by Terry Lee
“I’m depressed.” She scowled at the drab person in the mirror. She shrugged. “Whatever.” She hated the feeling. She hated everything; that hadn’t changed. Depression transformed her life from Technicolor to dull shades of black and white.
“I’ll give it another week.” School would be out soon, which would certainly blow her cover. She’d call a hospice counselor…but not the psychiatrist-jerk. Yeah, so what if he’d been right about her mother dying? His bedside manner still sucked.
~~~
Wednesday afternoon Grace returned to her silent house after an extended lunch with Janie. Tossing keys and purse on the counter she made an honest effort to steer clear of the bed. She roamed the family room, stopped next to her mother’s upright piano and lowered herself onto the bench. The keys felt smooth under her fingers. Becoming an accomplished pianist had been one of her mother’s passions; unfulfilled, but a passion.
Grace screwed up her mouth. “What’s my passion?” Nothing came to mind. Moving away from the piano, she plopped onto the couch and stared upward.
“Just a short rest,” she justified to the empty room. The dark wood blades of the ceiling fan rotated slowly, methodically, around…and around…and around, mirroring the monotony of her life. “God, how boring.” She closed her eyes.
What was her passion? And when had her life become so boring?
The answer immediately popped in her head. It had always been boring. She couldn’t remember a single time she’d actually worked for something she wanted. Even Adam had fallen nicely into her lap.
~~~
She'd had a blind date sophomore year with Adam Brookfield, who was a good-looking hunk with high standards, a sense of humor, no police record and no tattoos. Two years older and a senior, he was one of the few guys she knew who even had a degree plan. Christmas, he proposed. In May Adam graduated with a degree in Business Finance and landed a job with a well-known investment firm before the ink on his diploma dried. They married in June.
That was her Adam; dependable, solid, decisive, always had a plan.
He was the complete opposite of Grace. Her pursuit of an Elementary Education degree centered around two people; the first, naturally being her mother. As long as she could remember, Kathryn had told her she should be a teacher. Why? Grace had never bothered to ask…not unusual. The second, she blamed her guidance counselor for insisting she pick a major. How rude. She could care less about getting a degree or being a teacher. But, then again, it did get her mother off her back.
“You are a teacher,” Kathryn said after Grace completed her student teaching. “Be a teacher.”
“I don’t want to.” Grace argued, feeling five. “And besides, Adam doesn’t care if I work or not.” She folded her arms in a na-na-na-na-boo-boo stance.
~~~
She lay on the couch and reviewed her adulthood, which played like a bad B-rated movie: shallow plot, no substance. Besides having kids, which of course gave her great pleasure, Grace had done absolutely nothing with her life. Ambitions? Nada. Dreams? Zilch. And passions? Once again, a blank slate—a complete and total ankle-deep existence. Pa-thetic.
What she needed was a plan. Without her mother around directing traffic in her life she realized the full extent of her emptiness; not pretty.
“I could start talking to myself. Mom always hated that,” she remembered. “At least I’d have the last word.” Once the phrase left her mouth, she realized that might not necessarily be true.
As a little girl Grace had an imaginary friend and, as she grew, her alter ego developed into an excessively outspoken wild-child personality. Almost every time Grace got in trouble, Grace #2—shortened to #2—had talked her into doing something she alone found too terrifying. The little she-devil who sat on her shoulder always got in the last word.
“Maybe #2 should show up.” Then she’d have some help with the real Grace Brookfield. The real Grace Brookfield reminded her of the old 50’s Game Show Network program, I’ve Got a Secret. She pictured three Grace look-alikes on one side, all claiming to be the real Grace Brookfield. A panel of well-known celeb judges sat opposite.
“Contestant #1, you say you are an adult,” begins panelist, Kitty Carlisle. “How do you approach decision-making?”
Grace waited for one of the look-alikes to answer. Anyone?
“Hey there Sunshine,” #2 said. “You sound like a commercial for old game shows.”
And she’s back. “I wondered how long it’d take you to surface.”
“All you had to do was ask,” #2 offered in her snarky tone. “Ready to serve.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Grace focused on the slow swirl of the ceiling fan and heard The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly theme song roll around in her head. “Okay, that does it.” She bounded off the couch. She couldn’t handle the mental jukebox thing, especially if #2 was going to play show tunes.
“It’s better than a game show,” #2 said. “And besides, I’m just warming up.”
“Go home.” Being in a horizontal position, fetal or otherwise, did not lead to productive thinking. New rule—no thinking while lying down.
“Shouldn’t be a problem there, since critical thinking doesn’t happen around you much anyway,” #2 said. “Besides, I am home.”
Grace ignored her alter ego. What a mistake it had been to think this crazy personality could help. Although, granted, #2 had snapped her off the couch.
“I think I’ll cook tonight,” Grace said. Hey…a decision.
“And all by your itty-bitty self.” #2 wasted zero time piping in on having the last word ritual.
“Shut up.” Grace opened the faux plantation blinds in the family room, allowing in the full glare of daylight. She squinted, realizing how dark she’d kept the house over the last month. Another point in the “being a drag” column. She stared out the window into the backyard. “That’s what I’ll do. I’ll cook.” She waited for what surely would be a sarcastic remark. None came. Good.
She grabbed the phone and pushed *1. Her family had survived on frozen entrees and fast food for weeks. Three rings later, Grace realized her mom wouldn’t answer. She let it ring until she heard the recorded disconnect message. Pushing end, she slumped onto a nearby bar stool, her shoulders dropped. The ‘surprise-I’m-cooking-tonight’ idea lost its punch. Pizza. Again.
“You wouldn’t be ordering pizza, would you, Mom?” Still clutching the phone, it rang, startling her. She cleared her throat. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon. May I speak to Grace Brookfield?” a female voice asked.
“This is Grace.”
“And how are you today?” Tele-marketer code for ‘I’m-going-to-try-my-damnedest-to-sell-you-something-you-don’t-need’.
Grace wrinkled her nose. “Fine.”
“My name is Ellen Lyons and I’m calling from the school district’s Deaf Education Department. I have your name on a list of possible interpreters. We’re looking for volunteers for our summer program.”
Silence.
“Hello? Mrs. Brookfield?”
“Yes.” Grace drew circle eights on the counter top.
“Wonderful,” the woman gushed. “All I need is your email address. I’ll send you the information.”
“No.”
Pause.
“No?”
“I mean, yes.” Grace squeezed her eyes shut. “Wait.” Heat flushed her cheeks. She rubbed her neck. “Can we start over?”
The woman fell silent for a moment, nothing but phone-fuzz coming from the receiver. Then finally, “At what part should I start over?”
Ouch. Word-slam. Good thing her mushy brain didn’t care. She waited for something intelligent to pop into her mind. Zilch.
“Big surprise,” #2 whispered.
“I’m sorry.” Grace stuck her finger in her free ear.
“Ri-ght,” the alter ego whispered. “Like that’s going to stop me.”
Grace gritted her teeth. “What I mean to say is yes, I’m the real Grace Brookfield.” Cr
inge. Images of the game show blurred her mind.
“Nice one,” #2 snickered.
“I mean…I’m Grace Brookfield.” She rolled her eyes. Lame.
“Ok-ay. Would you like to volunteer for our summer program?” Ms. Lyons spoke as if addressing someone mentally challenged.
Grace stuck her tongue out at the phone. A second grade playground maneuver, but still, she did not like this woman. “Well, you see my mother recently died, and I’d love to help, but this really isn’t a good time. My kids will be home all summer.” Lie. “And I’m sure—”
“I see,” Ice-woman interrupted. “Should I remove your name from our list?”
“No!” Grace iron-gripped the phone. “Any other time I’d be more than willing to help,” she explained, hoping for a sympathy vote.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Brookfield,” Emily Lyons responded. “Please keep in mind the department is always looking for those truly interested in assisting our auditory-impaired children. Perhaps you would prefer giving us a call when you’re available.” No sympathy vote, and another cheap shot.
“Yes, I’ll do that.”
“My number is 281-555-4636, extension 2424.”
Grace scribbled the number on a napkin.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Brookfield.” Click.
“Bitch.” Guilt and anger wrestled in Grace’s insides for first place.
“You tell her, bad girl,” #2 said.
“Mmph,” Grace growled, ignoring the smart-ass in her head. She slammed the phone on the counter and glanced at the clock. Ten to five.
It’s five o’clock somewhere, Jimmy Buffett sang in her head. What’s up with songs today?
“Bitch,” she repeated, unable to decide who deserved the insult more, the Lyons woman or #2. She wadded the napkin, tossed it into the trash and reached for a stemmed glass. Wine, pizza and heartburn—another day in paradise. Damn.
~~~
Later that evening after Hannah and Josh relocated to the family room, Grace and Adam sat at the kitchen table, now covered with pizza crust, cheese bread, and Buffalo wings.
“You won’t believe the call I got.” Grace launched into the crazy Ellen Lyons conversation. When finished, she waited expectantly for Adam’s two cents on the insane idea.
Adam chewed on his last slice of pizza. Silence.
“Well? It’s ridiculous, right?”
Adam took a sip of red wine and shrugged. “What’s so crazy about it?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Gracie, you’ve got to start somewhere.”
She raised her eyes to meet his. Her mother called her Gracie, not Adam.
“I know it’ll be hard,” he continued, “but at least it’s something. Maybe it’d be good to start out volunteering.” Adam used a napkin to wipe his mouth. “You’ve always wanted to do something with Deaf Ed. Maybe this is your opportunity.”
Typical Adam, planting the seed. She knew he’d wait to see if she’d add the water. If she ever cursed Adam, she’d do it now. “So…you think I should?”
“I think it’d do you good to get out of the house.”
Okay, Grace wondered, who squealed about my super-secret-under-the-covers lifestyle? Janie or #2? #2, she decided.
“It’ll probably make you feel better,” he said. “Might even help you sleep.”
Straight for the kill. Ouch. Grace hesitated, her eyes narrowing. “Okay…I’ll try it.” Her hands half curled into fists and then straightened out. “But if this doesn’t work, I’m totally blaming you,” she teased. Seriously, she would.
“Fair enough.”
“I probably won’t be any good, but I guess I’ll try,” Grace whined, wondering why she found pleasure in playing Eeyore. Pathetic.
~~~
The next morning, Grace dug through Pizza Hut remains in the kitchen trashcan, trying to find the woman’s phone number.
“It’s got to be in here somewhere,” Grace panted, finally surfacing with the wadded napkin. She dialed the number, relieved to speak with Ms. Lyons’s secretary. Grace relayed her email address and was informed an orientation would be held at the school a week from Saturday.
She hung up the phone, “Well, that’s done,” she said, already dreading the orientation. Her bed would miss her terribly. Damn Adam for being right…again. Her mom would surely have sided with him on this one. She needed to start somewhere. But I might not like it? And then, feeling like a pimple-faced teen, or what if the kids don’t like me?
“Oh get a grip,” #2 said. “It’s only for three weeks.”
CHAPTER 11
GRACE
For the past three years, Josh had spent the month of June in Branson, Missouri. He loved, loved, loved camp.
Packing Camp Clothes for Dummies. For a Kid. For a Month.
Grace needed a manual. Pronto. Clothes could be sent out for washing after two weeks. But that still left fourteen shorts, shirts, underwear, socks, a couple pair of tennis shoes, swim suits, bedding, towels, toiletries, plus a lot of stuff she knew she was supposed to include, but would probably forget. In short, chaos.
She remembered her mother’s suggestion for Josh’s first month-long stay at camp; over-sized safety pins for each set of matching shirts and shorts.
Big mistake. Huge. Josh’s first letter home clearly stated she was never, ever, ever under any circumstances—spelled sircomstansis—to send diaper pins to camp. Again. Ever. A rookie mistake.
Thank God Adam talked her out her mother’s original suggestion of using over-sized zip lock bags for the outfits. She envisioned Josh arriving home from Branson, via Fed Ex, with a note pinned to his shirt.
Return to sender: Camper rejected.
She felt sincere sympathy for her son. Not only did he have to put up with his mother’s indecisiveness and neurosis, but also an overbearing grandmother, to boot. She remembered Adam’s response to the “never, ever, ever” letter.
“Who cares what seven year olds wear to camp?” Adam’s point, valid. Grace had to agree. Unfortunately, too late for Josh.
Another camp malady that first year occurred over her obsessive letter writing. A month with only mail communication terrified Grace. At her mother’s suggestion Grace started mailing letters a week before he even left for camp.
“He’ll enjoy getting letters as soon as he gets there, don’t you think?” Kathryn said.
Sentimental, over-the-top mushy letters traveled through the mail to Missouri telling Josh how much he was loved, what a special person he was, blah, ba-blah, ba-blah.
A week later, Josh’s first letter arrived.
Dear Mom, Why are you writing this stuff? Are you dying?
Sigh. Nothing about motherhood came easy. Her hard drive struggled daily with her maternal instinct chip.
“I thought knowing how to be a mother would come naturally. Why is everything so hard?” She remembered asking after Hannah’s birth.
“Now, don’t you worry,” her mother had said. “I’ll take care of everything.” Grace remembered Adam’s huge eye-roll after that statement.
~~~
A caravan of chartered buses left Dallas at four o’clock Friday morning. Grace, Josh and Adam had driven up the night before and stayed with Adam’s sister. On the sly Grace persuaded Josh’s cousins, both older and on the same bus, to be super-secret chaperones. Although partially relieved, she still choked up watching the huge chartered bus swallow him whole each year.
“Mom,” Josh said before they left the car early Friday morning. “One more time.”
“I’ve got it, Josh.”
“Repeat it, Mom.” Josh ignored his mother. “No kissing or crying.”
Grace tightened her lips and nodded, squelching the lump in her throat. “No kissing or crying.” Josh oozed more self-confidence in his pinky finger than Grace had on both hands and feet. He climbed onto the monster-sized bus for an entire month and didn’t even look back. Thank God he didn’t take after her.
~~~
Severa
l times on the ride home from Dallas Grace resisted the urge to complain about volunteering. Orientation, a day away, had her stomach in knots. Her self-esteem, she knew, was in the toilet. She’d spent her entire life begging, pleading and whining, preferring to hide from the outside world.
#2, on the other hand, reared her ugly head every time Grace started another sob story. “Straighten up and get your skinny ass in gear,” she would say. Oh, how Adam would side with #2. Even Janie batted down Grace’s whines.
“I’ll take you only so far, my friend,” Janie said. “Then you’re on your own. You need to stand on those wobbly legs and learn to fly again.”
“Again?” Grace had moaned. “When have I ever stood on my own?”
“Then, start.”
~~~
Saturday dawned humid and overcast with a 40% chance of rain. Even with cloudy skies Grace pulled on Audrey Hepburn sunglasses before backing out of the driveway.
Since agreeing to volunteer Grace found a ton of things she’d neglected to do over the past couple of months; make a Goodwill run, sort through picture albums, straighten the junk drawer…get a pedicure. Shit. If she hadn’t made the stupid commitment, she could take care of all this crap which, at the moment, seemed extremely urgent.
“You are so full of it.” #2, as usual, didn’t bother disguising her irritation.
“Oh shut up,” Grace barked. “Don’t you have someone else to bother?”
“Not currently.”
It occurred to Grace the “love-hate” relationship with #2 mirrored the one she had with her mother. She hated #2 for being a smart-ass-know-it-all, while at the same time envying the hell out of her. At least she could tell #2 to shut up, which gave her a twisted sort of pleasure.