“I’ll talk to your dad.” I pat her hand.
She throws her arms around me. “Thank you, Mom! You and Daddy are the best. I love, love, love you.”
The magic words. Taylor learned their power at an early age. “I love you, too.”
Once upon a time, she was as guileless, innocent and easy to deal with as she looks. Eager to please and easy to please. A breath of fresh air. All it took was a sunny day or a smile and a kiss to make her happy.
Then she turned two.
Taylor sits back. “I’d better get home to my husband. My husband! Can you believe it? I’m Mrs. Mooney Maloney!”
“No, sweetie, I can’t.” I don’t want to. On the plane, I was so absorbed with thoughts of planning a wedding, I didn’t pay serious enough attention to Carl’s misgivings about the marriage. How will my high-dollar, directionless daughter and that even less-directed boy ever be able to provide for themselves in the manner Taylor expects?
Looking at her now in her hundred-and-eighty-five-dollar jeans, primping her hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-month hairstyle with professionally manicured fingernails, I almost feel sorry for Mooney. Almost. How did that aimless young man manipulate my beautiful daughter into marrying him? What kind of underhanded stunt did he pull?
My heart drops as I’m hit square on by a dreadful possibility. “Taylor…you’re not…?” Swallowing, I stare at her, sick inside.
“What?” She frowns, then widens her eyes, covers her mouth with one hand and laughs. “Mo-om! Pregnant? Ohmygod! No! Not yet.”
Not yet.
Taylor stands. “Oh, Mom, by the way, could I borrow a little money? We really need groceries. Mooney gets his check on Fridays. We’ll pay you back then.”
Weary, I blink at her. I’ve made her life too easy. Troy’s, too. I’m afraid they don’t know how to fend for themselves, and it’s my fault.
Pushing to my feet, I say, “Sure, Taylor. Let me find my checkbook. How much do you need?”
CHAPTER 3
On the fifth ring, Troy answers his cell phone. “Hey.”
Relief. The sound of his voice springs tears to my eyes. I blink them back. “Hi, sweetie. How are you?”
“Good, Mom.”
“What are you doing?”
“Walking to class.”
I glance at the clock. Ten minutes to nine. Shifting my attention out the bedroom window, I stare into the backyard at the oak tree he used to climb. Over the years, it has been responsible for many of his skinned knees. And I was always close by to make them better. “Oh, that’s right,” I say. “You have class in a few minutes, don’t you? I keep forgetting the time difference.” When he doesn’t say anything, I blurt, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” I hear a muffled sound, laughter, then he says, “I have to go.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You sound tired. Why didn’t you call me back last night?”
“Because we talked yesterday morning.”
“I just wanted to hear about your day.” I nibble my lower lip.
“I need to go, Mom. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay. I miss—” A click sounds. Feeling like a snubbed little girl, I punch off the phone, lay it down.
For the next ten minutes, I stare at the oak tree’s gently swaying branches and worry about Troy. It’s been more than two weeks since we left him in Colorado. I’ve talked to him every day. Sometimes twice. Each time I call, he sounds more distracted and has less to say. I tell myself a voice from home will boost his spirits, let him know we’re thinking about him, make him feel less alone.
Until this morning, he has never hung up on me.
I’ve been reading a book about the college experience. I bought it when Taylor left home for SMU. Apparently, depression is common among freshmen in the early weeks of the first semester, though Taylor never seemed to experience it.
I wander into the kitchen, pour coffee, sip. The day looms ahead, a void of empty hours to fill. Last week I planted pansies in the flower beds, caught up on the laundry from our trip, sorted through the mail and had a manicure, pedicure and massage. Day before yesterday, I removed the left-behind posters from Troy’s bedroom walls, put away trophies and trinkets, dug pennies and quarters and dimes from the carpet, pulled crumpled napkins and homework papers from beneath the bed. Yesterday, I bought a new spread and window valances in dark green—Troy’s favorite color. I chose wall hangings and paintings and throw pillows, careful to keep everything masculine for when he’s home for the holidays and summers.
At least six times over the past two weeks, I’ve had lunch with friends. But they all still have children at home, and they’re busy with the start of the fall semester—school volunteer work and sports booster club meetings. Mad dashes to Wal-Mart for poster board and colored pencils. Hungry teenagers to feed in the late afternoons and early evenings. I couldn’t find anyone free to meet me later today.
And I don’t have one thing to do.
In the next room, the vacuum cleaner whirs. Myra, my once-a-week housekeeper is hard at work. I walk into the living room and tap her shoulder. She startles and twists around, then turns off the vacuum. “You scared the crap out of me,” Myra barks. She is a woman with a gruff manner and little to say. For some reason, she always seems irritated, even on the few occasions when she laughs. But she can make a toilet bowl twinkle like a diamond; when she finishes scrubbing one, you almost feel guilty using it.
Myra tightens the rubber band securing her limp, shoulder-length gray hair into a loose ponytail.
I blink at her. “Why don’t you take a break and have a cup of coffee with me?”
She blinks back and frowns. “Coffee?” Her bushy brows pull together in the center. In the six years she has worked for me, I have never asked her this question before. Oh, we chat about the weather or at least grunt, Hello, how’re you doin, at one another when she’s cleaning and our paths cross, but we aren’t chummy. “I don’t need a break.” She sounds wary. As if she suspects an ulterior motive behind my invitation. As if she fears I might say I found dust bunnies hopping on the coffee table last week after she left, and I have to fire her. “I’ve only been here thirty minutes,” she informs me.
“Oh.” We stare at one another for five or so seconds before she hits the switch on the vacuum and it whirs to life again.
Depression. The book didn’t mention that parents of college freshmen are prone to the malady, too. Mothers, at least. Carl doesn’t seem at all affected. He is back in high gear, working ten hours a day, often twelve. Sometimes I wonder if Carl would ever mention Troy if I didn’t bring him up first. Or Taylor, for that matter.
Taylor.
I return to the kitchen, pick up the phone and punch in her number.
“Hello!” she croaks.
“Did I wake you?”
“Mom.” She yawns. “Is the sun even up? What time is it?”
“After nine. Are you job hunting today?”
Another yawn. “I don’t know. Maybe. I haven’t lined anything up.”
She needs a lecture, but I’m too relieved to give it. Mooney works the day shift on Tuesdays. I know I’m being selfish, but if she isn’t job hunting, she can