Missed Connection

by K Larsen

  “Yes. That’s a great idea. Maybe we should snap some pictures before we leave. Dried corn braids would be nice, as well as pumpkin and gourd arrangements.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about the stuff with Ty, Mom. It will work itself out. He seems pretty crazy about you and like an accepting kind of guy, so I think you might be stressing over nothing.”

  “I hope you’re right. I already feel like a liar. Almost as if I’m trying to make him fall for me before I tell him the truth, which, of course, isn’t fair.”

  “Whatever, Mom. No one does that. Everybody sells themselves first—that’s how it works. You don’t get a boyfriend by going up to some guy and saying, ‘Hello, I suck. I’ve got a ton of issues and I’m really high-maintenance. You might want to think twice before you get involved with me.’”

  “But with a man as genuine as Ty, I feel like I should be upfront.”

  The waiter comes and sets down a perfect, fluffy omelet in front of Angie and we order another. Angie dumps first ketchup and then hot sauce all over hers.

  “What do you think push-up bras are for or fake lashes or heels? What about all make-up or tight clothes or fancy underwear? Or lip injections or Botox or implants—the list goes on and on. It’s all false advertising, trying to get someone hooked. No one states their flaws on the first date. It’s counter-productive. Everyone hooks first and then dishes later. Ty, the man, probably even has his own secrets to bring to the table.”

  I bite into a muffin and look at the lake out the window. It’s placid and dark, the overhanging clouds somehow draining this place of its magic. Or maybe it’s my mood, my shame that’s encroaching on our perfect getaway and reunion.

  “He won’t want to be with me after I tell him I’m crazy.”

  “It’s not “crazy,” Mom, you’re being dramatic and oversimplifying things. Dad made you feel like shit about your condition because he was afraid it would cause a political scandal and he just didn’t understand it!”

  Angie bangs her coffee mug down onto the saucer. Coffee sloshes over the side and onto the tablecloth.

  “I’m sorry, Ange, I’m scared is all. I really care about Ty and I want this to work.”

  “Do you want me to tell you what it’s like loving someone who’s bipolar? Because I know, Mom, I’m an expert because I’ve spent my whole life doing it!”

  “Angie, I’m sorry,” I say and lay my hand on her arm.

  “Don’t be. Let me enlighten you. My mom often had a lot of energy that other people didn’t have, which meant sometimes she didn’t sleep at night and did “crazy, reckless” things like bake more banana bread then we could eat, so we had to give some to the teachers at school or share with the neighbors. Other times she’d knit or sew or clean or organize, so you’d go to sleep with a messy room and you’d wake up with it spotless. Maybe she made the Halloween costume you’d been talking about in May or maybe she finished all the Christmas cards before the school year even started.”

  “Stop, Angelina. Please.”

  She’s heated and she’s speaking too loud and people are starting to take notice.

  “No, I’ll stop when I’m finished. Those were the good parts. The bad parts were when she was down and she’d be asleep on the couch when you got home from school or could barely open her eyes from crying so much. But even in those bad times, when she had to fight for normalcy, she always packed my lunch, she always wrote me a little love note on my napkin. Even when she was so depressed she walked around the house like a zombie, she still managed to put lavender bubbles in my bath or make me homemade macaroni. She got better as the years went on and knew how to focus her energy. She found out what made her happy and used that to manage her mood swings. She wasn’t perfect, but she was there and she doted on me and she fought for me a whole hell of a lot harder than Dad ever did. She did her best and she loved me.”

  I’m crying into my mug of coffee. I’ve been selfish dealing with my disease and always trying to cope. I don’t know if I’ve ever once asked Angelina how she was doing or how she, herself, was coping. I spent years trying to push it under the rug and hiding instead of trying to understand it and help my daughter manage her own feelings about it.

  “Angelina, I feel selfish, we should always be open about this.”

  “Dad would slam down the subject as soon as it came up. And that’s not the point, Mom. What I’m saying is that your mood swings don’t make it any harder to love you. Yes, it can be challenging and yes, it can hurt, but by no means does it make you unworthy of real love.”

  I reach out and take her hand and we squeeze hard and smile. I wipe my tears with my napkin and cut into my omelet.

  “Anyway, at this point, you could tell Ty you had an extra boob and he’d be like, ‘Cool, sign me up.”

  “I do have one,” I say taking a deep sip of orange juice and grinning at my daughter.

  “No, you don’t, Mom. Shut up.”

  “What if we drive to his place first and get the tire taken care of? If it gets too late, we can stay and drive back into the City on Monday morning.”

  “Another night? Andrew will kill me.”

  “Think it over, Sweetie. It might be safer not to drive at night and plus, it might be fun.”

  I feel better after my shower. Less down, more up. I’m prepared for the drive to feel long and ominous because I’m prepared to tell Jess what’s going on later at the house. It’s both a weight lifted and disheartening. What if she runs? What if she assumes I was a dirty drug user at some point? Luke’s about ready to head up to the lodge so we can eat before we have to check out. He eyes me as we exit the cabin.

  “You cool?” he asks.

  “Nothing to worry about, Bud, just had a moment.”

  “I know, but that moment ended with you jumping into a frigid lake. And what the hell happened to the bathroom mirror?”

  I groan and quicken my pace up the path. “I broke it. Before the swim. But, Buddy, I’m alright. It’s not your job to worry about me.”

  Luke trots to catch up with me. “We’ve only got us, Dad, we worry about each other.” I smile at him and nod. He’s right. Since Rory’s death, we’ve always had each other’s backs. He’s just being a concerned kid. If I stop to put myself in his shoes, I would have been scared shitless at what he witnessed his parent doing. I yank him into a sideways hug.

  “Will they be there eating?” he asks.

  “Probably, why?”

  “Just wanted a little more time before we all left, I guess. Angie’s cool.”

  “It really makes me happy to hear that you like them,” I say. Luke pushes open the large doors to the lobby and we go in. Fires are blazing in every fireplace, which makes the place feel less overcast and gloomy, which is good. Luke spots Angie and Jess at a table by a large bay of windows and waves. Angie grins and motions us over.

  I pull my chair out and sit next to Jess. She reaches out and rubs my bicep. “Coffee?” she asks.

  “Yes, please. Can’t have too much.” I put my hand atop hers. I’ll never get used to how soft she is.

  “Luke! Gross!” Angie squeals. I look over and he’s got what looks like an entire pastry shoved in his mouth. He’s moaning—in a good way and chewing with his mouth open. Little puffs of crumbs fly from his mouth when he groans. Luckily, I’m used to it and I’m the one sitting across from him.

  “Theserresogud,” he says around his food. I face palm and bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing. The boy will never learn. Angie giggles and it sets me off. I burst out laughing at the buffoon my son is. Jess looks between all of us with wide eyes.

  “I’ve told him a thousand times,” I laugh out.

  “He looks like a wildebeest,” Angie says clutching at her stomach. Jess finally breaks down. A loud, hearty laugh pours out of her and it’s like nothing I’ve heard before. It’s full and boisterous and musical. Luke wipes some crumbs from his lips and chin and lifts up the pastry basket.

  “Anyone want one?” he asks. T
his is the way family breakfasts are supposed to be.

  We finish breakfast with fun banter and all return to our respective rooms to pack up our stuff. The girls got specific instructions not to carry their own luggage out. Which I’m happy to find—they obeyed. I take Jess’s two bags and Luke grabs Angie’s. Jess stops at the front desk to check out while I load her bags into her car. Luke and Angie are leaning against the truck, laughing about something. Jess sneaks up beside me.

  “It’s strange to see them together. And getting along, to boot.”

  I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “It is. No one could’ve predicted this would all go off without a hitch.”

  “So . . .” Jess starts.

  “I need to check out still. Maybe we should let Angie drive her and Luke in the truck and you and I can take the Volvo. It’s safer.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jess says. She looks to Angie. “I can ask her if that’s alright, though.”

  “Deal. Let me go take care of my bill and I’ll be right back.” I lean down and kiss her gently before heading inside. I’m going to have to pay for the mirror. I’d rather not tell Jess that happened. After an additional two-hundred dollar charge to my debit card, I’m free and clear of the Lodge.

  “Everyone ready?” I call out to the three of them. They’re standing together, close, talking and smiling. I feel like they’re up to something.

  “Yes,” Jess answers and starts walking toward me. Her hair is pulled back loosely, a few strands frame her face. Her smile is wide and white and aimed at me. She’s got a sweater on and the sleeves pulled down over her hands. She looks adorable and beautiful.

  “Angie okay driving the truck?”

  “She said yes,” Jess says and lifts up gracefully to her tiptoes. I meet her halfway and kiss her. Walking hand in hand around to the passenger side of the Volvo, I open her door for her and usher her in. In three hours, Jess will be inside my house. It’s a fact that has me beaming and cringing simultaneously.

  “How far is it to your place from here?”

  “About three hours, give or take.”

  “Well, the ride should be beautiful. This time of year makes the scenery out of this world.”

  “You’re telling me,” Ty says, looking over and checking me out. I blush at his joke and reach out and put my hand on his knee.

  “My dad always used to say that if a couple could get along in the car on a road trip, it was a true test of love and would define whether or not they could make it together in life,” Ty says.

  Ty is a great driver, even in a car he doesn’t know well. He’s confident, yet graceful and the way he hugs the curves of these winding roads, is turning me on.

  “Your dad was a sage man, because I’d say that holds true. Are your parents still living? Do you get to see them often?”

  “My Dad passed in ’89, my Mom is still going strong. She’s in an assisted living facility for Alzheimer’s, but she manages to stay fairly active, she volunteers at church. She’s in Stamford; Luke and I go down there for a visit near Christmas. She used to come up, but her dementia has gotten worse over the last couple of years.”

  “And your wife’s family?”

  “From New York, White Plains. Her parents are gone though, so my mom is the only grandparent Luke has left. Rory’s sister, Emily, is still close; we see her at Christmastime, too, and she calls to see how Luke’s doing. What about your folks?” He asks.

  “I still have both of them, thankfully. Snowbirds now, in St. Augustine, Florida. I used to take Angie every spring when she was young but sometime around high school, she lost interest, already had too much going on. They’re into cruising and they’ve also got an RV. Pretty average family, pretty normal childhood.”

  “Where did you grow up?’

  “Oh, in Washington DC, both my parents are lobbyists. They were always deeply entrenched in politics. I met John when I came to college here in New York. My parents were thrilled that he studied political science and had his eye on the governorship.”

  “And John was who you were running away from the night we met?”

  “Yes. I didn’t tell you that night, but I’d just found out I was pregnant.”

  “I see. With Angie? It all makes more sense now as to why you left so abruptly.”

  I reach out, take his hand and give it a squeeze. I can do this, I tell myself. This might be my only opportunity before we part ways. If I care about him, even half as much as it feels like I do, I owe him honesty and transparency. It’s the least I can do.

  “I was young, in my early twenties and incredibly scared. I knew I wasn’t in love with John, but I didn’t want to give up the baby. As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I went off my meds.”

  I said it. It wasn’t so hard. Ty looks at me curiously and affectionately squeezes my arm.

  “I wanted to tell you before we took this any further. I’m manic depressive. I have bipolar disorder.”

  Ty nods and he looks at me with compassion. I wipe a few stray tears from my eyes. I don’t feel sad, I feel unburdened—lighter. Even if my mental health scares him away, I feel relieved saying it out loud—giving it energy and space, instead of all the hiding and covering up I’ve been doing for years.

  “I’m glad you told me. That couldn’t have been easy for you.”

  “I am, in my own opinion, pretty high functioning. I take my medication regularly and see a psychiatrist. I have my moments, but for the most part, it’s regulated. I’ve gotten adept at hiding it because John always felt like it wouldn’t be good for business.”

  “When were you diagnosed?”

  “End of high school. My parents never knew what to make of it. One thing I’ll always be grateful to John for, is that he protected me throughout my pregnancy—made sure I stayed on track and saw to it that I was well cared for. It may only have been in the interest of his child, but it saved me, too, and I wouldn’t have made it through the pregnancy without him.”

  “That must have been difficult for you. And you must have been scared.”

  “I couldn’t have gone with you, no matter how much I wanted to.”

  “I’m honored to get to know all of the parts that make up who you are. I hope I can help you when you’re having a rough time and I hope you’ll be open with me about what your needs are. I don’t know much about the disorder, but I’m willing to learn and I hope, if you’re struggling, you let me help you ease the burden.”

  My hands are on my mouth to keep me from sobbing out loud. I peer at him with eyes clouded in grief and wonderment. He made me feel so at ease and accepted within the span of a few heartfelt sentences. I smile at him through the blur of my tears.

  “Don’t cry. I want us to happen, no matter the obstacles. I’ve got my fair share of baggage, too. I hope we can be there for each other as we unload some of these life scars. If we carry the burden together, it will make it lighter for both of us.”

  “You might not feel that way, once you see me in a bad spot.”

  “You know, let me tell you a story. Rory, my late wife, was an even-keeled person, but she had some of the worst PMS I’ve seen in my life. She’d cry and yell, sometimes throw stuff and break things. Snap at everything Luke did and a few times, at her worst, she even tried to break up with me. But when it happened, I always took it for what it was. Her hormones were raging and they made her do things, that later, she’d eventually come to feel ashamed of. So during those days or that week every month, I’d try to soothe things over, intervene where I could.

  Once, when we were all sitting down to dinner, Rory pulled a giant casserole out of the over and when she saw that it had burned, with hot pads on and everything, she marched out the front door and smashed that sucker in the driveway. Poor Luke, he was stunned. Rory came back in, crying, and all I could do was hold her and give her hug. I made us all peanut butter sandwiches and we ate watching a movie.

  Later that night, Rory was mortified that maybe the neighbors had seen her, that the
y’d call child services or at the least, deem her crazy. We cleaned up the mess after dark that same night. At one point, it struck us as funny and all three of us were laughing so hard. Luke kept saying, “Welcome to the Jenning’s Drive-Thru, can I take your order?”

  So those moments weren’t her best, but they didn’t define who she was. Rory was great the other three weeks out of the month. I was her husband, so it was my job to see the difference.

  I know PMS doesn’t compare to mental illness but it illustrates my point well. I know who you are today from our conversations and letters, the time we’ve spent together in the past seventy-two hours. I won’t hold you to a breakdown you have or some behavior that might be questionable. I see who you are right now, and to me, that’s all that matters.”

  “I want you to stop the car so I can give you a hug.” I’m overwhelmed with the need to hug him, to pull him close to my heart. He turned what I was terrified of revealing, into an affirmation.

  Ty pulls over to the side of the road without even thinking about it twice. He stops in the emergency lane and pops out of the driver’s side. He reaches my side just as I’m climbing out. The air is cool and the wind is whipping but the sun still seems strong. He pulls me into his arms and I throw mine around his neck, snuggling into his chest.

  “Where have you been my whole life?”

  “Right here, waiting for you to turn up again.”

  As a person who enjoys culinary adventures, yet mostly still eats like an eighteen year old, I find cooking to be intriguing and sometimes tricky. Typically, I don’t venture outside of culturally-familiar cuisine, mostly due to my fear of eating other species’ reproductive bits. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy good Indian food, or Thai food, from time to time. As I mull through the fridge and sniff test everything I’m eyeing, I come up with an idea for dinner. We got home just in time to cook something, after we dropped Jess’s car at Rusty’s¸ so he could put a new tire on it.