When I got hired at the marketing firm right after graduation, I felt pretty proud of myself, and I thought I had life all figured out. I mapped my course, deciding that I would work hard and be successful in my career. Then I would meet and marry a nice Christian guy with a really good job that paid well enough to support both of us, plus our three lovely children—two girls and one boy—along with two golden retrievers anda calico cat, in a nice house in the suburbs. Out of that dream, all I have right now is a cat, and he's not even a calico. Nor is he happy at the moment. Poor Felix has been making his grumbling sounds all morning. I glance over at his crate and wonder how he'll adapt to living at my mom's house. At least he'll have room to roam there. And maybe he'll cheer Mom up. She always did like cats. Especially those big black-and-whites like Felix.
This thought encourages me some. I remind myself that I'm not just going home because I have failed at my life. I'm going home because Mom needs me. She's needed me for a year now, but I've been too busy to notice. All three of us girls have been too busy to notice: Cammie with her last year of med school, Callie with the twins, and me ruining my life by being totally oblivious. Poor Mom, all alone, rattling around in that big old house as she tries to survive a broken heart. Shortly after Dad left, Mom confessed to me over the phone that she usually slept in until noon or later. I told her it was probably just depression and suggested she watch
The First Wives Club.
But the last time I saw her, she was still in the thick of it. She tried to act cheerful for the sake of the rest of us, and she promised to renew her real-estate license, but I could tell she was tired and depressed and that she'd put on even more weight. Her usually light brown hair had turned gray. It was as if she'd aged ten years in just a few months.
I imagine her now as I drive. She's probably schlepping around in her old, plaid flannel robe, if she's even up yet since it's barely past noon. Maybe she's in front of the TV putting away a box ofRussell Stovers. Chocolate is pretty much her drug of choice. I'm guessing the drapes are still drawn. She also confessed that she pretends she's not home if anyone stops by. “They all act like they come here to cheer me up,” she told me. “But I think they just come to gape. They want to see how fat I'm getting, like I'm some sort of sideshow freak.”
“What about your good friends?” I say, listing the ladies I remember her spending time with while I was growing up.
“Well, Barbara Berg moved to Florida last year,” she told me. “And you know Cynthia died of cancer. And Phyllis and Harold Abraham, well, they were one of our
couples
friends, so that's no good.” On she went, listing all her friends and all the reasons they don't come around anymore. Really, I was depressed by the time she finished. Poor Mom.
“Here I come,” I say aloud. I feel my spirits rising now, like maybe I will be Supergirl to the rescue—just me and my little cat, Felix. We'll get Mom out of her blue funk and back into the functioning world again. Maybe we can take walks together. Maybe we'll start a new hobby. It'll be fun. And who knows, maybe I'll find myself along the way.
My excitement builds as I drive into the mountains, slowly getting closer to my hometown. Just the sight of those magnificent ponderosa pines along the highway and the clear blue sky stretching overhead, well, feels almost like a welcome-home hug. Although I complained about it as a kid, I know I was blessed to grow up in the small mountain town of Black Bear. It might not be the biggestor fanciest place, but its friendly and pretty and situated only minutes from Black Bear Butte, a small but popular ski resort. All three of us girls learned to ski at an early age, and Cammie even took up snowboarding in high school, which infuriated my dad since he believed that boarders were rebels. The
This thought encourages me some. I remind myself that I'm not just going home because I have failed at my life. I'm going home because Mom needs me. She's needed me for a year now, but I've been too busy to notice. All three of us girls have been too busy to notice: Cammie with her last year of med school, Callie with the twins, and me ruining my life by being totally oblivious. Poor Mom, all alone, rattling around in that big old house as she tries to survive a broken heart. Shortly after Dad left, Mom confessed to me over the phone that she usually slept in until noon or later. I told her it was probably just depression and suggested she watch
The First Wives Club.
But the last time I saw her, she was still in the thick of it. She tried to act cheerful for the sake of the rest of us, and she promised to renew her real-estate license, but I could tell she was tired and depressed and that she'd put on even more weight. Her usually light brown hair had turned gray. It was as if she'd aged ten years in just a few months.
I imagine her now as I drive. She's probably schlepping around in her old, plaid flannel robe, if she's even up yet since it's barely past noon. Maybe she's in front of the TV putting away a box ofRussell Stovers. Chocolate is pretty much her drug of choice. I'm guessing the drapes are still drawn. She also confessed that she pretends she's not home if anyone stops by. “They all act like they come here to cheer me up,” she told me. “But I think they just come to gape. They want to see how fat I'm getting, like I'm some sort of sideshow freak.”
“What about your good friends?” I say, listing the ladies I remember her spending time with while I was growing up.
“Well, Barbara Berg moved to Florida last year,” she told me. “And you know Cynthia died of cancer. And Phyllis and Harold Abraham, well, they were one of our
couples
friends, so that's no good.” On she went, listing all her friends and all the reasons they don't come around anymore. Really, I was depressed by the time she finished. Poor Mom.
“Here I come,” I say aloud. I feel my spirits rising now, like maybe I will be Supergirl to the rescue—just me and my little cat, Felix. We'll get Mom out of her blue funk and back into the functioning world again. Maybe we can take walks together. Maybe we'll start a new hobby. It'll be fun. And who knows, maybe I'll find myself along the way.
My excitement builds as I drive into the mountains, slowly getting closer to my hometown. Just the sight of those magnificent ponderosa pines along the highway and the clear blue sky stretching overhead, well, feels almost like a welcome-home hug. Although I complained about it as a kid, I know I was blessed to grow up in the small mountain town of Black Bear. It might not be the biggestor fanciest place, but its friendly and pretty and situated only minutes from Black Bear Butte, a small but popular ski resort. All three of us girls learned to ski at an early age, and Cammie even took up snowboarding in high school, which infuriated my dad since he believed that boarders were rebels. The
Similar Books
