Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

high and very young, not like my own. “Tomorrow morning? Around eleven? Would that be okay?”
    “Sure. Fine. I’ll give you directions. Got a pencil and paper?”
    A minute later I put down the receiver, leaned my face into my hands and let the tears come.

Chapter Twenty-seven
    I thought I wouldn’t sleep, but I did, heavily and blessedly free of dreams. When I woke to the buzz of my travel alarm, I didn’t know at first where I was. I lay staring at the sliver of dawn between the curtains, remembering.
    Today I would see my real mother for the first time in twenty-one years.
    ***
    I had two houses to find when I got to Minneapolis. The first was in a neighborhood where homes were far enough apart to allow privacy, and each had an attached garage and a large lawn. Mature oaks and maples, already changing into their gaudy fall costumes, lined the broad streets with orange, gold and green. The house that had belonged to Michael and Judith Goddard at the time of his death was white with dark blue roof shingles, colonial blue front door and shutters.
    It looked familiar only because I’d seen it in the photos hidden in Mother’s study. I doubted I’d ever had a fully conscious look at the exterior during the time—how long? a day or two at the most?—before Judith took us east.
    I remembered being wrapped in a big soft robe, and seeing stacks of boxes, little else.
    The door opened and a middle-aged man in tee shirt and chinos ambled out, yawning and rubbing at his unshaven face, to pluck the rolled newspaper from the driveway. He glanced at me where I’d stopped in the middle of the quiet street. I drove on. It was Saturday, and all along the block papers still lay on driveways and lawns, draperies were still drawn against the morning sun.
    Barbara Dawson, now Barbara Olsson, lived several miles away, in a smaller two-story house with faded green shutters. Mounds of marigolds and blue petunias bloomed profusely in flower beds skirting the foundation shrubs.
    An old blue car and a red mini-van sat on the asphalt driveway. Who else was at home? Oh, God, would I have to encounter the whole family?
    I parked across the street and sat taking deep breaths. My heart would not slow down. It was almost eleven, the time we’d agreed on, but I couldn’t make myself get out and walk across the street. And I couldn’t drive away. Paralyzed by indecision, I sat watching the house.
    After a few minutes a boy drove up the street in a battered green car, pulled to a stop in front of the house and tooted his horn. In response the front door opened and a teenage girl bounded out, long red hair swinging around her face and shimmering in the sun. She wore jeans and a yellow sweatshirt, and had a big blue canvas bag slung over one shoulder.
    Caroline? My other sister.
    She turned and looked back at the door, throwing up her arms in a gesture that could only mean impatience.
    I shifted my gaze to the doorway, and gasped as a shock went through me. For a moment I thought I was seeing Mother, Judith, standing there. The woman, wearing black slacks and a blue blouse, was tall and slender. Straight auburn hair fell to her shoulders. She looked like Judith. And she looked like me.
    She would recognize me. She would see my face and know me in an instant. Any choices I had would vanish as everything spun out of control. I gripped the steering wheel with one hand, fumbling the keys back into the ignition with the other.
    Then I let my hands drop. Of course she wouldn’t recognize me. She wouldn’t know anything unless I told her. I’d come this far. I couldn’t leave now.
    She talked to her teenage daughter, using the same gesture the girl had, hands flung out, palms up, fingers splayed. Something made the girl laugh, run to the door and plant a quick kiss on her mother’s cheek.
    I watched them, spellbound. Barbara Dawson Olsson smiled at her daughter, waved to her retreating back. My attention turned to the girl again. I tried to absorb every detail of her appearance and demeanor as she moved to the car with a bouncy step, flung open the passenger door, jumped into the seat beside the boy and greeted him with a flash of a grin. A happy girl, filled with the simple joy of being alive on a bright September morning.
    What would she think of me, a dead half-sister suddenly claiming a place in her life?
    After the girl and boy drove away, I looked back at the house and saw Barbara still in the doorway, watching me. Over the