Authors: Sally John
“Liss, was I an awful pain in the neck for you?”
“That’s putting it mildly. But looking back, I can see now how hard it was on you to lose our mom. You were only thirteen.”
“But it had to be hard on you, too.”
“It’s over. Though I do remember being especially happy when you ‘found yourself’ here and settled down. Mamá’s work was reignited in you, and you blossomed in it.”
“Did I ever tell you . . . ?” Sheridan’s throat tightened, and she had to wait a moment before going on. “In Caracas, I wanted to do what Addams did here. I wanted to live in the neighborhood, not just open a center and go home at night and pretend the women Reina and I were helping had homes to go to that were warm and cheery with stocked pantries.”
“You always were such a dreamer, Sher. Like Mamá. I remember one particularly horrid argument she and Dad had. She wanted to do the same thing—get an apartment near the center where she worked on the west side.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“I wouldn’t want you to remember the fight. Actually, you weren’t home at the time.” She paused. “It happened not long before she died.”
“Why would she get an apartment? Was it for herself? What did she mean?”
“Um, I’m not really sure.” Calissa was stuttering again.
“But what did she say?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“Did she want a divorce?”
Calissa sighed a few times before replying. “She wanted distance from him.”
Kind of like me.
Sheridan wondered if she ever would be free of Harrison Cole. She suspected not even his death could accomplish that.
* * *
Sheridan and Calissa stepped into the museum. Instantly Sheridan felt at home. The tall ceilings gave an airy feel to the first floor that contained an information desk, a counter where books were sold, and three large interconnecting rooms with artifacts and historical photographs.
A group of elementary-age children filled a room on their left, the hardwood floors creaking with every movement. A docent, a young woman who most likely was a student at the university, spoke to them much like Ysabel had to Sheridan when she was young.
Another memory—the one that had struck her early that morning—hit again, this time sharp and vivid. It was of Mrs. Van Auken, a dear friend of their mother’s, a docent at Hull House all those years ago, the “VA” in the note. She talked to her in this place about doing good works.
The woman behind the desk smiled now. “May I help you, ladies?”
While Calissa went over to talk with her, Sheridan roamed the rooms, familiar to her even after a long absence. She paused in front of an early photograph of Addams. Her round, almost childlike face; the unsmiling lips; the high-necked silky dress—all spoke of another era. And yet, decades later the woman’s dream-come-true at the turn of the twentieth century had captured Ysabel Cole’s heart.
Decades after that, Sheridan caught it herself.
As a teacher at the college, she had urged her students to dream big and to work hard to make their dreams become reality. She would quote from Addams:
“What after all, has maintained the human race on this old globe despite all the calamities of nature and all the tragic failings of mankind, if not faith in new possibilities, and courage to advocate them?”
Words she lived by in the B.C.E. years.
Sheridan missed her fellow dreamer and coworker Reina so much, she ached inside. She missed her work. Both had been torn from her in the blink of an eye.
There were holes in her heart. Gone was the beauty that graced it whenever she held the hand of a poor woman and talked to her about gaining skills necessary for her to make a living. Gone was the beauty of hilarity when she and Reina laughed as, one after another, obstacles disintegrated when teachers, employers, and babysitters volunteered their services. When landlords offered space free of charge. Gone was the beauty of joyful tears she and Reina wept as they watched needy women gather, learn, and find jobs. Gone was the beauty of hope that their own center would open. She had even lost the vision of her and Reina dancing a silly jig as soon as Eliot cut the ribbon at the grand opening ceremony.
Sheridan inhaled the museum’s musty air and wondered if she would ever be able to work in that way again, totally consumed with helping others. Somehow being consumed with helping just one named Eliot didn’t seem the same. Why just one when God had given her a heart for women and the abilities to serve many?
“Sher.”
She jumped at Calissa’s voice beside her.
“Sorry. I got it.”
“Okay.”
They exchanged determined looks, their brows raised and mouths set. That morning, they’d greeted each other with the same questions: What about Mamá? What had she known about her husband’s activities? What was she doing thirty years ago while he flitted down to Caracas, a place she never cared to visit? Who were her friends?
Sheridan recalled only one woman in particular, Helena Van Auken, who worked at the museum and through the association too. Calissa vaguely remembered her. It seemed she had a daughter her age and they had interacted eons ago. Sheridan, as an adult on the campus, had bumped into Ysabel’s old friend now and then at Hull House.
Calissa said, “Armed with your reputation, Professor Cole, and the exalted congressman’s, learning about Helena was not a problem. She still volunteers here. Can you believe it? I’ll go outside and give her a call now.”
“I’d like a few more minutes in here.”
“Are you all right? I mean, I know you’re not. The city and all. The memories here. That message from Eliot. But . . .” She cocked her head, empathy on her pouted lips.
“Thanks for the concern, but I am fine. Really.”
“Okay, then. I’ll meet you out front.”
Sheridan watched her leave, surprised at the empathy she had voiced.
Funny how different she and her sister were. While Sheridan embraced their mother’s passion to help underprivileged women, Calissa had caught their father’s passion for politics. In politics they served others too, but Harrison’s ego was always obvious. He liked the power and prestige that came from his work, not the people.
Calissa liked those things as well. She had never pretended otherwise. But her new plan to run for city council had altruism written all over it. She had a heart for people’s welfare.
Sheridan wondered now, surrounded in the museum by all the evidence of dreams being fulfilled for over a century, how one person’s work went on and on.
Like her mother, she had worked in the association’s outreach programs. She had even helped create a few. It was at a fund-raiser to launch one of those where she and Eliot met. In Chicago on some business, he visited his father’s friend, Malcolm. Knowing Eliot’s interest in such things, the man invited him to the event.
Of course the rest was history. Their instant heart connection was rooted in the similarities of their work. It was what began their never-ending song of conversation.
The one that ended on a sidewalk in Caracas. . . .
Both were gone now, their conversation and their work. Now all they did was get through every day the best they could in a tiny village forgotten by time.
Sheridan bit her lip and blinked rapidly.
Dear God, I just want our life back the way it used to be. We were living out our dreams. What was so wrong with that? Huh? I’d really, really like to know.
Topala
Working with Mercedes on his autobiography, Eliot summoned forth reserves of stamina he thought were nonexistent.
Then again, perhaps they were nonexistent. Perhaps he was running on adrenaline, the natural response to several fearful questions roiling inside of him.
Had Sheridan listened to his voice mail yet? What effect did it have on her? Did she think him an even bigger fool than she had already considered him? Had she returned the call? Was a message waiting for him in Mesa Aguamiel? Would she return the call? Was Traynor still with her? Why would he be? Where was he sleeping?
Was she all right? Did she remember the counselor’s caution—that even years after a traumatic event, certain sights or sounds or smells could trigger unhealthy responses? Why hadn’t Eliot reminded her to be attuned to such things?
Would anyone in the world give a flying fig about what he had accomplished as an ambassador? Would the agent still be interested in trying to sell the story six months from now?
And beneath it all rumbled the question that threatened like an earthquake’s tremors. The answer to it could completely shake apart his world. Had the old man talked?
Adrenaline, fear, and stress surged through him. Regardless of his exhaustion, he would not be able to rest as he did most afternoons at this time. At least the agonizingly slow process of dispensing personal information to Mercedes diverted his attention.
“Señor,” she said, “what do you mean when you say that you and señora ‘connected’ at the fund-raiser when you met?”
He sighed. The language two-step wore on him. “Sheridan describes
connected
as our hearts communing. It was as if we knew each other already.”
“Oh!” Mercedes smiled. “Love at first sight! Women will like to read about this.”
“It wasn’t love at first sight! It was a deep knowing that we were alike. That our goals and passions were the same. That we shared worldviews.”
“Sí. Love at first sight. You must have thought she was beautiful.”
Struck wordless, Eliot stared at the girl.
“Oh, I talk too much. I am sorry, señor. Javier says I should just listen and take notes. That’s what señora said you needed. I am supposed to help you outline what you will write later.” Her eyes widened, and she leaned forward over the desk. “But I have an idea! I can write this part. I can describe love at first sight. How beautiful she was. How handsome you were. How butterflies fluttered inside you both. It was the same for me and Javier. What do you think?”
“I think that you were not there and that you are only eighteen. Sheridan was thirty years old when we met. I was forty-two.”
“Sudden, head-over-heels love is the same for everyone, no matter what the age. You married almost right away. Señor, it was love at first sight. Women will swoon over this part of your story.”
Eliot gripped the edge of the desk with both hands. “Mercedes.”
“All right, I will stop.” She sat upright and looked at her pad. “Back to business. We need to put this in order. Why did you go to this event where it was love at first sight?” She winked. “I mean where you
connected
. I think God must have led you there.”
The window to his left spun to where Mercedes sat. Mercedes melded into the bookcase on his right. The wall behind him rounded his left side, into his peripheral vision.
Vertigo was one of Eliot’s new realities since the shooting. Its cause had not been determined. Some inner ear reaction to the bullet? Some medication’s side effect? He had not isolated a trigger. It came unexpectedly. Like now.
Unlike previous times, though, it hit him quickly and hard, as if an on-off switch had just been thrown.
Mercedes’s voice came from behind him. “Señor!” Or was it from his left? “Señor!”
Why had he gone to the fund-raiser?
It wasn’t love at first sight.
Curiosity had propelled him to the fund-raiser. If curiosity killed the cat, it slaughtered Eliot. Meeting her decimated his preconceptions, prejudices, expectations, bitterness, blindness, self-defenses, disdain, hatred, fears.
It was as if she had called forth a new Eliot.
No, it wasn’t love at first sight, but rather forgiveness at first sight—forgiveness for what he had been.
But that went beyond words. Even if he had words, they would not be included in any outline, note, or essay.
The room spun viciously. He shut his eyes. The carousel still pulled at him; his head swirled round and round and round in blackness.
Eliot screamed. He shouted. He swore. He verbally attacked Mercedes and her family and the entire village of Topala.
With a yell, he swept his arms across the wide desktop, one side to the other, clearing it in one swoop. Laptop, papers, pens, clock, and books clattered to the floor.
The pain hit him then. The one that seared like fire under his left shoulder blade.
The workday was over. The night’s rest was over. But those were the least of his fears.
His life was over. Sheridan was in Chicago, with Calissa, with Harrison, and with a history he had kept hidden from her since the day they met.
Chicago
“I wondered when you two would find me.” Helena Van Auken’s unabashed smile sent folds up her face, puckering her eyes until only the twinkle showed. “Come in, come in.”
Sheridan stepped into the apartment first and into the woman’s open arms. “Hello.” After a long moment with no indication the hug would end anytime soon, Sheridan melted into the compassion that oozed from her mother’s old friend.
At last the woman let go and then gave Calissa the same hug.
“Hello, Mrs. Van Auken.”
“It’s Helena.” A spry seventysomething in blue jeans and a wild purple shirt, she wore some of her white hair in a bun. The rest sprung out every which way. “Now tell me, when did your father pass away? I must have missed the announcement in the newspaper.”
“Pass away? He hasn’t.”
“Oh. Well then, you are ahead of schedule. Please, have a seat.”
Sheridan and Calissa shrugged at each other and followed Helena. The apartment was small and sparsely furnished. A few steps past a kitchenette, they sat on a couch. There was only one door off of the room, presumably to a single bedroom and bath.
Chatting the whole time about the beautiful sunshine and impossible neighborhood parking, Helena served them iced tea and dainty homemade sugar cookies.
She sat in the armchair by the sole window, its sill full of potted plants. “Calissa, running for city council. Sheridan, former ambassador’s wife. What lovely women you’ve become. Ysabel must be busting at the seams with happiness.”
Sheridan glanced at her sister.