Willa by Heart (11 page)

And the tears come like a sea storm. I sob like a baby, like I've already lost him.

I have JFK's picture in a locket, but Mariel “Sea Bright” has his heart.

And this is Mrs. Webb's garden. Just like Mrs. Gibbs', only it's got a lot of sunflowers, too.

—
Our Town

It's Mother's Day, and Mum is delivering the sermon at BUC. We are in our usual row near the front—me, Mom, Sam, and Nana. I'm trying to listen to Mum, but I keep thinking about Mariel Sanchez. She's sitting back in the last row, alone.

JFK and his family are off Cape this morning, visiting his grandmother in Boston.

“Like the great author Alice Walker explained it,” Mum says, “in search of our mother's garden, we find our own. We need to know our mother's story and we need to know our father's story, because they made us and we've got their roots
and we can't grow strong if we don't know what sort of plant we are.”

I look sideways at my mother's face.

“I'm not saying you have to grow the way they did,” Mum says. “Each one of us branches out and moves toward the sun in our own new, crazy way. But those original roots are deep down there, whether we like them or not. And we have to dig in the muck and pluck them out and study them, see them good, as much as any person can ever truly see another, and then, and only then, can we be free to bloom.”

I start thinking about my mother, Stella Clancy Havisham Gracemore. Even though we've gotten closer this year, there is still so much I don't know about her past. What was she like when she was fourteen? What did she dream about? Who were her friends? Who was her first boyfriend?

“Now, here's your assignment,” Mum says with a chuckle, fanning her face and adjusting the neckline of her rainbow-colored robes. “Sure is hot in here.”

The congregation laughs. Mum always ends her sermons with an assignment. Something she expects us to do between now and next Sunday.

“My mama is long since gone to the angels,” Mum says, “and I know many of you have lost your mothers too. This is a hard day for us. Yes, it is. But if you're lucky enough to still have your mother here in the living, or some good woman who is just like a real mother to you, I want you to look her straight in the eye and say
thank you.”

I look at my mother. There is a tear rolling down her cheek.

“It might not be all flowers and happy feelings between you,” Mum says, “but I know if you think about it long enough, you can think of at least one important thing to thank her for. Something she taught you or gave you or did for you. Got it?”

“Yes, Mum,” we say.

“Good,” Mum says. “Now, let's close our eyes and breathe easy for a minute and thank the other one we need to thank.”

That would be God.

Mum says the only prayer you ever need is just two little words long.

Thank you.

I hear the heavy door at the back of BUC open and close. I turn around to look.

Mariel Sanchez is gone.

***

After the service Sam takes us out to Moonakis for breakfast. We like the owner, Paul. He's originally from New York City, Brooklyn. The food is great, and Paul makes every customer feel special, coming around to all the tables, shaking hands, paying compliments. Paul says people should be “aggressively friendly.” I like that. Aggressively friendly.

Soon our table is laden with cheese omelets, chocolate chip pancakes, sausage and bacon, cinnamon Danish, strawberry shortcake with real whipped cream. We eat until we're stuffed like turkeys.

I give Mom
Gift from the Sea,
by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Sam suggested it.

“Thank you.” She kisses me on the cheek. “You are such a thoughtful daughter, Willa.”

“You're welcome, Mom.” I get this weird feeling inside. This time next year my mother will have a new daughter or son. Soon there will be another child calling my mother “Mom.” I can't believe it, but I think I'm jealous.

Mom and Sam give Nana a gift certificate to Mahoney's Nursery.

“Thought you'd like to pick out some annuals, Mother,” Mom says to Nana. “They've got all the
geraniums in now. We'll drive you over later, if you'd like.”

“That would be great, dear, thanks,” Nana says. She opens my present next.

It's a small garden statue, a cherub reading a book.

Nana makes a squeaking sound. Her lips tighten. I know she's thinking about Gramp, trying not to cry.

“I'm sorry Nana. I didn't mean to make you …”

“Don't be sorry, sweetheart. It's perfect.” She wipes away a tear, kisses the cherub on the head, and smiles. “I bet your gramp's got all the angels reading up there. He's probably starting book clubs and making God read the classics.”

Sam, Mom, and I burst out laughing. Nana laughs too. A good, hearty laugh that makes us all feel better.

When we get back to the inn, Rosie is finishing up for the day. It hits me how it's Mother's Day for her, too, and here she is working instead of home with Liliana.

“Take a quiche with you, Rosie,” Mom says, “and, here, I'll pack up some fruit salad and
banana nut muffins. And anything else you'd like.”

Rosie's face tightens. She hangs her apron on the hook, smoothes a wrinkle in the fabric. “Thank you, Stella, but we're fine.”

I think Rosie is insulted. She is a very proud person. I wish she could have an easier life. I wish she could be a millionaire chef, like that Rachael Ray girl on television. Then she could set her own hours and be home with Liliana more.

Rosie has been working hard on a recipe for the Bramblebriar signature wedding cake. So far I've taste-tested at least five that I thought were winners, but Rosie still says she can do better. She comes in early and stays late trying out various combinations of sweet ingredients. Rosie says she's close, very, very close, and that it's going to be amazing. Who knows, maybe Rosie will create the perfect wedding cake. Make her big break. Get her own TV show. Sell the recipe for a million bucks. Become famous.

It's a gorgeous, sunny day, perfect beach weather. I call Tina, but the answering machine is on. Maybe JFK is back. I pack my beach bag and bike to his house.

When I turn the corner onto his street, there
are no cars in the driveway, but someone is getting off a bike. The curly black hair is unmistakable. Mariel.

My heart starts pounding. I pull my bike over behind a huge oak tree to watch.

She has a wicker basket in her hand.
Is she bringing him a picnic?

Mariel walks up onto the porch, rings the bell, waits a minute, looks around, rings it again, then sets the basket down in front of the door. She gets on her bike and pedals off.

I wait a few seconds, then I bike up the Kennellys' driveway.
What a nerve she has. Bringing a picnic or treats, probably homemade cookies or something, to my boyfriend.
My boyfriend. I walk up the steps toward the basket. I know it's wrong. I look behind me. No neighbors around. I have no right to snoop, but I can't resist. I need to know my competition.

There is some sort of silky green fabric in the basket, with a note on top.

Dear Mrs. Kennelly,

Thank you for letting me borrow the dress. I have never been to a dance before. That night I
felt lite Cinderella. Thank you, also, for buying the ticket. I couldn't have gone otherwise. You are a kind and thoughtful person, and I am forever grateful for your generosity.

Love always,

Mare

PS—Nico and Sofia are still having fun with the green mask. Peekaboo!

PSS—Happy Mother's Day.

A rush of conflicting emotions comes over me. Relief that the basket isn't for JFK. Jealousy that Mariel and Mrs. Kennelly are close. Sadness for Mariel on this holiday. How badly she must miss her own mother….

I refold the note and carefully lift the dress from the basket. It's beautiful. Underneath there's a pair of silver sandals and a matching pocketbook. I open the pocketbook. It's empty. I feel bad. This is wrong. I try to refold the dress exactly like it was.

“What are you doing?” someone calls. I swing around.

Mariel is there on her bike, staring at me. “Get away from that,” she shouts, her face flushed with
anger. “You sneak. You spy. Stay out of my business.”

Then she pedals off fast, in a flurry, before I can even speak.

Just for a moment now we're all together. Mama, just for a moment we're happy. Let's look at one another.

—
Our Town

I need a walk on the beach.

I bike to the ocean with a swirling head and heavy heart. The sun is bright, but I can't feel its warmth. I choose the lion side of the Spit.

Gusts of wind whip my hair, make my eyes water. I walk and walk and walk, and the wind, like an invisible eraser, wipes my worries away, away.

Soon I start to feel better.

At the tip of the Spit the wind picks up power.
It roars at me with a force so strong that when I turn around, I can actually lean back against it. On a calm day I would surely fall, but today the wind supports me like a cub in its mother's arms.

When I round the corner onto the bay side, I see her.

Mariel is sitting in our special spot. Mine and JFK's.

Jealousy stabs me.
Have they been here together? Did he kiss her here too?

I stand frozen stiff on the outside, a frenzy of feelings within.

Mariel, on the other hand, is the picture of peacefulness. She sits there hugging her knees to her chest, staring out at the bay. After a while she gets up and moves to the water's edge. She squats down, scoops up a handful, looks at it.

For a long time she just looks at that little bit of sea in her hand. She touches her hand to her cheek, leaves her palm there for a moment. Then she stands, picks up a piece of driftwood, kneels in the sand, and starts to draw.
Probably writing their initials. MS & JFK. In a heart with an arrow through it.
My anger rises.
I hate this girl. Why does she have to be so mysterious and different and beautiful?

When Mariel's done writing, she flings the stick onto the dune and walks off up the beach. I wait a moment and then go to see what she wrote.

THANK YOU, MAMA.

I LOVE YOU,

MARE

My heart clenches. I run to catch up with her. “Mariel …”

At first she doesn't hear me. “Mariel …”

Finally she turns around. She stares at me with cold eyes.

“I'm sorry,” I say, nervous and loud. “I had no right to look in the basket you left at Joseph's house.”

“That's right, you didn't.”

“I was wrong and—”

“It's over now,” Mariel says. “You worry too much, Willa Havisham.”

How does she know I worry so much? We've just barely met….

“I am sorry you did not get the part,” Mariel says. “But it was my dream.”

My dream.
That night at auditions, when the
director asked what was on her sleeve, Mariel said, “My dream.”

“That was brave of you,” I say. “To walk in there with ‘Emily' on your sleeve.”

“Not brave,” Mariel says, staring me straight in the eyes. “Smart.”

“What?”

“People should do that.”

“Do what?”

“Wear their dreams on their sleeves.”

When she says this, I get this flash of light in my head, like this is something important. “What do you mean?” I say.

“People should wear their dreams on their sleeves. So they won't forget them. And so the others can help.”

“The others?” I look at her, confused but intrigued.

Mariel laughs. “They are all around us. And we need them, Willa Havisham.”

“Why?”

Mariel laughs again. “To help make our dreams come true, of course.” Then she turns and walks off up the beach.