Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel - By Elizabeth Berg Page 0,10

move into me. It appears that what I wrote in my last book is true: Once you start making decisions in which your heart, mind, and soul are congruent, you’ll feel it as a kind of lift, if not liftoff.

SATURDAY MORNING, I FIND A PLACE TO PARK DIRECTLY IN front of HavenCrest, where my mother lives. I go into the lobby and greet the few people I see there. Then I head up to my mother’s apartment, the last one at the end of a long hall, so she has a great view of the woods that surround this place, and the little creek that runs behind it. Walking down the hall, I feel a kind of envy. She did it. She moved into a much smaller place; it’s all done, and she’s thriving.

“It’s open!” she calls when I knock on the door.

She comes out of the bathroom with one eyebrow drawn in, one to go. She must have just had her hair done; it curls nicely along the sides of her face, bringing out her still-lovely cheekbones. She’s wearing a blue dress that matches her eyes, and a gold bracelet and earrings. She has on her fancy orthopedic shoes that hardly look like orthopedic shoes at all: they’re a kind of Mary Jane. The place must be having one of its events, an ice cream social, perhaps. I hug her and her head barely comes up to the middle of my chest; I think she must have shrunk again.

“I’m just putting my face on,” she tells me. “Wait for me in the kitchen. There’s coffee cake. Say hello to your father.”

I go into the kitchen and sit down at the little table, which is set for two. My father died three years ago, but my mother still sets a place for him, still talks to him, still feels his presence. I sit at the table opposite his place, see how she’s put the sports page next to his plate as usual, folded the way he liked to do it.

“Hi, Dad,” I say to the empty chair.

My mother comes into the kitchen. “Cup of coffee?”

“No thanks.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too.”

“Well, it’s always nice to see you, you know that. But you never come in the morning. And why aren’t you in Cincinnati? Is something wrong?”

“It was Atlanta, and I got home yesterday.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I know you went to Atlanta. I have a date; I’m a little nervous. When I get nervous, I forget everything.”

“You have a date?”

“Does that happen to you? When you get nervous, does everything just fly out of your brain?”

“Yes, Mom. But … did you say you have a date?”

“I’m just going out to lunch with Spencer Thompson. You know Spencer, the big ears. We’re just going over to the Olive Garden. We’ve got coupons ready to expire.”

“The Olive Garden where you and Dad used to go all the time?”

“Yes. And never mind, your father thinks it’s just fine. It was his idea! But how was your talk?”

“It was great. The women were really nice. So, Mom, are you—”

“Did you bring me the amenities?”

I pull out a plastic bag from my purse, and show her the lotion and shampoo, the shower cap and cream rinse and mouthwash.

“Good girl. You know, I use those shower caps to cover leftovers. They work just great!”

She’s told me this at least two hundred times.

Now she’ll tell me how the products in the little containers are superior to those in the big containers. She’ll tell me that that’s how they get you to buy the big size, which is then watered down.

But that’s not what happens. What happens is, she sits opposite me and says, “Are you still thinking of selling your house?”

“Who said that?”

“You did, last time you were here.”

“Oh.” I’d forgotten all about it.

“Well,” I say, “it seems as though it’s time. I’m reminded of Penny too much, living there. And I really want to downsize. I’m going to look for a smaller place.”

“Oh, honey, I’m glad. You’ll be surprised at how freeing it is. And here’s the thing. Bess Templeton told me that her granddaughter is looking for a roommate. She has a lovely house over by Como Park. One of the women who lived there just moved out.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I can live with roommates again, though. I don’t think I’d want to do that. But thanks for—”

“I’m just saying you might consider it. Why go somewhere and live all by