Naturally, I have absolutely no idea. And I don't even know why I bother to think about this whole sad thing, except that I feel so badly for his family. But I have been praying for his mom and brother—a lot. Unfortunately, I don't think there's much more I can do. And like I told Ebony when she called to check on me yesterday, I don't have a single thing on it. And I suspect I just need to let it go. Move on.
We've started the new quarter, which means a few new classes, including chemistry, which I'm sure is a big mistake on my part, although I managed to snag the smartest kid in the class for my lab partner. Garrett Pierson is a shy, sort of nerdish guy who seems to be into all things science-related. Consequently, he's already taken the lead on our first project, which I don't totally understand, something to do with energy. Not that I plan to slack exactly. But it's reassuring to know that my grade is in good hands, specifically Garrett's.
For the most part, school has felt pretty boring and tedious this week, and I think everyone's in the doldrums of winter right now. Plus the weather is cold and wet and cruddy. But at least I have a birthday coming up on Saturday. Not that I have any great expectations, although Olivia has been somewhat mysterious and I think she might be up to something. Most of all I think it'll be fun to be seventeen. For some reason, seventeen sounds a lot more sophisticated and grown-up than sixteen. Nearly eighteen…adulthood just around the corner.
“Coming to the game tonight?” Conrad asks me after lunch on Friday
“You guys going to win this one?” I tease.
“We're playing Fairview,” he says, as in “duh” and it should be obvious. Everyone knows that Fairview High isn't known for its athletics.
“Then you guys better win,” I tell him. “Guess I'll come.”
“If you stick around afterward, we could go get some pizza,” he offers. “Maybe Alex and Olivia would want to come along too.”
“I'll ask Olivia.”
“Where you headed?”
I groan. “Chemistry.”
He nods. “Oh, yeah, I forgot you were taking that. You're a brave woman.”
“Don't you mean stupid?”
He laughs. “Well, I didn't want to say that. You won't catch me taking one of Dynell's classes. He's tough; I've heard it's a sure way to mess up your GPA.”
“I just wanted to finish up my science credits this year. That way I can take it easier for senior year.”
“But chemistry?” He makes a face.
“Like I told you, it's all there was to choose from.”
Garrett Pierson hurries past us, his head held down like usual, like maybe he's counting the cracks in the sidewalk, although it's not a sidewalk and there are no cracks. It's simply the gray industrial carpeted hallway that leads to the science department.
“And besides,” I say in a lowered voice, nodding to the hunched back of my slightly geekish chemistry cohort, “I've got a good partner to get me through.”
“Garrett Pierson?”
“That's right. He's really smart.”
“Should I be jealous?”
I turn and look at Conrad, and even if his curly red hair is a little goofy, he's ten times better looking than poor Garrett. “Yeah, right.”
He grins and gives me a peck on the cheek, something I'm still not quite comfortable with at school, then says, “See ya,” and heads off toward his class. I guess everyone probably thinks of us as a couple now, but I still don't feel totally sure myself. Not that Conrad is seeing anyone else, but I suppose I'm just not used to this exclusive thing yet. And I don't think I'll ever use the term “going steady” because it sounds so stupid.
Of course, Olivia thinks it's great that Conrad and I are “dating,” and she wishes that she and Conrad's friend Alex were a couple. But so far they mostly do things with us, as a foursome, and it hasn't gotten very serious between them.
Olivia's worried that Alex might have his eye on Brittany Fallows, which I think is ridiculous. I mean, those two might've gone together back in middle school, but I've heard Brittany putting Alex down and I seriously doubt they'll ever get back together again. Olivia just needs to chill. Maybe act a little less interested. Guys don't like being chased.
“Of course, I'm in,” Olivia tells me when I pass Conrad's invitation for her and Alex to join us after the game tonight. “I'll pick you up sevenish, and we can watch the end of the JV game before varsity plays.” She sounds happy as she chatters all the way home from school. I think she's feeling hopeful about Alex, and I want to warn her to go easy tonight, but I don't want to be a downer.
The house feels icy cold when I get home. I know Mom is trying to save on the gas bill by turning the heat off during the day. Trying to ignore the damp chill in the air, I fix myself a cup of cocoa and keep my jacket on for a while. But then I think, This is ridiculous. Why am I freezing in my own home?
That's when I decide to start a fire in the fireplace. It's something my dad used to do on a cold winter's day, but something we rarely do anymore. Mom and I didn't even have a fire in there at Christmas. But suddenly I wonder why not. I mean, we still have lots of firewood. Sure it's a little work, but maybe it'll cheer this place up.
So I gather newspaper and kindling and get everything all ready to go, just like Dad used to do; then I use one of those long matches and light it up. Unfortunately, I didn't think to open the flue first. The next thing I know, smoke is going everywhere, and before long the smoke alarm in the kitchen is blaring, and I don't know what to do.
I used a lot of newspaper, and the flames are so hot that I can't put my hand in to open it up. I run around the smoky house with the obnoxious alarm screaming like a wounded animal, until I finally decide to use an oven mitt and the fire poker. After several feeble attempts, I get the stupid thing open.
Of course, now the family room and kitchen are full of smoke. And I smell like smoke. But I manage to disarm the fire alarm and I open some windows, which makes it even colder in here. Then I turn on the exhaust fan over the stove and in the powder room, and after a while, it thins a bit, but it's still a little gray looking, and my eyes are burning. Naturally, as I'm trying to clean the air, my fire, which only had kindling on it, goes out for lack of wood. I would make a pathetic Boy Scout.
“What is going on here?” Mom demands as she walks in the front door. It figures that this would be an early day for her. It's not even five and here she is. Just great.
I try to explain what I've been doing, even trying to make it sound funny, but I can tell by the hardness in her eyes that she's angry. “It smells like you tried to burn the house down.”
“I'm sorry, but it was cold in here.”
“Then turn up the stupid thermostat.”
“But Sometimes you get mad when I turn it up,” I point out, which is true. She's yelled at me twice this week for having it turned up too high, although it was barely over seventy.
“Well, then learn how to use the fireplace correctly before you go and burn the place to the ground!” She picks up the disarmed smoke alarm, which is still on the kitchen counter, its wires and batteries splayed about like it exploded, and thrusts it at me. “And put this thing back up!” Then she storms off to her room, and I want to scream. What right does she have to come in here and act like that? I mean, who's the adult here?
Grumbling to myself, I put the smoke alarm back together, climb on the kitchen stool, and reattach it to the holder on the ceiling. Suddenly, I cannot wait until I'm eighteen and old enough to move out of here and live on my own. Seriously my mom can be unbearable sometimes. It's like she thinks she's the only one in the world with problems, like no one else in this family is hurting at all, like she's the center of the universe and it's all about her.
Sure, I know her life's not that great, but I also know that if she'd just come back to the Lord, things would get a whole lot better. And not just for her. I'm sure my life would improve if my mom would start living like a believer again. It'd probably even help Zach. But will she even consider th
is relatively simple solution? Not on your life. She can be so stubborn.
I walk past the smoldering ashes in the fireplace and am about to stomp up to my room and slam the door, just to send her a not-so-subtle message, but then I realize that I still want a fire. So I start all over again.
Okay, I suppose I might be doing this just to spite my mom. To show her that I do know what I'm doing and that I'm not, after all, a total idiot. Or maybe I just want a fire to get warm by. Who knows? Who cares? It's done. Before long, there's actually a nice cheerful fire snapping and crackling in the fireplace. So there!
I decide to get something to eat and to enjoy it by my fire. I know the mature thing to do would be to invite her to join me, but I'm still miffed. So I go ahead and make myself a nice grilled cheese sandwich, ignoring the fact that it would be easy to make my mom one too, and ignoring that the other half of the frying pan is empty. Let her make her own sandwich if she wants one. Chances are I'd make it for her and she'd turn her nose up at it anyway. She'd probably inform me that it was full of cholesterol. I make myself another mug of cocoa too.
So I sit on the hearth by my toasty fire, about to dig into my nice hot sandwich and cocoa when Mom comes down the stairs. She walks toward me then just stands between the kitchen and the family room and looks at me with this pitifully sad expression, like she doesn't have a friend in the world, including me, her only daughter. And suddenly I feel extremely guilty and greedy and incredibly immature—not to mention not a very nice Christian either. Good grief, why didn't I just make her a sandwich too?
“I would've made you one,” I say, sheepishly holding up my golden brown sandwich. “But I didn't know if—”
“That's okay,” she says in a sad voice. Til fix myself something.”
“Sorry…”
Then she turns and goes into the kitchen. I hear her knocking around in there, and she drops something and lets out a swear word, and I feel even worse than before. Really, why am I so self-centered? Would it have hurt me to be a little more thoughtful?
I take a bite, but the sandwich tastes a little like sawdust now. And even though it will cool off, I decide to wait in case Mom wants to join me out here. She eventually does, but all she has is a bowl of some sad-looking canned soup that she obviously nuked in the microwave. Real appetizing.
“Nice fire,” she murmurs as she sits on the couch across from me.
“Thanks.” I take a bite of my now cold sandwich and chew.
“Sorry I yelled at you.”
I nod. “And I'm sorry about the smoke and everything.”
Then we both eat in silence, and despite the fire, it still feels cold in here. Just to have something to talk about, to lighten it up, I almost mention that it's my birthday tomorrow—in case she's forgotten, which seems a possibility. But as I open my mouth I see that her eyes are bright with tears. She looks like she's about to cry.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
She shakes her head as if she's unsure, but then sets her spoon down into her bowl with a clink and looks at me.
“Is something wrong at work?”
She shrugs, but the tears are coming now. “Just the usual stress. Budget cuts, having to lay people off, disgruntled employees, the norm for this time of year.”
“I'm sorry…”
She pulls a tissue from her jacket pocket and wipes a tear.
“Is that why you're sad?” I persist, uncertain as to whether she really wants to talk about this or not. But knowing my mom, if she doesn't want to talk, no one can make her.
“I—I don't know…”.
“Is it because of me? Because of the smoke and not making you a sandwich?”
She sort of smiles now, although it's a halfhearted smile. “No, Samantha, it's not because of you.”
“Zach?” I say suddenly. “Have you heard anything about Zach that's—”
“No, I spoke to him on Wednesday. He sounded good. He thinks he'd like to stay in treatment longer, maybe even do the full ninety days.”
“Oh, good.” I study Mom and try to figure out what's making her blue. Is it really just work?
“Your dad always made fires.
“Yeah.”
“I guess this fire just made me think of him…remember things…”
“And that's Why you're sad?”
She sighs deeply. “Maybe a little.”
“Is it something more?”
“I guess I'm just lonely, Sam. It's been hitting me hard lately. Here I am in my forties, you kids are practically gone, and I just feel like I've been left behind—or I'm about to be. It's depressing.”
I consider pointing out that I'll be around a while yet, that I have another year of high school, but I don't think that's going to help her at the moment. For some reason I think there's something else going on here. I think she's lonely in another way. “Why don't you start dating, Mom?”
She looks a little surprised. Then she laughs, but not in a happy way. “I'm afraid that's easier said than done.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I don't even know any available single men that I'd care to go out with, And if I did, I wouldn't even be sure how to go about it. I think it would be hopeless,”
“It's not hopeless. You just have to do it, Mom. It's not that hard.”
“Maybe not for you. And just for the record, I had no problem dating when I was your age either. But things change.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Well, for one thing, I don't have the kind of energy I used to have when I was younger. I work so much that by the time I get home I usuaHy just want to crash.”
I nod, but stop myself from saying, “I've noticed.”
“And even if an interesting guy did come my way…well, I just don't have that much self-confidence anymore.” She looks down at her somewhat dated gray pantsuit, similar to most of her other boring work clothes— functional and practical, but not very cute. “I feel as if I've lost my sense of style. Sometimes I don't even know who I am.” She shakes her head. “I think I really might be hopeless.”
“You're not hopeless, Mom. But I think you're like one of those women I saw on Oprah the other day. You've been so busy taking care of everything and everyone else that you've forgotten to take care of yourself.
“That sounds about right.”
“But why can't that change?” I challenge her. “Why can't you take more time for yourself?”
“I don't know…”
“Why do you have to work so many hours anyway? It's not like they pay you extra for all the time you give them down there.”
That's true. But it's become a habit. When I took on the new position and started working full time, right after your dad died, well, I felt like I had to work extra hard just to prove myself.”
“But haven't you done that by now? I mean, everyone down there really loves you, Mom. They all respect you. I've seen it when I'm there. Why can't you ease up a little?”
She actually seems to consider this. “I suppose I could try. This is the slow time of year anyway.”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, wanting to keep this thing going. “And if you weren't so busy, you could take some time to focus on yourself for a change, figure out who you are and what you need—what it'll take to make you happy.” Of course, I want to add, “And you could start coming to church again,” but I don't want to shut her down either. I feel like I'm making some headway, even if I'm not sure where we're going with it.
She almost smiles. “I don't even know where I'd begin, Samantha. The idea of focusing on myself, figuring out who I am, all that… Well, it's a bit overwhelming.”
“Maybe you could start on your appearance,” I say, then wish I hadn't since I can tell I've offended her.
“What would you suggest?” she asks in a stiff voice.
“Well, maybe you could change your hairstyle.”
She runs her hand over her lifeless brown hair, which is streaked with gray and appears to be thinning.
It's cut in the same style she's worn for years, a limp and boring bob with flat bangs. It only adds to the whole tired and worn-out look. “How would I change it?”
“I don't know. But I'm sure we could think of something. And maybe we could go shopping too. We could help get your wardrobe out of last millennium.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“It's true, Mom. You look totally out-of-date. And you're really not that old.”
“According to whom?”
“Well, how about Bev Marsh?” I remind her of Olivia's mom. “She's older than you, but she dresses a lot more stylishly.”
“She also has the money to do it.”
“Hey, I manage to stay in style without spending as much as Olivia. You don't have to go broke to look good.”
“Well, that might be, but I don't want to end up looking like a teenybopper either.”
“You can look good without looking juvenile.”
She stands up now and looks at the mirror that hangs over the fireplace mantel. “I suppose a little makeover wouldn't hurt, would it?”
“Not at all,” I say with enthusiasm. “Want to start on it tomorrow?” Now, okay, it might be my birthday tomorrow, but this is important, and I could make a sacrifice. And who knows, it might be fun to help Mom get her act together.
“Not tomorrow,” she says with reservation. “I really do have to go to work.”
“When then?” I fold my arms across my chest. “You can't just put it off.”
“How about next weekend? How about if I make sure that I'm not working? We'll go into Portland and do it up right. Make a whole day of it.”
“It's a date.”
“Good.” She smiles. “Thanks, Sam.”
“And speaking of dates, I should get ready. Olivia will be here soon to take me to the game, and we're doing pizza with Conrad and Alex afterward.”
“Oh, to have a life…” she says wistfully.
“Well, I have a feeling all that's about to change for you, Mom. You might want to start getting yourself mentally prepared.”
Beyond Reach Page 5
