Crybaby Ranch by Tina Welling Page A

frozen chicken pot pie—the Hungry Man size—to bake in the oven, I get started cleaning the kitchen cupboards. By this time tomorrow I hope to have this room fully useful.
    It helps to tire myself. I slept well last night. And the work allows my thoughts to catch up to where my body is, the way a long car trip prepares you for your destination.
    Beckett was still in California when I pulled off I-80 into Cheyenne. I spent a couple days there anyway, getting familiar with his setting as a second choice to being with him personally. Walked around his campus, had coffee in the student union, ate dinner at the brew pub. There, between wine and dinner and dinner and dessert, I wrote Beck a long letter, explaining that I was divorcing his father, that I was moving to Jackson Hole, that I loved him and always would. I slipped it under his dormitory room door. Before leaving Cheyenne I asked for directions to Jackson at a gas station.
    â€œTake this road to Rock Springs and make a right.”
    A four-hundred-fifty-mile trip with one turn?
    It was that simple.
    Now I read the directions for my new phone, untangle the wires and plug it into the phone jack. Just like the lights, this works, too. I dial Beckett’s number, hoping he’s back from visiting Delinda.
    â€œHey,” he answers.
    â€œIt’s me. How was your trip?”
    â€œRotten. She wasn’t there.”
    Damn her. She has promised most of Beck’s childhood away. Promised visits, gifts, phone calls, and only come through often enough to keep rumors from spreading that she was no longer among the living. Beck is like a laboratory mouse that gets food once in every ten lever pulls, and each promise has just increased his fervor to keep believing her.
    â€œI want to tell you something, Beckett.” I pause and ask, “You got my letter?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œAll your life you and your father have called Delinda your ‘real mother.’ Delinda is your birth mother. I am your real mother. I have cared for you, fed you, watched you breathe at night, chased behind you on your two-wheeler, packed your school lunches…mothered you, Beckett. And I have loved every minute. I am your mother—do you hear me? I will no longer accept a diminished position in your life. I am your mother.” I stop, exhausted. My heart revving. My hands shaking.
    Long pause, no response. Has this stinker picked up his father’s habit? Did I fail to insert a question in there?
    â€œSo…Mom, how’s it hanging up there in old Jackson Hole?”
    I laugh. Beck laughs. Then I begin crying and I hear Beck sniffling in the background. I wish I could hug him.
    â€œBeckett, you are the best. If Delinda could stand still long enough for us to figure her out, we’d discover exactly how injured she is, but then…so would she. That’s what she’s running from, Beck, not you.” While I talk, I mindlessly pace my three rooms—four if I count the mudroom. From there, I see out the back door that the shaggy remains of the winter’s snow are shrinking farther into the shadowed areas, behind rocks, beneath the trees, the north side of the shed.
    â€œThis is not your fault, Beck. She does what she can, and that just doesn’t happen to be very much where you’re concerned.”
    â€œShe’s busy.”
    â€œShe’s afraid of you.” I lift a stack of clean underwear from the dryer and carry it through the kitchen, into the living room a couple feet, turn left into the bedroom. Hold the phone with my chin, pull open the closet door, and set it on the top shelf. No bureau yet.
    â€œAfraid? I don’t think so.”
    â€œI do. I think so. Afraid.”
    â€œProducers don’t have a lot of time. Even if it is a small film company. It’s okay with me.”
    Beck needs to change the subject. I can tell he’s close to overload. Before hanging up, I say, “I’ll expect