Promises to Keep

by Nan Rossiter

  He shrugged. “Carry it?”

  Ali shook her head and held out her hand. “I’ll give it to my mom.”

  “Are they here?” Mason asked in surprise, his stomach suddenly twisting into a knot.

  She nodded. “I peeked out a little while ago and saw them right up front.”

  “How’d my mom look?”

  “She was smiling.”

  Mason looked relieved and handed his yearbook to her. “Okay. Tell her thanks.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

  He reached into his locker, and trying to expel the kaleidoscope of butterflies now fluttering around in his stomach, lifted out his stole and the rainbow of colorful cords. As he draped them around his neck, several of his friends—fellow distance runners from the cross-country and track teams—stopped to congratulate him on his recently revealed status as salutatorian, and their usual banter and teasing helped him relax.

  “All right, Mase, you da man,” Jackson Temple said, pointing at him.

  “Keep it short, sweetheart,” Randy Stephens teased, slapping him on the shoulder. Mason laughed, shaking hands as they all headed off in different directions to find their places in line.

  Mason reached into his pocket and pulled out a single folded sheet of paper—his speech would be short . . . because he had no idea what he was going to say.

  Just then, Ali returned. “Is that your speech?” she asked brightly.

  He nodded and she tipped the paper to see it.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, raising her eyebrows at the blank page, but then quickly added, “no worries. I’m sure you’ll think of something!” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you after. You got this, Mase!”

  Mason watched her go. Then he looked down at the piece of paper in his hand. He’d gotten up early that morning, hoping to jot down some thoughts—thoughts his classmates might find poignant or profound and maybe even funny . . . he’d wanted to keep it light but he’d just stared at the page. Finally, he’d scanned his mom’s bookshelf—the one on which she kept her most favorite books—and there between Anne Lamott and Mary Oliver was her Bible. He’d reached for Anne Lamott’s Help, Thanks, Wow, but his hand had, instead, settled on her Bible—which he knew was stuffed with scribbled quotes and thoughts, and not just Bible verses, but with all the little things she’d jotted down over the years. He’d sat down in her favorite chair, and when he’d opened the cover, an old photo of him taking his first steps had fallen out. He’d seen the photo before but never really studied it, and he had realized he must’ve been walking into her arms because he was laughing and his arms were reaching out. Mason had smiled, absentmindedly flicking the corner of the old photo, but then he’d noticed there was another photo stuck to it. He’d frowned, and as he pried them apart, they made a sticky, scratching sound. He’d stared at the second photo—it was not one he’d seen before—of a girl in a hospital bed with a tiny baby in her arms. Her hair was a golden halo of copper, just like the baby’s. He’d stared at her uncertainly—his mom had taken care of so many babies over the years that it could’ve been anyone, but why had she saved this photo and why was it in her Bible? He had turned it over to see if there was anything written on the back, but it was blank—just like the piece of paper on which he was supposed to be writing down his thoughts! Mason had tucked both photos back between the pages, and turned to the task at hand, leafing through the quotes written in his mom’s careful handwriting.

  “Hey, Mason! You comin’?” Joe Cameron called. Mason looked up, realized everyone was in line, quickly folded the paper, tucked it in his pocket, and took his place. “Congrats, man!” Joe said, patting him on the shoulder. “Better you than me!”

  Mason smiled. “We’ll see ’bout that.”

  The regal sound of Pomp and Circumstance drifted from the gym, and the line began to move. When he walked into the gym, he scanned the front row and spotted his mom sitting in a wheelchair next to Mrs. Harrison. She was wearing her favorite white blouse with a pretty cobalt blue bandanna on her head, and when she saw him, she smiled and gave him a thumbs-up, which he promptly returned.

  Mason sat in his seat and only half listened to the speeches before his—those of his principal and their guest speaker (a local author)—because he was still trying to formulate his own thoughts. Finally, he heard his name announced, and he felt Joe elbow him. “Good luck, man!”

  Mason stood, and feeling his heart pound like a jackhammer, made his way to the front. He crossed the stage slowly, shaking the hands of the administrators, and then stood resolutely in front of the podium. He pressed his lips together pensively and took in his audience, but when his gaze rested on his mom—and she smiled at him—he felt an odd peace wash over him. He smiled back, his heart swelling with pride because this amazing woman was his mom . . . and he was her son.

  “Thank you for your kind welcome,” he began, adjusting the mic and smiling. “As many of you know, this has been a turbulent year for my mom and me, but as difficult as it has been, it is her unending support and encouragement that has me standing up here. She is the fiercest warrior I know.” He looked over and smiled. “Mom, this is for you.”

  Laurie Callahan nodded, her eyes glistening as Sue put her arm around her frail shoulders and pulled her close.

  “This morning, I got up early with the goal of trying to write down some thoughts so I wouldn’t get myself thoroughly lost up here.” As he said this, he pulled the paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “But this is as far as I got,” he said, holding up the blank page—which made everyone chuckle. “For some reason, not a single thought would come to me—it was kind of like all the blank pages I’ve faced before when I’ve had to write a paper.” He smiled, pausing for more chuckles. “So I began to think about all the times I’ve felt this way—you know, lost and uncertain about what is going to happen . . . about the future—as I’m sure many of you feel today . . . full of trepidation and, in some cases, absolute terror about what the future holds . . . about making the right decisions . . . about getting along with the total stranger some computer algorithm has chosen to be your roommate, or . . . if you’re like me, and not going to college right away, trying to decide which path feels right.” As he said this, he looked at Ali, and she nodded. “So, as I sat in my mom’s chair this morning, thinking about all the times I’ve felt this way over the years, I tried to recall how I’d gotten through them, and I realized that it was my mom who helped me—all the little quips she used to say to give me encouragement, simple things that would focus my mind. . . . And these are the things that helped me push through, so I thought I’d just share some of them with you.”

  He looked up at his mom, saw that she had a tissue clutched in her hand, and then took a deep breath and swallowed before pressing on. “As I made my way up here, I could almost hear my mom whisper one of her most famous phrases in my ear: Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid!” He looked at her and she laughed. “This quote is one of her favorites—she has said it to me so often that it rattles through my head on a daily basis, often on repeat, like the lyrics of a song that gets stuck in your head.” He looked around. “For the longest time—in fact, right up until this morning—I thought it was from the Bible, but I googled it and discovered it’s actually paraphrased from a longer quote: ‘Go at it boldly, and you’ll find unexpected forces closing round you and coming to your aid.’ It’s attributed to the Canadian clergyman and author Basil King and it is included in his book Conquest of Fear—a book that was written a hundred years ago, but is still as profound today . . . and all this time, I thought it was from the Bible.” He paused. “I’m sure I thought this because I know the Bible—another of my mom’s favorite books—is filled with assurances to not fear. So, in my head, I heard my mom whisper it because it has given me courage throughout my life when I’ve faced other daunting tasks—like public speaking,” he added and then waited for the laughter that ensued to die down.

  “You see, my mom has
always loved to read—a passion she has passed on to me. Our house is full of books—we have so many books, in fact, we could probably open a library! From poetry to prose; from history to science; and from mystery to romance, it’s from the pages of all those books that my mom has gleaned an endless wealth of wisdom . . . and trivial knowledge,” he added with a grin.

  “One of her favorite authors is the esteemed Maya Angelou, and another timeless quote she often shared was Maya’s: ‘I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.’ It’s such a simple quote, but we would all do well to take it with us when we leave this place—these halls, classrooms, playing fields, and cross-country trails—where we’ve grown up and learned about life . . . as we leave the teachers and coaches who have taught and inspired us . . . and as we leave the friends with whom we’ve done all this learning. It doesn’t take a high school diploma or a college degree to keep this in your heart, because when it comes right down to it . . . how did you, by your actions and your words, make other people feel?” He smiled. “It’s probably one of the most important things we can learn in life.”

  He paused, looking around at his classmates. “We have come so far, but I’d like to leave you with one final quote.” With a smile, he continued. “When the poet Mary Oliver died, my mom mourned her passing as she would a dear friend. That winter night—I remember it well because it was dark at five o’clock when I got home, and my mom was so sad as she told me about her passing and her poems, and then she went to the shelf where her most cherished books are kept, and pulled out a dog-eared volume of House of Light. She flipped through the pages until she came to her favorite poem: ‘The Summer Day’ . . . but my mom didn’t need the book to share the poem because she knew it by heart. . . . And when she reached the last line, she looked right at me and made it her own. Tell me, dear one, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

  Mason pressed his lips together. “These are just some of the things my mom has taught me, but I believe they are more important than any diploma or honor or degree, and I think we would all do well to keep them in our hearts. I know I will.” He turned, and with glistening eyes, looked solemnly at his mom. “With my one wild and precious life, Mom, I plan to be bold . . . and to be kind . . . and to make you proud.”

  Tears streamed down Laurie Callahan’s cheeks as her son made his way toward her. The crowd around them rose, weeping and clapping thunderously, and when Mason reached his mom, Laurie pulled herself up and wrapped him in a hug. She held her son as if she would never let him go. She would never feel more proud—the young man she’d raised was so poised and well-spoken, respectful and honest, handsome and strong. He had given a poignant message straight from his heart . . . and she knew he would do well, no matter what path he chose. “Thank you, dear one,” she whispered, and he smiled and kissed the top of her head. Then he gently helped her sit down, hugged Mr. and Mrs. Harrison, too, and went back to his seat—the audience still standing and clapping.

  17

  MAEVE HEARD HER PHONE HUM, FELT HER BACK POCKET, AND FROWNED. She picked up large clumps of crumpled packing paper and pushed them into an empty box, but she still couldn’t find her phone so she stood in the middle of the room, waiting for it to hum again. Finally, it did, and she looked up and saw it on top of the mantle—right where she’d left it. She looked at the screen and saw a text from Gage:

  How’s the unpacking going?

  It’s going.

  Do you have anything planned for dinner?

  She raised her eyebrows—she hadn’t even thought about dinner. Leftover spaghetti? She watched the bouncing dots that told her he was typing, but when they disappeared, she frowned. She went into the kitchen to see what other options there were, but when she opened the fridge, her phone hummed again, and she stared at the screen in surprise.

  My little brother’s in town and wants to get together. Would u b up for that?

  Wow! Was this a gift from heaven because I found the wherewithal and willpower to not read his letter? She swallowed and typed back: That would be awesome! but before she hit send, she reread her words, decided they sounded a little too enthusiastic, and backspaced. Carefully considering, she typed Sounds fun, left off the exclamation mark, and added a smiling emoji. Reviewing again, though, she decided to delete the emoji, and finally hit send.

  Great! Can you meet us at The Distillery at seven?

  Maeve looked at the time—it was 4:30 P.M. She started to write back, but before she could finish, another message popped up. I forgot I have Gus with me :-/ Will be home

  Okay, she wrote back, and then she glanced around the room with fresh eyes and realized it looked like it had been hit by a tornado! With renewed vigor, she set to work, disposing of packing paper, breaking down empty boxes, and putting still-full boxes into new, more organized piles—at least you could walk from the front door to the kitchen without taking your life in your hands.

  She headed to the bedroom to get ready . . . and groaned—the bed was covered with clothes and more boxes. Gage had made room for her clothes in his closet, but she’d filled the space in no time. There hadn’t been room for her bureau in the small bedroom, so he’d emptied two dresser drawers, which she’d also filled, all the while wondering what she was going to do with everything. Obviously, it was time for a major purge and a trip—or ten—to the thrift store!

  She pulled her shorts and tank top off, threw them in the hamper, and stood in front of the closet, trying to figure out what she could wear to dinner. A minute into deliberating, she heard a sound on the front porch, and a second later, Gus charged into the room, wiggling around with his tail thumping. “Hello, Gussie!” she said, laughing. “I’m happy to see you, too!”

  The puppy—living in a full-grown Lab body—raced around the small room, sliding on the throw rugs and nearly taking out the bedside table. “Hey!” a voice commanded, and Maeve looked up to see Gage standing in the doorway with a beer in his hand. Gus screeched to a halt, looked up at Gage with eyes wild and haunches in the air, and then, as Maeve tried to suppress a smile, he started to race again. “Enough!” Gage commanded and like a helium balloon that had run out of gas, the puppy stopped, panting, and flopped onto one of the crumpled rugs that had been pushed against the wall. “Sheesh! Someone’s a little excited!”

  Maeve smiled. “A girl loves it when someone is excited to see her,” she said, laughing.

  Gage eyed her with raised eyebrows and took a sip of the beer. “I’m excited to see you,” he said, smiling and walking over, slowly backing her against the wall.

  “Hmm, I can tell,” she whispered, as he kissed the curve of her neck and pressed against her, “but there isn’t time for this.”

  “Maybe you should’ve considered that before you chose your attire.”

  “I’ve been trying to straighten up,” she said, “and get ready.”

  He glanced around the room. “I can tell,” he teased, sliding his hand around her back and unclasping her bra.

  “And I need to shower,” she murmured into his shoulder as his other hand slid toward her waistband.

  “I can help with that.”

  “I don’t know if that will help,” she said, laughing. “You’ll make us late.”

  “Not if you’re quick,” he teased.

  “I think you should feed Gus,” she whispered, nodding over his shoulder.

  Gage glanced back at the dog—who was still lying on a clumped-up rug, watching them. “Good idea,” he said, taking a step back. He turned to the big yellow Lab. “Ready for supper?” he asked, and Gus scrambled to his feet and raced, slipping and sliding, toward the kitchen.

  Maeve was rinsing her hair when Gage returned. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and dropped his jeans and boxers to the floor. Then he peered around the shower curtain. “I knew there’d be perks to having you move in,” he said with a grin.

  She rolled her
eyes, but when he offered her his beer, she smiled. “Ooh, okay! I love cocktails in the shower!”

  She took a sip while cool water splashed over his head and down his broad brown shoulders. Finally, he opened his eyes and gently pulled her against him. “Soo . . . do you want a cocktail . . . or the whole rooster?” he teased with an up-to-no-good smile.

  “I want the whole rooster,” she said, setting the beer on the shower shelf and reaching for him. “And that reminds me,” she said, looking serious. “There was a fox in the yard this morning.”

  He pulled back. “Really?”

  She nodded. “It was stalking the hens, and if Pilgrim didn’t start raising holy hell, I think it would’ve gotten one.”

  “Wow! I wonder if I should keep them penned in for a while.”

  “It might be a good idea—now that it knows they’re here, it’ll probably come back.”

  Gage nodded thoughtfully. He hated to keep the hens cooped up, especially with summer coming, but he didn’t know how else to keep them safe. “Hmm, I’ll have to think about that . . . but, in the meantime,” he said, gently backing her against the shower wall, “this rooster’s raising holy hell, too.”

  “I can tell,” she murmured into his kiss, as he lifted her off the shower floor and slowly lowered her down. “Damn,” she whispered, closing her eyes and feeling him push deep inside her, the water cascading all around them.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were laughing and hurrying toward the truck with Gus watching from his perch on the couch in front of the window, and the hens and rooster clucking safely in the henhouse.

  “So which brother am I meeting?” Maeve asked.

  “Chase,” Gage answered, as he put the truck in gear.

  “And where does he fall in the order of royalty succession?”

  “Last,” Gage said. “He’s the youngest.” He paused thoughtfully. “Let’s see, he is ten years younger than me, so he must be twenty-six.”