Janice Johnson - A Message for Abby

“As early as you can get off work.”

“White-water rafting?” Maybe he was a man after her own heart, after all. The physicality, the adrenaline rush, of battling the river sounded like just the panacea she needed.

“Nope. We’re going to drift Listen to the birds and the breeze, soak in some sun. Maybe swim. Spend a lazy couple of hours.”

Die of boredom.

He smiled as if he’d read her thoughts. “Trust me. It’ll be fun,” he said with gentle mockery.

Abby’s heart lurched. No, she doubted if she’d be bored. Not with Ben Shea. Irritated, maybe. Defensive, uncomfortable, maybe sexually aroused. But definitely not bored.

“Right,” she said, and rolled up her car window.

He slapped it with his palm, and walked away.

His headlights were in her rearview mirror all the way down the mountain. She could hardly wait to turn off the main road and escape him.

Why, oh, why, had she agreed to go out with a man who made her feel so edgy?

RENEE ASKED MEG and Abby to meet her the next day for lunch. Abby had a suspicion she knew why.

Meg was the last to arrive, waddling into the café on the main floor of the antique mall. They often had lunch there. The minestrone soup and berry cobblers were unbeatable. Abby, for one, rather enjoyed the irony in the old police station where Daddy had reigned. His office now held shelves and nineteenth-century armoires overflowing with quilts and antique lace. He wouldn’t have minded old guns. Lace he would have hated.

Today the three sisters talked about the doll in the car seat and what it meant until the waitress brought their orders.

Renee didn’t even look at hers, waiting only until they were alone again. “I’m pregnant,” she announced.

Meg lumbered to her feet. “Oh, Renee! Congratulations!”

They hugged and squealed a couple of more times. Abby felt like a fifth wheel.

But when they stepped back from each other and she saw their wet cheeks, she found her own eyes were stinging. Rising to her feet, she said quietly, “You’ll be a great mother.”

Renee sniffed. “Thank you.”

“Funny, isn’t it,” Meg mused as they resumed their seats. “The idea of us as mothers.”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin,” Abby heard herself say. “Being a mother, I mean. You’re so patient, Meg.”

“I guess I’m lucky,” she said. “I remember Mom the best. She was gentle, always willing to listen or to admire the latest artwork or whatever. I can still hear her giggle, as if she was a kid at heart. She loved us.”

“I can’t even picture her face.” Again Abby was startled to discover she was the one speaking. She often chose to tune out these conversations. “I mean, now I have pictures,” thanks to Meg, “but they’re all I see when I close my eyes and try to envision her. Sometimes I have this feeling...” She frowned. “Feeling” wasn’t quite the right word. Fleeting impressions: a brush of a soft hand, a scent, a murmured voice telling stories, a warmth and sense of security. Even such amorphous memories always ended up swallowed by emptiness and loss, as if her later hurt had acted as WiteOut, obliterating her mother’s existence. In frustration and anger at herself, Abby blurted, “I was old enough when she left. I should remember.”

Meg touched her hand. “Maybe the memories will come back. After I had Will, I found myself thinking about Mom all the time.”

“But you’d just seen her,” Renee argued.

“Yes, but...” Meg shook her head. “It’s as if she’s two different people for me. The mom from our childhood, and the one I watched die. I... never linked them, not really. Does that make sense?”

Her sisters nodded. Sandwiches sat untouched.

“The one I remember is Mom. Our childhood mother. I say something to Emily, and I think—Mom said that, too. Or I have little ways of doing things, and I realize that I’m imitating her. Have you seen that poster that says, ‘I looked in the mirror and saw my mother?’ Sometimes that’s how I feel. As if she’s part of me.”

Renee nodded solemnly. “We’re imprinted. Like goslings.”

“Right.” Meg leaned forward, elbows on the table, silverware clinking. Her face was alight with enthusiasm. “And you are, too, Abby. You were old enough. Your conscious mind can block some things out, but I’ll bet motherhood will trigger your subconscious. Through your own words and behavior, you’ll recover her.”

A sharp slice of pain tightened Abby’s voice. “Do I want to?”

Meg’s eyes held warmth and understanding. “She loved us.”

“She left us.”

“Yes, she did, and I’ve never forgiven her.” Meg looked inward for a moment and then laid her hands on her belly, which shifted and bulged briefly. Voice soft, she asked, “But does one betrayal, however huge, discount everything that came before it?”

Once Abby would have said yes without hesitation. Once she would have been certain she didn’t want to remember her mother’s touch, her mother’s face. Daddy hadn’t been perfect, but he’d been there. The first rule of parenting: you must be present in your children’s lives.

But perhaps Daddy had been there for the wrong reasons, and their mother gone for the right ones. Or at least for ones that a grown-up Abby could understand. Even forgive. She wasn’t sure yet, but she was coming around.

“I don’t know,” she said now, to her sisters. “I don’t remember what came before.”

“You will.” Meg smiled comfortably. She touched her swollen belly with clear meaning, the tenderness she felt for her unborn child expressed in the small gesture. “I know you will.”

Abby swallowed a lump in her throat and gave a brief nod. Then she turned to Renee. “What did Daniel say to your news?”

“Hallelujah.” Renee grinned and at last reached for her sandwich. Around a big bite, she said, “You know I’m the one who wanted to wait to have children. He’d have been happy if I’d been pregnant the day after our wedding.”

“Or the day before,” Meg murmured, devouring her lunch, too.

Renee poked her. “Are you impugning my virtue?”

“Yup.” Meg’s mouth was full.

Without interest, Abby moved the greens of her salad around with her fork. “Meg, did Daniel talk to you last night when he got home?”

Her sister gave her a strange look. Once she’d swallowed, she said, “Well, of course he talked to me. Unless... Oh, God. He didn’t tell me something. Was there a note? Or...” Horror crossed her face. “Not something really perverted?”

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