Destination

They both mean Naledi, where their parents first took them during the war, and where they returned every July, eventually with their own children in tow. They sometimes wondered what made them go back—the resort made no claims in its brochure other than being clean, which it was, freakishly. It was miles from Squaw Inlet, the nearest town, and the lake itself was so far north the swimming raft often drifted to Canada. It was also remote enough their husbands weren’t inclined to visit.

The summer of the pillow pact, the sisters had nine children between them, all boys but one, ranging in age from ten to twenty. Estelle’s Max was the eldest, on break after his first year at Berkeley and supposedly keeping an eye on the younger teens. But by then the boys didn’t pose many dangers to themselves—all could dog-paddle and make their own sandwiches, and two had Red Cross certificates. Miriam’s daughter Lilith had a driver’s license and could be trusted with a grocery list. For a full month, the sisters read fat paperbacks, boned up on their French by listening to the Ontario stations, and played bridge. They made occasional forays through cabin kitchens to put away mayonnaise or sweep sand, and tossed coins to see who would venture to the lodge basement to launder beach towels in the shuddering aqua Maytags. For a full month they were happily idle.

Sometime during cocktail hour—when supper either burnt or didn’t, depending on whose night it was—one of them would aim binoculars toward the dock or the beach for a headcount of Lilith and the boys. One thing about Naledi, there wasn’t much trouble to get into.

They learned differently only a few years ago, when Lilith, after her second stint of rehab at Hawthornden for dependence on codeine and Zinfandel, embarked on her twelve-step program with zeal, skewing Step Four to include others in her fearless moral inventory. She ratted out old digressions on behalf of cousins and brothers—revealing that all the boys had smoked copious amounts of pot and even hashish at Naledi. Max, in fact, had supplied his minor cousins with dime bags bought from a state employee who nurtured his crops among pine saplings in a DNR greenhouse.

Such revelations were a bit of a shock to the sisters, but it had been decades ago, and boys being boys … well. They were a good bunch overall, and all had earned the requisite diplomas, married wives who produced tolerable grandchildren and settled in acceptable neighborhoods of decent cities. The marijuana would have been water under the bridge, except for Max. Max, as expected, had progressed from golden boyhood to golden adulthood—dean’s list at law school, headhunted into a prestigious firm, and partnered by his thirty-fifth birthday. A few years later, Max nabbed a senate seat, where one of his first votes was against legalizing medicinal use of cannabis.

Like any politician, Max adroitly deflected attention from himself. Since stones were being thrown, he said, he had plenty on Lilith regarding those summers. He also suggested that Aunt Pretty was likely more angry that he’d run on the GOP ticket than over a little weed.

Penny became incensed. Max, foolish and spoiled and smart enough to know better, had been dealing—selling to his underage cousins and others at Naledi—the Saturday maids, the dock boy who pumped gas, God knew who else …

Estelle wouldn’t admit outright her son was a hypocrite, and Penny was unable to let it go. After Penny threatened to leak information to the press, the two stopped speaking.

Initially, Miriam was a neutral go-between, passing along pertinent news and family gossip between Estelle and Penny. But when Penny took ill, Miriam nearly scripted her phone call, smugly informing Estelle that one of the medications Penny most needed—the one that might help her keep food down during chemo—was difficult to procure and a crime to use, thanks, in part, to her son.

“And you know she has glaucoma too, on top of everything else? Have you any idea how that might be treated?”

“I’ve done my research, Miriam.”

At the hospital curb they split the cab fare to the nickel, tuck pocketbooks away and gather their things. The pavement is icy, and they balance while watching the taillights recede into the snow until the car is too far to call back. Estelle minces several yards to the salted safe zone and turns, “Come on, Mir.”

Remembering Lilith’s unsavory but apt phrase when faced with something difficult, Miriam faces the hospital entrance and straightens. Just cunt-up and do it.

The doors are centered by a statue of a martyred saint run through with spears. When Penny was told she had cancer, she chose St. Sebastian’s for its proximity to her sons and for the irony—Sebastian being the patron saint of dying people, diseased cattle, and enemies of religion.

“Perfect for an atheist, really,” Penny had joked to Miriam over the phone while making a doodle of an arrow. “Just shoot me.”

Once through the revolving doors, Estelle inhales hugely, as if she cannot get enough hospital air. She breezes though the gift shop to buy a large bouquet of lilies and, inexplicably, two Mylar balloons that say Happy Today. She hands one over, “Here. One from each of us.”

Miriam holds hers low, nearly tripping on it as she trails Estelle and all her swinging parcels into the elevator. As the door seals them in, Miriam tisks—a mirror-lined elevator? There is nowhere to look and not see a crowd of themselves.

“In a hospital, of all places … ”

Miriam maintains there are two kinds of people—the kind that will paint over a piece of tape rather than bother peeling it up, and those who do things properly, thoughtfully. Miriam makes such distinctions so regularly that her sons roll their eyes before she can finish no matter the topic. Kyle, her youngest and kindest, has observed that one’s defining traits tend to exacerbate with age—the nitpicker picks more nits, the self-absorbed become ultra-absorbent, and the mean become nasty.

She resents the suggestion. It’s not that she’s judgmental, it’s simply that there’s no reason not to take proper care with things, including oneself. The Surgeon General warned Penny on every pack, but did she listen? It’s difficult for Miriam not to be angry when she’s supposed to help ease the way. And Estelle hasn’t begun

to comprehend the seriousness of Penny’s illness or the finality of the pact. She’s brought fudge!

The elevator bell tings, and for an instant gravity lifts the weight from their heels and a fleeting lightness rises through them. They look quickly to the many reflections to see if the other has felt it, but just as suddenly they are set down again onto their bones and the doors chug open, sliding their images away.

The hall is a tunnel of pistachio tile. At a station at the far end they find a nurse chewing a pencil, engrossed in the daily Sudoku. When Estelle says Penny’s name, the nurse blinks and straightens. She turns her monitor so they can’t see and taps her mouse. “Right. Dr. Bell’s patient … Lancaster, P.”

“Penelope Lancaster,” Estelle says firmly.

“Yes.” The nurse comes out of the station. With an offer to find a vase, she takes the lilies from Estelle and leads them down another hall, remarking how the Minnesota weather can make traveling such a trial, as if knowing they’ve come from the airport.

They are left in a small waiting room. After shedding their coats and shaking their scarves, they pile their things in a corner. They sit at a small table to wait. Estelle watches the door a minute before dragging her shoulderbag close. She pulls out a gift bag that says Marlbey’s Teas, LTD. Inside is a pillow-shaped package wrapped in tissue.

“What’s that?”

Estelle lowers her voice, “Well, not quite what it says.” She peels layers of tissue to reveal a large zip-lock bag packed tight with a dried, green herb.

“That isn’t … Estelle, that’s not?” Miriam stifles a yelp and her eyes dart to the door.

“I should hope it is, considering what I paid.”

“You carried that on the plane?” The package weighs at least a pound.

“I could have mailed it, I suppose. But since Penny needs it now, and since I didn’t have any trouble flying from Negril with it … ”

“Negril? Jamaica?”

“Well, goodness, I wouldn’t know where to get such a thing in Palm Springs. I thought of Mexico, certainly closer, but God knows what sorts of things go on down there. I just decided to visit the Robertsons—you’ve met Kitty and Earl—at their winter place. Their driver, Eddie, was such a nice young man—had those deadlocks … ”

“Dreadlocks, you mean?”

“As I said. How they keep those clean. Anyway, Eddie took me to a special plantation where a woman gave me some lovely tea, very relaxing, and sold me this.” She rewraps and stows the package.

Miriam sucks her teeth. “Well.”

“Well.” Estelle leans back.

They look around, scanning the tank of lazy angelfish, the stack of Highlights magazines and the crocheted wall hanging shaped like a crucifix. One of the Happy Today balloons ticks against the wall just above a heat vent. Once they’ve taken everything in, each sister’s gaze settles on the other’s hands.

Estelle sees Miriam no longer wears her wedding ring. Since Denny’s passing, her sister seems to have become more austere. She wonders if Miriam isn’t a bit relieved, as widows so often are. Her hands make small static movements. Of the three, Miriam is the bustler, the doer—nothing if not practical, especially now, when it’s easier to do than to think. Her nails are trimmed and clean and bare of polish. There’s a tension in Miriam’s hands that matches the held-in quality of her face—skin over the knuckles has mottled with age spots, a sight that bothers Estelle more than it should. She makes a mental note that once back home she will send a jar of cream from that spa in Marin.

What is taking the nurse this long?

Her own fingers, weighted with platinum, thrum slowly over the tabletop.