When it first happened, I used to phone home just to hear her voice on the answering machine. I could never understand what had possessed her to do what she did, let alone try to forgive her, but hearing her voice was just an assurance that she was alive. A week after she left us, I had memorized the message: "You have reached the Classens. Sorry, we are out right now, but please leave a message after the beep." It wasn't much, I supposed, but it was something, and it was something of hers.
You see, Georgia left my dad and I right after my eigth birthday. Georgia is my birth mother, but my dad's second wife is the one who I called Mom. I was never close enough with Georgia to do that. Sure, I had her with me and Dad for 8 years, but I was always Daddy's girl then. Maybe that's why Georgia left.
"Yoh, Grace, come outta La La Land," my best friend, and roomate, Michelle snapped, "Your coffee is going to get cold."
I shook my head, and sighed, telling myself what happened had happened 12 years ago, and it's about time that I forgive myself. For goodness sakes, I was almost 21. In fact, it was almost the 13th anniversary of when Georgia left.
"Sorry," I replied sarcastically. Grouchily, I drank my coffee, and went off to get my books, blowing off the incredible urge to just skip school today. Missing one day of university wouldn't hurt a bit. Yeah right, Grace. Suspension if you're caught. Maybe that's why she left. I am such a goody goody!
Whatever the reason was, I forgot about it in the rush I was to get to school on time, since I'd spent so much of the day dawdling.
"Michelle, come on!" My late friend seemed to have forgotten that she was my ride to school this morning.
"No, Grace, come look at this!" Michelle called from the kitchen.
Groaning under my breath, I took off for the kitchen and found Michelle hunched over the table, still in her pajamas.
"'Chelle, we do have school today you know," I reminded, just in case she'd forgotten.
"Grace, look," she passed me the paper she was reading, "Isn't that your mom?"
I looked at the paper and felt my mouth drop open.
"It's-It's not Mom. It's Georgia." I needed to sit down. And I needed to sit down fast. So, I just slid to the floor and stared at the paper.
It was Georgia, all right. My real mom. My real mom in the obitruary section of the newspaper. True, I hadn't loved her since she left, but I never thought that I would see her here. That would mean she had died. I quickly read the caption about her, and learned that she had died of natural causes, even though it didn't state what. I sighed.
Planes are not my deal. I hate to fly. I especially hate to fly alone. But Mom and Dad refused to come, maybe the hurt was still too much there for Dad. But, something in me needed to go to Georgia's funeral. I needed to see the people she had left us for, and I needed to see why she had left.
I knew that secretally, I had always planned on going to see Georgia. I knew that I wouldn't be totally happy until I knew why she left. And, I knew that this was my last chance.
Nervously, I waited while the cab pulled in front of the church, and glided to a stop. Gingerly, I payed him, and walked to the church. I didn't stop walking until I was in the church, at the guestbook. I wanted very badly not to sign it, to keep on walking. But, I had come this far, and what was going to happen if I wrote my name on a sheet of paper? Calmly, I wrote Grace Laurier-Howard, Laurier being Georgia's last name. I had never signed anything that way before, and it looked strange in with a bunch of strangers' names.
Quietly, I took a seat, and stared blankly at the casket, only half listening to the priest say kind things about a woman I hardly remembered. It was an open casket funeral, and I was much as I would to have seen Georgia, I couldn't bear to go up and actually look at her. Not after all that she had done.
I didn't shed a tear the whole service. I felt sorry for these people that Georgia knew, and I felt sorry for Georgia, but it wasn't the same as if I myself had known her.
The service ended and I stayed sitting. People dressed totally in black drifted up and looked in the casket, and every inch of me wanted to know what she looked like. But a face on the woman whom I couldn't know. I watched as the casket was closed, and it was then I decided to go and hail another cab.
Slowly, I made my way from the church, and went and stood alone in the parking lot, by the road. I was the only one who had left the church. More came, though, when Georgia's coffin was carried out. A weeping woman was holding a large portrait of Georgia, that I guess must have been sitting on the coffin during the service, but I hadn't noticed it.
I stared at the picture, which was really a college of many pictures, and ran my eyes over all of them. It was the one in the far left hand corner that caught my eye, the smallest one there. It was of Georgia, a child, and a man. The man I recognized right away. He was a younger version of my father. I couldn't believe it. And the child then? I moved closer to the picture, and glanced at the child. Tears welled up in my eyes, and drifted down my cheeks. The child was me. No, Georgia didn't love us. She left us. Then, what was I doing on her picture? What was Dad doing there? I stared, and I cried. These were all answers that I would never know now, answers that nobody could ever tell me.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, and spun around. There, behind me, was a man about my age, very tall, and blond, and I knew him from somewhere. Quickly, I wipped at my tears.
"Did you know her?" his voice was quiet and subdued.
"No," I whispered, "I mean, no I didn't know her well."
"I'm Zachary," he told me, just as quietly, "Zachary Hanson."
Zachary Hanson? That was where I knew him from, then. That pop group. My half-sister, Angela, liked them. I had to admit that a song on their very first CD (which, I admit, I did buy) called With You In Your Dreams made me think of Georgia. Not that she was dead, then, but in a way, to me, she was. A tinge of excitement rose up in me. I was meeting somebody famous. But, the coffin being carried by in front of me squished it.
"Grace," I returned, "Grace Howard. Did you know Georgia?"
"She and my mother knew each other really well. She came over a lot. How did you know her?"
"I....I was her daughter. She left us when I was eight."
"Oh, so you are that Grace," acknowledgement shone in his sad eyes, "She talked about you, you know."
"She, she did?" I stuttered. This meant the world to me. No matter how much I said it didn't, it did.
"Yeah. She mentioned you almost all of the time."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
I put my head in my hands and sighed. This wasn't happened. I was not here talking to Angela's favorite Hanson, talking about my real mother, who he knew more about than I did.
"Why did she leave me?" I asked. It came out louder and more snappy than I had intended, but Zac didn't look taken aback. He looked understanding.
"Because she loved you," he shrugged.
"NO!" I cried, really letting my tears flow, "She didn't leave me because she LOVED me!! How can you say that?!" I knew I was shouting at an innocent person, but his answer was one I didn't want to hear. Georgia didn't love me. Georgia hated me. Georgia LEFT us! She left me. She left.
"Shhhhh," Zac crooned, wrapping his arms around me.
The realization that Zac Hanson was hugging me didn't even click in. I just cried.
"She left me because she loved me?" I asked, softly, between sobs.
"Yeah. She didn't think she was going to be a good mother. Or a good wife. She left because she thought it would benefit you. Do you understand?"
I nodded, even though I didn't.
"Hey, Gracie."
I caught my breath. One thing I remembered about Georgia was that she called me Gracie. Or Gracie Pet. I sighed.
"Hmmm?" I asked, leaving Zac's comforting embrace.
"I have a phone number if you ever want to know something about your mom."
I smiled at him, "I'd like that."
He would answer them, I knew it. I was beaming, and crying on the inside. Beaming because I knew I'd made a friend. Zac haild the cab for me, and held the door.
I turned and looked at the coffin, being put into the limo.
"Bye, Mom. I love you too," I whispered softly. Zac helped me in, and waved good bye.
"Call me, okay?" he asked.
"I'd like that," I told him.
Taking one last look at Mom's coffin, I let the cab driver take me away.