When we return

Just how fast did she need to zip the suitcase, when it would seem like then continuous hum of a mezzo soprano, she asked herself? It seemed to Georgianna that, no matter how quickly she zipped it, she could hear the discrete ticks of high-pitched sound, perhaps twenty per second, perhaps a hundred. Who knew? But at no time, did the zip take on the note of a smooth, mid-range soprano holding a note for three seconds.

Ah, to hold onto anything for three seconds – or for a lifetime. The last of the suitcases packed, the garment bag already in the car, her toiletries case resting on the back seat of the Hudson, all was ready to go. But try as Georgianna tried, her feet resisted the push toward the staircase, the living room, the front entrance, the doorway, the sidewalk, and the slight hop into the car.

“Mama, Mama,” little Allen said, when she finally made her way to the bottom of the stairs – Allen, so wide-eyed, such a soft, easily damaged, mouth; so tender and kind, not an evil thought in the seven-year-old mind, a blank slate really – his voice bold on the first syllable, trying to convey courage, but falling on the second syllable, surrendering to sad hopelessness. Little Allen held up a wooden carving that Georgianna recognized as a fleur de lys – a tribute to Grandma, who’d worn one on a necklace right up to her dying moment. “For you, I made it ‘specially for you, Mama!”

“Sweetheart, no one but my best baby could do it as nicely. I shall treasure it all the weeks I’m away. Even when I return, I’ll treasure it every day. Just like I treasure you, baby ... you’re Mama’s own sweet angel.”

“Georgianna,” she heard from the front yard. It was Harold. “Sweetheart, we have to be going. Your appointment is at noon and check-in at one. We don’t want to keep the doctor waiting.”