Matt stormed back inside the house, slamming the door behind him, hard enough to rattle the big front window. Lana sighed, turned to Nick, and held up her hands.
“I can’t win.”
“You care too much,” Nick said, climbing back into his car. “And I mean that as a compliment. Don’t let this situation with Graham change that. This whole thing is just a process you have to go through right now. It’s not who you are.”
Lana leaned in the passenger side of the car. “You know you have a knack for showing up just when I need you, and saying precisely what I need to hear?”
He laughed. “That’s the exact opposite of what my ex-wife says about me.” He smiled and waved and went on his way. Lana headed inside and found the red light on the answering machine blinking. She hit play, hoping for an old friend’s voice over that of a telemarketer.
“Hello?” Gloria’s voice rang out. “Mattie, pick up the phone, okay? It’s Mom. I called your cell but you didn’t answer. I’m sure Lana won’t mind if you use her phone.” There was a beat of silence before Gloria sighed dramatically and hung up. Lana checked on Matt, who was ensconced in his room, sulking.
“Mom called. She’d like to talk to you,” Lana said through a crack in the door. Matt was curled into a ball on his bed, facing the wall, his spine a knotted arc of tension.
“I’m too busy,” he said. “I need to do this right now.”
“Should I tell her you’re resting?” Lana said. “That you’ll call her back later?” As usual, she felt responsible for the mess around her, for Matt’s disappointment, Gloria’s need to check in with Matt, and Matt’s refusal to cooperate, but she didn’t want to be a part of any of it. And none of it really was her fault. But it still fell to her to fix.
“Tell her I don’t like talking on the phone,” Matt said. Which, of course, Gloria already knew. So then why did Lana always have to remind her?
“I can’t make him talk on the phone,” Lana said, again, to her fussing mother.
“But I haven’t spoken to him in a month. I need to hear his voice, to know he’s okay.”
It had been three months since Gloria had spoken to Matt, but Lana knew better than to correct her mother. It was just as well, really. Lana didn’t want Gloria to find out about the Spike incident. Becca understood what had happened, had commended Lana on how well she’d handled it. Gloria wouldn’t be so understanding. Not that she was in any position to judge Lana when it came to caring for Matt.
“He’s fine, Mom,” Lana said.
“Just because he’s fine by your standards doesn’t mean he’s fine by mine.”
Lana paced from the living room to the kitchen and back again. Being on the phone with Gloria always made her restless, like her muscles were surging with leftover teen angst. Gloria was the nervous-energy type, anxious and silence-evading, terminally busy. Lana made herself sit down and relax. She wanted to be nothing like her mother. “He’s eating, he’s not drinking, he’s sleeping better. He’s keeping busy with his interests. His newest one is rabies. Did you know marsupials are rabies-resistant?”
“Why in the world is he worried about rabies?”
“He’s Matt, you know? He’s not worried, he’s just interested. And he was talking to Byron about Hemingway and Steinbeck.”
“So he’s not drinking but he’s obsessing about alcoholics and fatal diseases? And you think that means he’s fine?”
Lana peeked into Matt’s room, through the door still ajar just a crack. He was at his computer, typing away. Happily immersed back into his own little world. It seemed better to leave him there.
“I’ll do my best to get him to call you later,” Lana said. “Maybe if you could try the video chat again. Then he wouldn’t feel like he was talking on the phone.”
“I told you it doesn’t work from my computer. I don’t know why and I don’t have time to figure it out. That little camera you sent me is worthless. The directions make no sense. I hope you didn’t spend a lot on it. Just have him call me. A mother has a right to talk to her children.”
Lana hung up before she lost her composure. Gloria had had Matt’s whole childhood to get to know him, but she’d been too busy rushing from one commitment to another to bother. So why cash in on her mother status now? Except to compete with Lana.
To clear her head, Lana headed to Home Depot to see about getting a tool to make hedge-trimming less of a chore. She wondered if they had machetes. She wandered aimlessly, let some burly orange-aproned man talk her into a new pair of shears. She made her way toward the register, and there was Mitch, holding hands with a lean young beauty: long-legged, light-haired, and angular-faced. Lana ducked behind a display of patio furniture to spy unseen. Mitch said something and the girl laughed and tossed her hair in response. Lana wasn’t sure, but the girl looked an awful lot like the one from the café, the musician who’d reminded Mitch of his ex. Or possibly it was the ex, and they just looked that much alike: long thin hair, long thin body. So that explained why Lana hadn’t heard from him since their dinner together. Just like Graham, he preferred the younger, flirty type. Not that Lana knew if Graham’s girlfriend was either younger or flirtier, but Lana had decided that she must be. It made her easier to loathe.
Back home with the shiny new shears, Lana had lost any desire for hedge shaping. She tried again to get Matt to talk to Gloria, with her phone on speaker and her parents on separate handsets in their retirement villa in Florida. He gave a curt hello, then mimed a headache or overstimulation by covering his temples and ears before ducking out of the room. After that her parents took turns lamenting the sad turn of events with Graham, their prized son-in-law and unpaid accountant.
“Is there any hope?” Gloria asked. “Is he really gone?”
“It’s not up to me,” Lana said. But she really wanted to ask why her mother was still rooting for the type of man who left his family.
“What will we do,” Gloria asked, “when tax time rolls around? Do we have to pay him now?”
“It’s just tragic, is what it is,” Jack chimed in. “You two had such promise. And now . . . I don’t even know if he’d finished rebalancing our portfolio.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Lana snapped. “I guess I should’ve begged him to stay on your behalf.” They sputtered and fussed like cranky toddlers, never once acknowledging that she’d lost a hell of a lot more than they had. She changed the subject back to Matt, instantly regretting it. Her parents had discouraged her from taking him in. Promised her nothing but trouble with him around her kids. It was like they were just waiting to be proven right. Stephen had been the perfect son. Even more idolized after his death. There wasn’t room for Matt to move up in the rankings.
“You know Matt will have one of his episodes, and then what’ll you do?” Gloria said.
Lana sighed. “Those were brought on by stressful situations that could’ve been avoided. This is his home. His safe place. If you understood a little more about Asperger’s—”
“Don’t you start with that again,” Gloria said. She never used the term Asperger’s. Lana wasn’t sure if she was in denial or if she thought it was more loving to refuse to label Matt. Her reasons didn’t matter. Trying to get them to care about Matt, to love him as unconditionally as they worshiped Stephen, was futile. And as her parents aged they just became more stuck in their ways. Being angry at them wasn’t going to change them. But Lana wasn’t sure what to do with the anger. She had a lifetime of it stored up.
When Lana had a class to cover at Las Juntas a few days later she ran into Mitch, like clockwork, in the teacher’s lounge. She was tempted to ask about the girl, but there was no reason. Mitch owed her nothing. That, and he was offering her a cup of coffee, good stuff, from the café down the street.
“Latte. Better than battery acid,” he said.
“Thanks. Did you know I was going to be here?”
“Gerry told me he’d called you to sub for him. Everybody loves Lana.” He smiled and nud
ged her with his elbow. Mitch was the king of mixed signals.
“Everybody but her soon-to-be ex-husband.”
“He’s an idiot. Don’t let him get you down. Get through the divorce and then go celebrate. Head to Cabo for a weekend. Or the entire summer.”
“Sounds tempting,” she said, but she was thinking: Spoken like a man with no children to consider. “I’m running the reading lab again this summer, but before it starts I might take the kids and Matt to Florida to visit my parents. I could sit on the beach there.” She hadn’t really been considering it, but once she said it aloud, it sounded like a good idea. She could prove Gloria wrong by bringing Matt to her, let her parents see firsthand how well he was adjusting, and show them that Lana wasn’t one to give up on her family responsibilities just because life threw her an unfair curveball.
“So what can you do for yourself in the meantime?” Mitch asked. “Something against your caretaker nature. Something just for you.”
Lana laughed, not because it was a ridiculous suggestion, but because her mind was blank. What did she ever do just for her? How had she ended up forty-four and single, without one hobby or interest aside from her family? What did women her age do for fun or relaxation anyway? Mitch watched her think it over.
“That bad, huh?” he said, laughing. She shrugged. Nodded. “Okay, what about yoga?” he suggested. “I’m in an awesome class. Very low-key, perfect for a beginner.”
Lana wanted to object, but she really couldn’t think of a good reason to turn him down, aside from fear of embarrassment. Becca swore by yoga as the best form of stress relief. Lana could use some of that. Plus, she felt she’d made her point to both Gloria and Graham, the anti-snack tyrants in her life, by eating everything she wanted post-separation, and had the extra pounds to prove it. It was time to let those go, before they settled in for good.
“When?”
“Tonight. Class is at seven.” Mitch smiled. “Wear something you can move in. I’ll pick you up at six-forty.”
He arrived right on time, smelling of cologne. Who wore cologne to yoga? Lana started having misgivings about the outfit she’d chosen.
“Do you have a mat?” Mitch asked as he looked her over without a flicker of attraction. Not that she blamed him. She needed to get proper yoga pants instead of wearing her comfy couch sweats.
“No. Should I bring a blanket or a towel?”
“I tossed an extra mat into the car for you, just in case.” He flashed a smile, proud of his forward thinking. “Do you have something for your hair?” He made a motion of pulling his short hair back into a ponytail. Lana held up her left wrist to show the hair tie on it, and off they went.
En route Lana made small talk to ease her anxiety. She was not a natural athlete like her kids. She almost never exercised. She liked walking, but that was about it. A lifetime spent watching her mother diet, exercise, and, when all else failed, purge her way to thinness had led Lana to spurn most fitness regimens and avoid scales whenever possible. Gloria’s perfectionist streak had affected Lana the same way as Nick’s self-control. She had rebelled like some moody teenager. It was time to find a balance.
Lana told Mitch about Matt’s Vizsla obsession to pass the time, only to find that Mitch had a good friend with one.
“They’re amazing dogs. Smart and eager to learn. We should get them together. See if it’ll bring Matt out of his shell,” he suggested.
Lana was expecting to head downtown to one of the fancy gyms of glaring lights and pop music, spandex-clad twenty-somethings grinding to iPods before gleaming mirrors. Instead, they turned into the local community center, where low buildings flaked brown paint and eucalyptus leaves blanketed the parking lot so thickly they obliterated the lines between parking spaces. Lana agreed to the Matt and Vizsla introduction without thinking, because her stomach was suddenly a mess. It was like the first day of school all over again, that horrible anxiety of needing acceptance.
The class was in a large empty room with a once-glossy, now-marred hardwood floor. It was made up of a dozen ragtag middle-agers with a handful of hippie-ish youngsters thrown into the mix. Lana felt less anxious at the sight of them. These were her kind of yogis. She rolled out Mitch’s purple mat. She wondered if it was his ex-girlfriend’s or his current girlfriend’s or if he just liked purple.
She put her hair into a ponytail as Mitch made his rounds, apparently buddies with about half the class. The young half of the class. He stretched as he talked to his friends, getting warmed up. One girl seemed particularly interested in Mitch, showing off her sculpted body in a snug camisole and yoga capri pants. She was in the same category as Mitch’s preferred type: long hair, narrow face, tall, and thin. Lana suddenly felt self-conscious of her extra twenty pounds of curves. Well, possibly thirty. Abby had moved the scale into the kids’ bathroom and Lana had taken it as a sign that she no longer needed to weigh herself.
A handsome, reasonably aged man settled in to Lana’s left. He wore gray gym shorts and a blue Cal-Berkeley T-shirt and was so utterly lacking in pretension that his proximity put Lana back at ease.
“First time?” he asked Lana. He had nice broad shoulders, a strong jaw, thick silvering hair, and warm eyes.
“That obvious?” she asked.
“You’ll be fine. I’m terribly inflexible, so I’ll make you look good.”
Lana laughed. She wanted to chat more, but a bearded man took his place at the front of the class and bowed his head with his hands clasped before him. “Namaste,” he said. The class echoed him. “Let’s begin in mountain pose. Three deep cleansing breaths.” Everyone stood statue-straight on their mat: shoulders back, chins up, arms down at their sides. The handsome man to Lana’s left gave her encouraging little smiles as she faked her way through the class.
While many of her classmates looked her age or older, they were all able to bend into positions that Lana couldn’t even attempt. Even the handsome man next to her, Mr. Inflexible, could reach his toes while she couldn’t. And her balance was crap, too. She nearly fell over several times. Mitch helped her fine-tune her poses a couple of times, but he was such a yoga perfectionist that she felt like she was letting him down with her ineptitude.
Lana preferred to watch the handsome man to her left. He couldn’t do every pose perfectly, but he was totally at ease with the constraints of his body. He had a tendency to close his eyes as he held each pose. He seemed off somewhere peaceful and distant, somewhere Lana wanted to go, too. He caught her watching him twice and grinned, guileless and uninhibited. He was the embodiment of what she wanted to be: happy, self-accepting, with nothing to prove.
As the class progressed and Lana’s body warmed up, she was able to bend a little bit farther with each pose. By the end of the class she was a limp noodle, her muscles barely attached to her bones. The teacher walked them through a relaxation exercise, breathing and clearing their minds, letting thoughts enter but drift away like clouds in a vast sky. It worked so well that Lana fell asleep. She awoke to the instructor’s deep voice seeping into her subconscious, pulling her back to reality.
“Slowly come back into the room,” he said. “Rub your hands and feet together. When you are ready, sit up.” Lana sat up, spacey and tired, exhausted but invigorated.
“Well?” Mitch asked as he rolled up his mat.
“Amazing,” she said, unable to move just yet.
“Told you,” he said. A young man walked up and tapped Mitch’s shoulder. One of his rock-climbing buddies, judging by their conversation about crash pads and carabiners. Within minutes Mitch was surrounded by the young set, all laughing and telling stories about outdoorsy adventures and drinking binges. The young beauty flirted and flaunted before Mitch, and he gave her the attention she sought. The whole group was so young that their mere existence made Lana feel old and tired. She put on her shoes and socks and smiled at the handsome man beside her.
“Thank you,” she said. He was a reminder that beauty came in all ages, shapes, and sizes. He
had a good build, a nice face, but, most importantly, a kindness about him, his entire being a peaceful cloud.
“You did great. My first time I couldn’t do half of what you can. I’d just had back surgery and I was trying to limber up, only to realize that limber isn’t a word that will ever be associated with me.”
Lana laughed. “I understand completely. But I have no back surgery to blame.”
“Oh, I wish I could blame the surgery. I’m just built more for football than yoga. All the more reason to do it.” He smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Abbot, by the way.”
“Lana.”
“Very nice to meet you, Lana. Will I see you again next week?”
“I think I might have to,” Lana said. “I feel compelled to master at least one pose.” He laughed. “Did you go to Cal?” she asked, pointing at his shirt. He looked to be about Becca’s age, in that late-forties to early-fifties range. Becca had gone to UC Berkeley and had been pretty popular there. It was possible they knew each other.
“No, I went to UCLA. My son goes to Cal. A freshman in computer science. I also have a son at Boulder. Business major.”
“Wow, college-aged kids. I have high-schoolers. A freshman daughter and a sophomore son. College is coming fast, though. I’m not ready.”
He laughed and slid his bare feet into his shoes, dark brown Crocs. Lana liked everything about him but the shoes: the same ones half the kids wore at school. Why would a grown man wear kids’ shoes? She glanced at Mitch and he gestured toward the door. The leggy beauty was sauntering off, swinging her narrow hips in her butt-hugging capris for all of the men to appreciate.
Lana and Abbot said goodbye, and as Mitch drove her home she kept thinking about Abbot. A grown man wearing kids’ shoes had to be unpretentious. It showed a sense of humor and play. Becca would say he was in touch with his inner child. These were good qualities, Lana decided. The kind she needed more of in her life. Enough with the young, chiseled beauties with their complicated egos and groupies. Enough with the solid gorgeous men with their rigid rules and structures and lack of humor. Lana wanted someone real and deep and self-effacing and utterly approachable. Someone emotionally available. Maybe someone a little more like Abbot.
The Art of Adapting Page 16