Her Daughter’s Dream

time?”

“She died of a heroin overdose this morning.”

Silence. Then hushed anger. “Look. I’m in the middle of an important meeting. What kind of sick prank is she playing this time?”

“They picked up her body a few minutes ago.” Carolyn gave him the Clement house address. “I gave the paramedics her full name and told them the university has her records. But Chel said if anything happened to her, she wanted me to call you. So I’ve called.” She hung up.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Carolyn wasn’t sure where to go. She’d been happy in the park, walking in the sunshine, looking at the flowers. She didn’t make it. She walked half a block and squatted next to an old run-down Victorian row house, where she covered her head and sobbed.

She could hear Chel’s voice in her head. “It’s not your fault, Caro. Remember that. It’s not your fault.”

Carolyn wished she could believe it.

Dear Rosie,

Trip has given up on finding Carolyn. He went to Berkeley several times looking for her, even went to the police, but they told him he is among dozens of parents whose children have “dropped out” and disappeared. Many have moved to Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco. Trip took days off work to look for Carolyn, contacting her neighbors and classmates, but so many of these young “flower children” hate authority, and Trip looks every inch the police officer he is, so I’m convinced, even if anyone knew of her whereabouts, they wouldn’t tell anyone who looks like a member of “the establishment” they despise.

I am grieved Hildemara has given up on Carolyn as well. She never mentions her, nor can she abide my doing so. I invite her to tea. She declines. She comes home from work and stays in the house while Trip hammers on something. They go to church on Sunday, where they have the dubious distinction of being the only parents in Paxtown who have lost a son in action. Being a star football player in high school made Charlie a favored son, but his death has made him a local hero to some, object of hatred to others.

No one mentions Carolyn. She is more dead to everyone than Charlie could ever be.

13

Time passed in a haze of misery. With no place to go, nothing to do, Carolyn wandered through Golden Gate Park. She loitered near the museums, knowing that was her best chance of finding food. Some people looked at her with pity. Others stared in disgust, drawing children’s attention away. Most pretended they didn’t see her at all. She wanted a drink, but had no money. Sick to her stomach and suffering tremors, she left the pathways and collapsed. When she heard someone coming, she crawled into the bushes. Curled up in her hiding place, she wished she could will herself to die.

She used the public restrooms to wash. She found better places to sleep. Her fringed leather jacket kept the dew from soaking into her upper body, though her skirt felt wet after sleeping on the grass.

Occasionally a police car passed by. She would sit still, arms wrapped around her knees, making herself as small as possible, like an animal hiding among rhododendrons and overgrown azaleas. She had always liked it there among the trees and flowers. The gardens reminded her of Oma’s cottage.

School buses pulled in every morning during the week, bringing children for field trips. Once when the children came out to eat their bagged lunches, Carolyn approached to beg, but a chaperone told her to leave the children alone. So she sat with her back against a tree and watched children laugh, eat, and casually toss their leftovers away.

Too hungry to have any pride, Carolyn rummaged in the garbage cans, looking for their scraps. Before a security guard ordered her away, she found a half-eaten bologna sandwich, a brown banana, a box of hardened raisins. One month rolled into another. She lived hand to mouth. Her stomach was empty most of the time, but the rest of her filled up to overflowing with shame. She grieved over Chel. Worse, the anguish over Charlie’s death returned. When he began haunting her dreams, she tried not to sleep at all.

* * *

One evening, Carolyn went to the end of the park and down to the beach. Sitting on the cold sand, she thought about Chel. She thought about Charlie, too, all the time now. She didn’t try to stop. The sun dipped toward the west. The light on the water made her eyes hurt. Her stomach ached. She hugged her knees against her chest, trying to stay warm. The surf pounded, waves whooshing up the sand while seagulls keened overhead. Two landed nearby and approached her, then flew off again when she had nothing to offer. The sky turned a beautiful rose- orange with pink streaks across the horizon.

Carolyn closed her eyes and imagined what it might feel like to walk into the surf, to go out so far there would be no turning back. She could spread her arms and drift weightless on the current until the warm water closed over her head. She imagined sinking into the blue, fish swimming around her, seaweed wrapping her in its embrace.

A blast of sand stung her face. The churning, crashing waves sounded angry, no longer inviting. The sea had come up. The mist turned cold. She got up and walked to the edge of the waves. The foamy sea lapped at her feet. In her dreams, it was warm, but this water felt ice-cold, so cold her skin and bones ached.

Courage failing, she turned away and saw a man in a military jacket sitting on the seawall, head turned toward her. Her heart quickened. Charlie? No. It couldn’t be. Charlie was dead. How long had the man been there? He swung his leg over the wall and stood on the walkway. He shouldered a duffel bag and guitar case and headed back toward Golden Gate Park.

Night approached, and it grew colder on the beach. Carolyn followed the same route the man had taken. The public bathrooms had been locked. She relieved herself in the bushes and washed her hands in a public drinking fountain. Leaving the sidewalk, she crossed a lawn and sat by a small lake. Guitar music drifted on the air as one by one the stars began to appear. Carolyn moved toward the sound. She spotted a black plastic lean-to and a sleeping bag spread out beneath it. The man sat on a log, head down as he played his guitar. Hungry, cold, desperate, Carolyn swallowed her fear and approached him. He lifted his head and smiled at her. “I hoped you’d follow me.”

“I like your music.”

“Thanks.” He had a kind smile. He was young, about the same age Charlie would be.

“Do you have any food?”

“Not much, but I’ll share.” He got up and dug in his duffel bag. He held out a Hershey’s chocolate bar. She would have to come close to take it from his hand. “It’s okay, miss. I won’t hurt you.” Though his face was young, his eyes looked old and sad.

“Thanks.” She opened it and ate half, offering the rest to him.

“You go ahead. You can share my fire, too, if you want.” He tilted his head and looked at her. “You look lost.”

“Are you a vet?”

“Yeah.” He went on playing the poignant, unfamiliar melody. “I’m still getting used to being a civilian.”

She thought of Charlie, and tears spilled over and slipped down her cheeks. “My brother died in Vietnam.”

He stopped playing and put the guitar aside. “Tell me about him.”

She did. She let the words and pain flow out of her, wondering why it felt so natural to tell a stranger. She felt something happen inside her, a spark, a tiny seed of hope planted.

He told her about friends he’d lost. When he offered to share his sleeping bag, she thanked him and stretched out beside him. She didn’t ask his name and didn’t offer hers. The ground didn’t feel as hard beneath her. When he drew the flannel-lined sleeping bag around them both, she sighed. He kissed her; she kissed him back. He was kind. He was gentle. When it was over, he didn’t let her go, but held her tenderly. He cried. So did she.

She awakened once during the night, kissed him on the forehead, and walked away, the morning mist drifting through the trees. She thought she could find her way back, but she got lost again.