“Dad hates pickles. You never buy pickles.”
I can’t think of a single word to say. All I can do is stand there, wishing things were different between us, that we knew how to communicate like normal people. Thomas was our anchor; without him, we are adrift in uncharted seas.
Abigail clenches her hands into fists. Her voice rises. “My entire life, there has never been a jar of pickles in the refrigerator. Why now?”
Anger rises, hot and bitter, born of years of being told what I can and cannot do, even to the extent of what I can eat and when and where. At the same time, I feel the grief underneath her words; I want to soothe and comfort her. So I keep my tone as level as I can and offer an explanation rather than a retort.
“I was at the grocery store last week, buying mustard, and I walked by the pickle section. Bread-and-butter pickles. Hot pickles. Sweet. Gherkin. Dill. And I remembered that before I got married I loved pickles. When I was a kid, they were my favorite food and I ate them with everything, even for breakfast. How could I forget something like that? People all over the world eat pickles every day. It’s not like they are . . . evil or something. The apostle Paul never mentioned them, even once! There is absolutely no reason in the world why I shouldn’t eat them, too, other than that your father didn’t like them.”
As soon as I’m done, I’m sorry.
Abigail’s whole body is one clenched muscle of grief and resistance. Tears trickle down her cheeks, and she brushes them off with the backs of her hands.
My anger vanishes as rapidly as it appeared, leaving a dull gray weariness in its wake. “I know you miss him,” I say, gently now. “But he’s not coming back. Everything has changed, and we have to change, too.”
“You don’t. You don’t, and the house doesn’t.”
“But I do, Abigail. It’s inevitable. Listen—”
“There’s absolutely no reason why you can’t do things the way you’ve always done them, keep the house the way you’ve always kept it. None.”
“What you’re saying is that you want the house to be a museum and me to be a wax sculpture. That’s not fair, Abigail.”
“I didn’t say you had to be a sculpture. I’m just asking that you conduct yourself—”
“The way he would have wanted me to. Is that it?”
“Yes! Why is that so hard?”
“Because I’m a human being.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mother. Don’t be so melodramatic. Just . . . behave with some decorum. Is that too much to ask?”
I want to tell her that it depends on what she means by “decorum,” but I already know the answer. I’m the widow of a godly man. I am expected to live out the rest of my days quietly doing good works. And Abigail, who has always worked so hard to control her world, will fight to keep me and the house from changing.
Abigail retreats into professional mode. “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she says. “Grief affects people in all kinds of ways. Are you sleeping? Eating?”
“I live on a diet of pickles and French fries. Haven’t slept in a week. Is that what you want to hear?”
She flings her hands up in frustration. “Oh, good grief! I’m just trying to take care of you. You’re acting like a child.”
“Maybe it would help if you stopped treating me like one. Has it occurred to you that I can take care of myself?”
“You’re not making a very good case for that, I have to say. Don’t take this as criticism, Mother. You’ve been very brave, but you’re not young anymore, and I know this has been a terrible stress. But you are not yourself right now.”
“You think all there is of me is Mrs. Lightsey, your mother, the pastor’s wife.”
“But that is who you are! You’re not making any sense.”
“I prefer to go by Liz, did you know that? Your father was the first one to call me Elizabeth. I was a tomboy who loved to climb trees and run barefoot. I was going to write plays, and maybe be an actress when I grew up.”
“When I grew older, I put away childish things,” Abigail says.
“Don’t you quote scripture at me.” I’m the one who is shouting now. If I hear one more quote from the ubiquitous apostle Paul, I am going to scream. Straightening my spine, standing as tall as I possibly can, I reach for a voice of authority, rusty with disuse, and plant my hands on my hips. I have something to say, and for once, I am going to say it instead of keeping it to myself or writing it in my journal later.
“Now you listen to me. Your father’s death was sudden and tragic, and there is nothing we can do to change that, or to bring him back. But you and I are still alive, still here. And if I’m locked into spending the rest of my life never changing, never growing anywhere except old, then I might as well be dead and buried in a grave beside him.”
A loud silence swirls around us. Abigail’s face pales. She takes a step toward me, one hand outstretched. “Mom. Are you thinking about—harming yourself?”
“Oh, for the love of God, no! You aren’t listening to me!”
She draws a deep breath. Her hand drops to her side and her jaw tightens. “That settles it. I’m moving home.”
I stare at her with my mouth open, emotions rattling through me like a freight train.
Excitement at the idea of the chance to build a relationship with my daughter.
Doom for the tiny bit of freedom I’ve garnered.
Guilt at the idea that she is going to sacrifice her life and come home to play the martyr.
The guilt wins. “You don’t need to move home, Abigail. I’m fine. You have a life in Spokane.”
“It’s not open for discussion. I should have done this right away. You need me. I’ll give notice and apply at the clinic and the hospital. Colville is always short on nurses.”
“But you love your job! We don’t have a trauma center here.”
She shrugs as if this doesn’t matter. “Honor your father and your mother,” she says. “I promised Daddy I’d take care of you if anything happened to him. I haven’t done that.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to give up your life, Abigail. Do what makes you happy.”
It’s like I haven’t even spoken. “I’ll move back into my old room. I’ll apply on Monday. I already work for Providence, so it shouldn’t take long.”
I can’t let her do this. Having Abigail home won’t improve our relationship; it will cement us both into the adversarial positions we’ve developed over the years. But how can I tell my daughter that I don’t want her here? Maybe she needs this. Maybe she even needs me.
Before I can think of a single thing to say, Val knocks and barges in without waiting for an answer. “Audition results are already up! You are not going to believe this!”
She flings her arms around me and spins me around, laughing and squealing.
“Did you get the part?” I ask when she lets me go and I can breathe again.
“Me? Oh, I got a part. But so did you. You got Lacey! You’re going to be the lead!”
I cling to Val to steady my head, still spinning from our wild whirling.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You are Lacey! Lance is Darcy. And—”
“But, you wanted to be Lacey.”
Val shrugs. “I don’t have time for all of the lead rehearsals. I’d have to miss for work. But you can totally do this. We just need to cancel all of your shit!”
“Cancel what, exactly?” Abigail’s tone is frosty, disapproving.
Reality settles onto my shoulders, heavy and dull. “I’m not canceling anything. You know I can’t do this, Val. I never even meant to audition.”
“Right? That’s the total fun of the thing! And you and Lance will be perfect together. Come on, Liz, it will be good for you.”
Just for an instant, I entertain the possibility. This is my chance to break out of my stifling routine, to get back to a world I have always loved. Weeks of rehearsals in place of drudgery. Me and Lance, onstage together. I’m dizzy again for a whole different
reason.
Abigail glances from me to Val and back again. “You auditioned for a play?” She says it as if I’d auditioned to be a pole dancer instead of for community theater. “Mother! What will people think?”
She turns on Val. “This is your doing. Mom’s vulnerable, and you’ve taken advantage of that, dragging her away from her friends and her support system. Leading her into temptation. This needs to stop.”
Val looks like she’s been slapped. Abigail breathes like a bull about to charge.
I put my hand on Val’s arm. “Thank you. For everything. But I really can’t. Will you explain to Bill?”
Her eyes meet mine, and I shrink away from the hurt and disappointment I read there.
“No,” she says. “You can tell him yourself.”
Chapter Eight
The next morning, Abigail is up before me. When I shuffle into the kitchen, oatmeal bubbles on the stove. The coffeepot is on, and I pour myself a mug, add cream, and take my first sacred morning sip. It tastes all wrong, flavorless and thin. My face twists into a grimace.
“Which beans did you use?”
Abigail, busy slicing an apple, doesn’t look up. “It’s decaf.”
“Well, that explains everything.” I set the mug down on the counter with a little more force than intended.
“Sleep is important,” she says. “Caffeine is—”
“Necessary to both of us surviving the morning. Did you want some of this before I dump it? Because I am making real coffee.” I open the cupboard door to grab my usual blend, but it has been replaced. New bag. New brand. 100 percent decaffeinated.
“I’ve made you a healthy breakfast,” Abigail continues. “Come eat. And then we’ll get ready for church.”
My future plays out before my eyes. Life with Abigail will be as regimented and controlled as it was with Thomas, only—healthier. Without caffeine. The room closes in around me. I can’t breathe. My hand goes to my chest, and I’m aware that I’m gasping.
“Mom?” Abigail queries. “Mom? Are you okay?”
I look at her, the kitchen, the hijacked coffeepot. My throat clogs with the smell of oatmeal, a food I’ve detested since I was a child.
I have to get out of this house.
Without another word, I scoop up my purse and make a break for the front door, Abigail on my heels. I snag my keys on the way out and flee to my car, slamming the door behind me and hitting the locks. I’m in my pajamas and slippers, hair uncombed, but I don’t care about anything except getting away.
Abigail pounds on my window as I start the car and back out of the driveway. I watch her in my rearview, growing smaller and smaller. And then I turn a corner and she is gone.
I drive aimlessly, windows open, even though it’s still too cool for that and I’m not properly dressed. The wind helps me feel free, makes it easier to catch my breath. When the panic passes and my heart settles to a reasonable rate and rhythm, I head into town.
First thing, I grab coffee and a breakfast bar from Ritzes drive-through. Coffee, real coffee, the way God intended it with caffeine included, switches on my brain. The sugar from the breakfast bar feeds my inner rebel, and I begin to feel human again, a woman with at least the illusion of control over her own life. But I am not ready to go home and have a come-to-Jesus conversation with my daughter, and I am certainly not going to church.
Instead, I drive all the way out to Bradbury Beach, losing myself in the twists and turns of the drive, the forests, the occasional vistas of the Columbia River. I park in the lot, wishing I had decent clothes, and shoes instead of slippers, so I could get out and walk. But I just sit in my car, gazing out at the river and sky, breathing, searching for the magic answer that will free me and my daughter from the tangle we’re in.
It feels like Thomas has reached out from the grave to control us both. I don’t want to live the life he foisted on me. And I don’t want my daughter to give up the life I know she wants and deserves. But she’s as stubborn as he was, and has the desperation of grief, youth, and indoctrination behind her.
My phone rings. Again.
It’s been ringing and chiming at intervals since I left home, and I know that Abigail is worried and I’m being selfish. I should at least let her know that I’m alive.
So I answer without looking at the call display.
“Elizabeth Lightsey?”
I try to be polite to telemarketers, telling myself they are just people trying to make a living, but today politeness comes hard. “Please take me off your list.”
“Your daughter asked me to call.”
My thumb hovers over the disconnect button.
“Maybe it would help if I introduce myself,” the caller says. “My name is Mavis, and I’m a counselor at NEW Hope.”
A jolt of electricity goes through me, like lightning from on high.
“Abigail is worried about you.”
“Abigail is a worrier.”
“Mrs. Lightsey. Elizabeth. Your daughter says you told her you want to die, and that you drove off this morning in a highly emotional state and she has no idea where you are.”
“You have got to be kidding.” I lean my head back and take a breath.
“Can you tell me where you are right now?”
“No. I mean, I could, but I’m fine. There’s no need. Seriously. Abigail has completely overreacted.”
The woman’s voice, warm, compassionate, professional, is relentless. “Your daughter tells me she’s a nurse and knows the signs of suicidal behavior. We would all feel so much better if you—”
“This is not about her, or you, or how any of you feel!” I snap, my emotions finally deciding which direction they want to go. Not laughter, not grief, but pure, unadulterated anger. At this moment, what I want more than anything in the world is to turn my meddling, controlling daughter over my knee and spank her.
“Of course not,” the woman says soothingly. “And I’d love to help you.”
“I am not planning on dying anytime soon.”
“Can you tell me more about what ‘soon’ means to you?”
I take one breath, and then another. I know how the mental health crisis system works. I’ve called them at Thomas’s request, listened as they interviewed suicidal people right in my own living room. If this woman on the phone isn’t satisfied that I’m safe, she could get a trace on my cell phone. Come after me with a deputy, drag me in for a psych evaluation and maybe even detention. Given that Abigail is a professional, they’ll give her word more weight than mine.
I have to tell this woman something, but I resent the intrusion into my life. I don’t want to rehash the morning’s scene with Abigail or get into my untapped reservoir of guilt or talk about my lack of proper grief over my husband’s death or the crushing boredom that threatens to consume me. I choose my words carefully, laying them out in my mind before I speak.
“Listen—it’s Mavis, yes? Let me be very clear, Mavis. What I said to my daughter was that I would rather die than continue to live my life as I have been. But I have no intention of doing that, do you understand? What I meant to tell her is that I am choosing to explore life and expand my horizons. I do not think about dying. I have no plan to end my life.”
I hear typing on the other end of the line as Mavis records my comment. Perfect. A chunk of my life is now documented in the mental health crisis system.
“I’m glad to hear that, Elizabeth,” she says after a moment. “I’m sure your daughter will be relieved—”
“My daughter needs to mind her own business.”
To my surprise, the woman laughs. “Chances are good she’s having difficulty with her own grief process, and so is hypervigilant about yours. Good for you, for expanding your horizons. Maybe you could let her know you are all right? She sounded quite frantic when she called.”
“I will do that, forthwith.”
“And if you ever need to talk, we do have counseling available. And I have a crisis line number I’d like to give you, as well.
Just in case.”
“Sure. Thank you.” I pretend to write down the number that I have no intention of calling, even asking her to repeat it for clarification.
When the call disconnects, something hot and fierce bubbles up inside of me at the thought of being forced back into the old, monotonous life. This is no flash of anger, no transient emotion. I feel bigger, more alive, and I can’t—won’t—go back to that small, pale existence. Not for the sake of the church, not even for Abigail.
I dial Val, and when she answers, I say one single word.
“Yes.”
Chapter Nine
When I get home, Abigail meets me at the door, not tearstained and worried but imperious and outraged. “I can’t believe you ran off like that! Do you want to explain yourself?”
Her tone sparks my own anger. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.” I brush by her and drop my purse on the couch.
“You’ve been gone for hours! I didn’t know where you were!”
“I’m all grown up, Abigail. I’m not required to tell you where I’m going.”
“You were upset. You skipped church. You left the house in your pajamas!”
I raise my eyebrows, making a point of looking her over from head to toe. “You’re upset. You are in your pajamas.”
Abigail runs a hand over her nightshirt, eyes widening, as if startled to discover this is the truth. “But I’m not . . .” She stops, clearly biting back words.
“Let’s get something very clear.” I kick off my slippers, leaving them where they fall instead of lining them up in the expected orderly fashion. “I’m not planning suicide. And you will not, ever, invade my privacy like that again.”
Abigail blinks, takes a step back. I realize I’ve been shouting and that it feels good to shout. I’m tired of silencing my emotions, tired of letting everybody tell me what to do.
“I’ll do my own thinking. I will drink my own coffee and eat whatever the hell I feel like for breakfast. Do you hear me?”
“I’m just trying to—”
“I know what you’re trying to do. I have enough people in this town with their noses in my personal life. If you’re planning to live at home, you’d better get that straight right now. You’re not going to tell me what to do.”
A Borrowed Life Page 6