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You’re you.”
“So if I’m me, why are you telling me I should think like you?” She added the Angelina head tilt.
I mimicked strangling her and got behind the wheel.
She needed to interview herself, ask herself some questions. Like I was trying to do with the New York Times list of questions. Someone else’s marriage, how another couple interacted, the dynamic between them, wouldn’t help me figure out how to have a happy marriage of my own.
It was my turn to drive. Today’s stop: Cleveland, Ohio, almost six hours away. Because the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum closed at 5:30 on Tuesdays (Stella had really and truly called yesterday), we decided to drive straight there, no stops. One thing we could both agree on was that we both wanted to see the leather jacket Springsteen wore on the cover of Born To Run and the sexy Levi’s, too. Stella wanted to see anything that Bono, her personal God, might have worn or touched.
When we reached the museum, we got as far as the kiosks to listen to the “500 Songs That Shaped Rock and Roll” when Stella put her hand over her mouth. I had Louis Armstrong in my ears when Stella said she was going to be sick, so we raced to the bathroom. We didn’t know if it was morning sickness or just Stella being anywhere in the vicinity of chocolate pudding, albeit six hours earlier. She was positively green, so we left the museum, figuring we’d hit it on the way back.
Stella swore she really did make reservations at a lovely bed-and-breakfast near the museum, so I followed her Google Map directions to a house about ten minutes away.
“Are you sure this is it?” I asked. “This doesn’t look like an inn. It barely looks big enough to be a house.” It was a tiny white saltbox. There was one car in the driveway and one in front of the house. I pulled behind a gray Honda Accord on the street.
“Stella, I don’t think—” And then I noticed the name on the mailbox. Miller-Geller.
“Don’t be mad, Ruby,” she said, looking like she might throw up again. Now I wasn’t so sure if she was faking for sympathy.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Who lives here?”
“Do you remember Aunt Sally by any chance? Our dad’s sister?”
I glared at her. “How could I remember someone I’ve never met? Stella, what are we doing here?”
“I just thought that since we’re here, I mean, we could just stop and meet her. Find out something, anything. I don’t know.”
“About our father?” I asked. “What would she know? She was estranged from him before we were even born.”
“But she knew him once. They grew up together. I’m just looking for some light. Insight. Something.”
“Fine, you knock on the door. I’m going to find a hotel and take a nap. Bye.” I opened the car door, my heart pounding. How dared she?
She grabbed my arm, then rummaged through her bag and pulled out a folded up sheet of paper. “Clarissa, you are the love of my life,” she read. “I want to spend every day of the next eighty years by your side. I want to raise a family with you, see your light, your beauty and grace in our children’s faces…”
It was the Denny’s children’s menu that our father had used the back of to write his wedding vows. She must have taken it from my mother’s hope chest, which I kept in my bedroom.
“So?” I said. “He didn’t mean a word of it. What’s your point, Stella?”
“He meant it when he wrote it, Ruby. I believe that. I need to believe that. Something changed, but when he wrote these words, he meant it. I guess I want to know who that person was. Before he changed.”
“We’re twenty-nine, Stella. He left when we were six. That means twenty-plus years of Eric Miller postchange. What’s there to know?”
“God, Ruby, what are you so afraid of? It’s information, ” she said, waving the menu. “It’s our past. Our history. I want to know.”
“It’s a shitty past. But fine, go chase your
“So if I’m me, why are you telling me I should think like you?” She added the Angelina head tilt.
I mimicked strangling her and got behind the wheel.
She needed to interview herself, ask herself some questions. Like I was trying to do with the New York Times list of questions. Someone else’s marriage, how another couple interacted, the dynamic between them, wouldn’t help me figure out how to have a happy marriage of my own.
It was my turn to drive. Today’s stop: Cleveland, Ohio, almost six hours away. Because the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum closed at 5:30 on Tuesdays (Stella had really and truly called yesterday), we decided to drive straight there, no stops. One thing we could both agree on was that we both wanted to see the leather jacket Springsteen wore on the cover of Born To Run and the sexy Levi’s, too. Stella wanted to see anything that Bono, her personal God, might have worn or touched.
When we reached the museum, we got as far as the kiosks to listen to the “500 Songs That Shaped Rock and Roll” when Stella put her hand over her mouth. I had Louis Armstrong in my ears when Stella said she was going to be sick, so we raced to the bathroom. We didn’t know if it was morning sickness or just Stella being anywhere in the vicinity of chocolate pudding, albeit six hours earlier. She was positively green, so we left the museum, figuring we’d hit it on the way back.
Stella swore she really did make reservations at a lovely bed-and-breakfast near the museum, so I followed her Google Map directions to a house about ten minutes away.
“Are you sure this is it?” I asked. “This doesn’t look like an inn. It barely looks big enough to be a house.” It was a tiny white saltbox. There was one car in the driveway and one in front of the house. I pulled behind a gray Honda Accord on the street.
“Stella, I don’t think—” And then I noticed the name on the mailbox. Miller-Geller.
“Don’t be mad, Ruby,” she said, looking like she might throw up again. Now I wasn’t so sure if she was faking for sympathy.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Who lives here?”
“Do you remember Aunt Sally by any chance? Our dad’s sister?”
I glared at her. “How could I remember someone I’ve never met? Stella, what are we doing here?”
“I just thought that since we’re here, I mean, we could just stop and meet her. Find out something, anything. I don’t know.”
“About our father?” I asked. “What would she know? She was estranged from him before we were even born.”
“But she knew him once. They grew up together. I’m just looking for some light. Insight. Something.”
“Fine, you knock on the door. I’m going to find a hotel and take a nap. Bye.” I opened the car door, my heart pounding. How dared she?
She grabbed my arm, then rummaged through her bag and pulled out a folded up sheet of paper. “Clarissa, you are the love of my life,” she read. “I want to spend every day of the next eighty years by your side. I want to raise a family with you, see your light, your beauty and grace in our children’s faces…”
It was the Denny’s children’s menu that our father had used the back of to write his wedding vows. She must have taken it from my mother’s hope chest, which I kept in my bedroom.
“So?” I said. “He didn’t mean a word of it. What’s your point, Stella?”
“He meant it when he wrote it, Ruby. I believe that. I need to believe that. Something changed, but when he wrote these words, he meant it. I guess I want to know who that person was. Before he changed.”
“We’re twenty-nine, Stella. He left when we were six. That means twenty-plus years of Eric Miller postchange. What’s there to know?”
“God, Ruby, what are you so afraid of? It’s information, ” she said, waving the menu. “It’s our past. Our history. I want to know.”
“It’s a shitty past. But fine, go chase your
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