by Rica Keenum
I stand on the playground watching him. The bell rings and he looks back for a moment, his eyes salute their goodbyes.
Sym and I walk home, his pudgy legs stomping on the sidewalk because he is a boy who insists on doing everything hard, hammer-like. He is three years old and soon he will leave me too. He will march away and not look back, a kindergarten robot ready to assert his independence. Tears come and the sky begins to bellow. We have several blocks left till home, and I feel a cool cascade of rain. In an instant, we are saturated, slogging our limp jeans and waterlogged tennis shoes down the street. My little boy squeals, shoots his hands in the air and says, “Run, Mom.”
“No baby,” I say. “Let’s go slow.”
Drop
We’re lost. I have seen the same yellow mailbox three times, which means we are driving in circles. I am in the passenger’s seat of my new friend’s Toyota. We have taken a day trip to a wildlife park not far from my new home in Florida. I’m divorced now, raising my sons solo in a little house on a modest street. This coworker of mine has become a good friend, one of the few friends with which I share secrets over strong cups of coffee and pão de queijo — Brazilian cheese bread. She is from Brazil, an older woman with a charming accent and a modern hairstyle. She always hugs me when she sees me, leaving the warm imprint of her perfume on my skin like a flower petal pressed between the pages of a book — a cherished keepsake. It lingers on my blouse like the ghost of Coco Chanel. We are exhausted now, having spent the whole day watching snakes shed their skins and ducks flitter their wings in the sun-tinged pond at the park. She has captured it all from a zillion different angles with her smartphone. She is one of those photo-obsessed people who makes you pose with your glass raised, pose with your hip cocked against an enormous cypress tree, pose as the sun melts over the landscape. I am posed out. My feet hurt and a damp blast of cool air is pounding me from the air vents. We are lost, hours from home, hungry and grimy.
“Pull over,” I tell her. “Let’s figure this out.”
She does. We fuss with the maps on our phones for a moment before we pull off in the right direction — finally. I lean back into my seat, untangle a clump of wind-mangled curls.
“We will be home by 7, my friend,” she says in a singsong voice.
Her words still hang in the air when the mouth of the sky groans and spews a hard, heavy rain. The road is awash with it, and we struggle to see anything but the bug-eyed glow of other headlights. We may very well be driving into a cave or off a cliff. We coast until we see the low gleam of a BP sign and an empty lot beckoning. It does not rain like this in Wisconsin, like the sky is an angry ocean, spilling its salty wet fury. My friend slams the car into park, and we sit for a moment, watching the wiper blades whisk back and forth in a futile attempt to clear the swampy windshield. She looks at me and we both exhale as if we are overfilled balloons, ready to burst. I laugh a helpless high-pitched laugh, and then we laugh together until our bellies cramp and our eyes are slick with tears. The rain thumps the car and a delicate ribbon of my friend’s perfume dances all over my senses and sparkles like a promise in the dark.
Drip
They say the squeaky wheel gets the grease. He’s not the squeaky one. In fact, he is almost silent as he moves through the dark house on weekend mornings, wearing his white Polo and black bowtie, fastening his apron before work at his first job — a dietary aide for the elderly.
When people tell me what a great server he is, how he pours the coffee with such patience and handles the enormous food trays with ease, I smile. They tell me I raised a good boy but it’s hard to accept the praise. “KJ is self-sufficient,” I say. Had he been my only child, I might have become a smug mom, doling out parenting advice to mothers with feisty kids: Here’s what I do when such and such happens. Works like a charm.
I never have to field phone calls from angry teachers on his behalf or worry he is not where he said he’d be. I ache with the knowledge that KJ deserves more than he gets from me. More attention, less pressure to be the household referee, to swoop in and bench his angry brother who refuses to play by the rules. He is the easy-button boy and I am glad because I spend all my energy on Sym.
It isn’t much, but we have our carefree nights. Sometimes we explore the neighborhood roads. The boys ride scooters as I walk behind them with Carlo on the leash, tasting the sultry summer air. A symphony of insects echoes in the forests all around. “Try it Mom,” KJ says, breathless, handing me his scooter. I take my turn down the dark hill, feeling the thrill of speed and wind and gravity working like a wing to sweep me into the night.
Later, we sprawl out in front of the television: KJ with his fruit punch in a glass and me with my enormous faux fur blanket. We watch seasons of Lost and Parenthood and The Office, and we laugh like friends at a sleepover. These are our moments, lovely as little flowers in the cracked cement of the day. But these nights lessen as Sym’s outbursts increase.
Then comes our breakfast goodbye. I sit across from KJ at a cafe and he tells me he misses his friends, his life in Wisconsin. He is 17 and he’s going back, he arranged it with his dad. Going back. Back in time? I know this is what he means. Is it his childhood he yearns for? Our family before the break? Trips to the corner candy store with his best bud Damon? I want to tell him he can’t go back. All we can do is move forward, but I see that his mind is made up. I sip my ice water knowing he will return to Wisconsin and find that the old path no longer bears his footprints. Friends have moved on and even his father has forged a new life. “Here’s your sister,” J announces. “She’s 3-years old.”
But two years later and with more facial hair and a deeper voice, KJ comes home and it isn’t a shock. I stand in the driveway and watch the sky change. I think of the word Winterization - a word I learned in grade school. When the season changes, it triggers hormones and chemicals that tell the trees to let go of their leaves. It’s essential to the tree’s survival. Letting go. But new leaves always grow in the spring. Radiant, rich and bright. My son has come home, winterized. And today we relish a new season.
Drop
At 37, I’m flying for the first time — Punta Cana.
“Is this going to be like La Bamba?” I ask Wes as we stuff sandals into our suitcase. He doesn’t answer. I can see he’s got a spreadsheet open in his head. It’s what he does — Mr. Organization. I keep talking.
“You know, like Ritchie Valens... died in a plane crash?” He’s choosing T-shirts now and folding them. “Ugh. I can’t believe you never saw the movie.” I fake outrage then break into a terrible rendition of the song “La Bamba.” Wes joins in. Ba-ba-bamba.
At the airport, I’ve been singled out— a random act of kindness that includes an extra pat-down, a detailed luggage inspection and a few stern looks that make my palms sweat. “Why me?” I ask the navy-blue uniformed man behind the glass.
It’s my unusual name, he tells me. For some reason, it’s a red flag.
“I’m willing to call myself Jane if it makes things easier for everyone,” I reply. He doesn’t care for my humor.
When we finally board the plane, I take a window seat and watch other passengers squeeze by, lift luggage into the overheads and pound their bags inside. So far the view is all heads: various sizes and shapes with hair that is smooth and straight or gray and fuzzy. Nothing noteworthy is happening, but I feel myself stiffening as I anticipate the doors closing and our bodies collectively rising above the clouds. What if there’s a lunatic on this plane? There’s bound to be a lunatic on this plane. I glance around, looking for the one who will potentially take us out. I’m questioning everyone. Wes catches me worrying, shoots me a look that says, “We got this.” I take a deep breath, shut my eyes. When I open them again the air has changed. I’d guess that we’re not moving but a look out my window says we are. Either we’re drifting or everything else is shrinking. People, cars, buildings, stretches of road and lawn. Everything is doll-sized. Smaller, smaller, gone. The sky is a sunlit opal as we soa
r through a mist of clouds. Then there is blue. Endless blue. I am dizzy with delight. Why have I waited so long to fly?
A year later, we board another plane to the Bahamas. On the beach at night, we sprawl out in a pair of Adirondack chairs we dragged into the water. The spectacular, gaping mouth of the ocean could swallow us whole. White-tipped waves rise and fall into oblivion. We watch jolts of lightning illuminate the sky. The world vacillates from utter blackness to a beautiful, electric expanse. It’s like a child has found the light switch and cannot stop flickering the thing.
“This is amazing,” I say. My voice is so small it surprises me. Wes’s fingers crawl over to mine and our hands fold together like a prayer. We’re not religious but tonight, we have a front-row seat on a pew.
Drip
On a Monday morning when KJ is 21, he calls to invite us to church — a Christmas Eve service.
“Okay,” I say, suppressing the groan that’s scaling my insides. It’s been a while since I sat through a sermon, but I realize this is not about religion anymore. So when Sunday arrives, I feign enthusiasm. My son is a taller, meatier version of the boy I used to take to church, bearded yet boyish with a smile that still spells mischief. We make our way through the double doors, past the pretty young greeters who flash their lip-glossy smiles. We stop in front of an enormous Christmas tree whose red, green and gold globes gleam on lush branches. Everything twinkles. Wes and I lean in, snap a picture of ourselves then another of KJ and Anna. We shuffle into the sanctuary, a black expanse, strung with Edison bulbs so high above our heads they could be actual stars.
We sway to the music: “Joy to The World,” and other Christmas tunes that make me teary-eyed and surprisingly nostalgic as I stand beside my man-son.
The service unfolds like all the others. Babies screech, the offering plate bobs about in a sea of hands and the pastor greets the congregation from the lectern. He talks about travel, about packed roads and bustling airports. Tis the season to go home, he says. Everyone wants to go home. Home.
Home to God? Home to a feeling of belonging, a sense of security, a place of acceptance? He talks about all of these things and I think of my little paper ship and the groan I have worked to suppress.
“The parable of the prodigal son is one of the greatest stories of coming home,” the pastor says. “An illustration of God’s forgiveness for those who lose their way.”
My hands shake. My ship glides in the wet of new tears. I look around and nobody's crying but me. I try to be discreet, to mop up my cheeks with my sleeves. It’s not that I am homeward bound, that my soul-ship has found a shore inside this church. It’s KJ, his radiant face next to mine. That face from the past, from a morning that could have been this morning. I imagine him with an armful of toys, ushering Sym out of the kitchen saying, “Quiet, Mom’s in a meeting with God.”
This time, it’s me who stands at the threshold of the room, and my son is alight with prayer.
Drop
I am 40, curled up in bed with Wes, the man I will marry next year. We have a home, a love, and a rhythm that feels safe and nourishing. He is not the man I feared I might find when I set up my online dating profile five years ago—he is neither commitment-phobic nor clingy. He leaves love notes on the counter, scribbled on yellow Post-its: Happy Monday, Beautiful. Thanks for another great weekend. Love u! He fills my car tires with air and fries my eggs just right, their sunny centers beaming in perfect circles. He is asleep and the soft whistle of his breath sweeps warmth into the hollow of my neck. I am thinking, replaying the years on the reel of my memory as the rain comes down like a heavenly gift, each drop a wet promise to cleanse, renew, refresh. I marvel at the path I have taken, the often potholed, uncertain path. I have arrived with a few calluses and a bit of dust on my feet, but I am happy and whole. There were times I searched so hard for answers, my eyes blurred to the simple truths in front of me. There were things I gripped so fiercely, my hands went numb in my skin. Things I wanted too much, prayed for and sacrificed myself for in unimaginable ways. But lying here now, I am grateful I didn’t get my way. Sometimes life gives us what we need instead of what we want. I have learned that the years are the very best teachers, and they’ve taught me the meaning of love, family, motherhood, womanhood, and what it takes to rebuild a life.
Tonight, the moon is a wild bright eye, and it shines in through the bedroom window like a mother observing her sleeping children. My boys are men now, with jobs and facial hair, thick and bristly. Sym is in his bedroom down the hall and KJ is at his home with his wife. I hope they hear the rain tonight and feel it as I do, pulsating like the heartbeat of many memories, playing its sacred, melodic hymn.
Acknowledgements
Sometimes things come together magically. More often, they don’t. It’s the reason writers have editors, critique partners, and beta readers. Here’s where I thank those folks.
When I came to Jill Swenson (Swenson Book Development), I had a collection of essays and ideas. As my developmental editor, she helped me find the structure and arc of this book. She asked hard questions, urged me to probe inward, find the threads that tied the past to the present and weave my narrative into a full-blown memoir. She never spared the rod, or rather the editing pen. It’s a hard thing to scrutinize your own life, and to make it a published book is harder still. Excruciating even. But in the end, it is worth it. Thanks for the journey.
To Ian Andrew and the Book Reality team, thank you for your professionalism and support. Here’s to the first of many great publishing adventures together (fingers crossed)!
To friends and critique partners Anita Brienza, C.C. Gallo, Jeanann Hand, I cherish your friendship and feedback. Your art has inspired my art. I hope mine has done the same for you.
To my long-gone grandma, and all the family members who have tirelessly championed my efforts; to a few great school teachers whose encouragement still echoes in my heart, I treasure you always. And to my readers, bloggy buddies and everyone who will ever connect with the lines I write, thank you for showing up and showing love. May we use our collective energy to create beautiful things, to mold pain into art that heals our hearts, heals the world.
Lastly, I thank the editors at The Sunlight Press and Literary Mama for publishing similar versions of a few of the essays in this book.
A Note To Readers
Thank you for reading this book. There are lots of beautiful stories in the world, so I am honored you chose to read mine. If you have enjoyed the journey, please leave your feedback on Amazon, Goodreads or Bookbub. Reviews are immensely appreciated.
For those who want to read more from me, please find me online at Ricawrites.com. I have so much more to share with you!
About the Author
Rica Keenum's interest in literature began in childhood, as did her author status. Armed with a set of markers and a stack of paper, she constructed her first book at age 9 -- a best seller in the making, according to her grandma. Although that book didn't garner commercial success, Rica continued to read and write and dream about reading and writing. As an adult, she landed in the medical field and worked there for more than a decade. The creative flame still burning inside her, she eventually segued to a freelance writing career by pitching articles to magazines and media companies. In 2009, she relocated to Florida with her sons and began living the final chapters of what would be her memoir, a tale of love, loss, and resilience.
She currently works as a senior staff writer for an award-winning lifestyle magazine and is pondering her next book. When not writing, she’s probably reading, practicing yoga, smooching her dog or sneaking chocolate almonds out of the kitchen cabinet, so as not to alert her chocolate-loving husband.
Copyright
Copyright © Rica Keenum, 2020
Published: February 2020 by
The Book Reality Experience
ISBN: 978-0-6487542-1-3
Ebook Edition
All rights reserved.
The right of Rica Keenum to b
e identified as the author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A memoir, reflecting the author’s present recollections of experiences over time, means that some details may vary from fact. Some names and
characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated. Memory can be a fickle thing, so the Author trusts that any minor errors in times, dates and details of
particular events will be understood.
Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the
privacy of individuals.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written
permission from the publisher.
Cover Design: Web and Print Hub | webandprinthub.com.au
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