by Hayleigh Sol
When Dr. Lac walked me out to the receptionist, she recommended acupuncture, which was beneficial for both gastrointestinal issues and stress. I’d always wanted to try it, but that was just one more appointment I couldn’t imagine squeezing into my packed schedule. I nodded my head like the good patient I was pretending to be. She probably saw through that too.
In fact, I’m pretty certain she did because she asked if I’d prefer digital or printed information on stress and the more serious health conditions—hypertension, heart disease, etcetera—it was linked to. Contritely, I chose the digital files, though I was pleased to see the printed materials were on recycled paper.
Before I left the office, the doctor pulled me aside. “I hope you’ll really take some time to think about ways you can decrease your workload, Maya. If that’s truly not something you can do right now, find ways to mitigate the toll this constant stress is taking on your body. You already exercise, which is great, but think about trying acupuncture. A vacation. Both.”
I assured her I would and headed back to the office. While eating lunch at my desk—the norm for me—I scrolled through the files I’d received from the naturopath’s office. Ironically, reading about the risks of chronic stress and anxiety, and the statistics for the serious problems that could arise as a result, only added to my current stress level. I closed out the documents and got back to work.
Growing up in Southern California, the start of summer had always been my favorite time of year. I drove to Gram’s with the windows down and the radio up, not caring that the wind was blowing my long chestnut hair all over my face, the strands getting stuck in my lip balm. I was feeling free and unfettered.
Sadly, the toxic fumes surrounding me on the freeway killed my attempt at carefree. So much for following Dr. Lac’s advice to de–stress. The windows went up but I still played steering–wheel drums along with the radio.
Relieved to see I’d arrived at my grandmother’s house before my parents, I made my way up the driveway as the front door opened. In a mauve tracksuit, sneakers and, incongruously, but unsurprisingly, a strand of pearls, Gram stretched her arms wide for a hug.
“There’s my sweet girl, it’s so good to see you.”
I caught the cherry–almond scent of the lotion she’d been wearing since before I could walk as I bent down and squeezed her. “You look fantastic, Gram. Are you sure you’re turning seventy–five? I don’t believe it.”
She chuckled and smiled at the compliment before we walked into the house, which was freezing, as expected. Gram often joked that she’d forgotten what it was like to feel cold ever since menopause hit; the air conditioner certainly got a workout in her home. I dropped my duffel and laptop bags in the guest bedroom, immediately retrieving a sweater and a blanket crocheted by the lady of the house. Joining her in the living room, I wrapped the blanket around my legs burrito–style and settled in for a catch–up chat before I had to share her with the rest of the family.
“Big weekend, huh? How many of us are invading your privacy and disrupting your routine?”
“Oh, it’s no disruption. I’m thrilled to have everyone come.” I could tell she was fibbing and waited for her to cave. The woman was terrible at keeping secrets. “Alright, I admit I would rather have done something smaller, but you know your mother.” Boy, did I. “She insisted on making this event a big deal and, since she was doing all the work, I figured I’d let her.”
I shook my head at the thought of the anxiety my mom must’ve put herself through—unnecessarily, I might add. The woman was a natural worrier who often struggled to make decisions, then questioned herself endlessly when she’d finally made them.
“Enough about me, though; your mom will be here any minute and all we’ll talk about then is this over–the–top party.” The truth of her statement made us both smile. “Tell me the latest with your business. Are you still working such long hours?”
Admitting the hours were long but necessary, I told her Brad had been helping as much as he was able when he wasn’t running his own business.
“Are you two back together, then?”
The situation was complicated, as I’d described it to the doctor yesterday. Brad and I had been a couple for just over four years and the strain of our busy schedules with limited time for each other on the weekends had worn on both of us. That was the explanation he’d come up with for why we disagreed on so many things with alarming frequency the past several months. I suspected it had more to do with us being fundamentally incompatible, though I wasn’t quite ready to admit I’d been wrong about him all that time we were together. To my family and friends, to him, to myself.
“We’re still on a break but I think we’re both hoping to work things out once Green for Green calms down. He’s actually offered to take over a managerial role so I can just focus on working with clients. He thinks that would be a better use of my time and skill set.”
Gram’s eyes narrowed as she regarded me. That look made me as nervous as the day I’d lied to her about cutting my own hair when I was six. I don’t know why I’d thought I could get away with it; my bangs looked like someone had taken a weedwacker to them. When she was silently assessing me like that, I had a tendency to fill the uncomfortable silence with babbling.
“Brad thinks he’ll be able to improve the financials and reduce a lot of my stress if he were the one making decisions about vendors and which of the larger projects we can take on, employee issues…” Hearing myself and well able to guess what my grandmother was thinking, I trailed off weakly.
“And what do you think, Maya?”
There was no judgment, but a healthy dose of concern in her question. “Well, he’s already helping with a lot of that and his own business is doing great so it seems like he knows what he’s doing…”
“But?”
I sighed. “But I don’t always agree with some of the decisions he makes and I worry about giving up control of my company, and my vision for it, to someone else.”
Saying that aloud was a relief. At work, with my employees and with clients, I had to maintain a united front. Back up whatever Brad said and did as if we were on the same page one hundred percent. I couldn’t express doubt or a dissenting opinion, couldn’t show any sign of weakness. Even with Brad, if I questioned his approach to a situation, I felt like I was always doing so gently so as not to piss him off and push him—and his help—away.
“Could you hire someone else to help, maybe someone who’s not so close to you personally?”
“Tried that, a couple of times. It’s so frustrating and exhausting to put all this time and energy into training people, to have all this hope that they’ll be as wonderful as they seem in the interview, and then…they just don’t want to do the work. Or they make some horrible faux pas that reflects poorly on the company.”
The last office manager had twice commented to a client—the same client—that she had a lovely pregnancy glow. She wasn’t pregnant. The woman and her rapidly growing catering company, with all its lovely contacts, took her business elsewhere.
I mean, come on, who didn’t know that you never assume a woman is pregnant? And then comment on it.
Sounds of the front door opening and closing preceded my mother’s entrance. “Mom? Maya, are you two back here?”
Gram and I each took a bracing breath. “Let’s continue this conversation at some point this weekend. We’ll sneak away if we have to.”
I smiled at Gram’s suggestion and hugged my mom, who was already talking a mile a minute, then squeezed my typically silent father on the arm before he carted their suitcases into the other guest room. Wishing I could disappear with him and the book he would soon be reading in peace, I knew I was expected to participate in discussions of the weekend’s plans and sat dutifully back down with my mom and grandma.
My contribution to the conversation was the standard n
odding and smiling, with a couple of thoughtful looks mixed in to show I was paying attention. And I was. But I was also thinking about my massive to–do list and wondering when I’d be able to squeeze in some time to work this evening. Mom didn’t notice; as usual, she’d ask a question, then answer it herself or go off on a different tangent before anyone could respond.
“Maya?”
“Yeah?”
“I asked what you thought about the music selection for your grandmother’s birthday dinner.” I started to reply but she wasn’t done. “Honestly, it’s like you’re not even paying attention. Don’t you want this to be a nice party for your Gram?”
“Of course. I can help with the—”
“Maybe you’re just tired. Look at those dark circles under your eyes. Doesn’t she look tired, Mom?”
“I think she looks beautiful.” Leave it to Gram to defend me when Mom made a comment about how rotten I looked. I’d tried explaining to my mother before that pointing out how tired I looked wasn’t very nice, but she’d only gotten that hurt expression and said she was just worried about me.
Mom asked if I could put together a playlist with some of Gram’s favorite standards—some Judy Garland, Dean Martin, Rodgers and Hammerstein—and I nodded. I’d been about to offer the same before she’d interrupted. After an hour or so, Mom started to wind down and Gram suggested we take a break for lunch. As she retrieved a summer salad she’d already made, my mother pulled me aside to wash up and set the table.
“Maya, honey, are you alright?”
I smiled and did my best to reassure her. “I’m great, Mom. Don’t worry.”
“How can I not? You’re my baby girl. How’s work? And Brad?”
“He’s fine and work’s good, busy as always.”
We laid out silverware as my father strolled into the room from wherever he’d been hiding. The man had an uncanny ability to sense when and where food was ready. With a raised eyebrow, I caught his eye. He grinned unrepentantly in response.
“Are you still planning on forming a partnership?”
I’d made the mistake of telling my mom a few months back, when things were particularly hectic at the office and my relationship with Brad was disintegrating, that he’d suggested he invest in the business in exchange for being named partner—with all the decision–making rights and responsibilities that entailed. At the time, I’d been overwhelmed, exhausted, and defeated. His offer was a lifeline, especially financially, but I just wasn’t ready to give up yet—still wasn’t—and that’s what having a partner felt like to me. Admitting I couldn’t run my business on my own anymore and surrendering it to someone who’d do a better job.
“Not a partnership”—Mom looked disappointed, which wasn’t surprising as she’d been not–so–subtly pushing me to take him up on it—“but we’re discussing him having a more official role as manager.” I listed some of the aspects Brad would oversee as I’d already done with Gram, this time not sounding like an incompetent idiot parroting what someone else had said. I hoped.
“So he’d be calling the shots and getting some kind of salary for the work?” My father looked up from his plate, which he’d filled as soon as Gram had brought in lunch and joined us.
“That’s one of the things we’re talking about, a consultant’s salary or something. Honestly, though, I don’t think I can afford that.”
Mom looked from Dad back to me, laying her hand on his arm as she did. “Sweetie, do you need some help? A loan?”
It was tempting to say yes but I’d promised myself I wouldn’t go to them for any financial assistance after I’d paid off the start–up loan they’d given me ten years ago. Figuring this out, keeping my company running, was something I had to prove to them—and myself—that I was capable of.
“Thanks, Mom, but I’m okay. It’s just that a manager’s salary would be considerably more than what I pay my other employees. But Brad and I will work it out. Don’t worry.”
She was worried, I could tell, and I knew this wasn’t the last we’d be discussing it this weekend. Gram changed the subject, thankfully, and I forced myself to not think about work for the next few hours. Thirty minutes, at least.
Chapter 2
The grand birthday dinner and celebration had been the night before and, though the birthday lady—“girl” seemed a bit of a reach for my now seventy–five–year–old Gram—had left the restaurant for home early, several of my cousins had peer–pressured me into staying for drinks with them well past my bedtime. My grandmother was the last of her siblings still alive and almost every one of her nieces and nephews had shown up, along with their kids—now my age. It had surprised and pleased me to see so many of the family make the effort to be here; I hadn’t seen the majority of my cousins since before we seconds were teenagers.
Remembering a time when the extended family had gotten together at least twice a year sent me bleary–eyed to Gram’s bookshelves and the photo albums she housed there. When I spotted her sipping coffee in the quiet kitchen, I detoured for a hug and morning greetings.
“Did you have fun with your cousins, dear?” The upturned corner of her mouth told me she knew we’d shared adult beverages along with catching up and teasing banter.
“Uggh, ‘fun’ is debatable. I need to hydrate.” She chuckled as I filled a glass with water and wandered over to my original destination.
Gram refused to embrace digital pictures, though my mom continued to update the digital picture frame she’d given her several years back with new photos. No, Gram preferred her old–school photo albums with their garish covers: fuchsia with large hibiscus flowers for a trip to Hawaii, a plaid that was nowhere near the family tartan for a trip to Scotland, and—bingo—teal with gaudy abstract flowers in a green that clashed with the background. The peeling label on the binder, which Gram appeared to have made from first aid tape, was the one I sought.
Bass Lake, Summer 1989.
I slid the album from the shelf and carried it to the table, sitting in the chair next to hers in case she wanted to look with me. Flipping through the first few cardboard pages, yellowed now from the adhesive used back in the day, I came to the photo I’d been seeking. In a row of webstrap camping chairs, my mom sat with three of her cousins, each with rounded pregnancy bellies. Apparently, their due dates had all been within a couple of months of each other and this camping trip to the lake our family had favored for several generations was their version of what soon–to–be parents now called a “babymoon”.
Gram leaned toward me, smoothing her hand over the plastic protector to reduce the glare from the overhead lights. “My goodness, look at those girls. They’re all about to pop, aren’t they?”
I laughed with her and turned a few more pages. “God, I haven’t been to the lake in so long. Wonder if anything’s changed.” I doubted it.
That was the charm of Bass Lake and The Forks restaurant, Angel Falls, and Lupine campground. Favorite campsites in Lupine—two of which still had the fire rings my long–deceased great grandfather had built as a young man—offered a view of the lake and you could always get a world–class chocolate malt at The Forks, along with a couple of Bazooka Joe gums the server left with your check.
Finished with the album, I put it back and pulled another from a trip to the lake when I’d been ten. There was a shot of my step–grandfather, Gram’s second husband, piloting his fishing boat with the ever–present can of Budweiser in his hand and an enormous beer belly testing the tensile limits of the waistband on his shorts. His belly was bigger than those of the pregnant women in the previous album. Three guesses how he’d died.
Another photo showed Gram coming out of the travel trailer they’d purchased when tent camping no longer held its appeal. I pointed it out to her, teasing her about the glasses she’d sported back then.
“There’s that little boyfriend you had that summer.” Her finger was on a picture in the bottom right corner. “Remember him? Luke, wasn’t that his name?”
I couldn’t stop the grin that spread across my face as I followed her gaze. There I was, sitting on my bike with my shoulders hiked up to my ears—clearly embarrassed by the attention and teasing—next to a cute ten–year–old boy, also sitting on his bike with a smile that stretched ear to ear.
“Lukasz,” I said. “But he went by Luka.”
“Oh yes, Luka. What a sweetheart. And handsome! Goodness, I bet he turned out to be a real looker.”
Gram didn’t know how right she was.
For most of my childhood, my mother and father both worked and I often spent a good chunk of my summer break from school with Gram. Until I got old enough to stay home on my own. The year the picture was taken, I’d gone to Bass Lake with Gram and Pop for two weeks and my parents had joined us for the weekend between. Our first day there, while Gram and Pop were arguing over the proper way to level the trailer, I escaped to ride my bike around the deserted—almost deserted—campground.
Flying down a hill into a turn, I spotted a boy on a bike coming at nearly the same breakneck speed in the other direction. I’d never been particularly gifted on a bike—still wasn’t, in fact—and couldn’t have swerved or braked or done anything to save myself. Collision was inevitable.
Landing in the dirt next to the asphalt, I scraped up my knees and the palms of my hands pretty bad. The boy, who’d obviously been much more skilled on a bike, must’ve swerved at the last minute and maintained his seat. He looked over his shoulder and asked if I was alright.
Now, I’ve always been a tough chick. Plus, I was embarrassed to have fallen off my bike in front of a boy—a cute boy, I noticed. There was no way I was going to cry or let on that I was hurt. I mumbled something about being fine and walked my bike back to the campsite to clean and bandage myself up.