Where'd You Go, Bernadette(91)

Bee, I have one shot to make it to the South Pole. The Laurence M. Gould is headed to McMurdo in five weeks. From there, if my streak continues, I can catch that sleigh to Ninety South. But I will go only if I hear back from you. Send word through Ellen Idelson to the email below. If I don’t hear back, I’ll take that ship to McMurdo and from there fly home.

XXXX



Doug the surgeon just gave me Novocain and Vicodin, which was the only reason Neutrino Cal was on hand, it turns out, because he heard they were unlocking the drug chest. He’s gone now. I don’t have much time before I get loopy. Now for the important stuff:

Bee, don’t hate Dad. I hate him enough for the both of us. That being said, I may forgive him. Because I don’t know what Dad and I would be without the other. Well, we know what he’d be: a guy shacking up with his admin. But I have no idea what I’d be.

Remember all those things you hated about me when you were little? You hated when I sang. You hated when I danced. You really hated when I referred to that homeless guy with the dreadlocks who walked around the streets with a stack of blankets across his shoulders as “my brother.” You hated when I said you were my best friend.

I now agree with you on that last one. I’m not your best friend. I’m your mother. As your mother, I have two proclamations.

First, we’re moving out of Straight Gate. That place was a decades-long bad dream, and all three of us will awake from it when I snap my fingers.

I got a phone call a few months ago from some freak named Ollie-O, who was raising money for a new Galer Street campus. How about we give them Straight Gate, or sell it to them for a dollar? The unutterable truth: Galer Street was the best thing that ever happened to me, because they took fantastic care of you. The teachers adored you, and there you blossomed into my flute-playing Krishna, Bala no more. They need a campus, and we need to start living like normal people.

I’ll miss the afternoons when I’d go out on our lawn and throw my head back. The sky in Seattle is so low, it felt like God had lowered a silk parachute over us. Every feeling I ever knew was up in that sky. Twinkling joyous sunlight; airy, giggling cloud wisps; blinding columns of sun. Orbs of gold, pink, flesh, utterly cheesy in their luminosity. Gigantic puffy clouds, welcoming, forgiving, repeating infinitely across the horizon as if between mirrors; and slices of rain, pounding wet misery in the distance now, but soon on us, and in another part of the sky, a black stain, rainless.

The sky, it came in patches, it came in layers, it came swirled together, and always on the move, churning, sometimes whizzing by. It was so low, some days I’d reach out for the flow, like you, Bee, at your first 3-D movie, so convinced was I that I could grab it, and then what—become it.

All those ninnies have it wrong. The best thing about Seattle is the weather. The world over, people have ocean views. But across our ocean is Bainbridge Island, an evergreen curb, and over it the exploding, craggy, snow-scraped Olympics. I guess what I’m saying: I miss it, the mountains and the water.

My second proclamation: you are not going away to boarding school. Yes, I selfishly can’t bear life without you. But mostly, and I mean this, I hate the idea for you. You will simply not fit in with those snobby rich kids. They’re not like you. To quote the admin, “I don’t want to use the word sophistication.” (OK, we need to double-swear to never tease Dad about the emails from the admin. You may have a hard time seeing it now, but trust me, it meant nothing. No doubt poor Dad is already dying of mortification. If he hasn’t ditched her by the time I return, have no fear, I will swat her away myself.)

Bee, darling, you’re a child of the earth, the United States, Washington State, and Seattle. Those East Coast rich kids are a different breed, on a fast track to nowhere. Your friends in Seattle are downright Canadian in their niceness. None of you has a cell phone. The girls wear hoodies and big cotton underpants and walk around with tangled hair and smiling, adorned backpacks. Do you know how absolutely exotic it is that you haven’t been corrupted by fashion and pop culture? A month ago I mentioned Ben Stiller, and do you remember how you responded? “Who’s that?” I loved you all over again.

I blame myself. None of what’s become of me was Seattle’s fault. Well, it might be Seattle’s fault. The people are pretty boring. But let’s withhold final judgment until I start being more of an artist and less of a menace. I make you only one promise, I will move forward.

Sorry, but you have no choice. You’re sticking with me, with us, close to home. And I don’t want to hear it from the Runaway Bunny. The Runaway Bunny stays.

Say yes, and I’ll be gone an extra month. I’ll return and work on my plans for the new South Pole Station, you’ll graduate Galer Street and go to Lakeside, Dad will continue making the world a better place at Microsoft, and we’ll move into a normal house, dare I say, a Craftsman?

Say yes. And know I’m always,

Mom





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Thank you…

Anna Stein, fierce and elegant agent, dear friend. Judy Clain, true believer, full of kindness and sparkle.

To my parents. Joyce, for the near-embarrassing belief in me, and Lorenzo, for making me want to become a writer.

For the hands-on help: Heather Barbieri, Kate Beyrer, Ryan Boudinot, Carol Cassella, Gigi Davis, Richard Day, Claire Dederer, Patrick deWitt, Mark Driscoll, Robin Driscoll, Sarah Dunn, Jonathan Evison, Holly Goldberg Sloan, Carolyne Heldman, Barbara Heller—I shudder to think what a mess I’d have on my hands without your notes—Johanna Herwitz, Jay Jacobs, Andrew Kidd, Matthew Kneale—my Roman star, twinkling—Paul Lubowicki—especially, especially!—Cliff Mass, John McElwee, Sally Riley, Maher Saba, Howie Sanders, Lorenzo Semple III, Garth Stein, Phil Stutz, Arzu Tahin, Wink Thorne, Chrystol White, John Yunker.