gripped my blue duffel bag, twisting it mercilessly in one hand as I shuffled forward in the halting line. In my other hand I clung to the photograph of Sarah like a talisman. Our plane was so small we exited onto a portable, metal staircase and ducked under the nearly palpable noise of the tarmac into the airport. Nothing looked exceptionally different from Nebraska in those first hazy glances. An open field around the runway and trees in the distance. My brain took in the surroundings sluggishly, too tied up in my internal struggle to devote attention to details. The tide of passengers pushed through a glass hallway and emptied me into the bright, open gallery of the airport. I didn’t have to scan the crowd more than a few seconds. Apart from the throng, flushed, and leaning onto her toes with impatience, stood a pretty woman with caramel colored hair. She had my mother’s short, trim frame, but lighter eyes and higher cheekbones.
She was different from the ballerina in the picture, showing those vague signs of age that make even the most beautiful women different from the most beautiful girls, but still lovely and golden. Her skin had the same strange, olive tint as mine, perpetually tan without being brown. Her intriguing, slanted eyes flashed recognition and her hands jumped to her chest. She hopped once on her feet and then closed the distance between us with fast steps. When her arms grabbed me hungrily, I dropped my bag and hugged her back, aware of, but unconcerned by, the people watching curiously.
“Jennifer. . .” she breathed like a prayer against my face. I loved the smell of her – a mix of fresh breezes and dryer sheets. I surprised myself by how tightly I gripped her. I’ve always been affectionate, but never one for big public shows. At that moment my brain didn’t spare a thought for the crowd.
“Hi, Sarah,” I said without releasing her. At last she drew back, keeping a strong grip on my arms.
“Come here,” she said walking backwards, steering us to an empty seating area away from the mingling people. “Let me look at you. I can’t believe it,” her eyes traveled over my features. Her expression warmed with delight after studying me. She never tore her eyes from my face. “Those are the same tiny freckles I used to have. I couldn’t see them in the pictures you emailed. Mine faded, but they looked just like that, like tiny sugar grains.”
“Thirty seven,” I answered without thinking. Then realizing that answer required explanation I said, “My mother always told me I had thirty seven perfect freckles across my nose. I’ve counted them before and there were more than that, but we still …” I stopped talking when a stunned look came into her eyes. What did I say wrong?
“Thirty seven,” she repeated, her hazel eyes bright and moist.
“What’s wrong?” I asked in confusion.
“Nothing,” she affirmed with a smile. “My mother always told me I had thirty seven freckles. I had completely forgotten. I guess Claire remembered.”
Hearing her name made me ache for my mother. Maybe somewhere beneath her anger she kept happy memories of her sister. I wanted her there, gripping Sarah’s wrist in excitement the way Sarah gripped mine.
I swallowed my sadness and held up the picture. “This is how I found you. I found this in a book.” She took the battered photograph reverently and skimmed her finger over her face and then the damaged part where the page had melted to the ink of the photo.
“I wasn’t much older than you here. This is my Senior Recital. I was seventeen.” She looked up and said “My mother took this picture. I still remember her telling me to smile.” And then, though she had already asked me many times before on the phone, she could not restrain the question, “How is Claire?” The longing in her voice hurt my chest.
“She’s fine. This morning she was calm when I left. I think it’s sinking in.”
“I miss her,” she stated freely.
“I
She was different from the ballerina in the picture, showing those vague signs of age that make even the most beautiful women different from the most beautiful girls, but still lovely and golden. Her skin had the same strange, olive tint as mine, perpetually tan without being brown. Her intriguing, slanted eyes flashed recognition and her hands jumped to her chest. She hopped once on her feet and then closed the distance between us with fast steps. When her arms grabbed me hungrily, I dropped my bag and hugged her back, aware of, but unconcerned by, the people watching curiously.
“Jennifer. . .” she breathed like a prayer against my face. I loved the smell of her – a mix of fresh breezes and dryer sheets. I surprised myself by how tightly I gripped her. I’ve always been affectionate, but never one for big public shows. At that moment my brain didn’t spare a thought for the crowd.
“Hi, Sarah,” I said without releasing her. At last she drew back, keeping a strong grip on my arms.
“Come here,” she said walking backwards, steering us to an empty seating area away from the mingling people. “Let me look at you. I can’t believe it,” her eyes traveled over my features. Her expression warmed with delight after studying me. She never tore her eyes from my face. “Those are the same tiny freckles I used to have. I couldn’t see them in the pictures you emailed. Mine faded, but they looked just like that, like tiny sugar grains.”
“Thirty seven,” I answered without thinking. Then realizing that answer required explanation I said, “My mother always told me I had thirty seven perfect freckles across my nose. I’ve counted them before and there were more than that, but we still …” I stopped talking when a stunned look came into her eyes. What did I say wrong?
“Thirty seven,” she repeated, her hazel eyes bright and moist.
“What’s wrong?” I asked in confusion.
“Nothing,” she affirmed with a smile. “My mother always told me I had thirty seven freckles. I had completely forgotten. I guess Claire remembered.”
Hearing her name made me ache for my mother. Maybe somewhere beneath her anger she kept happy memories of her sister. I wanted her there, gripping Sarah’s wrist in excitement the way Sarah gripped mine.
I swallowed my sadness and held up the picture. “This is how I found you. I found this in a book.” She took the battered photograph reverently and skimmed her finger over her face and then the damaged part where the page had melted to the ink of the photo.
“I wasn’t much older than you here. This is my Senior Recital. I was seventeen.” She looked up and said “My mother took this picture. I still remember her telling me to smile.” And then, though she had already asked me many times before on the phone, she could not restrain the question, “How is Claire?” The longing in her voice hurt my chest.
“She’s fine. This morning she was calm when I left. I think it’s sinking in.”
“I miss her,” she stated freely.
“I
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