by Jean Austin
I wander down the hall.
“Hey, sleepyhead. How are you feeling?” Mom asks.
“Great.”
Physically, I feel awful, but mentally, I’m excited. For once, I’m in control of my own destiny.
“Coffee?”
“That would be wonderful,” I say, and there’s no facade, no sarcasm in my voice. I mean it.
“Hi Mom,” Jimmy says, peering from behind the screen of his tablet.
“Mommy!” Jilly calls out, rushing over to hug me, which is a welcome change.
“Hey, Baby,” I say, and this time there’s no complaints. I run my hand affectionately through her hair.
I feel for my kids. Is there anything worse than erratic, screwball parents? Jilly’s hug says more than words ever could. She feels the insecurity hanging in the air like static before a storm. I need to change that. I need to be better for her. To hell with alcohol. Knowing all she’s going through, I’m even more determined to go to Bosnia. I’ve got to reclaim my identity, although I dare not mention Europe to Mom.
A police car pulls in the driveway, but I breathe easy when I see it’s dad. My hair’s a mess. Given how I butchered it yesterday, sleeping on it hasn’t made it any worse. Even so, I ruffle my locks, trying to sweep them behind my ears.
“Hey, Pumpkin,” Dad says, passing humorous judgment on my hairdo. Mom pours him a cup of coffee. After forty years of marriage, she doesn’t need to ask. Is that me in a few more decades? Probably. This is why I need to get away. I can’t continue stumbling headlong through life. If that’s the life I end up living, let it be by deliberate choice, not blind default.
I smile, and my smile is genuine. I’m pleased to see my dad. He seems to realize there’s been some kind of tectonic realignment—the continental plates on which my life rests have shifted. Although it’s not a move of my choosing, I’m strangely at peace with what happened yesterday. I hate Paul, but if it wasn’t for what happened, I’d be trapped, dragged along behind him. I have no idea what the future holds, but I know my destiny has changed, and for once that doesn’t scare me.
“We’re going to Billings,” I blurt out, almost saying Bosnia. “I’ve booked a nice, little cabin in a quiet area about two hours from the airport.”
“But I thought you were going to stay with Aunt Louise?” Mom says, sounding disappointed.
“Flight’s tonight,” I say, ignoring her and getting everything out in the open.
“Tonight?” Mom replies, and I can almost hear her heart breaking. I hate myself for doing this to her, but I have to. If I don’t, if I’m not strong now, I’ll never escape.
“I thought you might stay with us for a few days,” Dad says, but there’s resignation in his voice. I’m quiet. There’s no doubt about where Jilly gets her stubborn streak.
“Em?” Mom asks.
“It’s only for a couple of weeks, Mom. I need to do this. Being here—it’s too much. I need some distance.”
“I’ve spoken to Paul,” Dad says, and my heartbeat quickens. “He’s upset—embarrassed. He’s not going to press charges.”
I nod, relieved. That simplifies life considerably.
“He wants you back.”
“No!”
“He wants to talk.”
My throat constricts. My hands tremble. I’m surprised by the wave of emotion washing over me. I thought I was in control, but my grasp on reality is feeble—tenuous.
“It’s too soon,” I say, my lips quivering. Dad nods. He must see the pain on my face. Dad’s not going to pressure me into meeting with Paul before I’m ready.
How can one person hold so much power over another? I have to sit down. My legs are shaking. Anxiety wells up within me, and I feel a panic attack coming on at the prospect of seeing Paul again. For a moment, I wonder if he’s waiting in the squad car. I peer nervously out the window, but the car’s empty.
“I told him you want to take the kids to Billings. He’s okay with that.”
Dad makes Paul sound reasonable, almost charming, but the need for Paul’s permission is nauseating to me. I know they’re our kids, but he’s forfeited any say he has about what happens in my life. He wants to get back together. I’m in shock. The thought never crossed my mind. Broken vase. For me, it’s over. My skin crawls at the notion of him ever touching me again. Forgiveness is for God and saints. There will come a time when we talk, but not now, barely a day later. I can’t pretend nothing happened.
“I need to clear my head.”
“I know. I know,” Dad says.
“Muffin?” Mom asks, and I’m thrown out of the moment. Muffin was Dad’s nickname for me growing up. I hated it, of course, particularly in my teenage years when he seemed to make a deliberate effort to bring it up whenever I had friends over. So embarrassing. But now, it floods me with memories of being loved and genuinely appreciated. Mom, though, is offering me a literal muffin on a plate.
“Yes, thanks.”
A cup of coffee and a muffin later and I almost feel normal—almost. Dad heads back to work, but not before tossing my hair as he walks past out the door. I hated that as a teen. These days, it’s more of a quirk than an annoyance. Gravel crunches under the wheels of his squad car as he turns the vehicle around and heads back toward town. My folks live on an acre of land on the outskirts of Charlotte. Mom keeps chickens. Dad used to rent an adjacent field as a hobby farm, and had pigs for a while, along with a few horses, but as he got older the farm became harder to maintain.
Mom sits down at the table with me, but not until she hears the change in tire noise shifting from gravel to concrete, signaling Dad’s gone.
“Don’t do anything rash,” she says, cupping her coffee mug with both hands.
“Me?” I feign innocence. Mom peers at me over her horn-rimmed glasses, not buying the act.
“Just... don’t do anything... you know.”
“I know,” I say, but it’s too late.
“Give it time,” she says. Mom and I have never been that close. I’m not sure why. Dad and I are close. Growing up, he’d take me fishing, hiking, hunting. Although I never really liked the rugged life of camping on a trail, I loved hanging out with my dad. In his mind, it made no difference whether I was a girl or a boy.
My older brother, James, died at the age of eight. I barely knew him. Much like the age gap between Jilly and Jimmy, I was only three at the time and really don’t have any memory of what happened or the fallout afterwards. James was hit by a car while walking home from school. Dad never spoke about it while I was growing up, but I know it was an accident. I don’t think Dad was projecting onto me by dragging me around the forest in my teenage years. I’d like to think that if James had lived, Dad would have pulled us both out of school to hike the Appalachian Trail.
It’s crazy how often tragedy defines us. No one would willingly endure such a horrifying loss, and it must seems strange for anyone that hasn’t gone through something this life shattering, but tragedies are mortar filling in between the bricks of life. Time doesn’t heal a broken heart, it only makes the break slightly more bearable. Time forces us on.
There’s no doubt Dad was deeply affected by James’ death—and probably still is. Heartache cripples the soul. I cannot bring myself to consider how I’d feel, or what I’d do if I lost one of my children. I named Jimmy after James, but the name never stuck. James may be on Jimmy’s birth certificate, but he’s forged his identity around the more casual version of his name. I’m cool with that. Jimmy’s growing up to be his own man. I know Dad can see shades of James in him, especially as he approaches the age at which James died. For me, my son is Jimmy when he’s cute, and James when he’s misbehaving, but for my dad, he’ll always be James. As much as Jimmy hates being called James, he’s never objected to granddad calling him by that name.
Was yesterday my defining tragedy? Is this the turning point in my life? I don’t think people need heartache and misery to build character, but there’s no denying it does. Whatever doesn
’t kill you makes you stronger, right? I’ve always hated that saying. If I could rewrite it I'd make it—Whatever doesn’t kill you came too damn close, and has probably left you scarred for life.
Mom reaches out and pats my hand, seeing me lost in thought at her comment, “Give it time.” Will time make a difference? Time allows scar tissue to form over a raw wound. Is that it? Is that what I need? Time?
“Your father and I—we haven’t always.”
I surprise myself with how defensive I am. “You haven’t always what?”
“People make mistakes, Em. What you have with Paul—”
“What I had with Paul,” I say, correcting her. “This wasn’t a mistake, Mom. Forgetting to lock the back door—that’s a mistake. Stepping on someone’s toes—that’s a mistake. Screwing a blonde bimbo in our bedroom—that’s not a mistake—it’s a choice. It’s betrayal. He deceived me, Mom. He lied to me. His whole life is a lie.”
“Emma.”
Like the Jimmy/James thing, I only ever get Emma when Mom’s upset. Otherwise, I’m Em.
“It’s not my fault,” I say.
“It takes two to tango,” Mom replies.
“Yeah, but it only takes one to walk away from the dance floor. He did this Mom—not me.”
“I know. I know.”
The veins on the side of my neck are madly pumping blood to my head, but hang on, I missed something in what Mom said... Your father and I... People make mistakes. I was so wrapped up in my own problems, I missed her point entirely. Our eyes meet, and Mom doesn’t blink for the longest time. Ordinarily, such prolonged eye contact would make me uncomfortable. I’d have to look away. This time, though, I know. I can see the heartache in her eyes as tears well up in the corners. Dad cheated on her. I have no idea how long ago this happened. Did Dad have an affair before I was born? While I was a kid? A teenager? After I left home? I have no idea.
“Mom,” I say, softening my voice and taking her hand. I’m shocked.
“He doesn’t know that I know,” she says. I screw up my face, revealing my confusion as she adds, “But I knew.”
“You never told him you knew?”
Her head drops.
“Wh—How? When?” I desperately want to know what happened. I hold her fingers gently. I thought I was the one that needed support. When this conversation began, I had no idea it would end up with me comforting my mother. What seems to be decades of repression comes rushing to the surface. Tears fall to the table. Mom sobs, staring down at the polished wood, her shoulders heaving as she breaks down.
“Oh, Mom.”
“I—I love him. I love your dad.”
“I know.”
She looks at me with bloodshot eyes—and I thought I was a mess. Mom sniffs, fighting to hold back more tears.
“You were eight.”
Five years after James died. I’m dumbfounded.
“She was a florist. Can you believe it? I’ve always hated flowers.”
Growing up, I noticed Mom never kept flowers around for long. Dad would bring some home occasionally on their wedding anniversary, but the first sign of a wilting petal or a sagging leaf and they’d be in the trash.
“She worked at the mall across from the station. That must be where they met. I didn’t know at first—no wife does, but I noticed he started working late, skipping meals.”
Sounds all too familiar.
“One of the women at the station told me. She took me aside at the Christmas party.”
“What did you do?” I ask.
Mom straightens in her seat, pulling her shoulders back and raising her head.
“I got rid of her.”
For a moment, I’m wondering if I really want to know how. Oh, dear God, don’t tell me there’s a body buried under the house.
“I wrote her a short note and sent her a single bullet in an envelope, telling her there were five more in the chamber of my Smith & Wesson.”
“MOM!”
Mom laughs. She still has tears in her eyes, but she smiles. “That bitch moved out of town the next day—left without a word.”
“You and Jilly,” she says. “You don't have a monopoly on being stubborn.”
I laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. Mom blows her nose.
“Love is what you make it,” Mom says. “Can you imagine what your life would have been like if I’d walked out on your dad?”
I’m silent. As much as I respect my mother, I can’t follow her example—not like this. I applaud her courage, but that was a different time, I’m a different woman, Paul is a different man. Like a pair of prescription glasses, what worked for her won’t necessarily work for me.
“I can’t,” is all I can bring myself to say.
“That was over twenty years ago,” she says. “Can you imagine what the last twenty years would have been like without him? I can’t. I love him. He loves me.”
“Mom, I—”
“Just think about it,” she says. “I wouldn’t trade the last twenty years of my life for anything. There is forgiveness, Em.”
I bury my face in my hands.
“I’m not saying now. Just, don’t throw it all away.”
I want to say, I’m not—I didn’t—he did, but right now, I just want to kill the conversation. This is precisely why I need to get away from Mom and Dad. Whatever happens between Paul and I, it needs to be by my choice. Paul had his chance. He made his choice when he circled the block and returned home with that blonde bitch. Now, the choice is mine, and I will make it as I see fit. I need some time to come to grips with what I want. Mom’s right about the three of us girls being as stubborn as hell. There is no way I’m being forced into a decision. I’ll make my own decision in my own time. Bosnia, here I come.
“Mom,” I say with deliberation. “You need to trust me to make the right decision—and not just for my life, but for the kids as well.”
“I do.”
I believe her. There’s no lecture, no repetition of her point, just acceptance.
“Can I have a Coke?” Jimmy asks, taking us both by surprise. Suddenly, he realizes we’ve both been crying, and that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t have interrupted, but I’m glad he did.
“Sure.”
“No.”
As we spoke simultaneously, Jimmy’s not sure who to listen to—soft, easygoing compliant Grandma, or strict, grumpy old Mom.
“Go on,” I say. In some regards, letting him have the soft drink is symbolic, giving in to my Mom, and she smiles. ‘See,’ I say with nothing more than a smile and a kind look in my eyes, ‘I’m not always stubborn.’ Pretenses, though, I can keep those up without batting an eyelid.
“I just need some time away to straighten things out in my head.”
“Couldn’t you do that somewhere closer than Billings?” she asks.
By saying I’m going to Billings instead of Europe, I’m lying, but in my blurred thinking, they’re roughly equidistant and that makes them equal. One’s east, the other’s west, that’s all. I’m driven by an impulse to run—to get away from Paul. The further the better. Is it shame that stops me from being honest with Mom? Or the fear that she’ll talk some sense into me? Common sense is not what I want at the moment.
“You could stay a little longer,” Mom says. “There’s no rush. Perhaps till the weekend.”
“I’ve already booked flights.” Not a lie. Mom is crestfallen. I hate doing this to her. In some ways, staying here would be better for the kids, but me—I’d suffocate. Our eyes meet. She’s not surprised. Disappointed, but she probably suspected as much. I’ve always been impulsive. Perhaps that’s why a bottle of wine so easily held sway over me.
“I’ll leave the car at the airport in long term parking.” And there it is, like a knife in her chest. Don’t come to the airport, Mom. She thinks it’s defiance on my part, but it’s not—she’d quickly pick up on the difference between a domestic and an international flight. Mom simply nods.
“Call us, okay? We can Skype or
whatever-time thingy.”
It’s my turn to nod. I excuse myself from the table, and go to take a shower. Mom has some hair dye in the cupboard, something to hide her grey locks. Through a closed door, I call out asking if I can use it. “Sure,” is the muffled reply. After twenty minutes in the shower, I’m a brunette again, but a slightly darker shade. If only all my problems could be dealt with so easily.
Chapter 04: Flights
The drive to the airport is like a funeral procession. There’s road construction on the freeway, forcing four lanes down to two, and slowing our car to a crawl. The kids are quiet. They like it at Grandma’s, and I feel like shit dragging them away, but I’m committed now. Several thousand dollars piling up on the credit card is one hell of a lure. I couldn’t pull out now even if I wanted to. It takes almost half an hour to drive the last mile to the airport, and we’re tormented with a view of the terminal slowly edging closer. Eventually, I pull into the long term parking and take a ticket, leaving it on the dash.
“You hold Jilly’s hand,” I say to Jimmy as I get our bags out of the trunk. Airport parking lots are ubiquitous—I could already be anywhere in the world.
After check in, we wait in line for the dubious honor of demonstrating to the TSA we’re not jihadists. Mommy gets a full body scan, while the kids get to watch in horror, unsure quite what the strange, whirring machine is doing, and why their mom is temporary entombed in it. With my arms raised in surrender to the electronic gods, I smile at the kids. Jilly gives me a nervous wave.
“Where are we going, Mom?” Jimmy asks as we walk out of the customs area. He’s realized this isn’t a regular domestic flight. Jilly’s too young to know or care. I balance her on my hip as we walk through the concourse.
“Sarajevo,” I say. It feels good to be honest, although to Jimmy, Sarajevo could be in Canada. There’s an hour before the flight so we take the escalator to the business class lounge.
