Falling in Love by Stephen Bradlee Page B

umbrellas.
    The door opened and I faced a plump but attractive brunette. Her brave smile seemed out of place because it was obvious that her brown eyes were puffy and bloodshot from crying. Her makeup looked like it had been hastily applied during my elevator journey.
    Suddenly, her smile disappeared. “You’re not from group. What do you want?” she snapped.
    Taken aback, I nervously tried to explain. “I’m—. I came to ask—.
    “Yes?” She demanded impatiently.
    Finally, I reached into my purse and retrieved the faded photograph of Elaine and my mother on the riverbank. “Have you ever seen this?”
    She stared at it for a long moment. Emotion drained from her face. She turned around, saying softly, “Come in.”
    I followed her into a large living room, furnished mostly with brightly-burnished antique bric-a-brac and soft furnishings. She sat down on a large sofa with floral-embroidered pillows and suddenly seemed as nervous as me. She asked, “Are you Sherry?”
    I nodded.
    She looked at me for a long time and then tried to smile, “I’m Elaine.” She got up and gave me a loving comforting hug. “Tea? Coffee?”
    “Either.”
    Elaine walked away, passing an antique dining table with a vase of flowers in the center framed by immaculate silver candelabra holding tall candles. In the small kitchen, as she opened cupboards and drawers, I heard her whisper, “Oh Lord, why today?”
    I called out, “Can I help?”
    She didn’t reply so I sat down next to a floral-embroidered pillow. The room was immaculate. Having absolutely nothing out of place made the room feel like a museum piece. Facing me were two large matching stuffed chairs. Behind them were closed French doors to a terrace that seemed to wrap around the apartment. Unlike the spotless interior, the outside garden furniture looked dirty with soot like it hadn’t been used in sometime despite it being summer. To one side, a beautiful Chinese screen hid a long hallway. On the other side was a fireplace with wood carefully arranged and ready to be lit.
    Atop the fireplace was a mantle lined with several framed photographs of a younger Elaine on her wedding day with her handsome young groom. Pictures of her two young children. Then one photo left me stunned. In a silver frame was the same photograph of Elaine and my mother that I had been carrying around for years.
    Elaine emerged with a glass coffee pot atop a silver tray. I turned to her. “You kept it all these years.” She nodded. “Why?”
    She sighed, sat down and poured me coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”
    “Black.”
    Elaine handed me a cup and glanced at the picture. “I don’t know why. Or I know it’s not an easy answer.”
    “Do you talk to my mother? Have you seen her?”
    Elaine shook her head. “Never.”
    Never? I was crestfallen. I had come to New York for nothing. To see a woman who never saw my mother. “So you don’t know where she is?” She shook her head. I set the coffee down, unable to drink it. “Can you, will you tell me about her?”
    Elaine sighed. “She was a wonderful, loving person.” I nearly laughed out loud only it wasn’t laughable. Elaine took in my disbelief. “In her own way, she did what she thought was best for you.”
    “By leaving me?” I looked away. “Did she ever say why she did it?”
    “Yes. The night we both left town, in opposite directions. After your father died, she was a mess. She thought you’d be better off with Dottie, the boring sister.”
    “What kind of mother is that?” I blurted out. A lifetime of anger was simmering into rage.
    “She wasn’t a mother, Sherry. She was a seventeen-year-old girl who got pregnant and married the guy to get away from her family.”
    Elaine looked up at the picture of her and my mother. “That photo was taken on the last day of my innocence. Of our innocence.”
    “Why’s that?”
    Elaine’s eyes became misty. “God, I thought I was over this.” She turned to me. “Look, Sherry. I