Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories

by Ford, Lizzy; Fasano, Donna; Comley, Mel; Tyrpak, Suzanne; Welch, Linda; Woodbury, Sarah; Foster, Melissa; Hodge, Sibel; Luce, Carol Davis; Shireman, Cheryl

  She steps onto the porch and then quickly steps on the back of each of her shoes and pulls them off. I do the same, set my bowl and spoon on the porch rail, and walk through the screen door behind her.

  “Hope you don’t mind about the shoes,” she says as we walk into the cabin.

  “No. I don’t mind at all.”

  “Old habit. Living on a farm, you learn to leave your shoes outside. No telling what you might drag in.”

  I am struck by the cabin’s interior. It does not feel at all like a lake cabin, but like a home. There is no sparse feel, no cheap furniture, no hand-me-downs from a primary residence. The furniture is traditional and beautiful. Throw pillows are scattered across the couch. A rocker is positioned by the fireplace, a book is on its seat, and an afghan is draped across one of the arms. I try to read the title, but the distance is too great and the book is upside down. Bookcases on either side of the fireplace hold a few family photos and more books. I spot several titles on gardening and a brown leather Bible.

  Irene washes her hands, retrieves a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator, and pours two glasses. I notice her hands for the first time. The fingers are gnarled, the joints knotted, the nails stained forever. Her jeans are pale with years and dark with grass stains at the knees. She wears a beige short-sleeved shirt, and the skin at her neck and on her arms is tanned a soft uneven brown fraught with freckles.

  “You like sassafras tea?” she asks.

  “I’ve never had it.”

  “Well, you’re in for a treat. I make it myself.”

  Irene puts the pitcher into the refrigerator, picks up the two glasses and hands one to me.

  “Thank you.”

  “Let’s go out on the porch. It’s too hot in here.”

  I follow Irene onto the porch and take a seat beside her on the porch swing suspended from the ceiling. I think about putting my shoes back on, but decide against it. The smooth wood under my feet is somehow comforting. Solid and sturdy. I try to relax. I guess my note can wait.

  “This is delicious,” I tell her, sipping my tea.

  “Glad you like it. I make it from sassafras trees right here on the island. You know what they say, you can take the girl out of the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the girl.”

  “You have a farm?”

  “No, not anymore. We did for almost forty years, though. Raised the three kids on the farm, sent them all off to college and none of them came back. Arlene’s a doctor in St. Louis, Jeff’s an auditor in Kansas City, and Caroline does advertising in Chicago.”

  “That’s quite an accomplishment. Three kids through college and all of them successful.”

  “Caroline, she went through a nasty divorce last year, but the other two are married and they all seem happy enough. Everyone’s busy with their careers. No time for kids. I’m still not a grandma. Although I’m sure old enough to be one! How’s your little girl?”

  “Laney? She’s eighteen. She and her friend Allison are hiking in Colorado this summer.” I wonder if Irene’s daughter, Caroline who went through the nasty divorce, feels like killing herself too.

  “Just the two girls by themselves?”

  I nod. “They are hiking the Colorado Trail. It’s this trail that runs from Denver to Durango. Four hundred and seventy miles!”

  “Are they sleeping in shelters?”

  “A tent. There are no shelters. It’s just wilderness, although they pass by a few towns where they can get off the trail and buy supplies. Other than that, they’re carrying everything on their backs—the tent, all of their food, all of their clothing, everything. Over forty pounds each!” As I tell her, I cannot help but feel pride. I still think it is a crazy idea, but I am proud Laney has the guts to do it.

  “Wow! That’s something! Pretty impressive. Do you hike? Is that where she got this hobby?”

  I laugh. “No! Not at all. I would never do that. Laney just started a few years ago. She was dating a boy who was into hiking, and she started going with him and fell in love with it. They made plans to hike the Colorado Trail this summer after graduation. When they broke up, I thought that would be the end of it, but she said she was going without him. She talked her best friend into going too. Although they are both on the track team, they trained for six months, and I dropped them off at the airport a few weeks ago. I … Matt, is driving out there and picking them up the end of August, in Durango. Right after that, she leaves for college in Colorado. Colorado University in Boulder.” I feel tears threatening my eyes. I take a drink of tea and swallow hard.

  “Sounds like a pretty independent girl.”

  “Yeah, she is that. I raised her to be strong and independent, but sometimes she is just a little too strong and independent. I hate the thought of her out there in the wilderness!” I laugh, but it sounds forced, even to me. I feel like I am going to lose it. Just collapse into a heap of tears on this porch. The thought of never seeing Laney again is overwhelming. I am so tired. I just want to sleep. I blink rapidly, driving away the tears. I imagine sinking into bed, pulling the covers up over me.

  “Let go and let God. That’s the only thing you can do. Just give her to Him. And pray for her. That’s all. But that’s enough.”

  I think, God hasn’t exactly been doing me any favors lately, but do not answer. There is a pause. Irene takes a sip of tea. She starts rocking the swing and I fall into its slow rhythm and take another sip of my tea. It is several minutes before she speaks again.

  “We were hoping one of the kids would take to farming, but it didn’t work out that way. We scrimped and saved all those years to send them to college and that turned out to be the thing that took them away from us. I guess we should have known they wouldn’t want to go back to farm life after college. We just never figured that not even one of them would want the place. We waited awhile, hoping we could pass it on to one of the grandkids. But they never had any kids. So we sold the farm five years ago and split the money four ways. We bought this place with our share and gave each of the kids their inheritance early. They each built houses and now we see them at Christmas and Easter.”

  “That stinks.” For some reason, the idea of those kids all leaving makes me angry.

  “No. Not really. We wanted to raise happy kids and that’s what we’ve done. What made them happy just wasn’t what we thought would make them happy.”

  “But is that it? Is that all there is?” My voice rises erratically. “You raise these babies and then they just leave you? You spend all that money to put them through college and they just move on? Move across the country to some place, like stupid Colorado, and you never see them again? Is that the point of life? You love someone and give them your whole life and then they just leave you?” I am so angry. I look at her, half expecting her to give me some sort of answer. “What’s the point of that?” I ask, almost in a yell. Without warning, disobedient tears spill down my face. I turn my head and look down at my lap. “I have to go.”

  Setting my glass down on the porch floor, I shove my feet into my shoes and rise quickly from the swing. I am down the steps and walking toward the woods before she can respond.

  “If you ever need anyone to talk to, I’m always here, Grace,” she calls after me.

  I wave my hand in the air in response and do not look back.

  Chapter 4

  As I make my way back to the cabin, a gentle rain starts to fall. Overhead, it makes a spattering sound upon the leaves, not yet forceful enough to make its way down to the ground. By the time I get back to the cabin, I have quit crying. I walk in and am surprised to find my kitchen table full of groceries. I didn’t think Tony would be back so soon. I reach into a sack and start putting the groceries away. The total on the receipt is circled and a note is written on the bottom. Payment is expected upon delivery! See you Saturday. Have your next list ready then—T.

  I unpack the groceries, open a Dr. Pepper and put the milk in the refrigerator. I wish I had a television. I would like to find some old mo
vie, sit on the couch, and eat for two hours. Something with Jimmy Stewart. One of those movies where he plays the kind of bumbling but lovable executive, or one where he plays a surly cowboy but all along you know he has a kind heart that is revealed by the end. Opening the Doritos, I stuff some into my mouth. I turn on the oven and spend a few minutes looking for a pizza pan. I do not find one and finally have to cut the pizza to fit it on an old cookie sheet. I put it in the oven and keep eating Doritos. The pop isn’t very cold, but it tastes great. I decide to eat the Ho Hos for dessert and finish it all off with coffee. I forgot to order sugar from Tony, so I break some chocolate off another Ho Ho and drop it into the coffee to sweeten it.

  Moving to the couch, I eat half of the bag of Doritos and drink the rest of my Dr. Pepper. By the time the pizza is out of the oven I’m no longer hungry, but I eat half of it anyway and leave the leftovers sitting on the coffee table. I leave the opened bag of Doritos on the couch, with a certain sense of satisfaction.

  I move back to the wobbly table and look at my suicide note. Dear Matt.

  I won’t ever see him again.

  I won’t ever make love to him again.

  Although, even if I wasn’t going to kill myself, I guess the last one is already a given, since he has filed for divorce. I try to remember the last time we made love; I cannot. I do, however, remember the last time we didn’t. It was a couple of months before the remote incident. The gap between us had only widened. At that point, I had given up even trying, and the most painful thing was that he had not even noticed.

  I had learned to deal with the fact that my husband simply did not want me anymore. I had learned to not think about it, to extinguish any thoughts of sex as soon as they erupted. But, eventually, I would weaken. I would be overwhelmed with need for him and try to seduce him once again.

  That night, I showered, dried my hair, and put on makeup and perfume. Laney was spending the night at a friend’s house, so I knew we had the house to ourselves. I pulled out my latest piece of lingerie, one of a steady stream of tools of seduction that had, thus far, remained ineffective, and slipped into it. I took a deep breath before descending the stairs, and another before descending to the basement.

  Poised seductively on the bottom step, I said, “I’m going to bed now.”

  Matt did not look up. He said, “Okay,” His gaze remained on the television.

  I hesitate. “Matt?” I said after a few minutes. “Matt?”

  Finally, he had looked up.

  “I’ll probably read for a while.” I smiled. “I’ll be awake.”

  He had looked at me blankly, and then finally added, “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

  I am embarrassed, now, to remember how my heart leapt at that tiny scrap of love.

  Almost giddy, I had hurried upstairs and settled into bed to wait. After a few minutes, I realized he was not coming up right away. The clock read ten fifteen. Maybe he’s watching some television show and will be up at ten-thirty, I’d thought. I had grabbed a book from my bedside table but was unable concentrate and got up once more to brush my teeth. Once more again to put on fresh lipstick. Once again to shave off a tiny patch of stubble I discovered I’d missed on my knee. Ten-thirty passed. I wondered if he might be watching something that ended at eleven. But that would be more than a “few minutes,” wouldn’t it?

  It was more than two hours before he came upstairs. I had given up trying to read and was lying in the dark, staring at the wall and still waiting for him. As I heard him come through the door I wondered if I should pretend to be asleep. I imagined him coming up behind me, wrapping his arms around me and “waking” me with kisses on the back of my neck—just as he used to. I’d closed my eyes in anticipated and tried to remove the smile from my face.

  It took just a few seconds for him to reach the edge of the bed and a few more before I had realized why. He had been tiptoeing. When he finally reached the bed, the extraordinary care he took in pulling back the blankets, settling into the bed and gently covering himself, still makes my heart ache. Literally. I feel as if someone has reached into my chest and is crushing my heart in their fist. Something caught in my throat and I grabbed a handful of blanket and pressed it to my mouth to keep from gasping.

  I did not cry. The wound was too deep for tears. And perhaps too fatal, I think, still staring at my suicide note. But that was the moment—the very moment—my hope died. I knew then he would never be like he was before. We would never be the way we used to be. And there was absolutely nothing that I could do—nothing that I could ever do—to make a difference. I could not make him happy. Our future was in his hands and he was incapable of action. Grief stricken. Stricken by grief. Knocked to his knees. Unable to stand. And I was lost in the fall.

  I crumple up the note and throw it on the floor. Maybe I will write to someone else—sort of a warm up for the suicide note. I think about who I might write to. Laney. Not Laney. I can’t even bear the thought and quickly push it away. Maybe a friend. But I don’t really have any friends. I used to, before Laney was born, and even when she was little. But somewhere along the way I got so busy. Friends fell far down on the list and before I knew it, there weren’t any left. I never minded. I loved spending time with Matt and Laney, just the three of us. “The Three Mousekateers,” Laney had called us when she was too young to realize the mistake.

  Perhaps an old friend. Someone needs to know the truth of what is happening here. The thought of making a connection with an old friend is appealing. Someone I have not seen in years. Someone who actually knows very little about my daily life. Maybe somebody from college. I will write the letter and leave it behind in the cabin. I think for a couple of minutes and come up with a name—Jeanne Parks. I haven’t talked to her since college. We had hugged and told each other we would always stay in touch. Of course that was a lie. We did manage to exchange Christmas cards every year though. Jeanne was a Psychology major and I was an English or Sociology or Psychology or Marketing major, depending on the day. We nursed each other through bad boyfriends and late-night cramming for finals and became best friends. Now, I know nothing about Jeanne that won’t fit on one side of a Christmas card. She married a guy named Mike, a plant manager for some manufacturing plant in St. Louis, and she is working in a drug and alcohol rehab unit in the same town. They have two boys, Dylan and Simon, and live in a subdivision that Jeanne described in one of her cards as fabulous.

  My subdivision was fabulous, too. I have lived all of my married life in subdivisions. I like the predictably well-groomed yards and meticulously cared for houses. There is a security in that sameness. In knowing the flowers will never clash, and that, at Christmas, the decorations will all be tastefully white. While I’ve never really been close to any of my neighbors, they always wave when I pass. Even in that neutrality, there is a sense of order and conformity that I find comforting. I don’t understand why anyone would want to live in the country with no neighbors, or even, like this, in a cabin on a lake. There are so many unknown variables. Surroundings are too susceptible to change when nothing but nature surrounds you. I like my “nature” a little more tamed and mowed and trimmed.

  I begin the letter with the words Dear Jeanne, crumple that up and begin another page with the word Jeanne followed by a comma. After all, I haven’t seen this woman in years! I begin the letter by asking how she is, how her family is, what is new—the typical stuff one might write in a letter. Then I write the words, I have some bad news. I write about Matt losing his job, and then losing his mom, and then losing me. I want to write that I hate him, that I never hated anyone more. That I love him desperately, that I never loved anyone more. That I hate life without him. That I have no life without him. Instead, I write, We lost our house. My pen hesitates over the paper as I think about the house.

  I loved my house. It was all of the houses I ever dreamed of having, but didn’t think I ever would. The master closet was bigger than the bedroom I had as a child. It had great dormers that faced the
road and the sun poured through them in the morning. That sun always woke me first. On the weekends, I would lie still in bed and watch Matt sleep, his arm thrown across his chest and his gold wedding band glistening in the sun. Eventually, he would open his eyes and greet me with a sleepy smile. Then he always threw an arm over me and pulled me near. We would lie like that, his breath warming my hair, tickling my neck. And we wouldn’t say anything—because we wouldn’t have to. Then, we would get up and make breakfast together, Matt never knowing where anything was and always asking. The kitchen’s grey granite countertops look like they have veins running through them, as if they are alive. There are so many oak cabinets that for the first year many sat empty.

  I close my eyes and wish all of this would go away. When I open them, I want to be home with Matt beside me and Laney upstairs with her blow dryer running, yelling downstairs to ask me if I have seen her favorite jeans. That is all I want. Is that so much to ask? I want Matt back. I want Laney to love me like she did when she was little. I want her to need me.

  I think about when she was four. One day we were cuddled up and watching TV together on the couch. Someone died in the TV show and she asked, “Mommy, why do we have to die?” The question killed me, but I did my best to give her an answer. She thought for a moment, and then pulled back slightly, looked right up at me with those big brown eyes, and said, “Mommy, if we have to die, I want to die holding your hand.” I remember pulling her close to me, too overwhelmed for words, and kissing the top of her head. I felt love, so pure and simple, in its rawest and most powerful form. Has a love ever existed stronger than that between mother and child? How could Laney and I have strayed so far from that moment?