On Losing a Daughter . . . . to College

It should be easier, to send child number two to college. Reverse separation anxiety, child leaving parents, not vice versa. This should have worked itself out of my system, shouldn’t it?

            I should rejoice that she is departing for her life’s grand adventure, especially since she wasn’t the easiest child to parent. There was sass, a season of dishonesty. A lack of enthusiasm for chores, a regular pile of clothing to press. Much chauffeuring.

            And yet, she’s not just my daughter; she’s my friend. She adores art and music and fashion and theater. Me too. We can talk for hours on those things or the mysteries of human behavior. I enjoy her. I can’t imagine her not here.

~~~~~

Half a lifetime ago I didn’t even think I wanted children, maybe not even a husband. I thought I was New York City-bound, an advertising executive to be. Surely someone would pay me scads of money upon graduation, based on my cleverness and lively personality.

            I was wrong. As they say, first comes love, then comes marriage (Who wouldn’t marry their best friend if the best friend asked?), then comes the pushing of the baby carriage.

            Children were never my plan. I figured I could talk the husband, who wanted six babies, out of his madness. Instead I found myself consenting to have one, just one, “for you.” I wonder if he was devastated by that word: one. Or did he know there’d be no way I could stop there?

~~~~~

I try to imagine life with only the boy child here. The money we were paying for her voice lessons can go into his college fund. I won’t have to buy tiny tubs of hummus for her lunches. There will be no more driving her six blocks down the hill to high school at seven in the morning because, “I’m wearing heels, Madre.”

            There won’t be any more sitting beside her at the kitchen table as she methodically dices avocados, bell peppers, and onions, cilantro and jalapenos for her fabulous guacamole. No more trips to the consignment shop where she tells me I bring her luck. No more listening to her belt, “I Dreamed a Dream” over and over in the shower for thirty minutes or more.

            When a child leaves home, life may become easier, but it will also be harder.

*The Biggest Loser*

My son raised his hand at the kitchen table.

            “This isn’t school, sweetie,” I said. “What?”

            “Why’d you give me a tiny glass with my smoothie?”

            I waited till he took a swig. “Um . . . I seem to have lost something.”

            His eyes bulged. His cheeks puffed. “Like what?”

            I busied myself wiping the stove. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I said. “Like the mango pit. The shot glass is for the pit pieces.”

            I turned when I heard him gag. A peach-colored smoothie stream filled the little glass.

            “Sorry,” he said as he nudged both glasses across the table. “I can’t.”

            “Aw, c’mon. It tastes way better than the time I lost the plastic measuring spoon. And the extra fiber, it’ll . . .”

            He made his lips disappear, shook his head violently.

            I sighed. “Do you have a quarter?”

            One of his eyes got smaller. “Yeah. Why?”

            “Let’s make a bet. Do you think Daddy’ll figure it out or not?”

            “He totally will,” my son said. “It’s like drinking a stick.”

            My little guy and I tried to keep our faces straight while my husband sucked down his shake. He wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand then kissed me on the cheek.

            “That hit the spot,” he said. “I’m going for a run. See ya later.”

            I waited till I heard the front door catch then I held out my hand, palm up, in front of my son.

            “You owe me twenty five cents.”

            “Gambling’s evil,” he said. “You know that, right?”

~~~

I searched everywhere for the receipt, to figure out how much the watch cost, the gift he gave me for our twentieth wedding anniversary. I found the credit card statement in the bill pay drawer and used my pencil eraser to go line by line. I found the store name then followed the dots over to the right to figure out how much he— My palms, underarms, and the divot under my nose felt suddenly damp.

            “Did you find it yet?” my husband said when he came home from work.

            I reached for his lunch bag and shook my head. He sorted through the mail pile, slicing the top of each envelope with an old butter knife.

            “It’s probably gone forever, you know.”

            I crouched beside the foyer’s settee and ran my hand underneath.

            “I don’t think so,” I said as I withdrew a dust fluff in a pincer grip. “I’m pretty sure I’ll find it when I change my closet over. It’s probably in a pair of shorts.”

            The next week I was at my desk—writing, editing, checking Facebook. I heard a voice. Well, I didn’t really hear it, not out loud or anything but it was definitely there, inside my head. Lift up the printer.

            There it was—a small hill of silver links and a barely blue pearlescent face. My throat felt tight. I blinked a couple times to keep my eyes from spilling over.

            I fished my cell out of my pocket, slid it open, typed a text.

            “Guess what I found?”

            “No way.”

            “Way.”

            I closed my phone, leaned back in my chair, gazed up at the ceiling.

            “Thank you so much.”

~~~

After I dialed my husband’s number, I plugged the sink and ran water, squirted in soap and tugged on my Playtex rubber gloves.

            “Hello, Sunshine.”        

            “Um, we have a problem.”

            I heard his breath hiss out through his nose. “What now?”

            With one hand I bobbed my favorite pottery mug in and out of the bubbles. I admired its pale aqua beauty, the ditch for my thumb, the dragonfly impression beneath the handle.

             “I kinda sorta  . . . misplaced the—”

            Another angry nose noise. “What did you lose now?”

            I rinsed the cup and placed it on the drying rack, stroked the dragonfly with my yellow-gloved finger.

            “The tax return,” I said. “I sealed it, stamped it, drove it to the post office . . .”

            Huff. “Tell me you’re kidding. Wait a minute. Is this April first?”

            I shook my head. “It’s not April Fool’s Day. No such luck.”

            “Dang it!  We’re getting back, like, $2,000.”

            I pushed my lower lip out, pinched the bridge of my nose to stop its prickling.

            “Did you call anybody?”

            I straightened and nodded. “I did, the High Street post office lady, the one who always wears a Pittsburgh Steeler jersey on Fridays. She said maybe somebody’ll find it, be nice, and stick it in the outgoing mail.”

            Snort. “Yeah, right.”

            Days later I grinned and paced as I waited for my husband to answer his phone.

            “Guess what?” I said.
            “What?” His voice was still flat, even though the missing tax return debacle was a week old.

            “Please don’t be grumpy,” I said. “I have good tidings. She has it!  The Pittsburgh Steeler post office lady has our tax envelope. The guy who changes the rugs every week found it this morning. It was under the runner in front of the outgoing mail slot.”

            “Thank God!  And . . . sorry. I was—”

            “I did. I know.”

~~~

Brrriiiinnnnnggggg!

            I slung my jean jacket on the foyer settee before I answered the phone.

            “Hello?”

            It was my friend, Diana. We’d said goodbye not even five minutes ago, at the high school down the hill.

            “You missing something?”

            I tilted my head, pondered for a moment. “I don’t think so,” I said. “Like what?”

            “Uh, like your son?”

            My mouth fell open. I laid my hand over my heart. Pound, pound.

            “My little guy?”

            I spun in a circle, pointed at people: oldest daughter, husband, middle child, her best friend. No son, no man boy of mine.

            “You left him down here,” Diana said. “At the school, after the show.”

            I slammed my forehead with my palm. “Dang it!” I said. “I counted heads, got the right number but the wrong kid.”

            I grabbed my keys and jean jacket. My husband stepped between me and the door.
            "I'll get him. You stay here with the others."
            I whimpered but moved aside, watched him flip through the keys on the fish-shaped key rack then plunge his hands deep in his pockets—pants, coat. All the while I heard his mutters, words like loser and responsibility and grown up.
            I followed him into the kitchen. He dumped his lunch bag on the counter, batted the empty Tupperware containers this way and that. He stood in front of the key rack by the back door, sorted through each peg. That's when I got it. And grinned.
            I walked into the dining room and ran my hands along the top shelf of the antique mantle. It’s where I stash extra front door, back door, and car keys.
            I returned to my husband, dangled the spare key to his car. "Here."
            He enclosed it with his fist. Thirty seconds passed before he lifted his eyes to mine.
            "Thanks. And . . . I'm—”
            "You're welcome and . . . I know."

(Pilgrim's) Progress Report

Looking back, it’s a blur, a filmy orange streak. Thanksgiving Day 2012 is. I thought I was ready, that this would be the year I’d achieve my goal. I didn’t want much, just to get everything on the table at its appropriate temperature. I was on track too, until they arrived, the invited guests. Then everything went SHABOING, like one of those trickster cans of peanuts you open and out shoots a cloth-covered spring, wild with potential energy.

            The problem wasn’t that the guests were in the house. The problem was that they were in the kitchen. I’d arranged all kinds of awesome appetizers elsewhere to keep people out of the kitchen, away from me.

            My brother was the first invader of my domain. “Whatcha doing?” he said.

            I kept chopping. “Before I forget, I meant to tell you last night on the phone, we can take Mom home afterward,” I told him. “If you all wanna go Black Fridaying.”

            He peeked over my shoulder as I transferred garlic chunks into the green bean pan.

            “I’m over that idea,” he said, “after what happened on the way here.”

            My heart skittered and I stopped stirring, turned to face him. “What happened? Did you all hit a deer?”

            “Close. A big dog.”

            My eyes filled and I placed an oven-mitted hand over my heart. “That’s terrible!”

            He nodded. “Yep. We came around the corner and there it was, in the middle of the road, licking its butt. And then it wasn’t.”

            My son burst through the door, skidded to a stop in his stocking feet. Held out the empty cracker basket.

            “I, I mean we, need more Nut Thins.”

            I glanced at my watch. “The shrimp butter’s been out all of ten minutes and you’ve already polished off a whole box of crackers?”

            He cowered. Took tiny steps backward.

            I glared. “You know what this is, don’t you?” I handed him another box of Nut Thins from the snack cabinet. “It’s gluttony. Pure and simple.”

            He grabbed the box and ran. My brother followed him.

            Moments later my sister-in-law sidled up next to me. “How can I help?”

            I motioned to the pan of rolls. “Put ’em in the toaster oven please. It’s preheated.”

            “You want me to brush ’em with butter? My mom always did.”

            I squinted at my to-do list. “Sure. Whatever.”

            Right after the toaster oven door rattled shut, I felt her breath ruffle my hair.

            “Are you making gravy next? Can I watch? ’CauseI can’t make gravy. Gave up trying years ago.”

            Her confession gave me pause. I gathered in a deep breath. Be in the moment, I told myself, here. Connect. Share.

            I faced her with a grin. “It’s easy,” I said, “if you know the secret. Gravy needs to be shaken, not stirred.”

            She watched intently as I measured equal parts flour and cooking sherry into a jar. I screwed the lid on tight and handed it to her.

            “Shake it like crazy.”
            As she shook, her face glowed. “I remember now!” she said. “My mom used to make gravy like this.”

            “You’ll never have lumps again,” I said as I poured the slurry into the pan juices. I pressed a whisk at her and glanced at the stove clock. Despite all the interruptions, everything was running pretty close to schedule. The dining room table was set. The votives lit. All the side dishes were arranged on the kitchen table. There was only one thing left to do.

            “Men!” I yelled. “Time to carve.”

            My husband and brother bonded while they devastated the turkey, trying and rejecting a variety of knives.

            “I thought you all had an electric knife,” my brother said.

            I surveyed the pile of pale shreds. “Bring yours next year please.”

            When no one was looking, I stuck my pointer finger into the center of the mashed potatoes. They were warm, not hot. I closed my eyes and growled. Dang it! I missed the mark, again.

            Without being told, my sister-in-law removed the rolls from the oven, slid them into the bread basket, and covered them with a clean dishtowel.

            She smiled when she caught me watching her. “I’m really excited about the gravy,” she said.

            Something inside me unfurled. “Me too.”

            “Maybe I can make it next year,” she said.

            All of me clenched, but then I willed all of me to let go. “I think that’s a great idea.”

Something Else

            I didn’t mean to hurt you. That time I said he was my favorite. Brother. It’s not that . . .  What I meant was . . . Well, you’re different. You’re something else.

            I will give you this: you never came at me with stealth, a certain anarchy oozing from your pores. And not once did you approach me hands choke hold ready and cheeks stoplight red but forging through anyway. You were different. A low tide. Quiet, steady.

~~~

        
            I like to look at your senior picture and consider how your hair was like the bunny slope at Canaan Valley when I went there in eighth grade with the Beverly Hills Presbyterian Church youth group. Not white, but a smooth, nut brown arc with one perfect dip in the middle. 
            That first morning I hurtled down the hill over and over, winter’s edge both thrilling and terrifying me. Right before lunch, the ski patrol gal advised me that falling down in a six-point star formation at the bottom of the slope was not a safe way to stop. She demonstrated the snow plow a couple times. Recommended lessons. I never skied again. Ever.

            In your portrait your eyes seemed serious even as they smiled. Did you already know you had healing (and therefore much responsibility) in your hands? Your irises matched the widest stripe in your chubby tie—fall-morning blue-gray sky.

~~~

            Remember all the stuff we dabbled in? I do, because I made a list. That’s how I write a story. I jot down everything I can remember then comb away all the stuff that’s not so hot. Here, I’ll show you:

Stuff We Did Together

Yoga (living room): For a whole summer we copied the moves of Lillias as she did Hatha Yoga on public television. We wore Marshall green gym shorts and gray Thundering Herd t-shirts. I was way more flexible than you.

Weight Lifting (basement): You lifted. I watched. Because you’d read somewhere my bones wouldn’t be ready for resistance work until at least fourth grade. I wept, but you insisted.

Archery (back yard): We set up a range behind the house, crammed the target into the tangle of honeysuckle that concealed the chain link fence. We were evenly matched until our flimsy green bow broke and you replaced it with a red, white, and blue compound model. I couldn’t budge the string so I became the designated arrow fetcher.

Church (Ohio): You invited me to come along when you started attending church across the river. We’d hold our breath as we drove over the bridge. Make a wish when we got to the other side. You suggested we start a gospel group since I was taking piano lessons. We practiced a few times but then you went off to college. I was sad to see you go but also relieved that I wouldn't have to inform you that your pitch was less than perfect.

~~~

            Did you know that writers are supposed to show instead of tell? You never told me, “I like spending time with you,” but you didn't have to. The stuff we did together showed it. Proved that you were in fact something else, something better than “favorite.” I might go as far as to say you were the best. Brother.

Flying Fan Day

Because I was with her nearly every day, I stored more love in my heart for Gracie than I did for my own grandmothers. Her living room, and often her kitchen, was a refuge to me when things got crazy at home which was often. Like the day my middle oldest brother hurled a  fan at one of my other brothers. It yanked the outlet cover and the metal box behind it out of the wall as it sailed across the room.

           My mother squeezed the sides of her head. “Call your father at work,” she said, her voice all quivery. “Tell him the boys have gone wild. Again.”

            I did what I always did. Dialed the number for time and acted like I was talking to Dottie, my dad’s secretary.

            We had fans instead of air-conditioning. Because Dad was cheap. That’s what Mom said. I didn’t mind too much except when bedtime rolled around and the soaking sponge of humidity would squish me flat against my pillow and steal my breath.

            “Come on in, Pet,” Gracie’d said as she opened the door on Flying Fan day. “Things rough at your place?”

            I nodded.

            “You hungry?”

            I said yes, even though I’d just had lunch, the usual—a fluffer nutter sandwich, Charles’s Chips, an apple from my other next door neighbor's tree, and Kool-Aid made with half a cup a sugar instead of a whole. Because like Mom said, Dad was stingy. When I tattled on Mom, Dad told me he was careful with money because his daddy was a banker and also because he’d lived through the Great Depression. He called it being prudent.

            “I baked a strawberry rhubarb pie this morning,” Gracie said.

            My eyes bugged and my mouth watered. Behind my jean short waistband, my lunch moved over to make room for more.

            I rubbed my hands together and grinned. “Oh, boy!”

            In the living room, Gracie clicked on the TV and while we waited for it to warm up she reached inside Dicky Bird’s cage, her hand in the shape of a pistol. Dicky daintily transferred himself from his perch to her pointer finger.

            “Do you want him on your shoulder or hand?” she said.

            I held out my finger.

            “You tell him everything, Pet,” she said. “Talk to him as long as you want, long as you need. I’ll be back with your pie in a jiffy.”

~~~

I was licking my plate when Big Mac came in. His face brightened when he saw me. I stood carefully so as not to panic Dicky Bird. I tucked him in his cage but left the door open so he could come and go. Gracie’d trained him to only do his business on the newspaper that lined his house.

            I ran to Mac and inspected him head to toe. He worked at a meat packing plant and I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any yuck on him before I strapped my arms around his waist and squeezed. That day, finding him blood and guts-free, I launched myself at him. I knew he’d swing me around in a circle so I wound my legs around his so they wouldn’t fly out and knock my TV tray over.

            “I brought you something,” he said after he set me down.

            I grinned and clapped. Stuck a finger in my mouth and nibbled a cuticle in anticipation.

            He held his fists, big as beefsteak tomatoes, in front of me.

            “Put out your hands and close your eyes and I will give you a big surprise.”

            I felt something heavy and smooth in my palms and when I opened my eyes, I saw two objects that resembled shiny silver fingers.

            I squinted up at him. “What are they?”

            “They’re magnets. You see, when one of the guys thinks a cow swallowed a nail, he’ll drop one of these down its throat. It’ll attach itself to the object in the digestive tract and the animal will . . . You know . . .”

            My face broke open. “Poop it out?”

            Mr. Mac studied his workboots, then the ceiling. “Yes. Exactly.”      

            "That is so cool! Wait until my brothers hear this!" Off I ran. 

         

No-Hell-Boy

I know some think he’s awful. That he’ll probably go to hell. After all, he says there is no such place. Insists there’s no way, no how a loving God would condemn all naysayers to languish in the lake of fire ever more. Proves his point with plucked phrases like "He desires none to perish” and “He’s making all things new.” Etcetera.

            Let me tell you something. God can do anything. Use anyone. For his purposes. For his kingdom. When I listened to no-hell-boy teach the parable of the unmerciful servant, I was pierced. Crushed. For my transgressions. For the lack of forgiveness (and honor) I have shown my own mother.

            After I said I do to the ultimate bridegroom, I went through the world doling out forgiveness to everyone. Like trick-or-treat candy. Freely. With a winsome smile. “Here. Take some more.” To everyone but the woman who groaned me into existence. Gnashed her teeth through my unruly and mean-spirited adolescence. So much almost-black, close to redemption-is-impossible in that house.

            But the God of new mercies daily broke through anyway. Found the crack under the garage door only the pill bugs knew. Ascended to live with us. One at a time. Four down, two to go, except one already went. Away.

            She was last. My mother. My sister in the faith. I extended my left hand to welcome her to God’s family. Grimaced when the fingernails on my right hand bit into my palm. Made a wound there. Which I ignored. I refused to drop the everything-bad-in-my-life-is-because-of-you rock. To the ground.

            For years when the Spirit prompted, “You should—“ I interrupted. “I’m sorry, God. You can’t go into that one room in my heart basement. Seems I misplaced the key.”

            Then no-hell-boy taught what he taught. And I wept. Through blind no more eyes. Fell to the floor. Slow blinked at the ceiling with drenched eyes. I held up my pointer finger.        
           “Give me just a second, Lord. To take off this mask. To wipe away this white paint.”

            I stood. Wobbled. “I need to go downstairs. And outside. So I can hurl this stone. Far, far, away.”

Shot

Here it is again

Your going

Ginormous spans of time and distance

Echo in the gap between us

How is it

I am not mad with grief and fear?

It’s because I was shot

The last time you left on a jet plane

I was shot to the heart

The meds

Your arrival, your joy, your return

They still run through me

Like the waterfall you stood under

Eternal it seemed

Did you hear it?

Over the age old rush

Of hydrogen, oxygen, and gravity?

“This is my daughter.

Whom I love

With her I am well pleased.”

I did

Hear it

Something different

But still

“You there.

You are a modern day Mary.

You bore her, raised her, and when the time was fulfilled

You balanced her life and your punctured heart

In your trembling mama hands

Dripping with tears, not blood

You offered her as a live sacrifice

To me, to the world

Blessed are the hands that are open, not clenched

Palms without fingernail-shaped wounds

Extended

Freely, faithfully.”

The symptoms

The what ifs and will I ever

(Inhale her Pantene twirls again)

Didn’t present until 24 hours out this time

Burning eye syndrome, leaky gutter nose, shovel scrapes in the belly

They’ve only just now come

To be honest, on the pain scale, they’re a scant three or four

And then, only if I shut out everything else

Drill down

Attend the guttural jeer of she’s leaving you

For another mother

A different family

I flip my hair and anxiety, albeit lesser,

Behind me

Where I can’t see it

I almost yell at the mirror

You’re shot, remember?

Vaccinated

It can’t hurt you

The unblessed absence of assurance

Faith exists only in the invisible

Sight and knowing?

Where is the thrill, the miracle, the mountain top, in that?

I trust

I have to

But at least I can 

‘Cause I’ve been shot

Inoculated

One bout with loss, fear, and the unknown

(Then reunion and recovery)

Left me so much stronger

Able, if not ready

(And really, when will I ever be ready?)

To do it all again