Losing Touch By RD Larson

Marcia put her hand on the gnarled and twisted trunk of the tree. A few shriveled apples hung by dried stems among the yellowing leaves. Others decayed on the ground swollen and poisoned by night sprinklers. She remembered planting this tree.
The yard had that impersonal ‘gardener” look. Marcia pictured her flower borders. Hedges, short and worthless, grew there now. None of these plants took any effort. She looked at the house.
Much like the town of Paradise, the house looked unchanged. The huge oak must have died of disease since some kind of hybrid maple grew in its hallowed spot. Probably happened to her house when the newest buyers took it over. Too much watering. They’d bought the house as a generic tract house of the sixties.. Now the boomers called them bungalows. And updated the floors and the plumbing. I guess it’s been ten years or more since I‘ve been here. I never leave the city anymore. Why should I? It’s all there for me. Marcia rubbed her swollen knee. Damn arthritis bugs me.
She pushed away from the tree. Gone. They were all gone. The young mothers she’d known with their babies and toddlers. As the streetlights came on with the dusk, she could almost hear children being called indoors. Still, there was no one about now. Not a soul. And the wind picked up with a whisper of fall at its edge.
Pulling her worn, baggy sweatshirt from her tote Marcia yanked it on wrecking her pinned-up hair. I should care she admonished herself, struggling with the clip. Her real self smirked at the judgmental inner critic. I’m too damn old to do what I ‘m told, even from you.
A light flicked on back in the kitchen. Somebody was home. Surprising, since most people worked so late these days. Marcia hesitated, wanting to say hi to the owners and not wanting to spend the effort. Why not? She went around from the side yard to the front porch and up the steps. She knocked on the door, and then noticed there was a doorbell. New doorbell. The old one had quit working.
“Can I help you? I’m here at the end of the porch. It’s a nice time of night.”
Marcia turned. She could see an outline of a woman sitting at the end of the porch. “Hello, I’m Marcia Quince. I use to live here. We bought it new.”
“Really? You did? Come on down here and have a seat. I’m nursing Josh.”
Marcia stepped closer and saw the mound against the woman’s chest. A baby. She hesitated.
“I don’t want to bother you.”
“No bother, I’d love some company. My husband is coming home late. Meeting.” The mother, a girl really to Marcia, smiled. “This is a good time.”
“Thank you,” said Marcia as she walked toward her slowly. The girl nodded toward the other wooden rocking chair.
“We hope to live in this house until these chairs rock our grandbabies.” The woman’s forearm came up with the baby as she laid him against her shoulder. A hand rested gently supporting the infant’s head.
“That would be nice.” Marcia sank down into the chair dropping the tote beside her. “I hadn’t really intended to do more than take a look.”
“Where do you live?”
“San Francisco.”
“That’s a beautiful city. I’m Kendra. We’ve been here for eight months.” Again the flash of a perfect smile. People had so much money these days, enough to have perfect teeth, thought Marcia.
Words failed Marcia as Kendra burped the lump of a baby as she snuggled him against her body.
“Did you have children when you lived here?” Kendra asked.
“Just one. A boy.”
“I bet there were other young families. Not many kids live here now. Poor Josh,” Kendra laughed. “Guess we’ll have to import them from the ‘burbs.”
“I saw that there were a few new subdivisions to the west.” Marcia folded her arms across her breasts. She too had nursed her son. A wind picked up from the West.
“We had the front redone with siding that looks just like the old boards but no upkeep. Not even painting. Just hose it off. Supposed to keep down the mold. Can’t be too careful raising a child, isn’t it that the truth?”
Kendra folded the baby into her lap and fitted him in the crook of her arm.
“Yes, I could hardly bear to even have anyone hold him, my baby I mean.” Marcia blurted her thought out. Frowning she pressed her lips together. No careless jabbering.
“You know, already, I’m dreading Josh even going off to kindergarten,” Kendra said. “Where’s your boy now?”
“Don’t know.”
“Don’t know? Don’t know?” Kendra’s voice rose sharply.
“Lost touch, just lost touch.” Marcia stood, picking up her tote.
“Wait.” Kendra asked her. Marcia could scarcely hear her over the pounding in her ears and rush of her own breath. Besides, Kendra spoke softly now.
“Please tell me, tell me what happened. I don’t want to -- well, you know -- lose touch with my baby.” Kendra laid the baby up against her shoulder, her breast supporting his little tummy. Her fingers plucked at his tiny white shirt, fluffed his baby hair, and pressed him against her. When her eyes turned to Marcia there was a great ring of white below the pupil. "How could you not look for him? For your son, your baby?"
He went away to college. We fought. I tried to call my son that first Christmas. Then my husband died. I lost my address book after my husband died -- I lost everything when he died,” her voice faded, just turning to the sound of dry leaves skittering across the driveway.
Marcia held tight to the chair arms. Kendra stood holding the baby close against her.
“Come in with me, I don’t want to keep him in this wind. I’ll make us tea.” Kendra held out her hand.
Marcia sighed. Weak, weak. Where’s my backbone anymore? No, don’t need any help. Or pity. I can manage alone, just like always.

Yet she got to her feet and followed Kendra and baby Josh into her old home of memories.
As she sat in the warm kitchen waiting for the water to heat, she leaned back in the chair and relaxed. As she did so her eyes caught a piece of paper lying on the desk by the door to the garage. It was a few feet away but by leaning Marcia could read the paper. It was a note from an attorney.
"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, We have been unable to find your mother, Mr. Johnson, although . . .
Marcia looked at her hostess, holding the baby as she slipped some cookies out of a bag on to a small plate. With her heart pounding and her breath raging inside her lungs, she gasped out, "Kendra, is your husband's name Steve?"
"Why, yes. How did you know?"
Marcia was still for a moment, then with a weak and awestruck voice said, "Steve Johnson is my son's name."
Their eyes locked over the baby's head. Kendra came to Marcia and gently placed her grandson in her arms.

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 28.12.2008

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