“Hey,” I say gently to her. She turns her head to look at me. “I’m happy with my life, you know that, right?”
She reluctantly nods and then says, “Are you really happy, Mom?”
In my heart I know that I couldn’t have asked for a better life; a better daughter. But recently, I’ve felt a twinge of sadness or something else I can’t quite put my finger on, which doesn’t necessarily mean I’m not happy, per se. More like . . . lonely, I think.
“I am, sweetie, I swear.”
“Can you promise me something?” she asks, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“Of course.”
By now the light is green and I accelerate the car to keep up with the bustling traffic around me. Josie smacks her lips in delight and says, “If someone asked you out, would you say yes?”
“Well, I don’t know if I can answer that because I don’t get asked out.”
“That’s because you put out the vibe that you don’t want to be asked out, Mom.”
Slightly stunned by her answer, I say, “How do you know all of this?”
I sneak a glance at her while I’m driving. Her eyes are shining bright and full of mischief when she says, “I pay attention. Plus, I’ve been watching Gilmore Girls on Netflix.”
Laughing at her chosen source material at the same time I’m turning into her school’s drop-off area, I can see from the corner of my eye that she’s waiting for me to answer her. Would I go out on a date? Just asking myself that question feels awkward, so I can only imagine how the actual date would be. I did, however, tell myself that I wanted to make new strides in my social life and to be amenable to new possibilities. So maybe I should be open to this. And suddenly I’m on the same page as Josie, and a feeling of excitement rolls through me as I fully accept this option.
“You know what,” I say, sounding surprised and shocked and terrified all at the same time, like I’m hopped up on the drug of life all of a sudden. And just as dramatically, I put the car in park in front of her school. “I would say yes if a man asked me out on a date.”
“Awesome!”
Josie puts her hand up for a high five, and caught up in the moment, I smack the crap out of it so hard that she winces. “Oh my God, sweetie, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” she says through a tiny laugh.
A strong tap on my driver’s side window kills the mood, not to mention scares the living hell out of me. I practically jump and turn in my seat to find the parent assigned to patrol the drop-off area staring at me. Realizing I’m holding up the line of cars behind me, I push the button to slide the window down and apologize.
“Lady, you’re still holding up the line. Say your good-byes and move along now.”
“I was getting to that,” I say to her back at this point, since she’s already walking past my car to her regular spot where she oversees everything. “Jeez, somebody’s in a bad mood today.”
Josie kisses my cheek and bolts out the door. When I drive past the woman who patrols the through traffic and attempt to convey how sorry I am with a smile, she just shakes her head in disgust.
Well, okay then, just going to pretend that didn’t happen.
I quickly put that unpleasant person out of my mind and start to go over the conversation with Josie while driving into the office. Scratch that; I totally need to go to Starbucks first and get myself an extra double shot of espresso in my coffee today after that talk.
I pull into a parking space at Starbucks a short while later. Just as my hand reaches for the front door, a semi-decent looking man steps in beside me and opens it wide with a welcoming smile.
“After you,” he says.
Completely thrown off by him, I mumble a quick thank-you before ducking into the store.
Once in line, I can sense the same man who held the door open standing right behind me and staring. I glance as smoothly as possible to my side and confirm from the corner of my eye that yes, he’s staring at me. I smile uncomfortably and tug some hair behind my ear in response, quickly averting my eyes. Unfortunately for me, he clears his throat and catches my line of sight again. But when he opens his mouth to say something to me, the barista calls me up and I place my order.
Saved by the barista!
Wait a second, isn’t this what Josie was talking about before? Putting out a “don’t approach me” vibe?
Oh my God! She’s right! My almost thirteen-year-old daughter was right, and I think it’s the funniest thing in the world. Further proof of this is when I start to laugh out loud like a crazy person in the middle of the Starbucks just as I’m being handed my drink.
I look like a complete loon, but I don’t care. This is a huge realization for me. Because now that I’m aware of it, I can work on it and be more welcoming and open to men. Well, not open like a whorehouse open, but open to simply talking to a man and maybe a date if the man in question appeals to me.
I’m still laughing to myself when I walk by the man who had opened the door for me. He now looks so uncomfortable and is probably questioning what he saw in me to begin with, but I go right up to him and of all things . . . give him a hug.
“Lady,” he says warily, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but please let go of me immediately.”
Taking a step back, I wipe the tears from laughing so hard from my eyes. “I just wanted to thank you.”
“Sure. Whatever, lady.”
With a bounce in my step, I ignore the man’s reservations and head out the door, and the smile on my face exudes how I feel at the moment: hopeful.
CHAPTER SIX
Still on a high from this morning’s epiphany, I roll into work with my face still beaming with a full-wattage smile. So much so that my coworkers immediately notice. A lot of them make comments about how I seem different, while others just smile back and go back to whatever they were doing.
When I reach my desk and power up my desktop computer, I’m already thinking of how I can make myself a little more available. I don’t have friends who I can call on a moment’s notice, and while I don’t feel bad about it, if I could change something right away, it would be that.
The only issue is with whom to start. I wouldn’t know where to begin looking within what had been my close clique of friends before Josie. And honestly, the fact that they were able to let me fall to the wayside, even though I completely allowed it, kind of makes me not want to reach out and start over from scratch after so many years.
That leaves one person.
Julia.
Maybe I can get in touch with Julia and see if she’d be available for dinner sometime this weekend, seeing as how Josie has plans with her own friends. Although . . . maybe I’m being slightly presumptuous in assuming that Julia would even want to do that.
Enough excuses, Vanessa, I tell myself and pick up my desk phone in irritation to call her.
“Here’s today’s mail, Vanessa.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the giant pile from Diana, one of my coworkers, and putting it on my desk. It looks like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but I’m going to call Julia before I distribute it.
As I’m dialing Julia, I accidently nudge the mail, and it starts to lean a little too much to the left. I slam the phone back on the receiver, but not quickly enough to keep all the mail from toppling off my desk like a cascade of cards onto the floor by my feet.
“Do you need help?” Diana asks from her cubicle, which is just a few feet away. She stands up and darts around her desk like a gazelle. Before I know it, she’s crouched down by my feet, helping me collect the mail from the floor.
“Thanks, Diana,” I say sheepishly. “I should know better by now than to attempt to multitask.”
She giggles and then says, “Well, it really was a huge pile of mail to begin with.”
After we finish sorting the mail together, I say a quick but very heartfelt thanks to Diana before she goes back to her workstation. I’m left now with much smaller piles that are easier to d
istribute.
I set off dropping mail in people’s in-boxes until left with my very own pile. After opening each one and rating it from important to straight in the garbage can, I’m left with one manila envelope addressed to Holt Construction that has my name listed in the address portion. Now, I may be older, and there have been many years since I’ve seen it firsthand, but I’ll never forget this handwriting.
There are moments in your life that you bookmark for safekeeping so you can seek them out in times of need and relish the happiness of that particular memory. The memory itself may blur around the edges with time; however, it still brings feelings of elation and comfort. Sometimes, when life unexpectedly throws a giant curveball your way, as it is doing right now, and doesn’t give a good goddamn about the disruption it creates, these same memories are the very things to bring you back from the depths of despair and keep you going when it feels as if there is no end in sight.
I hold the innocuous, nondescript manila envelope in my hands and turn it over and over before slicing the top open.
There is one piece of paper within the envelope in what is clearly a man’s handwriting. And after reading the first sentence, the wind that had been so far blowing my sails all morning disappears with an unceremonious bang.
Dear Vanessa,
I hope this letter finds you and our baby doing well. I know it may come as a shock to you for me to reach out after all these years, but I hope you will find it in your heart to continue reading and save judgment until the very end.
First, I’d like to apologize for behaving like a reprehensible jerk. There is not a day that has gone by that I don’t regret my decision to leave you and our baby behind. It has always been on my mind, and even though this is the first time I have reached out to you, it is certainly not the first time I’ve written this letter. There are plenty of drafts and attempts I’ve made over the years, but in the end, I’ve been nothing but a coward. It wasn’t until this past year that I realized the magnitude of my decision and decided to contact you to see, if possible, if the irreparable damage I’ve caused you and our baby could be corrected. I don’t know if you’re married and if our child has a man in their life that they consider their father, but I’d like the chance for them to know their real father.
I, myself, am happily married to a very gracious woman and have recently had a blessing in the form of twin girls. These two little human beings have brought an awakening of sorts into my life. And with the help of my wife and under her advisement, she suggested that I attempt to actually mail you the letter that I’ve been crafting for years now and try to mend the broken bridge between us.
I realize that you must be cursing me as you read this. But I ask that you consider speaking with me at the phone number listed below so we can close this chapter in our lives and move forward for the sake of our child.
All the best,
Matthew
Phone# (305) 555-5309
All the best? All the best?!
Is he joking?
The hand holding the letter starts to shake uncontrollably with rage.
After all these years, thirteen to be exact, he has the nerve to put a letter in the mailbox and think that I’ll be okay with letting him in to both of our lives? Does he honestly think with his flowery words and years-late apology, that I would allow him to be a father to Josie?
Not in a million years.
My eyes start to well up with tears as I think about the struggle that has been my life for the past thirteen years. I don’t feel sorry for myself, because that’s not my style. No, I’m sad for my daughter, who has no idea of the magnitude of jerk her father is. And to add to that, I’m picturing him with his perfect wife and perfect kids having the time of their lives while Josie has gone without one iota of his time for her entire life.
The day that Matthew left I had returned to the apartment we shared from my almost three-month checkup, and he was sitting on the couch. He had his head in his hands and was deep in thought. What I should have noticed was the already packed suitcase by the front door that he would later take with him, never to be seen or heard from again.
He said he had changed his mind about becoming a father. He said he didn’t think he was ready. He said he wanted me to get an abortion. He said a lot of things that day. All of them splintered my heart into a million pieces and made it clear that I would be raising this child alone.
I accepted that truth eventually. It wasn’t easy, but with the help of my family and then friends, I was able to move forward with the pregnancy. Six months later, Jocelyn Georgia Holt came blasting into this world, and I’ve never regretted a single moment of my life with her.
“Vanessa?”
I look up to find my dad standing over my workstation. He looks concerned, as I’m sure the waterproof mascara staining my cheeks is letting anyone within a mile radius know I’ve been crying. Quickly I stuff the letter back into the manila envelope and shove it into my purse before wiping my face with my hands.
“I was calling you, but you didn’t answer.” He looks at the letter sticking out of my purse and then back at me. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “Everything’s fine, Dad.”
My dad is a very sweet man, but he’s really the last person with whom I want to talk about this. So I put on a fake grin, which seems convincing enough that he seems to be okay with it and goes on to fill me in on a work situation at one of the construction sites. I nod and take notes as he speaks; all the while my brain is preoccupied with the letter in my purse.
“Got it,” I say. “Is there anything else you need for me to do?”
He shakes his head. “No. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yup, totally fine, thanks.”
Reluctantly, my dad goes back to his office and closes the door behind him.
Because I am fine.
Or I will be since I won’t be answering Matthew’s letter, and I certainly won’t be entertaining the thought of him meeting Josie if it’s the last thing I ever do in this lifetime.
CHAPTER SEVEN
That weekend, Josie attends another sleepover at her friend Carrie’s house. While she’s gone, I’ll be spending my time getting my frustrations out on canvas, which is the only way I know to cope when difficult situations arise in my life.
Before I head into my artist cave, I have to run a few errands. For the next couple of hours I’m going to the art supply store, followed by Home Depot, and finally ending up at the Publix around the corner from my town house.
I’m mindlessly going through the motions of testing out the quality of a particular mango when I hear my name. Turning around, I find Mr. Thomas pushing a shopping cart my way until he’s standing right next to me.
“Mr. Thomas—”
“It’s Cameron,” he says with a smirk.
“Sorry, I keep forgetting. Well, I didn’t forget that Cameron is your name. I just keep forgetting to call you that instead of Mr. Thomas.”
He chuckles, and his eyes soften around the edges while he’s positioning his cart around to face me dead-on. This doesn’t help my nervousness, so I keep babbling a mile a minute.
“I didn’t know you live around here. Do you like mangoes too? We love them at our house. In fact, I make the best mango smoothie. It’s one of my specialties.”
“I can see that,” he says and glances down to my shopping cart.
I’ve been tossing mangoes from the display into my cart the whole time I’ve been going off on a tangent about my ability to make smoothies. Scrambling, I grab a few mangoes at a time and put them back on the pile, only to have them start toppling down like some sick game of mango Jenga. And to my utter embarrassment, they start falling down onto the ground around my feet. The worst part is that I’m still rambling on about the different varieties of smoothies I can make using mangoes as the main ingredient.
God, how suave can I be?
Cameron bends down to where I’m kneeling on the floor of th
e grocery store. He smells so good this close, like if I could bottle up the sun and spray it on myself, and something else . . . hmm, maybe vanilla? Whatever it is, it’s delicious. When he leans forward to help, his face is so close to mine, and I blurt out, “Did you know that your eyes are very dark, almost black like the night sky?”
Right then another mango falls on my head, keeping me from speaking out loud, which is probably a good thing if that last comment was any indication.
He tries to cover up his laughter and the ensuing awkwardness by saying, “Here, how about you pick them up and hand them to me, and then I’ll pile them back up?”
In short order, I hand him one mango at a time and he stacks them strategically so that it’s impossible for them to fall again. I stand and watch as he’s holding the last mango and mulling over the display.
“Look,” I say, pointing to what looks like an empty space on the top right of the display. “There’s a spot there on the top of the pile for that last one.”
“A pile is more like a heap, which sounds and looks mostly unorganized.” Cameron pauses and then places the final mango on the bottom left carefully. He steps back and inspects his work. “See, by placing it just at that exact spot, the weight distribution is slightly more even, which makes it less likely for the stack to fall, even if someone takes a mango from the bottom.”
I’m kind of speechless at his thought process and find myself staring at him in confusion. To most women, this process of his for stacking mangoes would be the signal to turn and run in the opposite direction. But for me, it’s the complete opposite, which is a problem since I should not be turned on by my daughter’s science teacher.
“I’m sorry,” he says self-consciously. “Sometimes the science part of me wins out.”
“Oh, don’t apologize. It’s fascinating that you were able to figure it out that way, because I do something similar.” I turn to look at the display, tilt my head a bit while examining them, and continue. “See, I’d look at this pile of mangoes and consider the color and blush of certain mangoes and think that was too much orange on the left side and too much red on the right. I’d rearrange them so that the colors bled more into each other, almost like creating a rainbow of mangoes. And then I’d have to apologize for letting the artist in me win out yet again.”
Starting Over Page 5
