The Ties That Save Us.

I hate my suitcase. It’s big and ugly and weighs five pounds empty. But we’re leaving tonight, for a Portugal trip that will take us from Lisbon to the Algarve - a mix of more weather and wardrobe considerations than my carry-on can manage. And I only realize now, how unwieldy my one large suitcase is.

I study two navy bathing suits, unable to remember which looks better on me. One idea would be to try them on. Another, to pack both. I opt for idea #2. After all, my giant suitcase is coming either way, so why not fill it?

All too easily, “pack both” becomes my mantra. Two similar black tops compete for a place in the line-up. Silly them. No need to fight girls, you’re both coming! And why decide between two white bohemian embroidered tops when there’s so much room? Suddenly, I love my big-ass suitcase. It may be the grandest enabler I’ve ever met.

Everyone gets a plus one!

Merrily I roll them up - tops, bathing suits, pants, dresses - crossing things off my list with the self-satisfied air of an uptown restaurant hostess. After “blue and green paisley dress” I’ve written “F’s scarves!!”

I run my hand across the diamond pattern on the quilted satin box, where my mother, who I called F, kept her scarves. I open it, to a soft whiff of Chanel No. 19, White Shoulders and Arpege - a mingling of scents from the bottles that stood guard on a footed glass tray on her dresser, along with a bottle of Joy (“the costliest fragrance in the world,” which had me giddily thinking we were rich at one point.) I inhale the scent again - it’s subtle, light and sweet - like F was - unobtrusive, but always there.

I choose three scarves - a cotton one, because its sunny colors will be good for daytime. I picture myself leaning back elegantly on a chaise, all book, sunglasses and scarf - like Jackie O, without the yacht. Another is grey and yellow, and smacks of freshness and I imagine myself wearing it as I wander along a cobble-stoned block, shopping for tiles and linens. The third, by Echo, is a swirl of brilliant color - very 70’s. I wrap it around my head, and appraise myself in the mirror, deciding that, yes, I look more Ali McGraw than Little Steven.

Echo. At 12, I’d studied the Echo ads in many a Seventeen Magazine, hell-bent on becoming “an interesting woman.”

By the time I’m finished, I can barely get Big-Ass from the bed to the floor. My regret becomes shame when our strong-looking Uber driver grunts loudly, hoisting it into the trunk. Throughout the trip, I’ll apologize to everyone who has to lift or even look at the blight that will soon be called Bertha, Big-Ass Bertha, Stupid Bertha, and inevitably, Fucking Bertha.

The flight goes as flights go - movies, faux-sleep, crankiness, then finally, the thud of wheels hitting ground.

I pull my phone out. And stare at it dumbly. And feel a thud that hits harder than that of the plane’s wheels, because this one is in my heart.

I stare more dumbly still.

And the obvious truth hits me, as obvious truths always do.

F isn’t waiting for the phone to ring.

I picture her, in her chair near the window, as she was toward the end. Not knitting or painting or reading. Not sitting in a lawn chair with her friends. Just waiting. Waiting for lunch. Waiting for dinner. Waiting for the phone to ring.

“Call me when you land.” Five words that, all my life, tethered me, first, to the curly cord of a kitchen wall phone, and later, to a landline next to her chair.

Call me when you land. Five words I’ll never hear her say again.

And with that realization, comes another, deeper thud. The actual understanding of what I’ve known for four months - F is gone. Really gone. No sweet voice on the other end. No one worried about me. No one to mother me.

“You ok?” Ben asks, studying me with eyes that can sense even my slightest flicker of sadness from across a room. I nod and smile. But he knows. When Ben was little, I once asked why he was lying on the floor. “Because I want to see things the way Sammy does,” he answered. I’d never thought about what our cat saw from his low angle, nor had I understood how simple and profound a lesson in empathy could be.

He returns my sad smile.

Ava know too. She touches my hand lightly.

Lisbon’s airport is busy and we’re in various stages of overnight stupors. “Are we even in the American passport line?” Ava asks, and I say of course we are, but I’m not sure. This is the kind of mock-conviction I’ll have all week, as we follow our Portuguese friends from kitchen to dining table, or sit like children as they order for us in restaurants.

Manuel greets us at the gate and Philip’s face changes instantly. The groggy scowl he’s worn since we got off the plane softens, then dissolves, replaced by the almost-comical adoration he so openly feels for Manuel. The two of them met years ago, on a plane, where they talked for a solid hour. They haven’t stopped talking since. Manuel was the best man at our wedding, and he is the best man in Philip’s life, this serious, sweet, intelligent, cool guy, who is more brother than friend.

He kisses us on both cheeks, takes our faces into his hands, smiles into our eyes and, in his soft, strong voice, thanks us for coming.

Later, we meet for dinner - Manuel and Marina, effortlessly gorgeous and glamorous - Marina’s blonde hair in gentle waves that skim her tanned shoulders, Manuel, who manages to be both utterly relaxed, and totally in control. And Clara. The C to our A&B. Little Clara, whose eyes are lit with mischief and intelligence. Clara, who first met Ava and Ben on our first shared vacation, three adorable hooligans whose shared language was shrieking and running.

A, B & C at a bar in the Dominican Republic.

We met every year or two, in sunny places, always with the criteria that we rent a house with a pool and proximity to the beach.

The year Ava got tall and the M’s made us conquer our zip-lining fears.

And then, it stopped, first because of sickness that kept us home, then the pandemic, then F. They’ve been to New York a few times, but it’s been nine years since we’ve vacationed together

A, B & C, now, standing in alphabetical order, which is about all the behaving they’re willing to do.

At first, I thanked God that Marina and I both loved reading, because talking, with her limited English and my nonexistent Portuguese, was limited to “It’s so beautiful!” and “They’re so cute.” We still love reading and spend much of the day with our sunblock-slathered noses stuck in books, but, thanks to Marina’s now-good English, we can talk.

The Manuels, as we shorthand them (“have you heard back from the Manuels about vacation yet?”) have opted to drive three cars from Lisbon to the Algarve.

“This way, we spread the luggage between my car and the one Clara drives,” Manuel says, tactfully not looking at the person whose eyesore makes two trunks necessary. “And Marina takes all the food.”

As Marina and I drive the two hours to the house, she plays Beyonce’s Cowboy Carter. We don’t talk much, but now it’s not because we can’t - it’s because we’re comfortable.

“Hey,” I say. “Remember in the beginning, when we couldn’t talk because you didn’t speak much English?”

“Well, I think it was because you didn’t speak Portuguese, but yes.”

“Ha - and look at me, still not a word,” I say, “except obrigada.”

“This time I’ll teach you more,” she says and we laugh because we know it won’t happen. I look out the window as buildings give way to hills and pedestrians are replaced by cows.

I sigh and tell her how I felt when we landed.

“First time I didn’t have to call,” I say.

She nods. Marina’s mother died a few months before mine. “For me too. It’s strange, isn’t it. No one is worried about us.”

“And we’re not worried about them,” I say, thinking about how my heart stopped whenever one of my mother’s caregivers called at an unusual hour.

“I don’t miss being worried all the time,” Marina says, “but I do miss…” she taps the steering wheel with a long pretty finger.

“The anchor,” I say.

“Yes,” she says softly. “I miss having a mother.”

I look out the window. Beyonce sings Jolene. Marina and I join her.

A few days later, we’re in the same car, driving back to the house after a morning of shopping in a cobblestoned village, followed by fish tacos and margaritas. Clara and Ava giggle in the back seat, not sounding all that different than they did as children. I love the way they light each other up.

Clara plays “Lovin’ You” by Minnie Riperton.

“You know this song?” I say.

“I know everything,” Clara answers and we hoot.

Clara and Ava practically scream the “la la la la la’s,” and Marina and I glance at each other with uncontained adoration.

Next up is Smooth Operator and we do our best to sound breathy-voiced and cool, singing, “coast to coast and into Key Largo” (wrong lyrics, I know) with Sade. Then Diana Ross, sings Upside Down, and as we join her, we laugh at the line “Respectfully, I say to thee, I know that you’re cheating.” I glance back at Ava; pure happiness washing over her gorgeous face. By the time we’re fully into it, it’s raining men, and Marina gives the steering wheel a little shimmy on the “hallelujah’s.” We clap and laugh and adore each others’ silliness - mothers and daughters loving each other. Soothing each other. Joy-ing each other up.

A few days later, as the seniors, as Manuel calls us, read, and the juniors scream and laugh near the pool, I close my eyes and smile. We are relaxed. Our children are happy. There is no better feeling.

Marina disappears and I wander into the kitchen to see her humming, as she chops away at the counter. I marvel. I’ve asked myself many times why I subject myself to vacationing with a woman who looks, in cut off shorts and a white bikini top, exactly as she did 25 years ago.

She turns to face me, and the look on her face is why. She smiles. Her eyes dance. She is pure sweetness and generosity, holding a huge platter of nicoise salad. The egg yolks are deep yellow - almost orange, and the tuna, drizzled with olive oil, glistens next to olives and tomatoes.

“Marina. How beautiful,” I say, and I mean the platter, but I mean her too. I mean all of this. Her smile widens. I feel safe. I feel loved.

“What can I do?” I ask.

“Pour us some wine,” she says with a smile.

The M’s, 14 years ago. They don’t look much different now. I love them anyway.

The next day, I wear the Jackie O. scarf and try to take a selfie. I look puzzled and annoyed, as I always do, when I play this stupid game. But I remember the advice of a friend who said that to take a good picture, you should think of someone you love. I look at the camera and think of F - and how glad she’d be to know that we’re happy.

The sunglasses I thought were understated are…not.

I try another later, this time, depicting the Echo of an interesting woman who has taken an edible, is about to go to dinner, and won’t realize until she sees the picture later, that she looks more Little Steven than she thought.

When the week ends, we spend a couple of days in Lisbon, and then it’s time for Ben to leave us. He’s meeting his boyfriend in Barcelona. But in the morning, waiting for Manuel (who refuses to let us use Uber) to pick him up, Ben’s face is pale. His boyfriend Tan has food poisoning and has to stay in Copenhagen until he can travel. I say how exciting it will be to see a new city alone and he nods, but his smile is unconvincing. Ben has never traveled solo. I tell him all the reasons he’ll love it, and on the way to the airport, Manuel shores him up.

I walk him in and whisper “you’ll be fine,” as we hug. Our eyes meet. And my overwhelming love for this boy hits me like a shot. As he turns away, I blink back a tear - the same tear I’ve been blinking back for 24 years - watching his shoulders square, as he walks off - first day of kindergarten, first day of camp, first day of college, first date with a guy.

How strong and beautiful my son is.

A few minutes later, he texts to say he’s at the gate.

I answer without thinking:

Text me when you land.

He does. And he sounds happy. Which is all I need.

When Ava, Philip and I land in New York, I open my phone to a text from Manuel - Text us when you land.

And another from my sister, saying the same, which surprises me. She never does that.

Once we’re home, I call her. I comment on how her text surprised me.

“Well, when I came back from my last trip, I wished I could call Mommy and it made me feel empty. I thought you’d feel the same. So I wanted… I don’t know - I wanted you to have someone to call.”

My voice catches.

“You mothered me, Kar,” I say.

“Yeah,” she answers softly. “I’ll do it for you and you do it for me, ok?”

I hang up and sit silently.

My hands and wrists started swelling toward the end of the trip and they hurt in a way that freaks me out. I can’t bend my fingers without wincing.

But a few days later, it’s worse. My knees hurt and it’s hard to go from sitting to standing. Some sort of flare-up that the doctors are figuring out.

What I wouldn’t give for F’s calming voice right now.

I ache for her. I yearn for her.

Philip helps me put compression socks on because my feet and ankles have become balloons and cankles.

My sister, who is a doctor, is all over it and assures me that I’ll be ok.

My friends are too.

Susie calls every morning.

Billy, PK and Alison text constantly, and Tammy shows up at my door with flowers and pastries and love.

My lovely Ava opens my portal and updates the doctor for me, because it hurts to type.

I keep it from Ben because I don’t want to ruin his trip. I’m in pain, but I’m still a mother.

A mother, who is being mothered.

The meds are working. The flare-up is calming. It seems to be something related to lupus, but it can be managed. I’ll be fine.

But how I cherish all the mothers in my life.

The world is messy (understatement of the century.)

We all need anchors.

We need people who say, “text me,” so we feel not just landed, but grounded.

We need ties.

Even if they make us look like Little Steven.

Actually, screw it - especially if they make us look like Little Steven.