More than Exist(14)

Chapter 9





We pulled into the old trailer park long after the sun had set. Ginger told me where to turn, and I looked around the neighborhood as I navigated through. Some of the trailers were old, but they were all well maintained. The yards were filled with assorted patio furniture and lounging chairs, and some even had decorations lighting a path through the park. Ginger told me to stop, and I pulled up in front of a green and white, singlewide trailer. It had an awning with twinkling lights strewn about it, and dark-green chairs set up in a circle around a cinderblock-lined fire pit.

“This is it,” Ginger said. Her voice sounded sunny, but the look on her face was pensive as she looked at her childhood home. “Let’s go see Momma.”

She opened the door and gestured for me to follow her.

“We’ll get the bags in a minute.”

I maneuvered around the car and followed her up onto the small wooden porch, which was obviously newly built. Ginger tried the door, then knocked when she found it locked.

A few seconds later, the door swung open, and we were swept up in a whirlwind.

The night was suddenly filled with loud chatter, a few squeals, and booming laughter. I was pulled into a pair of large arms, and hugged close to a very full bosom. Before I could make out what was happening, I was inside the trailer and released from what I presumed were Ginger’s mother’s breasts, and I looked around the room, trying to catch my bearings.

I was stunned speechless as the three women before me gushed over each other and I had a chance to look around the room.

The place was packed to the gills. So much so that I wondered how you could walk across the living room to the kitchen, without tearing through like a tornado. Every possible surface was covered with a lamp or knickknack of some sort. The furniture was opulent and garish, and the walls were covered … covered, with photos of Barbra Streisand. Some signed, some not.

My head swerved from left to right, and I knew I could look around the room a million times and always find an item that I hadn’t noticed before. I finally tuned in to the ladies in front of me and began to register what they were saying.

“You look so pretty,” Ginger was saying to a younger blonde girl as she stroked a hand lovingly over her hair.

“So do you,” the girl who I assumed was Ginger’s sister replied.

“Babs,” Ginger’s mother cut in, her eyes landing meaningfully on me. “Aren’t you going to introduce your friend?”

“Oh,” Ginger exclaimed, bringing a hand to her mouth and turning to me. “I’m so sorry, Belle … Momma, this is Belle. Belle, this is my momma, and my sister, Jean.”

“Babs?” I asked, stuck on the fact that Ginger’s mother had been talking to her, not her sister, when she’d said the name.

Ginger’s cheeks colored sweetly as she shrugged, “Short for Barbra, my real name. I told you she was a fan.” I grinned as I looked down at my friend. She definitely did not look like a “Babs.” “People started calling me Ginger in junior high, because of my hair, and it stuck.”

I turned, still smiling, back to Ginger’s mother and said, “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Name’s Dorothy, but you can call me Dot,” she replied with a wave of her hand. “Everybody does.”

“Okay,” I agreed, then turned to Jean. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” the younger girl responded with a small smile.

“Well, let’s stop dawdling in the entryway. Grab your stuff and take Belle back to your room; you can both sleep there. Or she can have the couch if she’d rather.”

“Okay, Momma,” Ginger said, giving her mom a quick kiss on the cheek, before turning back to the front door and motioning for me to follow her.

I grabbed the overnight bag I’d picked up before we’d started out this morning, which was now filled with my pajamas and toiletries, and helped Ginger get all of her stuff out of the car.

It made me sad to think that when I left here, I’d be continuing my journey on my own.

I managed to make it through the living room without knocking anything over, but it wasn’t easy. When I followed Ginger into her room, I was surprised to see that it didn’t hold any remnants from Ginger’s childhood; at least, I didn’t think it did.

“Do you have a Streisand obsession too, or have all of your things been cleared out?” I asked as I looked around at the photographs lining every available surface.

“No,” Ginger replied with a laugh. “Once it was clear that I’d moved on, Momma had me take what I wanted, and gave the rest to Goodwill. Every time I come home, there’s new memorabilia in here. It’s now more of a guest room, and an extension of the Ode to Barbra.”