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She smiled helplessly at Lizzie and thanked her once more for her kindness.
III
The L train ride, long and crowded as it was, was not as terrifying as the plane.At least we’re on terra firma!
Before they parted at the gate, Lizzie explained how to get to Sam’s apartment in Rogers Park. “Now you could take a cab. That’s the easiest, but, honey, it’ll cost you an arm and a leg! What you want to do is just follow the signs for the train into the city. Buy a pass before you go down to the platform from one of the kiosks. It’ll only cost you a couple bucks, and it could very well be faster than a cab, depending on traffic—and traffic is always bad. Here at O’Hare, the train is the blue line, which will get you downtown, but not to Rogers Park.”
Lizzie caught Trudy’s look of fear. “Now, don’t you worry. It’s easy. Take the blue line downtown to Roosevelt. You’ll be in the subway. Just get out and follow the signs for the red line trains. You’ll have to go through a tunnel and up a flight of stairs, but the signs will guide you. Once you’re on the red line, going north—the sign on the front of the train will say Howard, for Howard Street, at the end of the line. You just take that all the way up to Morse Avenue, okay?”
“Sounds complicated.”
Lizzie grasped her hands. “Honey, it’snot. You’ll see. I’d come with you, but my end of the line is downtown. My boy and his husband live in Printers’ Row. Plus, I need to grab a bite; I’m starving. You’ll do just fine. The signs will guide you.”
Trudy hoped so. She squeezed Lizzie’s hands back and then let go. “Thanks a lot. You’re an angel.” And she meant it.
Now, as the second train in her journey rumbled north, rising up out of the subway into the overcast summer day, Trudy was amazed at the difference. The moving from darkness into light awed her. She tried to take in all the cross streets whizzing by below her, the backs of brick apartment buildings with their wooden porches and stairs. She eyed the apartment windows, so close to the tracks, and wondered how people could live in those places. The noise alone would drive her crazy.And wouldn’t people be looking in my windows at all hours of the day and night?As she had the thought, the train stopped for a moment and she saw a man in white briefs stirring something while standing at a stove, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Before long, the speaker announced that Morse was the next stop. Sam had told her to “walk west to Wolcott Avenue and then walk north to Lunt.” She would have asked him to give her the directions in ‘normal person’ language, one that didn’t require an innate sense of geography.
Thank God for smartphones.
She descended the stairs after disembarking from the train, feeling as though her nerves were scraped raw by all the smells, sounds, and people. Already, she needed a break from the riot of people pressed so close, such busy, busy people. Where were they all going? Outside the station, the sidewalk was littered with trash. Cars crept in both directions on Morse Avenue, perfuming the air with their exhaust. Ethnic restaurants, bars, electronics stores, and apartments buildings crowded the edge of the sidewalks.
She leaned against the brick façade of a storefront advertising cigarettes, beer, and lottery tickets (life’s three essentials) to bring up Google Maps on her phone. She keyed in her son’s address and got walking directions to his place. It was a little under a mile, but with the heat and oppressive humidity, she knew she’s be drenched with sweat by the time she reached Sam’s front door.
She hoped only she didn’t smell bad.
This would be the most exercise she’d had in years. She chuckled at the thought and started off, hoping no one would mug or murder her.
IV
Sam’s building was lovely. A white brick U-shape with a courtyard in the middle, it radiated calm and peace, in opposition to her nerves. Three mature maple trees stood in the center of the courtyard. At their base, daisies grew, a bright white and yellow profusion. Nearby, a bench offered rest and a place to meditate.
She located his entrance and the apartment number on the intercom mounted on the door frame.
She took a deep breath. She needed courage. This visit was not only to a traumatized son, it was to someone for whom she’d repressed her guilt and shame for so many years, it was as much a part of her as her limbs.
And today, she planned to break the seal on her secret.Will it be a relief? Or will Sam never speak to me again?
It was a huge gamble.
Hand trembling, she pressed the intercom button.
Chapter 8
Now—Sam
I
When the intercom buzzer sounded, it was as though I’d awakened from the dead. Head pounding, limbs heavy, and eyelids scratchy, I suddenly recalled what was important about this day. Mom was coming to Chicago—for the first time—yet I lacked even a smidgen of energy to do anything about her arrival. I’d spent so much time over the last few days, since Marc had vanished, to do anything to get ready for what should have been an important moment. I’d left a towering mound of dishes, cups, glasses, and flatware in the sink, tempting a roach invasion. The coffee table was littered with a thick layer of dust, half-empty Giordano’s pizza boxes, and half-drunk cans of soda. I’d discarded clothes in every room except, oddly, the bath, which now sported a carpet of damp towels, probably pregnant with mold. She looked fearful, but I thought that was understandable under the circumstances. “Right this way.” I moved toward the hallway.
Trudy would be appalled. And I couldn’t blame her. Growing up, our house was tiny and decrepit, but my mom had always been a stickler about keeping it spotless. With her around, not even a dust mote had much hope for survival.
But at least that sharp metallic bark, heralding her arrival, got me off my bed and its sweaty sheets.
Curiously, I had no shame at the state of the apartment. What would have been worse would have been a super-tidy home, as though I cared more about cleanliness than where my missing spouse was.
A quick look in the mirror by the front door revealed someone at least a decade older—bags under my eyes almost like bruises, hair greasy and stringy, T-shirt stained and smelly, a pair of sweat shorts with a ragged hole near my left thigh. It was almost as though I’d tried to create a portrait of despair and succeeded.
