Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

Someone—Selina or Marguerite, I presume—had made a gallant effort at making her presentable, fluffing her hair and adding color to her cheeks. Anna’s eyes were closed but fluttering as she murmured unintelligibly. Brian, as already agreed upon, stood next to her and did all the talking—at least initially.
    “Anna…if you can hear me…everyone’s here now.”
    He’s being the man of the family, I thought.
    “It’s okay if you don’t want to wake up. We’re just here to tell you how much we love you and appreciate everything you’ve—”
    He was interrupted by a groan from Anna, twitching in her sleep.
    “—everything you’ve done for us.”
    “Mona?” Anna murmured. “Is that you?”
    My heart caught in my throat as Brian gazed toward me for guidance. I shook my head, telling him not to go there. Mary Ann caught this interaction and grimaced in confusion. She doesn’t know, I thought. We never even got to that .
    “It’s Brian, Anna…and Mary Ann’s here, too. She flew in all the way from Connecticut just to see you. And Selina and Marguerite are here. They’re responsible for the beautiful red satin pajamas you’re wearing. And Ben and Michael, of course, and Shawna, who’s moving to New York next week to—”
    Another moan from Anna, this one louder, more guttural.
    “—to become the world’s best writer. Or at least the next Susie Bright, right? And we’re all very proud of her…”
    Shawna leaned over and whispered, “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
    Selina, I noticed, was already slipping out of the room, apparently shaken by Anna’s failure to respond to Brian’s wedding-reception-MC approach. Marguerite followed, whispering reassurances to her friend. Anna, meanwhile, was speaking again, her eyes still closed, her words slurred and cryptic.
    “What’s she saying?” asked Mary Ann.
    Brian leaned closer. Anna’s lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear much of anything from where I was standing.
    “It doesn’t make any sense,” said Brian. “It’s gibberish.”
    “Like what?” said Shawna.
    “It sounded like ‘There is no…fisted nation.’”
    “Fisted nation?” said Jake, wrinkling his nose.
    Anna spoke again, apparently repeating herself, so Brian moved his ear closer to her mouth. “No,” he said, looking up at us, “it’s ‘fifth destination.’ She said, ‘There is no fifth destination.’”
    It took a moment, but it hit me hard. “Oh my God.”
    “What?” asked Mary Ann. “What does that mean?”
    I was looking at Ben now, flabbergasted. “It’s what Carlotta says.”
    “Who’s Carlotta?” asked Brian.
    “Our car,” said Ben.
    Mary Ann frowned. “Your car says things?”
    I was still gaping at Ben, looking for the deeper meaning of this conundrum, this snake eating its tail. I remembered what Ben had said when we first heard Carlotta’s stern pronouncement on the fifth destination: If that’s the answer, what is the question? And here was Mrs. Madrigal, drifting in dreams between life and death, mumbling this phrase we’d already mocked and lovingly made our own.
    Is this how she would leave, winking at us across the cosmos?
    “This is the weirdest thing,” I said. “I can’t begin to imagine how—”
    “I told her, honey.” Ben was smiling gently, having burst my metaphysical bubble. “After the hula show at the Palace. We had a good laugh about it.”
    “Right,” said Shawna. “She was vaporizing that night.”
    “God,” said Mary Ann, “will somebody please speak English?”
    The patient cleared her throat noisily. All eyes turned to the bed as Anna’s eyes fluttered open. She took us in, one at a time, with a smile blooming on her face.
    “Children,” she said weakly.
    “Yes, ma’am,” said Mary Ann. “We’re here.”
    “You’ll never guess…” Anna’s voice trailed off.
    “What?” I asked. “Never guess what?”
    “Where I’ve been,” she replied.

28
    This Day Alone
    O n the day before Thanksgiving there were already fat red berries on the holly bush at the foot of our garden. Ben and I were stretched out on our double chaise beneath a blue enamel sky, discussing our contribution to Anna’s annual feast.
    “What about blackberry cobbler?” I suggested.
    Ben shook his head. “Brian’s doing dessert. And we’ll be eating it…by the way…in the Winnebago.”
    “You’re shitting me.”
    “He’s parking it across the street from Anna’s. Says he wants our vibes in there before he