Page 16 of Georgia: Britain's Story: Part 1
I know I just ate a huge breakfast, but you only live once, so I grab a warm flour tortilla. I spread a heaping knife full of butter on my plate, then tear off a chunk of the thick tortilla and wipe it along the plate, gathering the salty butter up. The minute it hits my lips, the nostalgia washes over me in waves and I close my eyes to savor it all up. I’m pretty sure I moaned in food ecstasy just as Rose reappears in the walkway.
“That good, miha? Or has it just been that long?”
“Both?” I say through a mouth full of tortilla, and I don’t know if she’s talking about the food or sex, but we both laugh. My heart melts and my eyes fill with tears because it feels so good. It feels so warm and comforting to be here, with Rose. She sees the tears and reaches for my hand, giving it a good squeeze. It’s then that I notice she’s set a box down on the chair opposite hers in order to do so.
I look over to the box, and shrug my shoulder towards it. “So that’s it, huh?”
“Yep, that’s it,” Rose replies.
“Do you know what’s in it?” I ask.
Rose hesitates before answering. “I knowsomeof what’s in there, but it’s for you to find out. It’s what Georgia wanted.” Rose’s voice is like honey.
“Rose, you should really record sleep stories for a living.”
She laughs. “Oh miha, nobody wants to hear an old lady talk nonsense to help them fall asleep.”
“Agree to disagree. And you’re not old,” I tell her.
“Mi amor, when you’ve lived as many lifetimes as me, it doesn’t matter your age, or what you look like, I can’t help butfeel old. It’s a weight, those lives. I carry it in my bones.That’swhat makes me feel old.” She pauses for a brief moment, “Do you understand?”
“I think I’m beginning to understand all too well what you mean.” It’s aweight…in my bones.
Rose and I spend the next hour and a half talking, and laughing, and sometimes crying, when my phone pings with a new message. It’s probably time for me to go anyways, and when I look up to Rose, she nods in agreement.
We say our goodbyes, and I promise to not go another 17 years without seeing her again.
Rose’s laugh is deep, and she replies, “Thank god, miha! I may not be here in another 17 years!” From any other person, at any other time, it may have been a dark statement, but with her, now, it’s the perfect sentiment and reminder.
I slip into my car, setting the ziplock bag of warm tortillas in the passenger seat, then pull up my messages. It’s a group text from Caroline and Elodie.
Caroline
We made you a playlist for your drive today. Hope it’s sunny there! Love you!
Elodie
Britain’s California Dreamin’ Playlist, Drive safe, loveeee yoooouuuuu!
My eyes fill with tears, because deep down, I feel like I don’t deserve the love my family’s given me.
Britain
Thanks girls, playing it now. Love you. XoXo
FIVE
Britain
It’s funny all the things you never remember, but then you experience them again and you can’t believe you ever forgot. Like the smell driving down 99, right around Turlock and Livingston. I never really knew whether it was manure or fertilizer, but I’ve discovered it still smells exactly the same.
When I tell someone that I grew up in California, they think LA, Hollywood, Silicon Valley, beaches, maybe even San Francisco or Napa Valley. But when I think of California, I think of ranches and dairy farms, and orange and almond orchards. I think of grape vines and raisins, and hot summers. I think of the foothills, and the two weeks in spring when they turn green before turning back to rolling mounds of gold. I think of tall mountain peaks, and a cold lake surrounded by evergreens.
There’s a lot of land between LA and San Francisco, and that’s where I’m from — the valley. And the valley is country, through and through. As I drive through farmland, I decide to call Jess for a quick update.
“Hi,” Jess answers the phone.
“Hi, just wanted to let you know I’m on the road. Still. I think I’m like 30 minutes out from the realtor’s place. How’s Miss Eden today?”
