“John? We have an emergency!” I whispered frantically into the phone.
“Liz? Is that you? I can barely hear you.”
“I can’t speak any louder. I don’t want to startle it.”
“What do you mean ‘it’? What don’t you want to startle? Liz, are you all—”
“No, I am not all right,” I interrupted. “John, I don’t know what to do. There’s a mouse in the kitchen light fixture!”
“A what?” There was a pause, and then he began to laugh. “Did you say a mouse?”
“John, please! This is serious. Katie and Hannah are locked in their rooms, and I don’t know what to do. You know how scared I am of mice. You have to come home.”
Another pause. “Liz, I can’t leave now. Just ask Josh to—”
“Josh is already gone,” I said even more frantically. “He’s working as a referee at the soccer tournament this weekend. He won’t be home for hours.”
“Then just wait until he—”
“John, I can’t wait! The girls are locked in their rooms, and I cannot live in a house with a mouse running around in the ceiling. You have to come home.”
“Liz, I am not coming home. It’s a three-hour drive,” he said in his most reasonable voice. “Now listen, all you need to do is—”
I cut him off. “I am so not touching a rodent, John!”
“Calm down, sweetheart,” he said over what sounded like laughing in the background. “Remember, you’re the adult here.”
“An adult who would rather give up her favorite sweatpants than come face to face with that beady-eyed rodent,” I whined. “You should see its long, skinny tail flipping around up there. John, I just can’t—”
“Liz, listen.” The amusement had begun to fade from his voice. “You don’t have to touch the mouse. Just put a trash bag over the light fixture and tap the glass. The mouse will run right into the bag.”
“What if it chews its way out of the bag and gets away?” I asked warily. “Mice carry a virus.”
“Liz, you have two choices,” he insisted as my hopes for a valiant rescue began to fade. “You are going to have to handle this yourself . . . or wait until I get home. Tomorrow.”
“But—”
“And don’t even think about staying at a hotel.”
It always annoys me when John knows what I’m thinking. Sometimes even before I think it.
After much discussion and two trips to Wal-Mart, the girls and I ended up catching the mouse in a live trap baited with a peanut-butter-smeared cracker. By the time we were ready to release the well-fed critter in the park, Hannah had named him Pinky . . .
No, it’s probably not a good idea to call John. Especially since he’s fishing with the same group of guys from our small group at church. I am still periodically asked, “Seen any killer mice lately, Liz?” by snickering males. Since we are usually in church at the time, I just smile. But all the while, I’m really thinking that I’d like to see how these macho men would stand up under a leg waxing.
My options are narrowing. Maybe I should call Marina. No, I’d never forgive myself if she were injured in the line of duty by what I’ve now convinced myself is a crazed assassin in the basement. I’ll just have to handle this myself.
After arming myself with the meat mallet from my kitchen utensil drawer, I take a deep breath and start down the stairs.
“Josh? Katie? Are you there?” I call, trying to sound casual. “I just wanted you to know that your DAD and I are home. And Marina—the POLICE OFFICER next door—is here too. We’re going to watch a movie before she goes on her shift. By the way, she has her GUN with her, so don’t make any quick moves. Ha, ha. Right, Marina?”
Even I am embarrassed by my inane babbling. I bet I have the serial killer in the basement just shaking in his boots.
Before I can plot another plan of attack, the door of the rec room bursts open. Startled, I drop the meat mallet on my foot . . . and slide down the last three stairs. I land solidly on my tailbone.
“Mom?” It’s the voice of my oldest child. “What’s—”
Still immersed in the world of true crime, I whisper hoarsely, “Katie! Run!”
“Mom, what’s wrong? And what are you doing with this?” She bends over and picks up the meat mallet.
I drift back to reality as Katie helps me up from the floor. I realize there is no mass murderer in the basement. And the mysterious light? It’s coming from the television.
“What are you doing home so early?” I ask my daughter. “I thought you went to a movie with Kristin.”
“I had a change of plans. Kim got sick, so her mom had to cancel the sleepover. Hannah looked so crushed that Josh and I decided to change our plans and stay home with her. We’re having a fun night.”
A “fun night” is a tradition I thought my teens had long outgrown. In years past they would convince us to rent a movie and—if we were feeling especially generous—a video game. Then they’d load up on junk food and settle in the rec room with plans to stay up to see the sunrise. John and I could never quite grasp the “fun” in this sort of night. Our idea of fun is sinking into our pillow-topped mattress, pulling up the cozy down comforter, and settling in for a “long winter’s nap.”
“So Josh and Hannah are here too?” I ask.
“Yeah, they’re asleep in front of the television. I guess I conked out too. Hannah wanted to watch The Little Princess again. I usually nod off after Miss Minchin forces Sarah to live in the attic.”
I peek in the door of the rec room. The scene transports me back in time. There are three sleeping bags and pillows lined up on the floor. Various bags of chips, a bowl of gorp, and several cans of pop litter the adjacent coffee table.
My tall, lanky son is stretched out on the floor next to his little sister. His hand loosely circles a pop can. Hannah’s head is snuggled into her favorite stuffed dog that she calls Eddie Jr. I can still see the imprint of Katie’s body on the sleeping bag next to Hannah, indicating that she, too, joined her brother and sister on the floor so as not to break a fun-night tradition.
My state of high anxiety melts into sweet serenity. There is no sight more precious to a mother than watching her children sleep. But even more precious on a day that started out so badly is a glimpse of the genuine bond between these often contentious siblings. Despite their bickering, this scene reminds me that they do truly love each other. Although they may not realize it, I know the ties they are forging will give them strength now—and into adulthood.
Yes, God knew what He was doing when He formed the family.
Forcing myself to turn from the heartwarming sight before me, I take my meat mallet from a still-confused Katie, give her a quick hug, and whisper, “Have fun, sweetie.”
And then I tiptoe up the stairs . . . so as not to disturb my children and break the spell.
BLUE PLATE SPECIAL AT SALLY’S DINER
SALLY’S MEAT LOAF
1 1/2 lb. very lean hamburger
1 egg
1 cup fresh breadcrumbs
1/2 cup onion, chopped
1/2 cup carrot, shredded
1 teaspoon dried sage (leaf, not ground)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1 clove of garlic, minced
Dash of Worcestershire sauce
1/2 cup ketchup
Instructions
1. Mix all ingredients and shape into a loaf.
2. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour.
3. Drain off fat, if necessary, and bake for 5–10 more minutes.
4. Remove from oven and let stand for 10 minutes before slicing.
5. Serve with brown gravy or ketchup.
“REAL” MASHED POTATOES
2 1/2 pounds Yukon or russet potatoes, cut into 1-inch chunks (about 7–8 cups)
1/3 cup milk or half-and-half
1/4 cup butter
Salt and pepper to taste
Instructions
1. Place potatoes in a 4-quart
pan, cover with water, and bring to a boil.
2. Reduce heat and simmer for 20 minutes, or until potatoes are tender.
3. Drain water. Add remaining ingredients and beat by hand or with electric mixer until light and creamy.
COUNTRY STRING BEANS
1 lb. fresh green beans
1 oz. salt pork or bacon
1 teaspoon salt
Instructions
1. Wash beans. Remove the strings and snap off ends.
2. Cook beans and salt pork/bacon in an uncovered pot for 1–2 hours.
3. Add salt the last half hour of cooking.
MILE HIGH COCONUT CREAM PIE
1 (6 oz.) box coconut pudding or pie filling mix
1 cup fresh coconut, coarsely shredded
1 baked 9-inch pie shell (deep dish)
6 cups fresh, sweetened whipped cream
Instructions
1. Prepare pudding as directed on package. Cool.
2. Add half the coconut to cooled pie filling. Pour into pie shell; chill.
3. Spread whipped cream over pie, mounding in center.
4. Toast remaining coconut in oven at 400 degrees for 2–3 minutes. Sprinkle over pie when cool.
Before going to bed (minus the meat mallet) on Friday night, I had picked up a message on my voice mail from Kelly, asking me to meet her at Lucy’s at 8:15 the next morning.
This morning, as I hit the snooze alarm again, I muse, Why me? I mean, I love Lucy, but how come I always end up as sidekick to my strong-willed friends whenever there’s a sticky situation? Why not call Jess? She’s the “wise” one. Or Marina? She has the guts to say what she thinks. And although she might not say much, Mary Alice would at least bring treats.
I hate to admit it, but I suspect I end up in this role because I represent the path of least resistance. I can easily imagine Kelly’s carefully plotted rationale for asking me to be a part of this little powwow.
Number one: she has already decided what Lucy needs to do to resolve her current problems and sketched out a plan of action.
Two: she believes it will be easier to convince Lucy that she’s right if another member of FAC backs her up.
And three: she’s confident I don’t have the nerve to disagree with what she “knows” is best for Lucy.
What’s hard for me to face is that Kelly’s probably right. I’m one of those people who clings to the hope that if I ignore a problem long enough, it will just work itself out. So far, what my husband calls my “theory of positive procrastination” has little to support its veracity. Unfortunately, my inaction has also resulted in more than a few personal and family crises. Ones that I’d rather not rehash.
Unwilling to delve any deeper into these murky emotional waters—and knowing it will be hours before the kids wake up from their fun night—I roll out of bed and drag myself to the shower.
Before I leave for Lucy’s, I write the kids a note, just in case. But I figure I’ll be back well before they roll out of their sleeping bags . . . just in time for lunch.
After only a couple of hours at Lucy’s house, I’m feeling even more exhausted. Kelly has transferred Lucy’s decision-making process to 4x6-inch cards, with the pros and cons listed neatly in columns.
“See? Isn’t this easier when it’s all on paper?” she asks, shuffling through the stack. “Where should we start?”
“How about next week?” answers a glazed-eyed Lucy. “I’m too tired to deal with this now, Kel.”
Amen, sister, I’m thinking as I slouch on the couch.
“No problem.” Kelly seems unruffled. “I’m flexible. Let’s take a break. How about lunch?”
“In case you haven’t noticed in your whirl of efficiency, it’s only 10:30,” I say. “I think we need a distraction . . . something fun.”
“OK,” concedes Kelly. “What do you have in mind?”
“A nap?” Lucy suggests.
Kelly flashes her a stern look. “Not an option.”
“Pedicure?” I suggest.
“It’s Saturday, and the nail salon will be jammed,” Kelly reasons, straightening the index cards into a neat pile. “We’ll never get three chairs together without an appointment.”
“You’re right,” I admit. “I hate trying to talk across someone I don’t know.”
“Wait! I have an idea!” Kelly slips the cards into a lime green pocket folder. “Why don’t we drive down to your aunt’s home in Tredway to take a look at the house?”
“Oh no, no.” Lucy shakes her head. “Not today. I thought we were going to wait and plan an FAC down there . . . when everyone can come along.”
“Actually, Lucy, I think your first visit would be easier with just me and Liz,” says Kelly. Catching my annoyed look from the corner of her eye, she continues, “There will be less commotion this way. We’ll have plenty of opportunities for all of us to see the house and meet your aunt.”
“Well, we just can’t pop in on her,” insists Lucy, her voice rising. “I’d need to call first.”
Kelly shrugs. “So call.”
“I can’t just call and say we’ll be there in an hour!” Lucy exclaims. “I need to give her some notice . . . make sure she’ll be home.”
“Get real, Lucy.” Kelly is already packing up her bag. “She’s ninety-some years old and, if she’s anything like Jess’s grandma, probably driving a golf cart. I doubt she’ll be hard to find.”
The hour drive to Tredway is a true test of friendship.
Even though Lucy couldn’t reach her aunt by phone, Kelly convinced us to go anyway. She also insisted on driving.
Before we left I called to check on the kids and make sure Josh or Katie would be home to keep an eye on Hannah until I returned that afternoon. After assuring them my cell phone would be on if they needed to get in touch with me, I strapped myself in the back seat of Kelly’s car to prepare for what I knew would be a wild ride.
Kelly is one of those strong-willed women who drives just like she makes decisions—fast and with no regrets. As I grip the armrest, I realize that her driving style resembles that of my older daughter, Katie. Remembering a number of terrifying rides as Katie’s passenger, I begin to break out in a cold sweat . . .
From the moment Katie poked her head into the world, she had a will of iron—even refusing to breathe for what my husband still calls the longest minute of his life. When our stubborn newborn finally agreed to take her first breath, the obviously rattled doctor examined her and informed us that nothing appeared to be wrong. He said she had just decided to begin breathing in her own time. Then he added cryptically, “Just wait until the teen years.”
Little did we know how prophetic his words were. Shortly after Katie acquired her driver’s license, she shared her belief that the majority of drivers on the road were inept. In fact, after completing the driver’s exam, she didn’t hesitate to express concern about the qualifications and abilities of her examiner.
“Where do they get these people?” she exclaimed as we walked from the licensing bureau. “She took points off my score for driving 29 in a 25-mph zone.”
“Katie, 25 is the speed limit on residential streets,” I said, appropriately proud of my familiarity with the Nebraska Driver’s Manual.
“Mom, nobody drives 25,” she replied sagely—another example to bolster her belief that parents are clueless.
I explained that this was the law, intended to make the roads safe for her and other drivers. I also informed my daughter that she would not have access to the family car until agreeing to follow the traffic laws—including speed limits.
I was able to secure her promise to adhere to the rules of the road, including the laws she considered pointless. However, she couldn’t help adding that, in her opinion, anyone over thirty should be required to retake the driving test each year.
It was a good thing I clamped my lips shut, because my reply would not have been pretty . . .
This morning, as I watch the countryside fly by in blazing autumn colors on th
e curvy roads to Tredway, I realize I am not in the car with an appropriately cautious middle-aged driver. No, I’m experiencing an unwelcome glimpse of “Katie Gone Wild.”
“Hey, Kelly,” I say finally. “I’m feeling a little woozy back here. Would you mind slowing down a little?”
“Just keep your eyes on the horizon. You’ll be fine.”
I shut my eyes and pray that Tredway will be around the next hairpin curve.
When we reach Tredway, our first order of business is to find Aunt Bette.
“I’m still uncomfortable just dropping in,” says Lucy after another unsuccessful try to reach her aunt by phone. “She’s always been very gracious, but it doesn’t seem right just showing up on her doorstep after all these years. She probably won’t even recognize me.”
“Don’t worry, Lucy,” I tease. “You’ve hardly changed from high school. In fact, isn’t that the twin set you wore for your senior picture?”
“Very funny, Farrah.” Lucy laughs, referring to my futile efforts to mimic the hairstyle of the popular Charlie’s Angel during my younger days.
I probably deserved Lucy’s teasing. After all, it had been my idea, five years ago, to invite our FAC group to an old-fashioned slumber party—complete with sleeping bags, manicures, chick flicks, and an overabundance of chocolate. On a whim I’d asked them to bring along their high-school yearbooks so we could see what each other looked like B.K.—before kids. The slumber party has become an annual FAC tradition, but instead of sleeping bags in my den, we now treat ourselves to an overnight at a hotel.
“What’s the address again, Lucy?” asks Kelly.
“I don’t have the address with me, but I know it’s on Locust. I remember it being up on a hill.”
“Why don’t we stop and ask directions?” I suggest. “Your aunt has lived here all her life. I’m sure someone will know the house.”
“No need. I can find it,” Kelly insists.
I’ve learned from experience that it’s not worth arguing with Kelly when it comes to directions—or just about anything else.
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