Motherless by Erin Healy

Author:Erin Healy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2014-07-31T16:00:00+00:00

The reason I couldn’t remember this scene clearly before now, when it’s being replayed for me in high-definition clarity, was because Sara and I polished off that bottle of champagne all by ourselves. I see, on this larger-than-life screen, that she ate two of the kebabs and I devoured four, not quite enough to offset the effects of the bubbly.

I had planned to leave the gift for Misty to open, but the dessert Sara brought required it: a chocolate-fondue pot with flashy glass handles, mermaids and mermen.

“Misty’s going to love this,” I said after Sara taught me how to use it and I took my first bite. “But I don’t think the chocolate will make it back home.”

“Did she get to taste any that I took to the reunion?”

“Are you kidding? I finished those off before they served the appetizers.”

This made her laugh.

The sun was long set. The lights of the oil derricks out on the horizon winked like Christmas come early. I hadn’t known before then that one of the outdoor floodlights was burned out, so, lacking a spare bulb, we sat half in shadow at the outdoor table I had assembled, sheltered from the offshore breeze by the acrylic enclosure. We lost track of time talking about Sara’s newest chocolate “sins.” We talked about her plans to open a chocolate café, a concept that was way ahead of its time. We talked about the culture of Santa Barbara, where she’d lived for almost nine years. She told me where Misty and I would find the best restaurants and antique furniture stores, where we should go for walks and hikes, which art and music and wine festivals were most worth it, and how to avoid the party scenes created by students from the notorious university. We compared life in Marina del Rey to the promise of a quieter life on the Rincon.

Though single and childless, Sara let me talk and talk and talk about Marina, about her stunning list of three-year-old accomplishments and my hopes for her future. I pointed out the star that I’d told Marina could be hers. We talked about what a good big sister she’d make for her baby brother, due at the end of November. Dylan, we’d call him. I’d bought his first surfboard already and pointed to it leaning against the side of the house. Sara found this hugely funny.

“Good water names,” she said. “Marina and Dylan.”

“Misty thought of that.”

We talked about what a good mother Misty was, in spite of her . . . and here my thoughts skipped.

“I know about Misty,” Sara said gently. “I understand.”

So few people did. It was 1997, and bipolar disorder had been recognized—by various names—as a mental illness for more than a hundred years, but those who hadn’t experienced it firsthand still tended to look on the diagnosis with suspicion or, as the Rochesters did, with denial.

“Misty never mentioned you,” I said with intoxicated negligence. “Until the reunion I never heard your name. Why?”

Sara was unfazed. “I don’t really know.

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