by Sandra Moran
“Birdie, I had no idea. I’d love to see them. Can you send pictures?”
“Oh.” I thought of the subject matter. “Actually, I already sent the canvases. And I haven’t started the new work, yet.”
“Are you sure you want to quit your job for this?” she asked. “It seems awfully risky. I mean, do you know this man very well?”
“I think it’s something I need to try. And if it doesn’t work out, I can get a new job.”
“Well, you know you’re always welcome here. We can fix up your room and it would be like you never left.”
My stomach knotted at the thought. Short visits to Edenbridge had almost been too much for me to bear. The thought of living there for any extended period of time made me want to throw up. I swallowed and spoke in a calm voice. “Thanks, Mom. But I don’t think I’ll need to do that.”
My next call was to Natalie.
“Seriously?” she asked. “How amazing is that? You’re going to be a famous artist. Just think, your work is going to be displayed—”
“In nightclubs,” I interrupted. “Don’t make this more than it is. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”
“But still, Birdie, you’re following your dream. Remember when we were kids? All you did was draw.” Her tone was wistful and I knew what she was thinking. She never said as much, but I knew that she wasn’t entirely committed to the idea of marrying Pete. Still, she had gone through with the wedding and a few months later, she had given birth to their daughter, Margaret Grace, whom everyone called Meg. Although she had assumed the role of stay at home mom without complaint, I knew it wasn’t the life Natalie had envisioned for herself.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sounds perfect, eh?”
“But won’t you get lonely?” she asked and then quickly amended, “I mean, I know you don’t go out much, but at least with your job now, you interact with people.”
I felt Grace smile. Although she had been relatively silent regarding this new endeavor, I had felt her there, watching, listening, always vaguely present. And she was always interested in my phone calls home—especially to Natalie.
“You know, I think it will be fine,” I said. “Let’s face it. I’m better when I’m on my own, doing my own thing.”
“What I wouldn’t give for some time alone,” Natalie said. I could hear the sadness in her voice. “I don’t know the last time I had any time that was just mine.”
“Are you sorry you did it?” I had always wanted to ask before now, but never got up the nerve. “That you got married and . . . you know.”
Rather than answer, Natalie sighed. I waited, but she didn’t continue. Instead, she changed the subject. “So, now that you’re going to have more time, you should come visit. You could stay with us, spend time with me and Meg. Pete’s never really here with his work schedule, so it would be just us. Like it used to be—well, like it used to be plus a toddler.”
“Maybe,” I said, intentionally keeping my tone neutral. “Could we play it by ear? It’s just that I think these first few months are going to be pretty busy and, well . . . you know. But if I can, I will.”
Natalie made a noise that could mean anything, although I recognized it as disappointment.
“I will,” I insisted, knowing even as I said it that it was a lie.
“I just miss you,” Natalie said softly. “I miss us. I—” She stopped abruptly and I heard the muffled sound of conversation. She had apparently covered the mouthpiece of the receiver. I listened harder, trying to make out what I assumed were Pete’s words. Suddenly, Natalie was back on the line. “Listen, Birdie, I need to let you go. Pete just got home and wants something to eat. We’ll talk later?”
“Yeah,” I said. “And, hey, Nat, before you go . . . I . . . I miss you, too.”
I waited for a reply but the line was silent. And then I realized why. She had already hung up.
At first, the money from my artwork wasn’t significant. But after the initial purchases by Gus, his promotion to his friends of my work, and a decent inheritance following my grandmother’s death, I was not only able to quit my job but also to make the leap into home ownership. I considered Kansas City, but ultimately, I made the decision to go someplace that was completely different—someplace where anonymity wasn’t considered strange. I purchased a small cabin in the mountains outside of La Veta, Colorado.
A town of about 1,000 people at the foot of one of the Spanish Peaks, La Veta was the perfect blend of small town familiarity and pioneering independence. It was originally established as a stopover for a branch of the Santa Fe Trail that led into the San Luis Valley via the Sangre de Cristo Pass. But as people settled in the area, what started out as a utilitarian adobe fort became a shelter against the Indians and, eventually, a center of commerce. As the railroad came and went, the town grew, shrank, and eventually became an enclave of ranchers, artists, and people with summer homes—which was what my cabin was prior to purchase.
Most of the cabins outside of La Veta were small and utilitarian, and mine was no exception. It wasn’t big and it certainly wasn’t fancy, but its location on an isolated gravel road gave me complete privacy. For extra security and companionship, I adopted a dog from the humane society in Trinidad. Part greyhound, part yellow Lab, and part mutt, Toby was the perfect roommate. He was smart, gentle, and big enough that people were wary when they approached him.
Life at the cabin was slow and unchanging. My days were spent doing chores and odd jobs around the house and my nights watching documentaries on satellite television, e-mailing friends and family, and, of course, painting. Visitors were rare. During the first three years, my mother and sister came to visit twice. The first time was when I was in the process of moving. I had gone to the rental agency for the moving van and when I returned to the apartment complex parking lot, I found Tara and my mother sitting in the car with a box of cake donuts and paper cups of convenience store coffee.
“Surprise!” cried Tara as I climbed out of the cab of the truck. She rushed over and hugged me. “Say hello to your moving crew!”
“Hi,” I said and looked at Mom, who handed me a cup of coffee.
“We’re here to help,” she said. “Tara called last night and we decided to throw a couple of bags in the car and come help you move.”
I blinked, touched at their kindness, but also nervous about having them see and hande all my things. “Wow. Thanks. I don’t know what to say.”
Tara grinned. “It’s silly that you didn’t hire movers or ask anyone to help.” She held up her hands. “I know, I know, you don’t want people touching your stuff. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought, ‘Hey, what about us?’ And this way, we’ll get to see your new place and spend some time together. What do you think?”
“It’s great,” I said with forced enthusiasm, glad that I had shipped most of the canvases off to Roger and carefully wrapped the others in plain brown paper.
“This way, we can take turns driving and riding with you,” my mother said and gestured to the rental truck. “Is that going to be big enough? And what are you going to do with your car?”
I turned to look at the truck. “It’ll be big enough. I don’t really have all that much stuff. I left my car at the rental place and once I get everything loaded, I’m going to go back and they’re going to hook up a trailer and load the car on for me.”
My mother looked at Tara and then back at me. “And how were you going to get it off by yourself? It could crush you or you could slip and fall under the hitch-thing.” She shook her head. “And honestly, to think about you driving alone, hauling a car through those mountains . . . well, it’s just dangerous.”
“Mom,” I said. “La Veta is barely in the mountains. It’s the southern edge of the Rockies.”
“Still, you can’t do it alone. And we’re not going to let you.”
I looked helplessly at Tara, who shrugged, grinned, and clapped her hands together. “Okay, then. Let’s get cracking.”
And, as it turned out, their help proved to be invaluable—both with loading the van in Kansas City and then unloading it when we got to the cabin. When I refused to let them drive the truck, they took turns riding with me while the other followed in my sister’s Toyota.
“So . . . are you excited?” Tara asked as we crossed over the Kansas state line into eastern Colorado. “It’s going to be a whole new life—a fresh start.”
I nodded without taking my eyes off the highway. “I am. It will be nice to just settle in and do my own thing.”
“Mom’s worried.”
“Why now?” I glanced sideways at Tara.
“She thinks you’re going to become a hermit or become so isolated in the mountains that you’re going to go crazy. Of course, she’s got no room to talk. She’s as crazy as you are.” She gasped as soon as the words came out of her mouth. “Oh, Birdie, I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”
“No, I know what you meant.”
“That came out wrong,” she insisted. “I just meant that she has her quirks, too. Just like we all do.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I know that my behavior seems strange to other people.” I shrugged. “It’s just how I am.”
Neither of us spoke for several minutes and the only sound in the cab of the truck was the growl of the diesel engine and the rhythmic thunk-thunk of the tires as they passed over the highway expansion joints.
“When did you change?” Tara asked suddenly. “You weren’t like this when we were kids.”
I jerked my head to look at her. I had been lost in my own thoughts of how I was going to decorate the cabin once I had unpacked everything. Her face was concerned and serious. Her eyes were wide and I noticed again just how effortlessly pretty she was. When I didn’t answer, she raised her eyebrows as if to say, Well?
I shrugged and returned my gaze to the highway. “We all change as we grow up. It’s part of life.”
“Hmm,” she said, making it clear she wasn’t satisfied with the answer.
We drove again in silence.
“Mom said it was when Grace was murdered.” Tara’s tone was gentle but persistent. “I sort of remember it, but not really. Mostly what I remember is being scared. And your nightmares.”
I glanced at her and then returned my attention to the road.
“I asked Mom about it.”
“Oh?” I tried to appear casual.
“She said it was like one of her own kids had died. And, she said she wished she had done something for Grace.” She leaned forward and reached into a shopping bag between her feet for the chips she’d bought at our last gas stop. “I think that’s when she changed, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“She used to be so, I don’t know. It’s like her Mustang. She got that car after Dad—”
“Traded her convertible for that damned pickup.” We had both heard the story so often it was a familiar refrain. We both laughed, united for a moment in our shared history.
“But you know what I mean,” Tara continued. “She loved that car and then suddenly she traded it in for something ‘safer.’ Everything was all about safety.”
Tara pulled open the chips, took one, and held the bag out to me. I shook my head. “I think we become more cautious as we get older,” I said. “When we’re young, we don’t really know what’s out there to be scared of.”
“But it was more than that,” Tara said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. She was still way cooler than any of the other mothers. She just seemed to become a lot more extreme and overprotective.”
I laughed softly. “Extreme personalities seem to run in the family. Look at Granny—she was wide open.”
“Yeah.” She reached into the bag, pulled out a handful of chips, and popped one into her mouth. “You know you can always talk to me if you want to.” She shoved the rest of the chips in her mouth and then wiped her fingers on her jeans. I couldn’t help but imagine the grease and crumbs it left on the denim and tried not to cringe. She was trying to appear casual, but I could hear the underlying concern. My mother’s approach was significantly less subtle.
She and Tara had just swapped places riding with me in the truck and we had barely gotten on the highway when she turned to me and said, “So, you’re sure this is the best decision?”
I glanced at her. She was unwrapping her Arby’s roast beef sandwich.
“Well, it’s too late to change my mind now.”
She laughed, placed the sandwich on her lap, and began to root around in the bag for the packets of Horsey Sauce she liked to dip her sandwich into. “I know it seems like I haven’t been supportive about all of this, I just worry about you. It’s a big step and you’re moving farther away instead of closer.”
“I know,” I said. “But you can come visit.”
“I know I can.” She tore open the packet of sauce and squeezed it onto the paper. “But that’s not the point. You’re going to be all alone up there. You’re moving into a cabin in the mountains by yourself. You don’t even have a pet for company.”
“I’ve already adopted a dog,” I said quickly. “Mom, this is a good thing. It’s what I need.”
“But it’s so far away,” she said. “How am I supposed to take care of you?”
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” I scowled at the road. “When is everyone going to stop treating me like I’m this fragile thing? You, Tara, Natalie. Jesus!”
“Him, too, huh?” my mother said wryly.
It was so unexpected, I had to laugh. My mother laughed, too. And suddenly, we were friends again.
“Birdie, I don’t want you to say anything,” she said quietly after the moment had passed. “I just want you to listen. And then, I’ll drop it. Okay?” She waited for my nod and then continued. “You’re my daughter and I love you. I worry about you and that’s never going to stop. You don’t stop being a mother just because your children grow up.” She hesitated and when I glanced at her, I saw that she was looking at her sandwich. “I don’t worry as much about Tara,” she continued. “She, I don’t know, I just don’t worry as much. But you went through such a horrible thing with Grace’s death. We should have gotten you help.”
“Mom, I don’t understand where this is going.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know where it’s going either. I just want you to know that I love you regardless of how you are.”
“How I am,” I said slowly.
“You know what I mean.”
“Mom—” I began.
“I just want you to know that if I was the cause of that . . . because I was so overprotective, I’m sorry. I was just trying to keep you safe.”
I again tried to speak but she held up her hand.
“I’m not done. I’m only saying this because of where you’re going and what you’re going to do. You’re going to be by yourself a lot and I just worry that you’re going to—”
“Become a maladjusted hermit?” I asked angrily. “Tara’s already beat you to having this conversation.”
“It’s not just that,” she said. “You’re going to be up there all alone. What happens if someone breaks in? Or you get snowed in?”
“Or aliens land on the roof and beam me into their space ship and implant transmitters in my head.”
“Birdie, be serious.”
“I am, Mom,” I said. “I appreciate your concern, but I really don’t want to go into it again. I am the way I am and it was nothing you or anyone else did. I’m not going to become a hermit. I don’t want to ‘see somebody’ and I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Please?”
She sighed and finally nodded.
“Thank you. So, let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay,” she said.
Neither of us spoke. After several minutes, I looked at her. She was staring out the bug-splattered windshield.
“Radio?” I asked.
She nodded, pushed the Power button, and began to fiddle with the knobs until Elvis Presley came on th
e radio. We drove without talking the rest of the way to La Veta.
Chapter 23
With the exception of one other visit from my mother and sister, and one from Natalie, who said she just needed to get away from being a mother, I had no company at the cabin. Roger, of course, came occasionally to choose which paintings he thought he could use or sell. But other than that, I spent most of my time alone. And frankly, I was relieved. Alone, I had to make no excuses for my schedule or my behavior. I didn’t have to explain why I did the things I did or the paintings I created.
Guests were emotionally exhausting—especially my mother and Tara. They wanted to be close to me, to understand me, to spend time with me. I knew that, and on some level I appreciated it. But I also knew that if they saw who I really was and how I lived, they would be much more worried than they already were. And then there were the preparations. Each time I had a guest, with the exception of Roger, I would carefully hide away my canvases and replace them with Jackson Pollack knock-offs I had done as cover. They would never see my real art, I figured, so why give them more cause for concern? I tried to enjoy these visits, but in all honestly, preferred to be alone with Toby. I got all the interaction I needed during my monthly trips into town for supplies and whatever else I needed to get by.
I was, apparently, the only one who was content with the situation. Most vocal was Roger.
“How do you do it?” he asked one night as we sat in front of the fireplace sipping wine. He was visiting to collect canvases. “Don’t you get lonely? I mean, seriously, this whole mysterious recluse thing is good for business, but I’m not so sure it’s good for you. I’d go crazy spending this much time alone.”
“I’m happy this way,” I said as I put another log on the fire and pulled the screen closed. “I have my privacy, plenty of work to keep me occupied, and Toby. He keeps me company.”
Upon hearing his name, Toby raised his head and thumped his tail against the couch.
“But don’t you get lonely?” Roger persisted. “What do you do for . . . um . . . companionship?”
