They made up after that.
We sit on the sofa in the vast empty living room, sipping coffee, my mother and I. It is now five-thirty in the morning. Morngloam has not yet begun to tint the eastern sky. The night is still black out there, and Annie has been gone for almost four hours. We do not know what to say to each other. It seems to me that my mother and I have not known what to say to each other for the longest time now, perhaps ever since my father went away. She sips her coffee the way Grandma Rozalia used to, pinky extended in the European manner, as if she is holding a demitasse instead of a breakfast cup. Her eyes are hollow. I hate what my sister does to her.
“Do you think there might be something in her letters?” she asks.
“What letters? She didn’t leave a letter, did she?”
“No, I mean the ones she sent me over the years.”
“I doubt it. Why would there be anything in her letters?”
“Places she went, things she did. Maybe she’s going back to one of them. I don’t know.”
She sighs heavily. The sigh is one of utter despair.
“Do you have them?” I ask.
“Shall I get them?” she asks, and without waiting for an answer, she rises and walks softly into the bedroom. I sit alone in the living room. The house seems so empty and still. My mother returns with a tiny rubber-banded packet of envelopes in her hand. She sits beside me, and hands the packet to me. I remove the rubber band, slip it over my wrist. The first letter reads:
Dear Mom:
Thanks for the idea for the Fourth of July, but I’m not sure I want to go to the Embassy to mingle with a lot of Americans. Anyway, I’ve been meeting plenty of Americans here in Amsterdam, and they are a lot of fun, but only for a short while. I have finally rented a studio where I can work. It is a 30 minute walk to the center, next to a beautiful park and shopping area. The studio actually is an old school house that has very long corridors, a shower, toilets, washing machine, garden. My part of the studio used to be the gymnasium, so there are still painted stripes and circles that were used for the basketball courts. It’s huge with really big windows all around.
I share the studio with another artist, my age, who used to be a translator for the UN, who is married with two kids. She is quite successful and is able to make a living from her large watercolors that are both figurative and colorful. She is rarely there, so I have a peaceful place to work. The rent is also very cheap. There are many tables so I have spread out my jewelry and my sketches for future pieces and am embarking on some new avenues of exploration. Cool. I will try to call you sometime soon. Hope all is well with you. All my love, Annie.
There is no return address on the envelope.
It occurs to me that in all of her journeys, my sister never gave us the names of people she was living with or renting from or traveling with. She would not even give us the name of a hotel or a B&B where she was staying only temporarily. If pressed on the telephone, she would say, “I don’t know the name.” If you told her that everybody in the world knows the name of the hotel he’s staying at, she would say, “This is just a small hotel, I don’t know the name.” If you told her to go talk to the manager and ask him the name of the hotel, she’d say, “I’ll do that tomorrow,” and then she wouldn’t call for the next month, by which time she would have changed hotels, and would claim she didn’t know the name of the new one.
There is no return address on the second envelope, either. I take the letter from it, unfold it, and begin reading:
Dear Mom:
Well, I’ve moved out of the big studio and am now living in the back of a little shop. There’s no shower, just a small sink in the toilet, but I can’t tell you how good it feels to be on my own after sharing a studio with a woman who went through my bags every night and scattered broken glass around my bed! I am making...
“Did what?”
“Where are you?”
“Here. The broken glass.”
“I have no idea.”
... I am making some quite beautiful pieces and am exhibiting them in the window, but so far no one has expressed any interest in purchasing them, although they appear to definitely get people’s interest as they stroll by. I hope you had a wonderful holiday, full of Love and Joy. I will be in Amsterdam for another month at least, depending on how the shop goes, but I have to tell you some very strange people have been wandering by, including a couple of skinheads who made threatening gestures. Thanks for the birthday money. Will call soon. Much love, Annie.
“What’s this about skinheads?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“What do you mean? Some guys threatening her?”
“Her jewelry can be very provocative. Well, you know her jewelry.”
The stamp on the next envelope is most certainly from Indonesia, but again, there is no return address. The letter itself is very short:
Dear Mom:
I have been living in the ruins of an old temple. There is no electricity, but behind the temple is a long valley and a fresh water spring. One day a pink flamingo came to the valley and waded in the sea for an hour and then flew away. I love you and miss you. Annie.
“Are there flamingos in Indonesia?”
“If there are flamingos in Miami, there are flamingos in Indonesia. What are you thinking? That she was seeing things?”
The next letter is on lined paper torn from a spiral notebook. It reads:
Sunday
Dear Mom:
After our rather animated telephone conversation yesterday, I have decided that for your benefit I will consider accepting catastrophic health insurance. There are two conditions which must be met before I enter into such a contract. First of all the insurance would only be for medical and not for psychiatric. Secondly, I would have complete control over the choice of treatment and the power to refuse any recommendations from any doctors.
I know you are...
“When was this?” I ask. “Where was she?”
“Greece, I think. I’m not sure.”
“Which trip?”
“Look at the envelope. There should be a date on the envelope.”
I turn the envelope over in my hands. The stamp and postmark are indeed Greek, but the date is illegible.
I know you are very concerned that if I have a severe medical condition, you will be thrust into a situation where you can lose your financial security. Because I have great love and compassion tor you, I want you to have peace of mind.
“What severe medical condition were you worried about, Mom?”
“A young girl traveling alone, all over the world, who knew what might happen?”
“But Annie smelled mental condition, didn’t she?”
“I don’t know what she smelled or didn’t smell. I was only concerned that she have proper medical care if ever she needed it.”
Please look into this for me and see if my conditions can be achieved. I’ve enclosed a little sketch of a pin I hope to make as soon as I can find a place to work. Please accept it as a Mother’s Day gift. Thanks. Annie.
“Did you ever get that insurance for her?”
“I tried. Her conditions were impossible to meet.”
There was a postcard showing a lagoon and a white sand beach identified as Koh Tao, Thailand. The postmark on the Thai stamp was Ko Phangan. Annie had written:
Dear Mom:
Have been enjoying life here and am healthy and fit. Meeting many different kinds of people from all over the world. Many laughs. Traveling alone makes one open your heart to everyone because you just have to feel Love. Hope you are well. Love, Annie.