Here, Home, Hope

by Kaira Rouda

  Kathryn had called earlier and confirmed that Melanie would still love to go to Target with me. I doubted the love part, but as I pulled up in their driveway and before I could even open Doug’s door, Melanie had sprung out through the front door of her house.

  Maybe she was excited to spend time with me, or maybe, like any other fifteen-year-old who couldn’t drive, she was simply excited to go somewhere, anywhere without her parents.

  I got out of the car just as she reached for the handle, and we awkwardly waved across Doug’s roof. Once inside the car again, I smiled at the beautiful young woman Melanie had become. Not knowing whether to attempt to hug her, I patted her hand instead. She was thin, no doubt about it, and her dark brown eyes were framed by dark brown hair like her mom’s. She smiled at me.

  Next thing I knew, she’d popped in a pair of earbuds and was fiddling with her cell phone. I backed Doug out of the driveway and turned toward Target, clueless as to how to start a conversation. So I didn’t, until we turned into the parking lot.

  “So, the boys really like getting cases of Coke in their care packages,” I said, loudly.

  “Okay,” she answered, giving me a weird look as if to say I shouldn’t be screaming at her.

  “Do you babysit? Do you have any other ideas what the boys might like? David and Sean are fourteen and twelve now. You haven’t seen them in a couple years, but David is really almost your age, so you’ll know what he might like,” I said, trying not to yell, but she still had the darn plugs in her ears.

  “I don’t babysit, and I’m almost sixteen,” she said.

  This was going to be one long trip to Target, I thought.

  But actually, it wasn’t. I pulled out a cart, and so did Melanie. She smiled and then took a sharp right down the first aisle. I stood frozen by the cart corral, watching Melanie walk away—that is, until an irate woman with a screaming toddler barked “excuse me.”

  Yes, exactly. Excuse me. I zipped forward and caught up to Mel as she turned into the toothbrush/toothpaste aisle.

  “Hey,” I said, and clearly I’d surprised her. Good, I thought. Ditching me wasn’t going to be that easy. “Glad you’re in this aisle. I should send each of the boys a new toothbrush. David loves these battery-powered automatic ones, and I swear his teeth are the whitest in the family. Maybe I should get one myself.” Why not, I thought? I could sonic my face and my teeth.

  “Aunt Kelly, do you need me for anything?” Melanie asked, giving me a hand-on-hip attitude like nobody’s business.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, shooting attitude back at her, while noticing a faint burning in my eye. Oh nuts. No tears. I shook my head and said, “Yes, I need you to help me pick out things for the boys. For camp. Can you help?”

  “Yeah, just give me a sec, okay? Where are you going to be? I’ll be right over.”

  “Electronics,” I said, feeling banished to Siberia by the tiny teen. “Hurry,” I added, clearly asserting my superiority.

  “Whatever,” she mumbled as I rolled away.

  She did join me, though, and gave me her opinion on different gift ideas: lame, lame, sick (good?), lame, fine. We hit the camping aisle where there were always new gadgets and gizmos to send to the boys. My favorite so far this season had been a tiny clip-on camping lantern. David had requested a new sleeping bag, and Melanie picked one out that I assumed she deemed not lame. After a swing down the various food aisles—picking up Coke, candy, beef jerky—we were ready to head out.

  “So, how about you come over to my house and we can pack all of this up?” I asked in my most friendly Kelly Johnson/Carol Brady voice.

  “I really need to get back,” Melanie said in her best imitation of a bored and hostile teenager. Well, actually, I think she was a bored and hostile teenager.

  “Okay, I just figured since both of us were kinda hanging around the house, we could hang out together. That’s all,” I said.

  “Yeah, I know that’s what you and my mom think. I’ll just hang out with you and life will be all better. It’s not gonna work that way,” she said. We’d rolled up to checkout lane 14. It reminded me of one of my most miserable summer jobs: checkout for Gold Circle, a much less glamorous, low-end version of Target. I wore a red polyester apron. It was long before scanners, so we had to key in each SKU. Big fun. Maybe that’s what Mel needed. A job. That could teach her how boring things could really be.

  “So, maybe you could get a job. I saw that the library is hiring. That would be fun. Or Graeter’s? I know they hire a lot of teens for the summer. Scooping ice cream would rock—ah, be great,” I said. David told me to promise never to say anything rocked; I was too old.

  Melanie looked at me like she wanted to punch me and said, “Maybe you should get a job.”

  We rode back to her house in silence. She had her earphones in, but I wasn’t sure who or what she was listening to. I kept my grip tight on Doug’s steering wheel, repeating to myself, “I will not cry.” I didn’t. Not in front of Melanie, at least. I saved my angry tears until later.

  LATER, ACTUALLY, WAS ALMOST AS SOON AS DR. WEISKOPF SAT down and asked me how I was doing. I’d been relieved to discover that the doctor was a woman, and I was charmed that she had a male assistant who answered the phones. Her office was in a discreet location: a small townhome tucked into the back of a commercial office complex. I could park right in front of her door and dash in. Nobody in Grandville would be the wiser.

  “More tissues?” she asked, patiently, smiling a half smile and looking quite motherly. She was wearing a long purple flowing dress and sensible clog-like shoes. She’d wrapped a multicolored scarf around her neck, and her hair was an inch long all over, and completely gray. She was my new idol. T2C #4, about not comparing myself to others, flashed through my mind. Maybe she was who I wanted to be later? There, that was better.

  I nodded yes, and she handed me the tissue box.

  “Kelly, why don’t we talk a little bit about why you decided to come see me?”

  I told her about getting her card during the biopsy. I told her everything was fine then, as well as at my three-month follow-up. And then I told her how even the smallest things were making me cry.

  “And, the strangest part is that I can’t even talk about the big things. Not with anyone. Not that they ask,” I said. What I didn’t add, however, was that if they did ask I wouldn’t know what to say.

  “Kelly, it’s very common to start to reexamine your life purpose after a scare like you’ve had. It brings up all types of questions about why you are here, your time on earth, what you still long to do, unfulfilled dreams and the like,” she said. “The key, and I believe you already know this and that’s why you’re here, is not to push these things down. Not to hide from the fact that these questions are coming to the surface for you. Moreover, it’s quite common to feel depressed. Have you ever suffered from depression?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure.” There had been a time in my life when I had felt this lost. Just after college graduation, before starting my job, starting my life, I had felt alone. It was before Patrick and I married, and, well, I was sad. “Maybe.”

  “For women who’ve had previous depressive episodes, it’s quite common for depression to show up again at major life incidents. Your cancer scare and turning an age that you tell me is a milestone to you, are major life incidents,” she explained.

  “So what do I do?”

  “What you are doing. I think it’s wonderful that you are making a Things to Change list. And reaching out to help your friend’s daughter is a great gesture. We always help ourselves when we give to others. Coming to see me was a big step forward, and I’m so glad you had the courage to take it.

  “I’m also going to give you a prescription for an antidepressant. It will take a couple of weeks to build up in your system. It will help even out your mood swings, and hopefully dry up those tears, until you don’t need it any longer.

  “I like to explain depression like this. Imagine your
brain as a bathtub, and it’s usually filled all the way to the top with endorphins. In a depressed person, the brain alone can fill the bathtub only halfway. With medicine, the brain is then able to fill the bathtub all the way to the top. The medicine will help you continuously fill the tub back up until you can do it yourself.”

  “Okay, I think I understand, but what do I do with myself?” I asked.

  “I’d like you to see me again in two weeks. And I’d like you to keep making your T2C list. It’s a great idea. And remember, Kelly, it’s not just a fun list to make. These are all items you will need to put into practice, to act upon, in order to achieve results and truly change your life. It’s quite common for a death scare to cause a thoughtful woman to reevaluate her life and the people in it. You want to have a bigger purpose, to feel more real. You need to be sure you get beyond thinking about things, however, and actually make some change. That’s the key.” And then our time was up.

  I felt better. I’d talked to someone who didn’t know me, or anything about me, for the first time in my life, and I felt better. Maybe I wouldn’t need the pills, I thought, but maybe I would. I’d fill the prescription anyway. Back home, I decided to call Kathryn’s work number.

  “Thank you so much,” she said, the instant her assistant put the call through.

  “Ah, for what?”

  “Melanie had a great time with you and can’t wait to hang out again tomorrow!”

  Maybe I had picked up the wrong child? No, I knew Kathryn’s house. I’d had the right girl.

  “Hmm, well, alright. Maybe we could go to the library or something. I noticed that they’re hiring teens for some part-time summer hours. Do you think Mel would enjoy getting a job?”

  “Oh no. I work enough for both of us. I just want her to relax, to enjoy her summer, to get to know you better, and to get well.”

  Alrighty then. “Okay, I’ll pick her up again at ten o’clock tomorrow. We’ll do something fun.”

  “Thanks so much, Kelly. You can’t imagine how much this means to me,” she said, and hung up.

  I’d decided Melanie could not out-snark or outwit me. Heck, I’d been a teenage girl at one point; I could do this. I was prepared for battle. We’d go grocery shopping, come back to my house, cook a big pan of lasagna, and deliver it to the homeless shelter downtown.

  “Cute necklace,” I said to Melanie as she climbed into Doug. She had been ready and waiting for me on the front steps. It was as if she was eager to see me, but then as soon as she did, she’d clam up and retreat.

  “Thanks. Got it at Target,” she said and then gave me a look. We both knew she hadn’t bought anything at Target the day before. I’d specifically asked if she had needed anything, and she’d demurred. Her cart had remained empty the entire trip. “Last week,” she added quickly.

  I didn’t believe her, but I didn’t press. Not now. “So, we’re going to go get some groceries and then make a casserole to take down to the shelter. Sound okay?”

  “Sure,” she said, and popped in her earbuds.

  “Ah, Melanie, could you talk to me, you know, instead of putting those in? Please?” I asked in my sweetest Kelly Mills Johnson/Shirley Jones Partridge voice.

  She pulled them out and stared straight ahead. I made a mental note to take my first happy pill when I got back home. “Come on, Get Happy,” the Partridge Family sang in my head.

  “So, your mom says you have a boyfriend.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Gavin.”

  “How long have you been going out? Is it serious?”

  “Um, I don’t know?”

  “I’m not your mom, you can tell me,” I said. We were stopped at a traffic light and I was staring at my lucky penny. “I can’t wait until David has his first girlfriend.”

  She looked at me for a few seconds. “Actually, he’s great. He’s the only person who gets me.”

  Well, that was something. Every woman (and man, for that matter) needed somebody to get her. Him. I wondered if Patrick still got me. He had me, but did he get me? Of course he did. Right? Focus on the teen, I reminded myself and said, “That’s great. I’d love to meet him.”

  “Uh-huh.” Melanie plugged the earphones back into her head.

  Day by day, we were making progress—slow progress—Melanie and I. We actually had walked together through the grocery store. I had been afraid she’d grab her own shopping cart again. Back home, when we made the casserole, she’d been a big help in the kitchen. We discovered that we both loved Starbucks—me, a soy latte, and her, the roast coffee of the day, black—and that we both hated our hair. Melanie’s wouldn’t hold a curl; mine wouldn’t stay straight. We were bonding. Well, sort of. She was still text messaging like crazy, but she was no longer putting her headphones in to totally tune me out. Progress.

  Tonight, after Patrick and I had grilled our meal and cleaned up together, the telephone rang. It was Kathryn. She thanked me again for the time I’d spent with Melanie, who reported she was having a great time with me. Kathryn had to make a business trip and she’d feel better if Melanie was not home alone. She’d convinced Bruce to agree to allow her to come stay with me since he’d be out of town a lot, too. I’d readily agreed. Why not? It was like having an exchange student from the country of Thin. Perhaps I could learn from her and show her some of the customs of the country of Fat.

  We could do this, Melanie and I. I hoped Patrick would agree. I decided to wait until the morning to tell him. He was, after all, a morning person. I was feeling better after talking with Dr. Weiskopf. And I was taking my pills and making my lists. I’d be a new, improved Kelly in no time.

  Telling Patrick I wanted to read for a little while downstairs, I headed to my desk in the kitchen, fired up my computer, and did some more research on anorexia. I found out that it leads to severe depressive disorders, or may be caused by them. Maybe Mel needed antidepressants too. And then I thought again about the outwardly perfect Majors family. That’s the thing: you just never know what goes on behind closed doors. One out of eight households suffer from domestic violence—our society’s code word for abuse and murder when the victim happens to be related to you—so as I looked out my window at the houses illuminated by the streetlights, I was looking into the windows of someone suffering in silence. Who knew how many anorexic girls and women populated the town of Grandville?

  T2C #8: Remember all of my blessings. In fact, along that remembering line, I decided to make sure I’d written all of my ideas on Post-it notes and found out that so far I was caught up. I’d even written down #4: Don’t compare yourself to others. Now I decided I needed to stick them around my kitchen and upstairs in my bedroom too. That way I was holding myself to them.

  I’d put T2C #4 on Doug’s dashboard (he shouldn’t compare himself to others either) because out in the world was where the others I tended to compare myself to were most likely to appear.

  IN THE MORNING, BEFORE ENJOYING MY FIRST CUP OF TAR OR mentioning to Patrick we would have another exchange student (sort of), I had a slight crisis. The gray stripe that appeared every three weeks or so had arrived on the top of my head and had marched, seemingly overnight, three inches down either side of my part. The hair at my temples was glistening with gray. Handling a perfectionist teenage anorexic with a gray stripe on my head would not be good. After all, I needed all the self-confidence I could muster.

  I immediately called Thomas on his private line and told him an emergency blonding was required. He agreed to work me in at 9:30. That catastrophe avoided, I got ready and hoped Patrick would be out the door by the time I made it to the kitchen. He wasn’t. But I decided instead of jumping into the “Melanie moving in” discussion, I’d keep it light for now. I had hair problems to deal with first.

  “Don’t forget the call with the boys today,” I said sweetly.

  “Of course not! It’s the highlight of the week.” He poured me a cup of tar. “I’ve got to run, honey, but I’ll t
alk to you with the boys later.”

  Today, being a Wednesday, was camp telephone day. The boys would call at 2:10 and 2:20 respectively. This also meant that I would neurotically check my watch all day in the desperate need to know I wouldn’t miss hearing their angelic voices.

  Time to start thinking of witty questions for them. “What did you have for dinner?” wasn’t good. “Camp food stinks,” Sean would say. Then I’d ask, “What’s your favorite activity this week?” “All of them,” David would answer. And then, silence. Nope. Must maximize the conversation. Of course, Patrick would be on the call, too, helping to bring in some manly bantering. “Did you kill anything with your bare hands?” Then they’d all laugh. Men. Boys.

  Doug and I, both committed to T2C #4, pulled into the salon parking lot at 9:25 am sharp. My cell phone rang. I grabbed it and dashed in the door, answering the call. The NO CELL PHONES sign on the front door glared at me just before the receptionist did.

  “I can’t talk now,” I whispered to Charlotte, covering the phone and my mouth with my left hand and walking back outside. “I’ll call you back. I’m having emergency gray stripe repair. Thomas, God love him, worked me in.”

  “Okay, but you have to call me back the minute you’re through! I need your help and it could be really fun!” Charlotte chirped.

  Sounded suspicious, I thought, as I changed into the plastic smock that would protect me from the hair chemicals I probably shouldn’t be allowing on my scalp.

  I had turned almost completely gray just after Sean was born, twelve years ago. I thought I’d just give in to nature and go gray then, thus saving a fortune on hair coloring and, perhaps, warding off brain cancer. But Patrick and Thomas both thought I was crazy, that I’d look old—so here I am.