These Boots Weren't Made for Walking

by Melody Carlson

  He nods in a self-satisfied way. “Well, good.”

  “So is that it then? You came over here just to make sure I hadn't tossed aside my faith because of you?”

  “No, of course not.” He looks a little sad now. “I do care about you. I was concerned—”

  “Look, Eric,” I say in a surprisingly calm tone. “You hurt me a lot, okay? I won't pretend you didn't. I know that you and Jessica had sex, and that hurts a lot too. But there's nothing I can do about any of it, and I know that I'm going to have to forgive you, okay? But I'm just not ready to do that yet.”

  He nods and looks down at his hands. “Okay.”

  “And, now, if you don't mind, there's a lovely dinner waiting for me.” I stand up.

  “So what's the deal with you two?” he asks as I head for the door.

  “We're friends,” I say as we go into the hallway. “We have some things in common.”

  Eric follows me back to my door, obviously burning with curiosity about this whole thing. I can see the wheels going around in his head. How long has this been going on? How serious is it? Was I seeing Will while dating Eric? But I am not going to give him the satisfaction of telling him. I may be a Christian, but that doesn't make me a doormat. “And that's all?” he asks.

  “Well, that and he's moving into my apartment,” I say lightly as I go inside. “See ya around, Eric.” And then I close the door and lock it.

  “Guess we showed him,” says Will as he sets a pair of amazing salad plates on the table.

  “These are like art,” I say as I admire an arrangement of delicately placed vegetables and a swirl of what must be dressing.

  And the whole meal is like that. By the time we're finished, I want to hug Will, but I restrain myself. “You really are an artist,” I tell him. “And I so want you to find a cooking job.” Then I start listing some of my favorite restaurants and even mention people I know who work there.

  “Want to write me a recommendation?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I agree. “My laptop computers packed, but maybe when I get to my moms, I could do that and send it here.” I sort of laugh. “Not that it would help.”

  “Might not hurt.” He smiles. “This is so weird, Cassie.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I always thought you were… well, you know.

  “No,” I tell him, “I don't know.”

  “I don't want to insult you.”

  “Hey, go ahead, and then I can tell you what I thought of you.” I give him my best evil eye.

  “Well, the truth is, I thought you were this boring stick-in-the-mud. I knew you went to church, and then you're sort of conservative in your, uh, you know, your appearance. And I just never thought of you as very interesting.”

  I laugh. “Actually, that's probably just about right.”

  “No,” he says quickly, “I was wrong. I'm not sure how to say it, but…” He squints as he tries to conjure up the right words. “I know what it is. You have a heart.”

  “Well, that's good to know,” I say. “Maybe it's showing more since it's been broken.”

  “You're a nice person,” he says, “and I wish you weren't moving.”

  “Well, we're both moving,” I remind him. “We're moving on with our lives. We're taking control, right? We're becoming the people we were meant to be.” I glance around the slightly messy kitchen. “And it's obvious you are an artiste in the kitchen, Will. I hope someday you own your own restaurant.” Then I point to his hair. “Weren't we going to cut your hair?”

  “You still want to?”

  “Sure.” I pick up some plates. “Let me start cleaning this up while you dig out those scissors.”

  Before long he's back and seated on the barstool, and I am cautiously snipping away at his shaggy brown hair. “I don't want to cut too much,” I say. “I mean, you don't really seem like a button-down kind of guy. But I'll try to neaten it, okay?”

  “Sounds good.”

  As I'm cutting, I can feel a serious attraction to this guy—I mean, it's like electric—and so I hurry up with the haircut. When I'm satisfied, I step back and think I need to go take a nice cool shower. “Go look,” I tell him, pointing to the bathroom.

  He comes back with a smile. “Great job. Thanks.”

  Then we both clean up the kitchen, but I'm careful to keep a safe distance. Not that I think Will would try anything on me. I mean, this guy is used to the looker Monica Johnson. The problem is that I don't trust myself. Finally we finish up, and I say it's been a long day and I have a long drive ahead of me tomorrow. Hint, hint.

  “Thanks for making dinner,” I tell him. “It was truly unforgettable.”

  “Thanks for everything,” he tells me. “I'm thinking that you're an angel.”

  I laugh. “I can assure you that I'm not.” Then I think of something. “But I will be praying for you, Will. I'll pray that you find the perfect restaurant to work in and that life starts going in a really great direction.”

  “Do you really believe in prayer?” he asks with a frown.

  “You mean, do I believe that you can pray for things and they just magically will happen?” I shake my head. “But I do believe that God is listening, and sometimes when we're listening to him and getting it right, we manage to pray the kinds of prayers that God can say yes to.”

  He nods slowly as if he's trying to wrap his head around this.

  “The problem is, I'm not sure I can pray like that for my own life right now,” I admit. “But I know I can for you.”

  He frowns. “Man, I wish I could pray for you too, Cassie. I really owe you big time, but I'm not really, you know, into that kind of thing.”

  “I know.” I smile. “And I actually understand.”

  he next morning Will helps me load my remaining things in the U-Haul. There doesn't seem to be much to say as we stand outside in the crisp autumn air. “Thank you,” I tell him, throwing my arms around his neck in a spontaneous hug. “Believe it or not, you have been a real godsend.”

  He throws back his head and laughs. “First time anyone said anything like that about me.”

  “I'll be sending that letter of recommendation,” I tell him as I walk over to the driver's side. “Not that my seal of approval will help much. And you don't really need it, Will. You are a pro. You just need to believe in yourself and go for it.”

  “You too,” he says. Then he frowns. “By the way, what exactly are you going for?”

  I make a face and shrug. “Good question.”

  “We talked so much about me and my future, but you never said what you want to be when you grow up, Cassie.”

  I laugh. “Maybe it's because I haven't grown up yet.” Then I hoist myself into the cab. “Hey, maybe I'll become a truck driver and drive one of those big old semis cross country and smoke big cigars and learn how to cuss.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, I can't really see that.”

  “Stay in touch,” I say as I start the engine and adjust the mirrors, sitting up straighter.

  “You too.”

  Then I pull out, and the last thing I see as I drive away from Part One of my adult life is Will, Monica's ex, waving at me in the side mirror. So surreal.

  I quickly realize that I need to focus here. For one thing, I don't drive all that much anymore. I gave up my car when I moved to the city. And this is a pretty big truck. But soon I'm on the freeway and haven't run over any little old ladies. Finally I slip into a comfort zone of sorts and randomly wonder if I might actually make a good truck driver. It could be interesting to see the country from this perspective. But before long I feel bored with the three lanes and fast-moving traffic. I turn the radio to an FM soft-rock station and replay Will's question in my mind. What do I want to be when I grow up? What do I want to be? Have I ever really known?

  I was one of those kids who never make up their minds about a career. I liked so many things, and my attention span was about as long as a TV ad. For a time I wanted to be a ballerina and even took les
sons for a couple of years, until I realized my slightly chunky body wasn't exactly cut out for it. Then I wanted to be a teacher, until I overheard my favorite teacher talking in the teachers’ lounge, sounding so grumpy and unhappy. Next I thought I'd be an artist when I got attention for some of my works in junior high. But shortly after that, I discovered drama and wanted to be an actress. And on it went. I changed my mind with the seasons. As high-school graduation approached, my dad tried to get me to follow his example and go into law. And for a short while (probably to please him, since that had always been such a challenge), I considered it, but academics was never my strong suit.

  The brains in the family belong to my younger sister, Cammie. Her SAT scores blew everyone away—even my dad. But being a healer at heart, she decided on med school. When she graduates in June, she plans to go to Uganda, where she will help thousands of AIDS orphans and probably become the next Mother Teresa. I can just imagine people calling my petite baby sister Mother Camilla (although we're not Catholic). But Cammie really is an angel.

  On the opposite end of the angel scale is my older sister, Callie. Not that she's a devil exactly, but she has always been pretty self-centered, looking out for the big number one. And what Cammie got in the brains department, Callie got in looks. Tall, blond, classy, beautiful.

  In some ways Monica Johnson reminded me of my older sister. Well, other than that litde lying-and-stealing thing, because Callie can be obnoxiously moral. She got even worse after having kids. The only thing I can imagine Callie lying about would be her looks, like if she secretly got lipo or a tummy tuck. Last Christmas she complained about how much her body changed after giving birth to the twins three years ago. And unlike Monica, Callie has no need to steal. Her husband is an executive with a big recording company in Nashville, and they live in this humongous house in Brentwood. I suppose if I could switch lives with either of my sisters, I'd choose Callie, which I know is pure selfishness on my part. To be beautiful and rich, ahhh… But to be perfectly honest, I'd probably choose a trade that would make me a combination of my sisters. I would like to be rich and beautiful like Callie and have the brains and generous spirit of Cammie—which might make me into something that resembled God himself, and then I'd be in big trouble.

  Instead, I am just me. Cassie in the middle. And right now, as I drive down the middle lane of this freeway with cars passing me on both sides, I feel so lost. Not lost as far as my destination goes. My turnoffis only fifteen miles ahead. I feel lost as in I really don't know who lam or who I want to be. Even Will seems to have a better handle on his life than I do. What is wrong with me?

  And this is nothing new. Good grief, it took me four years to declare my major, and by then my options were getting limited. I settled on an MBA with a minor in art and didn't graduate until I was nearly twenty-six. When I got hired at the marketing firm right after graduation, I felt pretty proud of myself, and I thought I had life all figured out. I mapped my course, deciding that I would work hard and be successful in my career. Then I would meet and marry a nice Christian guy with a really good job that paid well enough to support both of us, plus our three lovely children—two girls and one boy—along with two golden retrievers and a calico cat, in a nice house in the suburbs. Out of that dream, all I have right now is a cat, and he's not even a calico. Nor is he happy at the moment. Poor Felix has been making his grumbling sounds all morning. I glance over at his crate and wonder how he'll adapt to living at my mom's house. At least he'll have room to roam there. And maybe he'll cheer Mom up. She always did like cats. Especially those big black-and-whites like Felix.

  This thought encourages me some. I remind myself that I'm not just going home because I have failed at my life. I'm going home because Mom needs me. She's needed me for a year now, but I've been too busy to notice. All three of us girls have been too busy to notice: Cammie with her last year of med school, Callie with the twins, and me ruining my life by being totally oblivious. Poor Mom, all alone, rattling around in that big old house as she tries to survive a broken heart. Shortly after Dad left, Mom confessed to me over the phone that she usually slept in until noon or later. I told her it was probably just depression and suggested she watch The First Wives Club. But the last time I saw her, she was still in the thick of it. She tried to act cheerful for the sake of the rest of us, and she promised to renew her real-estate license, but I could tell she was tired and depressed and that she'd put on even more weight. Her usually light brown hair had turned gray. It was as if she'd aged ten years in just a few months.

  I imagine her now as I drive. She's probably schlepping around in her old, plaid flannel robe, if she's even up yet since it's barely past noon. Maybe she's in front of the TV putting away a box of Russell Stovers. Chocolate is pretty much her drug of choice. I'm guessing the drapes are still drawn. She also confessed that she pretends she's not home if anyone stops by. “They all act like they come here to cheer me up,” she told me. “But I think they just come to gape. They want to see how fat I'm getting, like I'm some sort of sideshow freak.”

  “What about your good friends?” I say, listing the ladies I remember her spending time with while I was growing up.

  “Well, Barbara Berg moved to Florida last year,” she told me. “And you know Cynthia died of cancer. And Phyllis and Harold Abraham, well, they were one of our couples friends, so that's no good.” On she went, listing all her friends and all the reasons they don't come around anymore. Really, I was depressed by the time she finished. Poor Mom.

  “Here I come,” I say aloud. I feel my spirits rising now, like maybe I will be Supergirl to the rescue—just me and my little cat, Felix. We'll get Mom out of her blue funk and back into the functioning world again. Maybe we can take walks together. Maybe we'll start a new hobby. It'll be fun. And who knows, maybe I'll find myself along the way.

  My excitement builds as I drive into the mountains, slowly getting closer to my hometown. Just the sight of those magnificent ponderosa pines along the highway and the clear blue sky stretching overhead, well, feels almost like a welcome-home hug. Although I complained about it as a kid, I know I was blessed to grow up in the small mountain town of Black Bear. It might not be the biggest or fanciest place, but its friendly and pretty and situated only minutes from Black Bear Butte, a small but popular ski resort. All three of us girls learned to ski at an early age, and Cammie even took up snowboarding in high school, which infuriated my dad since he believed that boarders were rebels. The town has grown since my sisters and I left home, but for the most part it feels the same. To my astonishment, I really feel like I'm coming home. I also feel like my tails between my legs at the moment, but Til get over that. Besides, I remind myself, I'm here to help Mom.

  When I get to her house, no one is home. That doesn't surprise me, and I know where she hides the key under the flowerpot (so original). Anyway, I suspect she's at Warner's Groceries, stocking up on things we'll need because my homecoming has caught her totally by surprise. She probably got up early this morning, straightened things, aired out my room, and suddenly realized she needed groceries.

  I decide to take advantage of her absence by emptying out the moving van into the big three-car garage. It's funny seeing it empty like this, though. I remember when all three of us girls were at home and driving, and how we fought over parking spaces. I back up the truck and start unloading. Today I'm thankful for my Spartan ways, since the heaviest thing I own is the futon frame, which slides out fairly easily. I scoot things around, working up a sweat as I shove everything up against one wall, making sure Mom will have plenty of room to park her old Suburban.

  My sisters and I have been telling her to get rid of the old gas hog, but she insists it's still handy for getting plants and mulch and things from the nursery. “I don't drive much anyway,” she told me the last time we talked about it. I felt so sad when she said this. She sounded forlorn, as if she were some litde old lady who should just give it up altogether.

  Finally I get the last of
my big stuff out, then I take Felix's crate and my personal luggage into the house. I'm surprised to see that a few things have changed in here, but maybe that's good. Maybe it's Mom's attempt at starting over. I have to admit that big white sectional really brightens up the great room, although it needs some colored pillows to cheer it up. Maybe she and I can work on this later, I think as I haul my bags upstairs to my old bedroom. My sisters and I always stay in our old rooms when we're home. Mom's made changes to them over the years, and I know other people have stayed in them, but we still call them our rooms.

  I'm a little dismayed to open the door and smell how stuffy my room is. But I figure Mom was busy getting other things ready. It's a crisp, clear autumn day, so I go ahead and open the windows wide, letting the fresh air waft in. Then I get Felix set up, deciding to confine him to my room for starters so he can get used to the change. And then I wander around the house.

  I'm pleased to see that Mom's allowed some of our old family photos to return to the walls. I know she hated seeing my dad's smiling face among the rest of us, but how do you erase all those years without erasing the whole family? I study the last one taken. It was at Christmas shortly after Callie's twins were born. We think Dad was already involved with Michelle by then. Thirty-five-year-old Michelle, who graduated from high school just ahead of Cal-lie. We couldn't believe that she and our dad had really hooked up. She could be his daughter—such a scandal in a small town like Black Bear.

  I study this family portrait of mostly smiling adults and two chubby baby boys, thinking how odd it is that the age gap between us and our parents somehow narrowed over the passing years. My parents were relatively young when they started their family. Not that they ever spoke of this much. It always embarrassed Mom to admit that Callie was born only six months after their first anniversary. She blamed it on Dad, the tall, handsome law student who seduced her when she was only a junior in college. And he blamed it on her for being “too darned pretty.” Who would've thought those two would ever part? Even thinking of it now puts a lump in my throat. Poor Mom. I'm so glad I came. It's almost four o'clock, and I wonder where she is.