mannequin, it will look even better on me since I at least have a head,” Abby exclaimed.

“First of all, that dress looks very expensive,” Morgan said. “And second if Alex saw you in it nine months later, you’d be pushing out your fifth child.”

“Good point. I’m hard to resist in sweatpants, can you imagine me in a black halter dress?” Abby said.

“At least your ego’s intact,” Charlie said.

Abby had been insecure about not keeping up with current events or reading books on the New York Times best-sellers list. But before kids, she was at least confident that her peachy complexion, glossy hair, and toned figure would garner male attention wherever she went.

She would often use her looks to her advantage.

At times, she felt almost guilty that she could get a man to stop on the freeway and change a tire for her or buy her drinks in a bar, even after she told him she wasn’t interested.

Once, in a raging rainstorm, a man had given her his umbrella when she stupidly left hers in the car.

The rewards of being a mother were great, but Abby had been inundated with the needs of her family for so long that she’d lost sight of who she was as a woman.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had done anything for herself.

Flying off to Brooklyn with her sisters seemed decadent, even though the reason broke her heart.

Morgan looked at Google Maps and directed them to turn the corner, where they found themselves in front of a bakery.

The aromatic scent of fresh java seeped from under the door.

A line of people waited outside and down the street, and Abby couldn’t understand why any customers would be willing to stand in the frigid weather.

I wonder if no one is speaking because their lips are frozen shut.

“That bakery must be amazing,” Abby said, then realized she was talking to herself as her sisters had continued down the street. She rushed to catch up with them. Did they notice she wasn’t following behind them?

“Now I understand why so many Manhattanites have moved out to Brooklyn,” Charlie said, looking around. “It has this cool vibe.”

“Yep, unlike you,” Morgan said.

“That’s coming from the person who still thinks shoulder pads are hip,” Charlie said.

“At least I’m not wearing a purple sweater with a pink panda on it,” Morgan said, pointing to Abby’s top.

“My kids gave me this,” Abby said.

“And you wear it out of the house?” Morgan laughed. “You’re a good mom.”

Abby wasn’t sure if Morgan was being sarcastic, but she decided to take it as a compliment.

A few minutes later, the women walked up to a charming two-story home the same color as a tin can. The house was guarded by a white wooden fence with a trellis on top and a gate in the middle. Morgan, Charlie, and Abby stopped outside the fence.

“This is Mom’s old house?” Abby asked.

“Seems to be,” Morgan said, checking the address against the numbers attached to the front of the exterior.

“Wow, this is where she grew up,” Charlie said.

Abby blinked a few times, then examined the house. “If our grandparents still lived here, I wonder if they’d be happy to see us.”

“I’d like to think so, but we know so little about them,” Morgan said.

Abby knew next to nothing about the kind of childhood her grandparents provided for her mother, but she assumed it wasn’t a good one. Otherwise, when the subject came up, Carla would have talked about her past and not remembered something she had “forgotten” to do in another room.

Abby nudged her sisters when she saw a woman staring down at them from the second floor. “Hello, can I help you?” the woman asked from the open window.

“We don’t want to bother you; we used to know someone who lived here,” Morgan said.

“Give me a minute,” the woman said, then closed the window and disappeared.

“Do you think she’s getting her guard dog?” Abby asked.

“Right, because we look like your average burglars,” Charlie said.

The woman walked out the front door and up to the gate that separated them, but she didn’t open it.

The deep voice they had heard came out of a petite four-foot-eleven-inch woman.

She had beautiful coal-black hair that cascaded to her shoulders and a full but perfectly proportioned figure.

Her crimson dress was tailored to fit her every curve, and her style reflected her smile, which was warm and vibrant.

“I’m Maria,” she said.

“Hi, I’m Morgan, and these are my sisters, Charlie and Abby.”

“It’s nice to meet you. You said you knew someone who used to live here?” Maria said.

“Our mother grew up in your house,” Charlie said.

“It’s not ours, my husband and I rent it. Does your mom still live in Brooklyn?” Maria asked.

“No,” Charlie said. “She passed away.”

“Oh, you poor girls,” Maria said, even though she looked to be only in her mid-twenties. “Did you want to see inside?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Morgan said.

“Not at all. Give me a few minutes to straighten up.” Maria turned and jogged as fast as those little legs would go back inside.

Not even five minutes later, Maria opened the front door and welcomed them in. Abby’s nose did a happy dance when she took a whiff of the scent of peppers, onions, and garlic that wafted through the house.

“Whatever you’re cooking smells amazing,” Abby said, breathing in deeply to take in the flavorful aroma.

“ Pollo guisado ,” Maria said.

Abby rubbed her chin and glanced at her sisters; they looked as puzzled as she was.

“It’s a chicken stew,” Maria said.

“I bet it tastes as good as it smells,” Abby said.

“It’s my husband’s favorite,” Maria said.

Maria walked them through the house with her head raised high and a big smile as if it were a ten-million-dollar estate.

In the living room, there was a Puerto Rican flag on the wall, which contrasted with the furniture’s rustic American farmhouse theme.

There was a denim couch with a red, white, and blue quilt across it and a pine wood coffee table, like the one that Abby and Alex had in their house.

Maria then led them into the kitchen. The kitchen didn’t look as if it had been updated.

The cabinets were scratched and worn, indicating that many people had lived there.

Could they be the same cabinets their mother opened to get cereal out?

Carla told them her mother wouldn’t allow her to eat cereal when she was a kid, but whenever Beverly was gone for work, Carla would buy five boxes of Frosted Flakes and eat them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“You’re welcome to look around,” Maria said. “I need to add a few things to my stew.” She pointed toward the stairs. “The bedrooms are on the second floor.”

The sisters headed up the stairs alone and began exploring. They looked into the bedrooms and bathrooms.

“This feels weird,” Morgan said. “We’re not going to find anything in a house our mother moved out of many years ago.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Look,” Charlie exclaimed an octave higher than her normal voice.

She pointed to the door frame at the stairs to the basement.

It had pencil marks. They all stopped to take a closer look.

The writing was almost illegible, but next to one pencil mark, it looked like a capital C, and on another, a capital R.

“The C has to be for Carla and the R for Roy!” Abby said.

“Wow, is that whose growth chart that is?” Maria asked as she came up behind them. “My husband and I wondered who C and R were. We had fun making up our own stories.”

“Carla was our mom, and Roy was her brother,” Morgan said.

“How wonderful that you found this,” Maria said. “I doubt there’s anything else in the house, but I can show you the backyard.”

An old tool shed sat in the corner of the yard. The grass was an inch taller than it should have been and looked wild.

Maria’s face took on a rosy glow, and she let out a tiny giggle and didn’t make eye contact with them. “My husband promised to mow the lawn every afternoon for the last few weeks. I’m embarrassed that you have to see it looking like this.”