“Not a problem,” I said. “Most business owners delegate that responsibility.” I opened my planner. “When do you think she and I could meet?”
“Hmmm. Probably when she’s out of school. Anytime after three.”
When I asked what college she attended, he pushed back his desk chair as if to give himself space for a belly laugh. “Oh, honey, she’s a junior at the magnet school around the corner.”
I bit my lower lip so the question “Does the math teacher do your taxes?” wouldn’t pop out of my mouth. Instead, I told him I’d be back that afternoon to meet her.
At lunch later, I told Cara having that appointment beforehand was serendipity. “It explained the Facebook photo of bloody gauze pads and splatters of blood on the floor with the caption: ‘What an exam room looks like after stitching up an arm sliced by a box cutter.’ And, honestly, it convinced me clients need someone who isn’t six hours away to look out for them. I can check their sites anywhere, but scheduling time with them, face-to-face, that’s important.”
“Your moving to Houston, is that a temporary thing?” She handed her credit card to the server, then waited for my answer.
I waited for it, too, because I had no idea when or if I’d be returning. A bus girl passed our table shouldering a tray of steaks sizzling on cast iron platters, the cloying aroma of melted butter trailing behind her. By then, I didn’t know if it was the sickening smell or indecision roiling in my stomach. I drank some water and told her, my voice wrapped in confusion and sadness, “Maybe? It depends”—I closed and opened my eyes like someone in darkness adjusting to the harshness of a sudden light—“on what I want to do.”
Not my parents. Not Mia. Not the baby.
Me.
Owning that thrilled me. And terrified me.
CHAPTER 19
Cara hugged me and wished me luck before she left. Together we had decided what at least one of us had already figured out. My position at Virtual Strategies couldn’t relocate to Houston and provide local clients the services promised them.
“If you decide to come back, let me know. I can’t guarantee an opening, but we’d want you on our team. In the meantime, I’ll reach out to some agencies in Houston and contact you if I find out they’re looking,” she said.
I’d have the money from selling the house, so I didn’t panic about being jobless. At least for a few months. Which would coincide with the arrival of the baby in the bump. Then I’d spin out of orbit.
No time to be in a tizzy now.
I changed into my slouchy clothes as soon as I got home, determined to finish the closet purge. The temptation to dive into the tidal wave of clothes on the floor for a brief nap was washed away only by the disturbing thought of having to face it again tomorrow.
One stack later, someone started doubling down on my doorbell. A shrill and insistent noise that rivaled nails zipping down a chalkboard for first place in the “sounds from hell” category. In the seconds it took me to get from the bedroom to the front door, I conjured the evils awaiting the person standing on my porch.
My eyes narrowed, laserlike, ready to drill through whomever had the misfortune to be on the other side of it, I jerked the door open.
No one.
I stepped out on the porch and looked for suspects. Derek, the kid next door, and his friends had never resorted to torturing the neighbors. So why would . . . And then I saw it. Behind one of the large plant urns flanking the sideway leading to the porch. A long brown box. The return address . . . Babycakes.
Despite the concrete scalding my bare feet and the hot, thick air, I suddenly felt like I’d been immersed in an ice bath as I carried the package in my house. I sat on the sofa, the box balanced on my knees, my hands on top like I was preventing it from levitating.
Why did I think having it sent here was a good idea? Do I open it? And then what?
The room was weirdly still. I suspected every piece of furniture was holding its breath, anticipating my response.
Do you want to close your eyes at night envisioning this artwork with Jacob’s name?
I carried the box to the Jeep and placed it next to the other unopened gift. I opened the front door, now feeling grateful for the chill of the air-conditioning. I returned to my bedroom, ordering the walls to stop whispering “We told you so” when I passed.
That night I fell asleep dreaming of Wyatt rocking a baby while I stood watching through the window of a house I didn’t recognize.
The next two weeks were devoured by packing box after box after box. Taking breaks to stomp on the bubble wrap just because I could. Deciding what followed me to Houston. What stayed was scheduled to be hauled by movers to a self-storage unit.
The morning of the act of sale, I wandered through the house, room by room. The aching loss I expected to experience didn’t happen once everything that had belonged to us had been taken away. Selling it gave me freedom. Not to start over, but to start again.
My father, who’d been calling me every other day since the “great divide,” wanted to meet for dinner the night before I left for Houston. He desperately wanted to repair the damage between my mother and me. And, even though the rift was cavernous, he persisted.
I met him, my mother, and grandmother for dinner at their country club. In one of my passive-aggressive acts, promising I’d shame myself later, I wore a knit blouse to accentuate my bump. Which, for anyone who didn’t know I was pregnant, looked more like bloat.
I picked up Ruthie, since I planned to spend the night at her house. She walked out wearing a soft jersey jumpsuit that tied around her waist, silver wedges, and her elegant sapphire and diamond necklace. And by her strut, I knew that she knew she looked amazing. But Ruthie could pull off strutting and amazing without seeming the least bit smug.
“Tell me why a man has not yet made an honest woman out of you?” My question was equal parts serious and jest. She never remarried after my grandfather died the summer before I started college.
“Maybe I’m not ready to be an honest woman,” she said, her tone as serious and jesting as she pulled down the visor to apply her lip gloss. “And, my dear”—she reached over and patted my leg—“I don’t need a man to define me.”
“Then that’s the problem,” I said. “You’re self-assured, independent, and beautiful. Is that the kiss of death for men of your generation?” I stopped to enter the code to open the gates to the road that led to the club.
“Not for all of them. And I’m not so sure that’s limited to my generation. After James died, I realized I’d spent over half my life married. I decided to spend some time with me. Get to know Ruthie again. Thing is, you have to be happy with yourself before you can be happy with someone else. If you’re not, then you’re going to be blaming the wrong person when you’re miserable.” She paused. “When that man comes along, I’ll let you know.”
“What if he doesn’t?” I think I was asking that more for myself than for her. She’d already been alone for over ten years. Was that what I was facing?
“I have too little left of my life to lead a ‘settle for’ kind of life. Really, no one should. If he doesn’t come along, then I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing. Being the best me I can be.”
We were at the top step ready to open the door to the clubhouse when Ruthie stopped me.
“It might be a while before we all see you again.” She smoothed my hair back, then wrapped her arms around me. “Let’s make the best out of tonight. Okay?”
The maître d’ led us to our table. My mother hugged me; her elbows close to her sides. The kind of hug dispensed with brief and minimal contact, as if my body might scorch her hands if they lingered. I expected the anger from that conflict at my house to resurrect itself when we saw each other again. But instead, disappointment and sadness rose from the grave of that night.
She’d been my refuge after Wyatt died, made all the funeral arrangements, and never left my side that day. All the while knowing what she did, about where his truck
had been found, about the baby gift. When nightmares jolted me awake, she’d come to my room and hold me until I fell asleep again.
I wanted that mother back. If I’d asked her, she might have told me she wanted that daughter back. But those two women were buried under the rubble of unforgiveness.
My father played emcee from appetizer to dessert, making sure everything flowed as smoothly as the wine they sipped. Ruthie positioned herself between my mother and me, sometimes elbowing or eyeing me when she thought I should contribute to the conversation.
When we walked outside after dinner, we were like actors told to play a scene without having been given a script. I kissed my parents, told them I’d call when I reached Houston.
My father shook the change in his pants pockets and stared at my mother. She repeated her earlier imitation hug, then told me to drive carefully.
“You get your tires checked and gas in your car?” My father asked, starting a throwback series of “on the road instructions” dating from my college years.
I nodded.
“Need any money? You have cash, not just your credit cards?”
“I have enough money. And cash.”
“If you have to stop, make sure you’re in a safe area.”
“Dad, I’m driving during the day. I’ll be fine.”
“You know we love you, right?” He cleared his throat, which I suspected was a prelude to him trying not to shed tears. Then he enveloped me in one of his bear hugs, crushed me against him until I almost couldn’t breathe.
It was as if he were trying to hug me enough for both of them.
CHAPTER 20
Random facts I learned about Houston:
I could eat three meals a day, each one at a different restaurant, for seven years and three months.
Rush-hour traffic was a misnomer. It was not-rush-for-hours-any-time-of-day traffic.
Speedometers were pointless. The object of the game was to adjust my speed to the cars around me.
Not understanding compass directions on the interstate signage will most likely result in getting lost. Often.
I pulled into Mia and Bryce’s driveway about an hour later than expected. I hadn’t considered extra bathroom stops and thirty minutes of delays due to road construction.
Lily was already asleep, so they helped me unload and showed me my new home. The garage apartment was designed and decorated by Mia, so it was picture-perfect. Completely furnished, the kitchen had everything I needed, and they had even stocked the pantry and refrigerator for me.
They had built it for the nanny or au pair they had hoped to hire, but it had been vacant since being finished. Neither of them had thought trying to find someone to take care of Lily would take months.
“We could have another baby in the time it’s taking us to sort through and interview all these prospects,” Mia said when she and Bryce were helping me settle in the apartment after I’d arrived.
Bryce paled, the flat-screen television he carried was moving dangerously close to the floor. “You’re not trying to tell me something, are you?”
“When I stop drinking coffee in the mornings because it starts tasting like used pencil erasers, I won’t even need a pregnancy test,” Mia answered. “You’re safe. But don’t get so excited you drop that television you’re juggling. Stop trying to hang it on the wall. Just put it on the stand until I’m sure that’s where it stays.”
Bryce looked like a kid who’d earned early release from his time-out. No pregnant wife. No fear of dropping the television on his feet. No more having to work from home and take care of Lily when Mia couldn’t.
The rest of the evening disappeared between the rush of seeing them again, the emotional and physical exhaustion of driving, and settling in.
Usually sleeping was a challenge for me the first night in a strange bed. But I was up against a triple play. Strange bed. Strange house. Strange city.
Was that the central air kicking on, or did someone kick the front door? Was it raining outside, or did I forget to turn off a faucet? Are those sirens on their way to here or from here?
The mattress was probably as tired as I was from suffering through my pillow squishing, my body twisting and turning. I didn’t remember when, but I knew I’d fallen asleep because I woke up to my phone ringing.
“Good morning,” chirped Mia. “Lily wanted me to call an hour ago, but I told her we had to wait until nine. I hope we didn’t wake you.”
“Not really. I should’ve already been awake.” I yawned, but not as quietly as I’d thought because she started apologizing.
Then Lily chimed in. “Aunt Wivvy, Aunt Wivvy, come see. Mommy cooked. And I wearing my pink babing suit.”
I pictured her jumping as she talked to me. Every sentence filled with urgency and enthusiasm.
“Bryce already left for work. Just throw a robe on and come on down. I’ll have a cup of decaf waiting for you.” As Mia spoke, Lily accompanied her with singsong chants of “I wuv Aunt Wivvy.”
When I told her I didn’t own a robe, she reacted as if I didn’t own a toothbrush. “We’ll be sure and take care of that today, but come eat breakfast and I’ll go over the schedule with you.”
I unearthed my go-to yoga pants and a loose tee from my suitcase, my clothes in various stages of finding their place. Moving around the apartment, I felt like I was on vacation, not a staycation for an indefinite period. The buttercream walls and the striped window coverings in shades of coffee, which puddled on the oak floors, reflected Mia’s penchant for warm earth tones. A contrast to the home I’d left behind where the kitchen walls were the shade of ripe eggplants, and a cranberry accent wall provided a sharp contrast for the white sofa.
Between the apartment and Mia’s back door, the weather was a preview of hell, even this early in the morning. Not much difference in the humidity or the heat when moving from Louisiana to Texas.
Lily rushed out the door, and that tired cliché of “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe how much you’ve grown” woke up in me. Mia had already warned me that Lily wanted to pick out her own clothes for the day, so I wasn’t mystified by her outfit. She wore a hot pink tulle skirt with a red tank top over her swimsuit, an orange bow in her hair, and a pair of UGG boots.
I picked her up, and she wrapped her legs around my waist and squeezed her arms around my neck until I could hardly breathe. She smelled like lavender and baby powder and joy. The stinging inside my nose usually preceded my eyes bubbling with tears, and I tried to blink them away before Lily could see them. She, like most kids her age, thought an adult only cried for the same reasons she did. Happy tears weren’t on her emotional radar yet, and mine were definitely that.
I shifted her to my hip, and she pressed her little cheek against mine and whispered in my ear, “You are my best fwend.”
Mia cooking breakfast must have qualified as a special event, because Lily wanted to call her father and tell him.
“Aunt Livvy’s going to think I never give you breakfast,” Mia said, a layer of chagrin embedded in her mother-ese voice.
Lily opened her breakfast taco and picked out the bacon. “Well, sometimes Starbucks give me bwekfest.” She shrugged. “But, it’s okay when we do dat.”
I laughed. “Starbucks gives me breakfast, too.”
“Not this morning, sister,” said Mia as she handed me a plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, and cheese rolled into a warm wheat tortilla. She served herself, then sat next to me and slid her planner between us.
“Sweetie, don’t wipe your hands on your skirt. Use your napkin like Mommy taught you. Manners, remember?”
Lily nodded, wiped her hands, and made faces on her plate with the bacon bits she’d picked out.
“And don’t play with your food.”
“Bwekfast here is not fun,” said Lily, finally taking a bite of her taco.
When Mia opened her planner, I silently agreed with Lily. The president’s press secretary would have been awed by her detailed agenda. Mia organized like I a
te . . . with consistency, determination, and pleasure.
Over the next two days, Mia planned to give me a road tour of her business, Bryce’s office, the nearest emergency clinic, the hospital, the pediatrician’s office, supermarket, pharmacy, library, park, and zoo. We hadn’t left yet, and I already felt carsick.
“I know you won’t remember the directions to all of these, but I thought giving you visuals of what you were looking for would help,” she said. “Printed these for you to put in your binder.”
She handed me maps she’d printed for each location. I sipped my coffee to dilute the lump in my throat. “Binder?” The word sounded more like handcuffs than I meant it to.
Mia patted my hand and smiled. “I’ll show you that later. Let’s plan to leave in an hour. That’ll give you time to freshen up. We’ll stop for lunch, so you may want to change into something . . . something else?”
We both understood that meant I should wear clothes appropriate to being introduced to the public.
Back in my apartment, I found a cotton sundress and sandals, managed to find enough makeup to not have a naked face, and collapsed on the bed.
Maybe this wasn’t the brilliant solution I had thought it was. Mia as friend was one creature. Mia as mom, wife, business owner was intense. My phone timer chimed. I had three minutes to meet Mia for our excursion.
Wyatt, this is all your fault. How selfish of you to die.
CHAPTER 21
By the end of Mia in Motion: Day Two, I seriously questioned my sanity, my ability to mother, and my choice of friends.
The busyness didn’t allow much time—in conversations or in thought—to dissect everything happening and not happening in my post-Wyatt life. In telling me about the designated tour stops, Mia didn’t mention the Houston traffic, schizophrenic freeways, or road-repair dodges. She’d been away too long to remember that complaining about six stop signs and three signal lights was a way of life in our hometown. In one of my emails to my father after I’d arrived, I told him to open a second office in Houston because, judging by the number of drivers and their speeds, the life insurance industry here should be booming.
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