Elvis Takes a Back Seat by Leanna Ellis Page B

when the waitress has taken our orders.
    â€œWhere do I begin?” she asks wrinkling her forehead.
    I’m relieved to find a topic she’s willing to discuss. “Why did you choose to live there?”
    â€œIt seemed as far away from Dallas and Memphis as the moon. It’s also where I found myself … and God.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Ivy asks.
    â€œMore like God found me. Because I don’t think I was looking. But he got my attention.”
    â€œHow?” I ask.
    â€œI quit looking inward and looked for help. And I found it.”
    â€œGod helped you?” Ivy asks.
    â€œHe always does.”
    â€œWhat did you need help from? Were you trying to escape? Trying to avoid seeing someone?” I ask, wondering if that someone was Elvis.
    â€œSomeone? You mean Elvis? No, it was over. I was over Elvis. But other things are not so easily forgotten. I needed to get away. It was too confining in Dallas.”
    Or was our family, my mother and grandparents, too reserved for her? “What did you do?”
    â€œDo?”
    â€œFor a living.”
    â€œA little bit of everything. I waitressed in a little café for a while. Modeled in New York.”
    â€œYou modeled in New York?” Ivy leans forward.
    â€œSure. I did a couple of runways, but I wasn’t much good. I didn’t want to show off the clothes. I preferred grabbing everyone’s attention myself. Designers don’t like that. I did a couple of magazines. But mostly I modeled for art students.”
    Ivy leans back, shading her eyes with her eyelashes, wary and watchful.
    â€œSomewhere there’s a picture of me in the buff on some stranger’s mantle.” Rae starts to laugh.
    Ivy’s eyes widen. “Really?”
    Rae arches her back, pushing her small breasts forward. “Well, I wasn’t Brigitte Bardot in my day, but I certainly wasn’t a dachshund either. I had plenty of men interested back then. And I made a good living in the different artschools. Of course, I liked to think of myself as an artist then. But I had no talent. And certainly no determination. Just a willing spirit.”
    â€œA free spirit,” I say.
    She nods.
    â€œAnd what did my mother think of all your adventures?” I ask, remembering Mother’s dislike of Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s .
    â€œOh, Beverly didn’t ask anymore what I was up to. We had very little contact back then. She never wrote.”
    â€œWe never got letters from you either,” I defend my mother. “Just an occasional postcard.”
    She shrugs as if indifferent. “It was for the best. Beverly didn’t want to hear from me. She was busy with her own life. She had no need of me, no desire to remember …”
    â€œRemember what?” I ask, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the table.
    â€œHer dreams. She had them with you.”
    I lean back into the booth. “Mother always said she wanted to be a wife and mother.”
    â€œThat’s true.” Rae’s mouth flattens into a thin line. “Our food should be coming soon.”
    â€œWas my mother really satisfied with that?” I ask, needing to know more. I thought I’d known Mother, but maybe I hadn’t. Maybe no one had. It didn’t seem like she let anyone into her thoughts or her heart. Maybe Rae hadn’t really known her either. After all, they hadn’t spoken for many years before Mother died.
    â€œI don’t know.” Rae lifts a narrow shoulder, then fingers the base of her iced-tea glass. “Dreams come true are rarely as satisfying as we imagine.”
    Wondering if she’s thinking of my mother or her own lost or forgotten dreams, I place my hand on hers. I wonder if it’s painful for her to be back in Memphis. Memories, I know full well, can soothe like a violin sonata or jolt like a discordant note on a steel guitar.
    Rae places her other hand on top of mine