Taking Terri Mueller (14 page)

TWENTY-ONE

On the plane. My seatmate, René, is snoozing, so this is a good time to write in this journal. It's funny I just wrote “snoozing.” That's René's word. “Well, Terri, time for a little snooze.” She got a pillow and a blanket from the steward and looks very comfortable. I should sleep, too. I'm pretty tired from not sleeping much last night, but every time I close my eyes, they snap open.

Last night, every time I woke up I would think about this trip—not about my mother, but what it would be like to go in an airplane. I don't especially like high places, and here I am looking out the window, and all I see are clouds below me. I am actually
above
the clouds. There must be things you
know
—with your mind—but somehow, you don't really know, not
inside
you. It's only now, looking down at those clouds, that the realness of space—the limitlessness—comes to me. No, Terri, all that blue sky you see from the earth is not like the roof on a house!

I guess it's the same way I feel about going to see my mother. With my mind I
know
that's where I'm going, but
inside
me I still don't know it. Probably won't until I see her. Like seeing the clouds. Then—oh, yeah, it's really true!

Every time I get myself to actually think about it, my stomach jumps. I don't know what to expect. One thing Daddy said quite a while ago has been bothering me. I don't remember when he said it, but I do remember
what
he said. “You won't like her.” Whew! I didn't want to ask
anything
else. I just let it drop.

I'm scared. I haven't said it to anybody, not to Nancy, not to Shaundra, definitely not to Daddy. Part of the scared feeling has been that something would happen to keep me from going at all. But now I'm in the plane, and unless we crash. I'll be in Oakland in another hour. Now
there's
a comforting thought. If we crash, I won't have to worry about how scared I am about meeting my mother.

I'm really in a mood to write. All those letters, and now this journal. Maybe I
will
write in it every day. I'm writing down things I hardly even knew I was thinking.

Just took out the picture my mother sent me of herself. I left my sweaty fingerprints all over it. Gee, maybe my mother will take one sniff and send me back! If Nancy were here, I'd tell her that and get a laugh out of her. At the airport, she started telling jokes. “What's green and sour and bigger than a pickle jar?” “I don't know, Nancy.” “A pickled elephant, Terri.” We were both chortling, but I kept thinking she was going to cry.

All the people I especially love are really emotional. Even Leif is already that sort of person. This morning when we picked up him and Nancy he grabbed me around the legs and said, “Hello, Terri, my best Terri.” Nancy says all
kids are loving that way until something or somebody puts them down, out in the big bad world. Was I that way? I know that
now
I just don't freely give out my love and affection, I don't freely show it. I
feel
things, and I
want
to hug Nancy or kiss Shaundra. But then I don't. I press someone's hand and hope they know I'm feeling loving. I wish I could just grab and hug the way Nancy does.

Right now I'm remembering when Daddy and I said good-by. Sadness, a sad feeling. I got in the line to show my boarding pass. Then I turned around to wave good-by. Right then I should have run back and told him, “Daddy, I love you.”

Why didn't I do it? Why don't I do things like that? Why don't I say the things I'm thinking and feeling? This is a serious fault of mine. I brood over things. Shaundra told me one time that I sit on my thoughts until they hatch. Right now I'm thinking. What if the plane crashes and
I didn't say that to Daddy?
Will he know? I tell myself, he knows. I wanted to write it in my letter, but I didn't. I just tried to make it very loving.

The NO SMOKING sign just went on. We're going to land in a few minutes. My stomach feels like a Mexican jumping bean.

TWENTY-TWO

The airport was crowded. Terri carried her down vest over her arm, knapsack on her back, suitcase in her left hand. She stood near the gate, looking for her mother. Would she recognize her? A boy and a girl, both smiling eagerly, approached her. “Hello!” the girl said.

“Hello.” Terri thought her mother had sent them to meet her.

“Isn't it a wonderful day?” The girl's smile had a special radiance, as if meeting Terri was the most fabulous thing that had ever happened to her.

“Is life being good to you?” The boy was very clean looking, his hair cropped short, his smile equally brilliant. Terri felt confused, smiled uneasily. Then the boy held out a book to her, on the cover a white-robed man with his hands raised. “Take the book, sister, it's a gift from Master Kufari.”

At that, Terri realized they were cult people. “No . . . thank you.” Half to get away from them and half because she was feeling a little frantic, she walked rapidly away, looking for her mother in the crowds of people. Despite the picture, she had no faith that she would know her mother when she saw her. As for her mother recognizing Terri—impossible.
She had never sent a picture and had been five, only five, the last time Kathryn had seen her.

She stared at every woman. Her? . . . Her? . . . Her . . .?

No . . . no . . . no . . . no . . .
no
. . .

There was a soreness in her eyes. Where was her mother? They'd never find each other. Maybe she hadn't come, had changed her mind. Terri would wander around this airport all day, then go home, and that would be it.

She ran, dodging people, her suitcase bumping her leg. “Slow down there,” a man said in a genial way. She didn't spare him a glance, kept running.

All at once she saw her. Saw her mother. She thought she saw her. A woman coming toward her, a tall woman with black hair loose around her face and deep-set dark eyes. The woman came closer, hurrying, looking straight ahead.
Her mother.

Terri stopped. She saw her mother, she recognized her, and a feeling came over her as if everything had stopped. Everything was waiting . . . waiting . . .

Her mother . . .
Her mother.
There was an ache at the back of her throat, and she felt a fierceness of tears. And still she stared. Didn't speak. Couldn't speak. She felt something shimmering, something flowing and shaking through her . . . Her mother . . .

She was wearing almost the same clothes as in the snapshot she'd sent Terri. A light pleated skirt, a pink silky blouse, and strings of pink beads. A leather pocketbook with a long strap over her shoulder. A big, tense, elegant look to her . . .

There was a great amount of noise in the airport. People talking, planes taking off and landing, voices over loudspeakers demanding attention. “MR. ANDREOLLI, report to American Airlines desk, please.” “MISS SUSANNE CHICKOUR, report to Trans World Desk at once.” “I have a message for MR. ELLITON . . .”

Terri heard everything, and yet it was also as if all sound had been switched off. Everything was still, her mother in the center of the silence, and all the people silently streaming past Terri. Then her mother, too, passed her. It was like a dream. She stood there and watched her mother move out of sight, and couldn't move, couldn't call.

Someone bumped into her. “Oh, pardon.” She hardly heard, but it seemed to jolt her awake. She walked after her mother, just walked, and then in a moment, she ran. She didn't feel anything now. She caught up with Kathryn and touched her arm.

Her mother turned and for minutes, it seemed to Terri, simply stared. Her eyes became huge and darker, her face got full of color. “Terri?” she said. “Terri?” Then, “Is it over? It's over, isn't it? It's over, it's really over.”

They stood face to face. She took Terri's free hand. “Hello,” she said. “You're so big.” Her eyes got wet. She put her arms around Terri, and Terri, beginning to love her mother, felt something welling into her, something loosening.

Her mother raised her face. She was crying and said, “Don't cry, Terri. Don't cry. It's all right. It's all right now. It's done.”

Terri didn't know she was crying. And then they held each other again, and she knew she cried, knew she was crying harder than she had ever cried in her life.

TWENTY-THREE

“WELCOME HOME, TERRI!”

The sign, strung across the front of the small white stucco house, was the first thing Terri saw when her mother parked the car. “Merle's students made the sign,” her mother said. “They did it as a surprise for him when they heard about you.” The foot-high red letters painted on a white sheet were surrounded with yellow rays.

“They know about me?”

“Who doesn't?” Her mother stroked her arm. “After you called me that first time, I went on a real talking jag. Told everyone possible my daughter was coming home. You should have seen me, I even cornered poor old men in the supermarket and told them.”

They got out of the car and walked up the stone path. Before they got to the door, it was flung open with cries of “Welcome!” “Surprise!” “Hello, Terri!”

“What is it?” she said.

“It's a party. Do you mind? I'm sorry, so many people wanted to see you. So many people were happy for us—I couldn't deny them—”

Her mother held Terri's arm tightly against her side,
and they walked into a knot of smiling people who broke into applause. They moved from a small hall into a living room crowded with furniture. At the edge of the circle of people a young man held up a camera. A flash bulb went off. Terri blinked. Hands reached out to her, grabbed, squeezed, patted.

“Terri, darling. Terri, darling! Oh, let me hug you.” A husky woman with glasses, tears streaming down her face. “Sweetheart! My darling.” Terri was stifled against her chest, smelled a musky scent, cigarettes, food. “Don't you know me? I'm your grandmother. I'm Gramma Ethel.”

“My turn! My turn!” New arms took her. “I'm Bob, I'm Grandpa Bob.” Those same brown speckled eyes as her mother, a full head of white hair, a stiff mustache that scratched her face. “So you're here, here at last.” He squeezed her hands, his eyes were brimming, too. He wore jeans, and a pink cowboy shirt with pearl buttons.

“Gramma . . . Grandpa,” she said awkwardly. Chills went through her, she shivered, her hands were icy. Flash bulbs exploded. She turned this way, that way. Introductions . . . neighbors . . . friends . . . “And this is Leah!” A thin face, suspicious brown eyes saying, Who is this intruder?

“Terri, I'm Merle.” A tall, almost fat man with a dimple in his cheek, wearing plaid pants. “Can I kiss you, Terri?”

People . . . voices . . . smiles . . . Her hair tousled . . . arms and hands squeezed . . . Everyone beaming at her with good will. The curly-haired photographer from the newspaper stopped to say, “This must be a fantastic day for you.”

“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.” Feeling dazed, hemmed in.

“Here's your sister, here's Terri.” Her grandmother holding up Leah. “Come on, say hello to your sister!” At the command, scowling, Leah turned her head away.

“Eat, everyone, eat,” Merle yelled. There was food, bottles of wine. “It's a happy day! Our daughter has come back!” Cheers, more applause.

Talk burst around Terri, little volleys of words.

“Isn't she beautiful? Looks just like Kathryn.”

“No, I'm sure they said
Wisconsin
. . .”

“. . . who
knows
what went on? I heard . . .”

Her grandfather took her aside. “I want to ask you something.” He smoothed his mane of white hair with a careful hand. “Did your father treat you all right?”

“My father—of course.”

“Yes?” he said, doubtfully. “Yes? He did?”

Tben she understood his question covered other questions, bizarre, ugly thoughts about her father.
Who knows what went on?

She stiffened. “Don't you know my father?”

“Oh, sure, I know Phil. Always thought well of him until—” He brushed his hair, brushed and brushed it. “Do you feel resentment toward him for what he did to you?”

“He didn't do anything to me.” And who was this satisfied-looking white-haired man to say these things about
her father?

Her grandfather's face fell; she thought he looked like Leif when he'd done something wrong. “Did I make you feel bad? I did, didn't I?” He squeezed her shoulder. “Well, look here, I'm sorry about that, I'm really sorry.”

Her grandmother clapped her hands. “Quiet, everyone. It's time for the presents. Bob?” Her grandfather went into another room and returned with an armful of boxes wrapped in glittering paper. “Right here.” Her grandmother indicated Terri, and the entire stack of boxes slid out of his arms in a heap at Terri's feet. There were oohs and aahs.

“Sweetheart,” her grandmother said, “these are all the presents your grandpa and I bought for you every birthday and every Christmas for the past eight years.” Applause. Tears in her grandmother's eyes.

Terri stared at the huge glittering mound. Her heart was beating very rapidly. “The past eight years.” Did all these people hate her father? Her neck heated, she felt that soreness in her eyes.

“Darling, open them,” her grandfather said. Behind her, Terri's mother smiled wistfully at her.

“Ethel has been waiting for this moment,” her grandfather said. “She's going to enjoy this more than Terri.”

Terri picked out a box, began to unwrap it.

“Don't worry about the paper,” her grandmother said, “just tear it off.” Terri continued to slowly unwrap the box. Ethel took it from her and ripped off the paper.

“You should let Terri do that,” her husband said.

“Ooops!” A pink-nailed hand went to Ethel's mouth. “Am I being grabby?”

“Yes, Ma,” Terri's mother said.

“Do you have to agree with me?” She adjusted her glasses. Everyone laughed.

“What's in the box? What's in it?” Leah asked. “Is it for
me?”

“No, sweetheart, it's for Terri, it's for your sister, Terri,” Ethel said. “She hasn't had presents in a long time.”

“I have,” Terri said. “I have!” She didn't realize how her voice clamored until a little silence fell.

Her grandmother held up a blouse with sprigs of flowers embroidered on collar and cuffs. “Isn't it beautiful?” She read the card that had been inside. “For my darling Terri on her ninth birthday.” She handed Terri another box. “I promise not to touch this one!”

There were paints and drawing sets, dolls, dresses, socks, and little pocketbooks and brushes, books, records, and games. “Thank you,” Terri said. “Thank you . . . thank you . . .” She felt the strained smile on her face. Opening the presents seemed to go on endlessly. She wanted to get away. “Thank you . . . Thank you, Grandma.”

At last it was over. She took a little checked cloth doll with a zipper down her back to Leah. “Look, you can put your pajamas inside.” Leah took the doll. “I don't say thank you,” she said, opening the zipper. Terri sat down next to the child. With Leah, at least, she felt an uncomplicated emotion. Leah was jealous; Terri didn't blame her and hoped they could be friends. But all these other people she was suddenly related to—did she like them? Love them? Did they see her? Or Terri, the Long Lost Child?

She sat cross-legged, smiled automatically as people came up to touch her head, to say nice things. She hadn't thought how it would be. She had thought
Grandma . . . Grandpa . . . Mother
. . . And now they were Ethel, Bob,
Kathryn . . . It was all strangeness. Was she happy at last? She couldn't tell. She felt numb, close to exhaustion.

That night, faces whirled in her dreams, and voices, color, movement. There was her grandmother, the bright red lipstick, the eager, grasping smile . . . Then her grandfather, with his soft, handsome, discontented, pouty lips, his mane of white hair . . . He brushed it, brushed it with his hand . . . and smiled with infinite satisfaction. “He has so much hair,” her grandmother said in the dream. “Such thick hair, such a beautiful white color.”

“Yes, but Merle already has a bald spot,” Terri wanted to tell her, and she woke with that sentence in her head, thinking that they were all cartoons. All. Even little Leah, with her pointy, jealous face. Only her mother seemed real to her.