Evan Hunter - The Moment She Was Gone

She never took us to see Grandma Kate anymore.

She told us that when Daddy abandoned us, it was the same thing as Grandma Kate abandoning us. It was the whole Gulliver family that had abandoned us. Annie told her she loved Grandma Kate and Aunt Tess and Uncle Mike, and she didn’t know why she couldn’t see them anymore. My mother told her to shut up, we can’t see them anymore, and that’s that!

“What do you mean, we can’t see them?” Annie asked. “Did they disappear? Like Merlin?”

“Just be quiet,” my mother said.

“Regular people can’t disappear, can they?” Annie asked me.

“I don’t think so.”

“Regular people can’t disappear,” Annie told my mother.

“That’s right, they can’t,” Aaron said. “So shut up.”

“Did Daddy disappear?”

“Daddy abandoned us,” my mother said.

“What’s abandon?”

“It means he went away forever,” Aaron said.

“He did not,” Annie said.

“Yes, he did,” my mother said, and I burst into tears.

On Thanksgiving Day that year...

There was some kind of mixup on Thanksgiving Day.

I can remember playing jacks with Annie in her room (she always cheated, making up rules and then changing them five minutes later) and hearing my mother shouting to all us kids to come have breakfast. Aaron was practicing piano in the living room; he was ten years old and wanted to be Arthur Rubinstein, but he had no talent. We all went into the kitchen in our pajamas and robes. My mother cautioned us not to eat too much cereal because this was Thanksgiving Day and there’d be turkey and all the trimmings at Grandma Rozalia’s.

“Which reminds me,” she said, and picked up the phone. We were still living on Columbus Avenue, and there was a phone hanging over the kitchen counter. My mother stood at the counter in her apron, dialing Grandma Rozalia’s number.

I could hear only my mother’s end of the conversation. From what I could gather, Grandma was telling her there’d been some sort of mistake. She’d thought we were going to Grandma Kate’s for Thanksgiving. My mother said, “Mama, how can we be going to Kate’s? Terry abandoned us, we don’t go to Kate’s anymore, are you getting senile?” My mother listened. So did all us kids. “No, Mama,” she said, “we made these plans a long time ago, don’t you remember? Anyway, it’s academic, isn’t it? Academic. Well, I’m sorry you don’t know what that means, Mama, but it’s a word. ‘Academic.’ It means Terry and I are separated, Terry and I are getting a divorce, we can’t go to his mother’s on Thanksgiving Day.” She listened a moment and then said, “Mama, I know we usually come to you on Passover, but things are different now, and besides, Mama, you invited us!” She listened again, and then said, “I don’t know when.” Pause. “September.” Another pause. “October maybe, I know you invited us. Things have been so crazy around here...” She listened again. “So what are you saying? We’re not invited there today? Is that what you’re saying?” And listened again. “Let me get this straight, Mama. There’s no room at the table? Is that what you’re saying? Who?” She listened and said, “They’re not even family. There’s room at your Thanksgiving Day table for strangers, but there’s no room for your daughter and your three grandchildren, is that what you’re saying?” She listened and said, “Then what are you saying, Mama?” And listened. And said, “I see. Uh-huh.” And listened again. “The big table seats ten, uh-huh, and you’ve already got twelve at it, and you’re putting the kids at the smaller round table off the foyer, I see. So it looks like all your other children will be there having turkey with you and some strangers because you haven’t got room for us!” And listened for just an instant, and then said, “No, you listen to me, Mama!” and stopped listening altogether. “If there’s no room for us, then we’re not coming, we wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you. But let me tell you, Mama, you’re not going to see us in that house ever again. So give all our love, don’t interrupt me, Mama, to all your fortunate children who’ll be there with you today, but don’t hold your breath till you see us again!” and slammed down the phone.

“What’d you do? ” Aaron asked.

“What’d I do? What’d your grandmother do, no room at the table!”

“If there’s no room, there’s no room, Mom. What do you want her to do, build a bigger house?”

“Why’d she invite strangers?”

“Because she didn’t know we were coming.”

“I can understand family, but strangers? And then there’s no room at the table? I’ll never go there again, Aaron.”

“Mom, don’t be...”

“And you’re never going there again, either,” she told all of us. “We were invited a month ago! Two months ago! You know what she accomplished today? She kissed this family goodbye, is what she accomplished. Her own daughter, her grandchildren, she kissed us all goodbye.”

“Is everybody disappearing?” Annie asked.

In January, Grandma came over in the middle of the night to tell my mother she had cancer.

They made up after that.

We sit on the sofa in the vast empty living room, sipping coffee, my mother and I. It is now five-thirty in the morning. Morngloam has not yet begun to tint the eastern sky. The night is still black out there, and Annie has been gone for almost four hours. We do not know what to say to each other. It seems to me that my mother and I have not known what to say to each other for the longest time now, perhaps ever since my father went away. She sips her coffee the way Grandma Rozalia used to, pinky extended in the European manner, as if she is holding a demitasse instead of a breakfast cup. Her eyes are hollow. I hate what my sister does to her.

“Do you think there might be something in her letters?” she asks.

“What letters? She didn’t leave a letter, did she?”

“No, I mean the ones she sent me over the years.”

“I doubt it. Why would there be anything in her letters?”

“Places she went, things she did. Maybe she’s going back to one of them. I don’t know.”

She sighs heavily. The sigh is one of utter despair.

“Do you have them?” I ask.

“Shall I get them?” she asks, and without waiting for an answer, she rises and walks softly into the bedroom. I sit alone in the living room. The house seems so empty and still. My mother returns with a tiny rubber-banded packet of envelopes in her hand. She sits beside me, and hands the packet to me. I remove the rubber band, slip it over my wrist. The first letter reads:

Dear Mom:

Thanks for the idea for the Fourth of July, but I’m not sure I want to go to the Embassy to mingle with a lot of Americans. Anyway, I’ve been meeting plenty of Americans here in Amsterdam, and they are a lot of fun, but only for a short while. I have finally rented a studio where I can work. It is a 30 minute walk to the center, next to a beautiful park and shopping area. The studio actually is an old school house that has very long corridors, a shower, toilets, washing machine, garden. My part of the studio used to be the gymnasium, so there are still painted stripes and circles that were used for the basketball courts. It’s huge with really big windows all around.

I share the studio with another artist, my age, who used to be a translator for the UN, who is married with two kids. She is quite successful and is able to make a living from her large watercolors that are both figurative and colorful. She is rarely there, so I have a peaceful place to work. The rent is also very cheap. There are many tables so I have spread out my jewelry and my sketches for future pieces and am embarking on some new avenues of exploration. Cool. I will try to call you sometime soon. Hope all is well with you. All my love, Annie.