So I guess you’d be out of school by now. Maybe in grad school, if you’ve gone that far, or maybe out of that, too. Perhaps you didn’t go to grad school, or even college. Which is perfectly okay. Sometimes I’m not sure how much I learned in college, really. There was an awful lot that was just filler.
You might have a job now, or perhaps even a family. Your house might have a view of those enormous mountains. I admit the only mountains I’ve ever seen are pretty pathetic in comparison, mere hills stuffed with coal-although, I suppose, they were the first mountains you saw, too. What did you think when you first laid eyes on the real ones, all purple and capped with snow? Was the wind knocked out of you? Did you cry?
And what do you go by? Jo? Josie? Just J? Or maybe you have a fabulous nickname.
One day, maybe I’ll work up the courage to write a real letter to you, one with substance and explanation. Sometimes, it doesn’t even feel like you exist. You’re so far away, almost nothing. But some days, when I’m feeling very brave, I admit to myself that I don’t want you to be far away, not anymore. Some days, I think I want to know the truth about you, once and for all.
18
Samantha pulled into the driveway in a deep gray Mercedes SUV. Stella and I watched her through the dingy curtains in the front room, the one with the pictures of Sinatra and the television. ‘Well, isn’t she fancy?’ Stella said in an awed voice. ‘I bet that car has that wonderful, leathery new-car smell. You know that smell?’
Samantha parked, slid out of the front seat, and grabbed a brown snakeskin purse from the back. When she rang the doorbell we snapped the curtain closed, as if we hadn’t been watching. Stella settled back into the chair, and I answered the door. Samantha’s head was bent down as she keyed something into her cell phone. ‘Hi,’ I said.
She looked up and broke into a five-alarm smile. ‘Hello, Summer! So nice to see you!’
Her blazer and skirt were the same iridescent gray as her car. As she pushed her sunglasses up on her head, I tried to make myself presentable, standing taller and wriggling my toes around to conceal the hole in my sock. I quickly tried to think up excuses for my disheveled appearance: I was wearing pajamas so Stella wouldn’t feel so self-conscious. I hadn’t washed my hair because we were trying to conserve water. And anyway, Samantha had told us she’d be coming yesterday.
‘Sorry, I got tied up yesterday,’ Samantha said, as if reading my mind. ‘I was waiting for paperwork from a seller and it took forever.’ She pushed her way into the door…and then stopped. I watched as her knuckles gripped her bag and then released. It was pretty obvious what she was looking at.
‘Hi, Sam,’ Stella cried in a voice louder than mine. She sat up straighter on the couch, adjusting her black satin gloves and straightening her magenta wig.
‘Well, Stella!’ Samantha cried, returning to herself, as polished and as unsnagged as her nut-colored pantyhose. She gently rested her purse on the worn corduroy couch, glided over to Stella and gave her a delicate, uncertain hug. ‘Are you cold?’ she asked, her eyes falling to the blanket around Stella’s legs and the other blanket around her torso.
‘Not really,’ Stella said. ‘Nice car out there!’ She attempted a whistle.
Samantha rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you know. It was a present to myself. For closing on six houses in one month. In the real-estate world, that’s tough-that’s more than a house a week. I worked like a dog, though.’ She sighed and panted, as if she’d just finished not only closing on the houses but building them, too. Then, she looked around, frowning. ‘You could use some more light in here.’
She walked to the window and pulled back a curtain. The sunlight barreled its way in, showing off every crack in the windowsill, every stain on the carpet, every yellowed blotch of water damage on the ceiling. I watched as Samantha gazed around the room, taking in its pieces. I’d done the same thing when I had come to live with Stella over a year ago, trying to match the room to the mental image I’d been carrying around for years. The living room was smaller. There were more pictures of Frank Sinatra. I hadn’t recalled the curio cabinet above the mantel with the little crystal figurines-a leaping dolphin, an owl, a turtle-or the complete set of encyclopedias from 1965.
Samantha gingerly crossed her legs. I sat down on the poky blue upholstered chair near the dining room, which smelled like stale cigarettes and root beer barrel candies. ‘So I have been so, so busy,’ Samantha sighed. ‘It’s been constant work since I’ve started, which is a really good thing, of course. The Northglenn area is absolutely on fire. Everyone wants in. They just built a new hospital, they’re splitting the schools in two, and there’s this wonderful gym up on the hill that just opened, too. It’s just so…chill. I got them to teach yoga classes there!’