Rob’s parents wanted the kids to spend a couple of weeks with them this summer, but they live in Indiana, and that was too far away from me. Because of the business, I hadn’t been able to be away for that long. But I know my in-laws are hurting, too, so we compromised, and I brought the kids down for a weekend.
The kids are not happy I followed them to their rooms now. They’ve turned and are glaring at me from just inside their doorways. So I don’t make things worse; I stop myself from yelling at them for yelling at me. But I can’t think of anything to say in lieu of yelling. They, however, don’t have that problem.
“I hate you!” they both shout before slamming their doors, in such perfect unison that I wonder if they practiced while I was gone. That opinion is the only one they have shared since thinking macaroni and cheese the perfect side dish to every meal, which is probably only marginally healthier than Kitty Cupcakes.
I know they don’t mean it, and that eventually they’ll get over this. They’re good kids, and we’ve always been close. But as I head toward my empty master suite at the other side of the house, I don’t feel so powerful anymore.
Then I remind myself, Wonder Woman didn’t have any kids. Neither did any of Charlie’s Angels.
STAGE 3
I notice the sign as I pull out of the driveway. I’m not sure if I missed it the night before, or if they put it up when they headed out to the bus this morning. It’s a For Sale sign, Worst Offer, for our once happy home.
Despite the sentiment, or shall I say resentment, behind it, I find myself chuckling. Even though their grades, usually straight A’s, have been slipping since school started a few weeks ago, I’m reassured that they’re still smart. Asses. But smart.
They might not be doing their homework lately, as much from laziness as taking advantage of their teacher’s sympathy over their loss, but they worked last night. Between packing up their stuff and making this sign, they were very busy. Mother’s pride spreads warmth through my chest, dispelling some of the tightness their angry words had left me with last night.
I glance in the rearview mirror, at the box in the back of the Tahoe, and chuckle louder. As the tires bounce over the ruts in our private dirt road, I imagine the hula girl swaying madly inside the box.
Just inside town, I drive by the drop box for Goodwill. I should leave the lamp there, but for some reason, possibly the guilt trip the kids laid on me last night, I keep driving on through Stanville. With its canopied storefronts and brick sidewalks, it could grace any Christmas card, it’s that quaint.
I’m almost to work when I remember I don’t work there anymore. Brad asked me to stay on, but I refused, as I don’t believe they really want me there. He was just being sweet, and I wouldn’t feel right about it; the business is theirs now. I’ve taken them on as a client, though, for my accounting business. I’ll do their bookkeeping and payroll, just as I’ve been doing for my mom’s tearoom, from the office I’ll have in my house, in Rob’s old den. But for the day-to-day stuff, for the past six months I’ve been training Steve’s mom to answer the phones and set appointments.
It’s likely the training took so long because of that haze I was in, or maybe she doesn’t pick up on things as quickly as her son. Any of the guys could have learned to do those duties themselves, but they may have wanted to keep that maternal influence in the office. For years, I’d been the maternal element.
I miss it now—I’d be lying if I said I didn’t—but I won’t miss being there without Rob and feeling guilty because he’s not. I only worked there to spend time with him. He’s the one who loved the place. He started it so he could quit his IT job in the city, save the commute and avoid the travel he’d had to do, and spend more time with his family.
Being at the office since Rob’s death only served to remind me that he hadn’t been able to live that part of his dream, hadn’t been able to spend more time with us. So I actually feel relief that I sold it. I smile as I let the feeling wash over me like the light rain that’s falling, washing the dust off the Tahoe.
The kids might be mad now, but in time they’ll see it was the right decision, not just for me but for them, too. I’ll have more time to spend with them now, since I’ll be working from home. I’m not sure how they’ll feel about my converting Rob’s den, though. But if they’re going to heal, they have to accept that he’s gone, and they can’t do that if I leave everything the same, as if he’ll walk through the door any minute and break our tense silence with his big, booming laugh.
I pull into one of the diagonal spaces in front of The Tearoom. I’d been much older than my children, in my early thirties, when my dad died, but I’d resented some of the decisions my mom had made. Selling the farm. Buying this place.
I hadn’t understood the stages of grief then. I hadn’t accepted that Dad wasn’t coming back. I’d thought we should keep the farm for him because he’d loved it so much.
At that time, I hadn’t realized that my mom had to do what was right for her, so that she could move on. So that she could find her way past her grief and be there for us again. Hopefully, my kids will understand that someday, as well. Since they’re younger than I was when Dad died, I have to be patient, have to give them more time.
When I step through The Tearoom’s door, I catch a mad flurry of movement behind the counter. My mother is quickly draping napkins over the pastries in the display case.
Despite the crowd, driven in, no doubt, by the hunger for gossip as much as the rain, the room is dead silent, like Rob’s funeral had been when the DJ had played the first few notes of the Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Rob had loved The Big Chill so much he’d worn out two VHS tapes and a DVD of it.
My mother says to me, her small arms spread wide and protectively across the counter, “Please, don’t hurt them! They can’t defend themselves!”
The room erupts into raucous laughter, just as it had at Rob’s funeral. He was only her son by marriage, but they shared a lot of the same traits, such as knowing how to work a room.
I take an exaggerated bow, and everyone applauds.
I’m still laughing as I join her behind the counter, where she grabs me in a fierce hug. I see the concern darkening her blue eyes to navy, and know that what she did wasn’t a joke but damage control. For me.
“I’m okay,” I tell her.
She arches a golden brow in disbelief. She’s dainty and petite, and my dad, although not as big as Rob, had been really strong from all his hard work on the farm. But she was the one we feared as we were growing up. While Dad was easygoing, Mom never let us get away with anything. Then or now.
“I needed to do that,” I tell her. “I’m really okay. You know.”
Nobody knows like she does.
Less than a decade ago, she stood in my shoes. I’ve found comfort in that, in having her as my little hundred-pound guidebook to widowhood. I tried doing everything she did, moving on like she has, but I couldn’t do it just like she did. I needed to find my own way…in Smiley’s store.
“I know you’re okay now, sweetie,” she says with a smile, and wraps her hand tight around mine.
Not for the first time, I see how similar they are—blue veins running under thin white skin. Initially I noticed at Rob’s funeral, when she’d taken my hand in support. They’re good hands. Strong, capable hands.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, squeezing hers before releasing it so she can rush off to serve customers.
She needed this place when my dad died. She’d needed to be needed, to wait on people, to take care of them. With us grown and Dad gone, she’d had no one else to satisfy her