At one o’clock, I strip off my clothes to shower and dress for the meeting with the vice principal.
In the shower I let the water pelt down, hot, so hot until it’s almost too painful to bear, and as I wash my hair, my mind races, trying to figure out how I can possibly make the trip to Puerto Rico when things are such a mess here.
But not everything’s a mess, I remind myself. Hank’s not in crisis; he’s just mad at me. Cooper’s waiting for Dane’s call, but he can weather the disappointment. And Bo… well, Bo’s the problem.
Bo is in trouble. I’m furious with him. Livid that he’s been hiding the truth from me, pretending he’s studying, insisting he’s on top of things when he obviously isn’t and hasn’t been for weeks. But Bo’s also a bright kid and he’s in eighth grade, not high school. Maybe I can get him sorted out so that I could go.
Puerto Rico.
Neiman Marcus’s resort catalog.
Shey Darcy getting booked for a big job at thirty-nine. Oh, yes.
Yes, yes, yes. I can make this work. I’ll find a way to make this work. Rae’s right. Opportunities like this are too good to miss.
I turn off the water and towel dry, then rifle through my wardrobe, looking for something appropriate to wear. Shouldn’t show up to school in ratty jeans and old boots. Need to make a little bit of an effort. I settle on brown slacks, my brown Prada heels, and a tailored white blouse that looks crisp and fresh.
I start to leave my hair loose but am so aggravated that I end up scooping it into a high ponytail so nothing touches the back of my neck. While I feel cooler, I also look plainer and add a chunky red coral necklace to finish the look.
Anxious about the meeting, I arrive at school just after two and have twenty-five minutes to kill before the appointment. I sit for the first twenty minutes in my truck, head tipped back, eyes closed, as I work on clearing my mind and getting calm.
Bo’s okay. Bo’s just a boy. Bo’s a teenager.
But what if his problems are more than teenage issues? What if he’s going to turn out like Cody?
The fear claws at me, and as I think about Cody and how my mother refused to accept his diagnosis of bipolar depression, I can almost understand her denial. Almost, but not quite. Because I’m a mother, too, and if I were Cody’s mother, there’s no way I’d ignore his illness. His symptoms were all there, too. Mania. Depression. Then the suicide attempts. Someone had to do something. Someone had to act. And no one did, not for years. Not until it was too late.
I find myself recalling Cody’s viewing and funeral. My boys had never been to a viewing before, and it was painful taking them to see Cody, but I needed to. I needed them to see my beautiful brother who died too young. Remembering Cody’s death and burial makes my stomach churn, and I practically leap out of the truck to escape my thoughts.
I arrive in the school office just as the office clock chimes two-thirty and take a seat in the waiting area across from two defiant-looking girls. The thin blonde with the pouffy bangs chews nonstop on her fingernails, while the brunette with the dark eyeliner sighs repeatedly with apparent boredom. The girls must be Bo’s age—thirteen, fourteen—and yet their makeup and wardrobe look years older. They’d look so much prettier if they weren’t trying so hard. When it comes to fashion and beauty, less really is more.
The thin blonde is staring at me now, and she leans over to whisper something to her friend. Her friend rolls her eyes.
“Are you a model?” the blond girl blurts. Her friend elbows her, but the blonde ignores her.
“Yes,” I answer evenly.
“I thought so. You look like one.” Her friend makes a scornful sound, but the blond girl gives me a hopeful smile. “I’ve always wanted to be a model. I watch all the shows, you know. America’s Next Top Model. Project Runway. I know you have to be tall to be a model, don’t you?”
“Usually five eight and taller,” I say gently, aware that this girl is nowhere near tall enough. Nor does she have the frame or bone structure, but I’d never tell her that. There’s no point. Kids need to dream. Sometimes dreams are all we have.
“But last year Tyra Banks’s show was about short models.” The girl nibbles on her lower lip. “I could be one of those. But I’d have to go to New York or L.A., right?”
“Probably New York,” I say.
“But Tyra’s show is filmed in L.A.”
Suddenly a short, balding man approaches me. “Shey Callen!” he exclaims, moving toward me with an outstretched hand. “What are you doing here?”
I rise. “I’m here to meet with the vice principal, Mr. Peterson.”
“That’s me.” He pumps my hand and looks at me as though he can’t believe his eyes. “What can I do for you, Shey?”
I glance from him to the girls and back again. “I’m Bo’s mom. You called me earlier.”
He’s still holding my hand in his. “Bo’s mom?”
“Bo Darcy. He’s an eighth grader here—”
“You’re Bo’s mom,” he repeats as I slide my hand from his.
My awkwardness grows. Clearly I’m missing something.
The vice principal reads my confusion. “You don’t remember me, do you,” he says.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“I went to school with Blue.”
“Oh!”
He nods and, smiling, steers me away from the seating area to his office. “I had quite the crush on you,” he confesses with a flush. “But your brother made it clear that he’d tear me apart if I so much as looked at you.” His flush darkens, and he shakes his head. “He was serious, too.”
Sounds like the common theme, I think, following Paul Peterson into his office. I sit in the chair across from his desk, eager to get the meeting started so we can wrap it up. I hate stuff like this. I hate being confronted by my failings as a parent, because the boys’ education is my responsibility and it’s vital they succeed.
Unfortunately, Paul isn’t eager to begin discussing Bo. He wants to know where I ended up going to school when I disappeared from Palo Pinto County. I quickly brief him on my two years at St. Pious and then my degree from Stanford before I headed to Europe.
“Stanford?” he repeats. “That’s good.”
I flash to Hank, realizing that I probably wouldn’t have gotten into Stanford if I’d finished high school at Mineral Wells. The schools here are good, but they’re not as rigorous as the private prep schools.
“About Bo,” I say, deliberately shifting gears, thinking we’ve spent enough time catching up and need to focus on why I’m here. “I’m concerned about him.”
Paul nods sympathetically. “Boys.”
He says the word as if the single syllable covers it all. But I have three boys; Hank, although headstrong, and Cooper, although sensitive, have never been half as demanding as Bo. “I’m worried about him,” I say carefully.
“No need for that. It’s typical of boys this age to slack off in school. Hormones, girls, distractions.”
I would love for it to be so simple. I would love for Bo to merely be distracted, but I’m beginning to see a pattern emerging and it troubles me.
How old was Cody when he first began showing signs of his illness? Was it at eleven? Was he struggling at thirteen? Or was it only later, near the end of high school? It’s so hard to remember, as I was preoccupied with my life back then.
“He’s normally a good student,” I say by way of explanation. “For everything to tank like this, I can’t help worrying. How’s his behavior here at school? Is he participating in class? Are teachers having problems with him?”
“Teachers like him. They don’t like forged notes, but he’s a good kid. Polite. Tries hard.”
I nod, even as I am awash with conflicting emotions—anger, shame, guilt, frustration, regret.
I should have been on top of this. I should have been aware that he was not turning work in. I should be paying more attention.
But even as the shoulds pile up, I feel a stab of resentm
ent. I do pay attention to him. Every day I ask him about his work. I’m not an absent parent. I pick him up from school and am there at home when he returns from school. I’m around, available, accessible. And he’s nearly fifteen. Shouldn’t he start being responsible for himself?
But if it’s depression…
Depression is another animal altogether.
Paul and I wrap up the meeting, spend another few minutes in small talk—he wants to know all about Budapest, where I was working when I was first discovered by a Milan modeling agent—and then I leave the front office with more questions than answers.
But maybe that’s part of parenthood. Maybe it’s not about having answers. Maybe it’s just about being real.
Later, with all the boys in the truck, we head for home and I drive biting my tongue.
I want to demand an explanation from Bo, but I tell myself I have to wait, I can’t do it here in front of the others. But as the minutes pass, my frustration grows. I’m so mad, never mind frustrated. What is happening with him? Why can’t he let me know when he’s falling behind? I’ll help. I’ll do anything for him. He just has to ask. Just has to communicate.
We’re a couple of miles from our ranch when I blurt out, “I spent a half hour meeting with Mr. Peterson this afternoon, Bo.” I shoot him a hard look as my fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out about your grades, or the forged signatures on the progress reports?”
He glances at me and then glances just as quickly away.
“Three F’s, Bo. And the rest are nearly as bad. D’s and C’s.”
He sinks into his seat. “I have a B in tech arts.”
“Typing.”
“Yeah, but it’s still a B.”
“You took keyboarding classes in fourth grade. That was four years ago. I’d hope you could pass a typing class.”
Bo’s mouth compresses, but he doesn’t speak. I just want to scream. I’m trying to help him. I’m trying to save him. I’m trying to keep him from failing this quarter. But he makes me feel like the bad guy, as if this—his education—has nothing to do with him. “You’re a smart kid, Bo. How can this be happening? How can you be failing? You told me just last week that you were on top of your work, that you do your homework at school—”
“I didn’t want you on me, okay?” he interrupts flatly. “I knew you’d freak out if you found out about my grades—”
“Yes, I would freak out. Yes, I am freaking out. You’re so smart, so gifted. You’ve got a great brain, you really do.”
“I’m doing the best I can,” he answers defiantly.
“I don’t believe it.”
“Then that’s your problem.”
I swallow hard. Count to five. And then to ten. And my feelings still hurt.
Everyone told me that I’d rue the day my boys became teenagers. They warned me that they’d be difficult. They told me I wouldn’t recognize my own kids.
And I didn’t believe them. My boys were always good boys. Loving, thoughtful, respectful. But my good boys aren’t my boys any longer. They’re becoming part of the world, sucked into adulthood with this slippery slope of adolescence.
It’s not pretty, either.
But I’m not going to disappear on them. Not going to quit. We’re going to get through this even if it’s by the skin of our teeth.
We arrive home to discover Charlotte on our doorstep. She’s armed with an enormous tin of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies and a tentative smile. “You have a few minutes, Shey Lynne?” she asks me as the boys pop the lid off the tin and dive in while still standing in the driveway.
I’m tense and tired and definitely not the best of company, but I always have time for Charlotte. “Of course.” I hold the back door open so she can enter the house, even as I call to the boys to start their homework.
Inside the kitchen, Charlotte glances around. Following her gaze, I see the sink full of the morning dishes, the kitchen table piled high with laundry I haven’t yet folded, and the stacks of bills and paperwork on the desk, where I was attempting to do Brick’s books before I got distracted by the calls from Rae and Mr. Peterson.
I’m embarrassed by the mess and chaos, embarrassed that I’m not doing a better job of juggling everything. “Sorry. Things aren’t very tidy—”
“I don’t care, Shey.”
But Charlotte’s house is never messy. I’ve never seen laundry on the kitchen table or dirty dishes piled in the sink. I drag stray socks and T-shirts into a mound to clear off the table. “But I do. I’ve never been so disorganized before. Can’t seem to get anything done.”
“Shey, stop. The laundry’s fine.”
But it’s not fine. There’s nothing fine about mess and chaos and a life that appears to be out of control.
And suddenly the mound of laundry feels like a metaphor of my life. Huge, sprawling, overwhelming.
My eyes sting and my chest grows tight. I’m trying so hard right now. I couldn’t try harder, couldn’t give or do more.
My frustration dissolves into fatigue, and it crosses my mind that I am overwhelmed, and a little blue, as well as lonely.
I miss my friends. I miss New York. I miss my old life.
I loved being married. I liked having a partner. I hate having to do it all on my own.
“Shey Lynne, stop,” Charlotte says gently but firmly. “Just sit so we can talk. I want to apologize. I need to apologize.”
I let go of the laundry and plunk down in the nearest chair. “Why?”
“I was thinking about what you said on Sunday. About how you were sixteen when you fell in love with Dane, and how I was the same age when I fell in love with Brick…” Charlotte takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I never thought of it that way, and when I look back, I realize that my feelings for Brick at sixteen aren’t that different than they are now. Our love’s deepened over the years, matured, but it’s the same spark, the same attraction. And I would have been devastated if anyone tried to keep us apart.”
She looks at me, brown gaze somber. “I’m sorry. I am. You have every right to be upset with Brick—”
“It’s okay. And you were right. It’s been over twenty years. It’s not an issue, not anymore.”
“But it was high-handed of him. He’s your brother, not your father.” Charlotte’s pretty face creases, and she suddenly looks years older than forty-four. Unlike my friends in New York, she doesn’t do expensive skin treatments or visit a plastic surgeon for fillers and injections. “But as you know, he’s always been so protective of you. You being the only girl and all.”
I nod. I do know. All my brothers were that way, even Cody. They got it from my father. Pop was always gentle and chivalrous toward women. His father raised him to treat women with respect, and my father raised my brothers the same way. Girls weren’t weak, just special.
Charlotte reaches for a pair of unmatched socks and spreads them flat on the table. They’re similar but not a pair. “Have you filed for divorce yet?”
I’m caught off guard. “We’ve tried, but divorces in New York aren’t as easy as other states. You can’t get a no-fault divorce in New York. Someone has to be blamed.”
“I certainly hope it’s John shouldering the blame.”
I nod. “The lawyers are handling it. It’ll be a relief to get it behind me.”
“I can imagine.”
Charlotte reaches for another sock. “So have you thought about dating? Anyone you’re interested in?”
“No.” I can see that Charlotte’s waiting for more, and I flounder about, searching for a good explanation when I don’t have one. “I guess I’m just not ready.”
“What about Dane? You still have feelings for him, don’t you?”
“But everyone hates Dane.”
“No one hates Dane. Brick and Blue are mad at him at the moment, but they don’t hate him, and I certainly have no problem with him. I’ve always been close with him. Love him like a brother. And you know, Dane�
��s been through quite a lot, too. You might find that you have more in common than you did before.”
“Because he’s also divorced?” I ask with a bitter laugh.
“Because he was also a parent, and he lost his only child. A child he absolutely adored.” She sighs and looks at me. “I’m not saying you and Dane should be together, or are right for each other. What I am saying is that no one gets through life unscathed. Hearts get broken. Marriages end. Dreams die. But life goes on. And you have to find a way to go on, too.”
I had no idea that Dane’s divorce was so bitter. Can’t imagine Shellie Ann keeping Dane’s child from him. But then horrible things can happen when marriages end. Partners turn on each other. Hurt becomes hatred. I shiver a little. “Over the summer, Mama mentioned that you and Brick were godparents to Matthew. I didn’t realize you were that close to Shellie Ann,” I say, getting to my feet and reaching for the crumpled mustard-colored T-shirt near me.
“Shellie Ann and I weren’t all that close, but we did spend a lot of time together. At least we did until near the end, when it became apparent that they weren’t going to be able to work it out. That’s when things got ugly.”
I look up, interested. “Ugly how?”
“They were both in so much pain that by the time they separated they couldn’t even be in the same room together. And I can’t put all the blame on Shellie Ann. Dane shut down to the point that he wanted nothing to do with anyone. Not even Brick or me. I wasn’t surprised when Shellie Ann moved to Austin. She needed to get away, needed a fresh start.”
But when Shellie Ann left, she took Dane’s son. I can’t imagine that sitting well with him. “Was Dane a good dad?”
Char’s eyes suddenly water. “The best,” she says huskily. “He lived for his boy.”
“I would have thought he’d try harder to keep Shellie Ann here.”
“Shellie Ann was determined to go. You see, she’d met Brandon by then, and Brandon swept her off her feet. He was a big-name record producer, and Shellie Ann fell for him like a ton of bricks. There was no keeping her on the Kelly ranch when she could be part of Austin’s music scene.”
It blows my mind that Shellie Ann had everything I wanted—Dane, his love, his home, his son—and she let it all go. Left Palo Pinto. Left Dane. Started a different life with a different man in Austin.
She’s Gone Country Page 12