A Place to Stand

by Meg Farrell

  “I get it,” she interrupts my rant.

  “Jess, he dies again every day. I get over it and I’m not so sad when I’m at work, but that’s a short reprieve, which is hell too. They are all judgy and sympathetic. I feel like someone is staring holes through me all the time. Plus, there’s the Dragon Lady.”

  “Fuck the Dragon Lady. I’ll kick her ass myself.” She was fiercely defending me, then she softened. “Honey, I didn’t know it was that bad for you. What about Cade? You spend a lot of time with him, don’t you? It doesn’t help?”

  “I don’t expect anyone to know that’s what this feels like. I bet Dad is the one closest to us that knows. Cade is amazing, but at this point we’re just friends. I don’t know if I should pursue being something more with him. It seems too soon. I mean, don’t I have to wait a year or something to start dating again?”

  Jess is silent, I assume thinking through what I said. “So, what are you and Clea doing this afternoon?” Great, a subject change. I got too close to her emotional center. She’s worse about closing things off than I am.

  “I don’t know. She’ll get off around lunch time, and then we’ll decide.”

  “Okay, well, call me. Call Dad too. He misses you.”

  As soon as we hang up, I decide she’s right, and I give him a call. Based on the time difference, he should be up drinking coffee, planning his day, or getting back from the lake. Crappies don’t stand a chance against the old man. He knows where to find them, and he keeps two freezers at his house stocked with fish filets.

  “Hey, baby.”

  “Hi, Daddy. What no good are you up to?”

  “Just sat down with a cup of coffee. Are you still in Florida?”

  “Sure am, for a couple more days at least.”

  “Are you getting a suntan? Tell me you are using sunblock. You don’t want skin cancer. You know it hits everyone in our family.”

  “I use a 100 SPF. No tan for this ghostly pale girl. How’s the boat?”

  Now, there’s a topic he loves talking about—his boats. He goes on to tell me about his latest modification to the frankentoon, which is a pontoon boat he built out of two 1970s models. He tells me about finishing his Boston Whaler. I learn he picked it up used and is refurbishing it. The plan is for it to be a single-person fishing boat. It’s is really hard on him to put the frankentoon in and out by himself. Dad goes on to tell me that he wants to have us all out to go tubing soon.

  I think about how wonderful it is to hang out on the boat and jump in the lake whenever the feeling strikes me. I smile as he finishes talking about all his projects.

  “Daddy, how do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “I feel like Ryan dies over and over again every day. I am so unhappy being in our house. I’m unhappy at work. I don’t know how you are so adjusted and able to deal with Mom gone.”

  “Aw, sugar, listen, I had time to prepare to lose your mom. It wasn’t easy, but I was ready. Ryan was a shock. It wasn’t supposed to happen; you guys are so young. I get busy with my boats and in the yard when it hits me. I get distracted, and I get better. Is that not working for you?”

  I swallow some tears. “No, distraction doesn’t work for me. Honestly, I don’t want to go home, but I have to for my job.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I think I need a fresh start. I don’t really know what a fresh start would look like, but I know that I need something. Distance. More distraction.”

  “You know you shouldn’t make decisions when you’re emotional. Think about your fresh start carefully. You do whatever it is that you need to do, and I’ll support you anyway that I can.”

  I consider telling him about all the things I want to run away from, but I don’t. “I love you. You always say the right thing. Thank you.”

  “I love you, too. I’m fixin’ to go fishing with J.D. Call me when you know for sure what you’re going to do.”

  “I will.”

  We end our call and I sit back, reflecting on our conversation. What would a fresh start be? How far would I need to go? Sell the house? Should I move to a different state? Is Cade the answer? I have no idea what is going on in my head anymore. I only know that I cannot continue to live a life so full of unhappiness.

  I pack up my chair, umbrella and beach bag, and head for the car. As I’m throwing my stuff in the trunk, my phone starts ringing again. I fish it out and manage a weak, “Hello,” to which I’m greeted with an overly bubbly Clea.

  “Hey!”

  “Hey, are you off yet?”

  “I am. I’m driving home now. Meet me at there, okay? I have a great idea for today.”

  “Sure thing. I’m on my way there now.”

  We hang up. I dust as much sand off my rear and feet as I can, but I’m disappointed at how much sticks to me as I get in the car. This is a consistent problem. The floorboards of my car might soon qualify as a beach in their own right. Maybe I should hang a starfish from the rearview to complete the look. I laugh at myself and drive back to Clea’s.

  I’m just getting out of the car when she pulls up.

  “Hey, we need to clean out my car before I take half the beach home to Mississippi with me.”

  “Yeah, later. Today, we are going to the spa! I am talking hair, main/pedi, massage...waxing.” She says waxing like it’s a secret, dirty word and waggles her eyebrows at me.

  You must be kidding me. “Clea, I don’t know. Massages? Waxing? People touching my bare skin? You know how I feel about strange people touching me.”

  “They aren’t touching you, they are massaging you. Professionals, not random strangers. C’mon, please!”

  She’s going to kill me. “Okay, sure. Let me get a shower, I’m all salty and whatnot.”

  “Yay!” She is literally jumping up and down clapping her hands. I’m so glad I gave in. She’s a perky thing, and it makes her happy to push me out of my normal boundaries.

  I shower and dress as instructed. Comfortable. I interpret this to be a tank and yoga pants with flip flops. Clea approves and we head out. Turns out her great idea was sparked by gift certificates her boss had that were about to expire. Full day spa packages including the mani/pedis and massages. The only thing we need to cover is our hair, waxing, and gratuity. Not bad, considering. She always gets the great hookups.

  When we arrive, we are escorted to the ladies’ lounge area, and given plush bathrobe. We are instructed to change and then meet our salon representative in the foyer. We do as we’re told and are escorted into the massage area. I have to mentally talk myself off the ledge. I honestly think my hands may shake clean off the ends of my arms. I’m so nervous it’s ridiculous. The massage therapist is very kind, and I like her a lot. She can tell how nervous I am and does a lot to put me at ease.

  She leaves the room and I get adjusted on the table as instructed. I’m less nervous now that I know I get to stay mostly covered, well the good bits anyway. After a few minutes, I’m close to falling asleep and wondering why I have never done this before. Good Lord! This is amazing. Before I know it, the massage is over, and we are guided to the nail salon.

  We sit in large massage chairs while our hands and feet are cleaned, buffed, and moisturized. There is one person working each of my hands while another works my feet. I feel like a queen. Clea and I choose to get matching nail color. Harlot red, as she calls it. We giggle as we are moved to the nail dryers for a few minutes.

  Next, we are escorted back to the ladies’ lounge where we are served fruit and champagne. I really don’t know how to act around all these other ladies. I just do my best not to make a mess. I think I end up drinking too much champagne, though. My head feels bubbly and tingly by the time the stylist from the salon comes to get us for our hair appointments.

  My stylist has curly hair like mine—naturally, as it turns out. Her name is Monique, and she is as sweet as can be. I really like her sense of humor. She knows how to handle my curls without turning me into a fuzz ball. I’
m excited. I discuss short styles with her and colors. She doesn’t recommend any specialized colors that would require lightening. The chemicals used to lighten hair would likely strip my curls in an uneven way, kind of unpredictable. With Clea’s urging, I agree to skip on color for today, but I do ask for a short style. Collectively, we decide on an asymmetrical, inverted bob.

  Monique sets to work. I am washed, cut and styled in no time. She spends a few minutes explaining how to style it curly, and then decides on flat-ironing it for today. She breaks out the round brush and it is nearly perfectly straight when she gets done blow-drying. Then she sprays a sparse amount of heat protector before breaking out the flat iron. These are tactics I need to commit to memory for future use. I really should take more of an interest in my appearance. I always thought it was okay not to care because I had Ryan. Since I wasn’t looking for a man, or a job, why should I care? I realize with the way I’m feeling at the spa, I should care for me.

  We end our day in at the waxing stations. We get our eyebrows shaped and then talk with the waxer about getting either a bikini wax or a Brazilian. After I listen to the descriptions about what takes place and what is involved in both, I am absolutely terrified. However, I am also intrigued. I never considered getting waxed with Ryan, and he never mentioned it. I can’t help but wonder what Cade would think about a little lady grooming when we finally get that far. If we get that far. Thinking about Cade emboldens me, and I opt for the bikini.

  An hour later, Clea and I have completed our afternoon trip to the spa. We have been massaged and pampered until we’re literally high on being spoiled. I keep trying to forget how awkward and painful the bikini wax was, but I’m glad I did it. We swing by the grocery store on our way home. Stephen is home from work and apparently starving—based on his phone call to Clea. We pick up chicken, zucchini, and yellow squash to grill. For our appetizers, we decided on baby carrots and garlic hummus. We skip dessert in favor of using those calories on merlot.

  Clea and I cook together and then sit down with Stephen to eat on the patio. Clea is pouring the wine, and I decide to kick off our dinner conversation. “Well, I’ve been giving it some thought. Like I told my dad earlier, it’s time for a fresh start. Don’t ask me what that means. I don’t know yet.”

  Clea seems to think for a moment. “Didn’t you tell me that Ryan had life insurance?”

  Shit! “Yeah, a ton of it. I still have the check in my purse. I don’t know what to do with it.” I forgot I even had it. “Checks don’t go bad, do they? Like expire?”

  “You probably have six months to get it deposited. Maybe, you should use it to take some time off. Start by quitting your job. Live off the life insurance money for a little while. Travel. Explore. Discover who you are without Ryan. That could be a fresh start.”

  I think about her words for a little while. I think she’s right. I need to know who I am and what I want from life before I make any huge decisions. Experience more of life outside of Bell Hills and the great state of Mississippi. There will always be other jobs, and quitting would eliminate a major segment of unhappiness in one big swoop.

  “Clea, my dear, you are a genius. I mean that. You are a lady and a scholar.” I hold up my glass of wine in a toasting gesture.

  “But, of course, we all know this.” She beams.

  As we enjoy our evening together and make plans for the coming days, always around her work schedule, my phone starts buzzing.

  Clea laughs. “Cade again?”

  “Shush it, missy!” Of course, she’s right. It’s Cade. I nod and stand to leave the room before answering. “Hey!”

  “Hey.” He sounds like something’s wrong. “Uh, I was calling to let you know my grandfather died today.”

  Jesus. I didn’t expect that. What do I even say to him? I know what “I’m sorry” sounded like to me. Still, that’s all I want to say to him. I settle for, “I’m coming home. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to. I know how you might feel being at another funeral.”

  “That’s true, but I need to be there for you and Irma. That’s what...friends...do for each other.”

  “Friends. Right. Okay.” Something in his voice sounds wrong. I think to mention it or ask but remind myself it’s probably the grief. “When do you think you’ll be in?”

  “I’ll leave tomorrow morning. It is about a thirteen-hour drive. Longer when I’m sleepy. I’ll text every time I stop. Cade, are you okay?”

  He’s silent for a long while. Long enough that I begin to wonder if he hung up. “Okay. Yeah, I’m okay. We knew this was coming, right?”

  “We did. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

  “Okay. Bye, Rhae.”

  Something feels so wrong about the way he ended the call. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I return to the dinner table and tell Clea what’s going on.

  “So, you’re leaving?”

  “I have to. He would have done it for me, had he known me when Ryan passed.”

  “Okay. Honey, how does he figure into the fresh start?” she asks gently.

  “I don’t know yet. I know I feel things for him that I haven’t felt for anyone in a while. What that is or what that means, I don’t know.”

  “Does he know how you feel?”

  “We’ve talked. I mean, I know he wants to be more than friends. He’s made that crystal clear. I don’t know what I can give him back. I should have a piece of me to give him, shouldn’t I?”

  “Right now, you are still broken in a million pieces. About half of those pieces are starting to form a whole person again. I think, before you know it, you’ll have a piece to give him. It takes time.”

  We spend the remainder of the night packing my things and watching movies. Okay, so we also indulge in some ice cream.

  Clea gets up with me at six the following morning. She makes me a bagel and coffee. I smile because she knows me so well. When I finish my bagel, she tops off the to-go cup of coffee for me. We walk out to my car, and she fully lectures me on safety being a woman driving all that way by myself.

  I give her the typical, “Yes, Mom,” smarmy answer, and then the biggest hug I can. Neither one of us wants to let go. We hug long enough that we start crying.

  “Stop it. I’ll be back soon. Promise,” I say as I try to swallow back my tears a little bit.

  Clea sniffles. “I know. I can’t wait. Be careful. Call me when you make pit stops, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “No texting and driving though. That’s dangerous.”

  “Okay.”

  “Call me when you get home, too.”

  “Clea, you are a worry wart. Settle down. I’ll be fine. Love you.”

  “Love you more. Talk to you soon.” She pushes away from me and takes a couple steps back. I get in the car and buckle my seat belt. I start backing out of the driveway and wave at her.

  I hit the interstate an hour later and settle in for a long drive.

  I pull into my driveway a little after nine p.m. The drive took longer because I’m so sleepy and I kept stopping for coffee. I made good on my promise, calling Clea at every stop. She always answered the phone as perky as ever. Her perkiness is a gift and a curse. I also called and texted Cade at every stop. He would sometimes respond with an, “Okay,” or would not respond at all. It was frustrating. I tried to be forgiving, knowing what he’s dealing with.

  I leave my stuff in the car and head straight inside the house. I dial Clea one last time as I lock the front door behind me. We talk for a few minutes as I look around. When we hang up, I make my way to the shower. Driving all day has me feeling super-gross. I stand under the water until it runs cold. I let the warmth of the water numb me all the way to my toes. When I get out, I brush through my hair and then wrap it in a towel. I throw on some pajamas and fall into bed.

  Laying there, staring at the ceiling, it occurs to me that I might need to let my family and friends know that I’m back
. I send one text to my dad and sisters, “Back home in Mississippi. Love you. Call tomorrow.” The second to my friends, “Home from vacation. See you on Monday. Big changes are a comin’! Love you.” After I hit send, I realize that I have left Cade out of both messages.

  I take a deep breath and start a new text. And then I stare at the screen. I’m thinking through it, but I don’t know where to start. God! I have to stop over-analyzing everything. I’m starting to annoy myself with this bullshit. Okay. Here goes. “I’m back home. Hope you’re okay. I miss you.”

  I hit send and turn my phone off. I don’t want him to text back. Okay, so I want him to text back, but I don’t want to read it tonight. My resolve holds for about an hour. When I can’t get to sleep, I grab my phone and turn it back on. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m torturing myself. The phone boots up, and I wait for it to find cell signal. When it finally flashes LTE at the top, I have one new text message that loads.

  “Missed you. We need to talk.”

  What? What does that mean? How do I take that? I stare at the phone for a long time. I. Will. Not. Over-analyze. Sleep is what I need right now. It has been a long day of driving. Tomorrow is the start to the weekend. Time to get my shit together.

  I don’t know if it is because I’m so tired, or because of all the changes in my life, but I dream of my mama.

  She is beautiful, working in her garden. Flowers and plants as far as the eye can see. She’s wearing a T-shirt and a sun hat. She stands and waves at me. I can see the light in her eyes and the big smile she always wore.

  I start running toward her, but no matter how fast or how long I run, I can’t reach her. She still waves at me, but I just can’t get there. Finally, I stop running. I settle for yelling, “I love you!” She looks like she might cry, and then she disappears.