The All You Can Dream Buffet (8 page)
Read The All You Can Dream Buffet Online
Authors: Barbara O'Neal
Five minutes later, she drove into the rain. It was the most bizarre thing she’d seen on the road—on one side of the line, the highway was completely dry, and then she drove right into a heavy downpour complete with hail, so heavy it made the entire world dark and created a cacophony of sound, hammering on the roof and body of the car, sluicing off the Airstream behind her. Ginny put on her headlights and slowed down, her heart pounding as other cars rushed by, sending plumes of water arcing over her windshield.
A midsize sedan whooshed by. She clutched the wheel so tightly that her hands ached, but she kept her speed at forty, no lower. Ahead of her was a pickup truck going roughly the same speed, and behind her was a little bug of a car, using the protection of the Airstream to stay on the road.
Any minute now, she told herself, she would drive out of it.
But mile after mile the rain poured, turning the highway into a river. The Airstream felt as if it weighed a billion unstable
pounds, but there was no wind to speak of, so that was her own fear speaking.
No fear.
She chanted it to herself:
No fear, no fear, no fear.
Her shoulders began to ache, then burn with tension, and her neck hurt, and her eyes.
When a rest stop appeared out of the gloom, Ginny aimed for it with tears streaming down her face. She couldn’t spare a hand to wipe them away, so she just let them flow, relief and terror mixing in some crazy combination as she pulled the car and Airstream into the big lot, along with a half dozen semitrucks and a couple dozen cars. The unceasing rain soaked her as she yanked her camera bag and purse from the seat, let Willow out, and they both dashed for the Airstream. She unlocked it, hustled them both inside, and sat down on the bed, shaking in reaction.
Then she bent her head into her hands and cried some more. What had she let herself in for?
At some point much later, Ginny woke up to Willow nosing her hand repeatedly. It was dark and still raining, though not with the force it had been earlier. The sound now was a soft patter on the roof of the Airstream.
When Ginny moved, sitting up stiffly, Willow backed away with her tail wagging and jerked her head toward the door. “Oh, sorry, sweetie. Let me get a jacket.”
She fetched her jacket and put it on, pulling the hood over her head. She leashed the dog and they went out in the heavy drizzle. Most of the other cars and trucks had driven on, but a couple of semis were still parked, their engines idling. On the highway, cars roared by, one after another. The heavy clouds
pressed down from above, and Ginny could only keep her head down. Willow did her business, then shook the rain off her fur.
“My turn,” Ginny said, and headed for the ladies’ room. There was a toilet in the trailer, but she might as well make use of this one while she could.
No one was in there, so she brought Willow with her. Willow sat politely while Ginny used the toilet and then stripped off her jacket and shirt and hung them on a hook. She washed at the sink, drying off with paper towels. In the mirror, she looked gray and withered, with circles under her eyes.
“Such an adventure,” she said aloud, feeling the weight of it in her gut. This had been a stupid idea.
As if Willow heard her thoughts, she made a soft whine.
“I’m only kidding,” Ginny said, slipping back into her clothes. “Once we get to Lavender’s farm it will be a lot better.”
As she finished, a young woman came in, her long red hair braided away from her face. “Hi!” she said in an Australian accent. “Raining enough for you?”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “Pretty crazy. Were you driving in it?”
“Yeah.” She headed to the sink and turned the water on, soaping her hands and face, then scrubbing them vigorously. With eyes the color of a shallow lake, she peered at Ginny through the mirror. “Are you driving that Airstream?”
“Yes! My first trip.”
“That’s a brilliant trailer. Bambi, yeah?”
“That’s right. I looked for a long time for the right one.”
The girl splashed water over her face. “I’d love something like that.”
Something real and true eased in Ginny’s throat, as if she might be able to speak without screaming. “When the time is right, you will, I bet.”
“Right.” She dried her face and opened a little makeup bag.
Ginny whistled for Willow to follow her out. “Take care,” she said to the girl.
“Right, love. You, too.”
Back in the trailer, Ginny turned on some lights over the table, put on her sweats and heavy socks, and opened her laptop, which was fully charged. There was an email from Valerie.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: My daughter has gone native
LOCATION: back of beyond, SD
Hi, Ginny. How’s your journey going so far? I keep thinking about you driving through the mountains at long last and wonder if that’s as thrilling as you thought it would be. Are you into the mountains yet? I can’t remember which day you were leaving, I’m sorry to say. That’s because my teenage daughter has sucked the brains right out of my head.
We’ve been on the road six and a half days. Six days in the car with my darling girl. Six days of touring Native American sites, like Tecumseh’s grave and Sitting Bull’s birthplace and the site of Crazy Horse’s murder.
Hannah has taped postcards of Sitting Bull and Red Cloud to her walls in the trailer. She takes hours to straighten her hair every morning, then weaves in braids and feathers. The effect is startling, I have to admit—she has her father’s cheekbones and my dark eyes, so she could easily pass for Native American. But that’s been the story of biracial people all through time, hasn’t it? They can blend in, become someone new. Not like me, blackest woman in six
counties. Not like you, Freckles. Or Miss Ruby Slippers, with her big blue eyes.
I’m rambling, sorry. I wish we were coming to the farm instead of making this tour of powwows and battlegrounds. It’s all so wretchedly depressing, and I have had enough of depressing. I need to find a new life, a fresh start, but what does an aging, widowed ballerina do for the rest of her life? Is forty-seven too late to start over? Are we over the hill, my friend? I honestly don’t know.
Sometimes I even feel guilty for that, for
wanting
to start over. Young (okay, young-ish) widows do it, but maybe mothers who’ve lost children don’t. Except that I just don’t see the point in staying stuck at the moment of loss. I don’t see how it serves my daughters for me to stop living, too. I don’t see how it makes my life mean any more. My father used to say people get over unimaginable things, and as a black man from Mississippi, I guess he had more insight than most.
The biggest reason to get unstuck and find that new life for myself is for Hannah, who is stuck back at the moment when those officials in their uniforms showed up at our door to tell us what we had suspected. She can’t move on, because none of her friends will let her. I can’t move on, because I am The Woman Who Lost Her Family in That Horrible Plane Crash. It cages us in, both of us. In San Diego, we can start fresh. Live by the ocean.
In some ways, the trip is working. Hannah is turning herself into a Native American, but at least she isn’t trying to squeeze herself into her sisters’ clothes anymore. Now she’s not exactly being Hannah, but at least she’s not them.
I honestly thought that after two years we might be further along this road. I thought
I’d
be further along. I miss
them all so much. Maybe that’s not something to be avoided. Maybe it’s just going to be a piece of me forever.
Ugh, sorry! I’m whining again, and I will have to move the bracelet on my arm to the other and start over.
Please tell me about your adventures. I’m dying to hear.
Love,
Val
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: re: My daughter has gone native
LOCATION: back of beyond, Colorado
Hi, Val. First, big hugs. I’m going to say again what I have said a dozen times: You are doing the right thing under very challenging circumstances. I’m proud of you for taking action instead of staying stuck.
Where am I? I honestly don’t know exactly. It’s raining really, really hard. I’m exhausted from driving and still have to post a blog. I’ll write more tomorrow night.
But, yes, I’m on the way, and it’s exhilarating and terrifying and a thousand other things I can’t pick out completely.
Can’t you just keep driving and come to the farm? Why not?
I don’t know how you can escape missing them—and maybe you wouldn’t want to, after all. I’m glad the trip seems to be helping with Hannah. You are a great mother, and they do grow up. I admire you so much.
And I know this sounds canned and like I’m not really reading/responding, but, I swear, even my eyelashes are tired. More tomorrow.
Please come to the farm with the rest of us. Please, please, please?
Love,
Ginny the demolished
Email sent, Ginny uploaded a handful of photos to the blog, wrote a quick post, and shut it all down. Willow hopped up on the bed with her, taking the space by the wall as Ginny had been training her to do—a big warm comfort when she felt lonely.
Drawing her quilt over her body and plumping up the pillows, she closed her eyes, imagining a big circle of protection around the trailer. Next to her, Willow snored comfortingly. Rain pattered down on the roof.
And, just as Matthew had predicted, a sense of vast loneliness crashed down on her like a blanket of ice. The distance she had traveled, so many, many miles, seemed insane, and where was she? In a beautiful campground by a river, or in the mountains? No, at a rest stop on the interstate, with trucks running their engines.
Back home, Matthew was tucked into bed, reading a mystery. She pictured her kitchen, the swath of counter that her sisters envied, the new range and oven, the flower vase on the windowsill filled with a selection of roses from her garden. Why had she left her roses? Matthew would never take care of them. They would die.
She imagined a gentle hand smoothing the hair from her brow. Just before she fell asleep, she could have sworn that music began to play, and there was the distinct sound of ice clinking into a glass.
Lavender Honey Farms
yamhill co., oregon
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At the lavender farms, this stretch of June is one of our favorites. The bees are happily drugging themselves on the fields of lavender, lambs are tumbling through the grass, and we’re making cheese to take advantage of the season.
This pair is Hester and Pilar. Pilar came to us as a rescue from a local commune. She was battered and worn out, but our resident magician, Noah, managed to get her back into happy shape, as you see. This is her first lambing season, and
she’s taken to it like the champ she is. Sometimes survivors are the most sensitive of all.
Sheep cheese is not as common in America as cow’s milk cheese, but don’t let that stop you. Here are a few of our best cheeses, available only in limited amounts:
Rosemary manchego
Pecorino wrapped in walnut leaves
Malvarosa (one of my favorites!)
Monday morning, after her tour of the perimeter, Lavender cut behind the house to follow a path through the woods behind the farm. It was a sunny morning, promising to be hot later in the day, and the bees were hungrily gathering pollen and nectar from the throats of the millions of lavender blossoms. It was a sight she loved as much as any, the bees so certain of their place and purpose. She fancied she could smell the honey from hives as she passed by.