Praise for Jennifer Archer

On My Perfectly Imperfect Life

“A highly emotional story about sisters learning to see each other and the past through adult eyes…4.5 stars.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“My Perfectly Imperfect Life is a deeply emotional family drama…. There is a lot of humor in this tale…add[ing] to a wonderful, affecting character study.”

—The Reader’s Guild

On The Me I Used To Be

“All the characters are vividly brought to life as they struggle to balance past and present.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“A poignant novel that explores the issues and emotions associated with family, adoption, and love. Archer has a talent for developing interesting, ‘real’ characters.”

—“Curled Up with a Good Book” at www.curledup.com

On Sandwiched

“Archer captures the voices and vulnerabilities of her characters with precision.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Jennifer Archer’s a smart writer.”

—Michelle Buonfiglio, NBC11.com Entertainment

Jennifer Archer

As a frequent speaker at writing workshops, women’s events and creative writing classes, award-winning author Jennifer Archer enjoys inspiring others to set goals and pursue their dreams. She is the mother of two grown sons and currently resides in Texas with her high school sweetheart and their neurotic Brittany spaniel. Jennifer enjoys hearing from her readers through her Web site, www.jenniferarcher.net.

Off Her Rocker
Jennifer Archer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

From the Author

Dear Reader,

A new generation of mothers has been in the news recently. Labeled “helicopter moms,” they hover over their children long after the kids are grown.

In the past four years, I’ve left both my “babies” more than eleven hundred miles away from home at college and, upon reading about these parents, I worried that I might fit the mold. As I researched the topic further, I learned that most true “helicopter moms,” if there are such beings, are much more obsessive than I am. Still, I recognized a hint of their overprotectiveness in myself.

The news stories were pushed to the back of my mind until a summer day when my husband and I decided to extend a stay at our mountain cabin longer than we’d planned. We drove into a tiny nearby town to do laundry, but almost every business on the main drag either had a closed sign on the door or boards nailed over the windows. I’d hate to get stuck in a town like this, I thought. And then, What if a helicopter mom as spoiled as her children became stranded here? That question gave birth to the Logan family. They all had a lot to learn, about themselves and about each other. They did so with frustration and confusion, tears and laughter. I fell in love with them, despite their faults. Or maybe because of them. I hope you will, too.

Happy reading!

Jennifer Archer

For loving mothers who hover too close

to their children too long.

And for the children who love them back, in spite of it.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

PROLOGUE

“Push, Dana. Push!”

Holding my breath, I bear down with all the energy left in me. This kid is stubborn compared to Taylor Jane. After only an hour of labor, she popped into the world four years ago like a kernel of kettle corn. Tiny, pale and sweet, butter-yellow hair and an airy disposition.

Not this one, no. Eight hours, forty-three minutes and counting.

“That’s it, honey.” Carl squeezes my hand.

A shift, a loud grunting moan, sudden relief, exhaustion. The breath rushes out of me, my muscles go limp, my head drops to the pillow.

At the end of the table, from between my upraised knees, I hear Dr. Lattimer say, “Good girl, Dana.” Then, a squeaky, furious cry sounds and he adds, “It’s a boy!”

“A boy…” Carl’s eyes fill with tears as he leans down to kiss me. “We have a son. I love you, honey.”

I decide to forgive him for his behavior in the labor room earlier. The photo he had the nurse take of us together between contractions. The two times I caught him smiling at some program on the television in the corner, instead of suffering with me. His cheery encouragement while I panted like an old dog on a hot day, my attention fixed on my Lamaze focal point, the eyes of the child in the famous painting across from my bed. Mother and Child. In it, the mother hugs her toddler, her face turned into his neck, while the child’s arms hang loose, and he stares into the distance beyond her.

Carl moves aside, and I catch my first glimpse of our little boy. Bald and squealing, purplish red from the top of his misshapen head to the tips of each of his tiny long toes.

Sounds diminish. The room blurs around him, the people in it. I’m blind and deaf to anything except my baby, consumed with a fierce love for him, with adoration of every detail about him, perfect and otherwise. The cord may be cut, but we’re still connected. Now, more than ever.

“He’s beautiful,” I murmur. I think how abundant, wondrous and smooth I want his life to be. His and Taylor’s. I would do anything, sacrifice everything, to protect them, to make them both happy.

“He looks like Uncle Harold,” Carl says.

“Uncle Harold’s a skinny, wrinkled-up old man.”

“I know.”

We both laugh through our tears.

“Have you decided on a name?” the nurse asks.

“Troy Bennett.” I lick the salty sweat from my lips. “After my father.”

“Troy Bennett Logan.” Carl’s voice oozes pride. “Future president of Logan Advertising.”

“That’s a strong, proud name,” the nurse says. “I like it. Is he your first?”

“Second,” Carl answers, his voice raised slightly to be heard above Troy’s cries. “We have a four-year-old daughter.”

The nurse smiles, spreading wrinkled wings at the corners of her kind, knowing eyes. “Enjoy every second you have with them. Tomorrow you’ll wake up, your daughter will be getting married, and this one will be off to college.”

Tomorrow? I don’t believe her. The years stretch ahead like a long sunny road I’ve never traveled. Block after block of surprises and adventure, of firsts: first steps, first teeth, first day of school, first date.

I can’t see the place where my children are grown; it’s too far in the distance. A million miles away.

CHAPTER 1

Tomorrow

aka Eighteen Years Later

Troy, Carl and I stand outside of a red-roofed brick dormitory backed by rugged mountains.

“It won’t be the same at home without you.” I squeeze Troy tighter, my tears dampening the sleeve of his White Stripes T-shirt. He squeezes me back, but doesn’t say anything.

Carl clears his throat, and I blink across at him. He stands behind Troy, smiling, but his eyes are misty as he slides on his sunglasses. “We need to get the car back to the rental place if we’re going to make our flight.”

Troy and I step apart. The cord is cut, but we’re still connected. “I love you.” I take his hands in mine.

“I love you, too, Mom.” Pink splotches bloom on his cheeks. His tender, anxious expression tells me that, despite his excitement, he’s feeling some of what I feel: pride and love, but sadness, uncertainty and a little fear, too. The moment is bittersweet. This is what the past eighteen years have all been about. Raising him to be independent, brave and capable. But the thought of not seeing him every day, not hearing his voice…

Two snickering young men approach, headed for the dorm’s white-columned entrance. Their glances cut our direction, and Troy’s blush deepens. Dipping his chin, he releases my hands.

I wait until the boys pass by, then, with a final quick hug, I back away. “We’re proud of you, sweetie.”

Carl embraces Troy for only a second, then gently punches his shoulder. “We’ll call you when we’re home.”

Troy nods, his gaze shifting to the dorm, down to his feet, then back to us. He pops his knuckles. All signs that he’s nervous, excited and antsy. How many times have I watched him act the same on the sidelines of a basketball court before the coach sent him into the game?

“Remember why you’re here,” Carl adds, attempting sternness but sounding sentimental, instead. “Your studies come first. Even before basketball. Keep your priorities straight.”

“I will.” Troy’s Adam’s apple shifts.

“You have big shoes to fill some day at Logan Advertising.” Carl glances down at his size elevens, then winks. “I’m counting on you to send me off to retirement in about ten years.”

Clearing his throat, Troy blinks down at his size tens.

“If you need anything—” my voice falters “—we’re only a phone call away.”

Carl checks his watch, then takes my hand. “Bye, son.”

Panic seizes me. There’s so much more to say, but not enough time. One weekend here wasn’t long enough. Eighteen years wasn’t long enough. I look at Carl and silently plead one more minute. As if I can cram into sixty seconds everything I forgot to teach our son, to explain and impress upon him during his lifetime.

“You should have plenty of money in your account,” I tell Troy. “And I put extra on your student card.” The words rush out of me. “You understand how to use the card in the laundry machines, don’t you? And how to do the laundry?”

“Yes, Mom. You went over it a million times.” Embarrassment and exasperation strain his quick laugh.

“Ask your resident adviser if you have any questions. He’s there to help. And get involved in dorm activities. It’s a good way to meet people and make friends.”

Troy sends his father a desperate look.

“Dana, come on.” Carl tugs my arm. “We’ll be late.”

Ignoring him, I say, “Remember what we talked about. You’ll meet all kinds of people here, Troy. Good ones, but kids you’ll want to avoid, too. Be careful.”

“Jeez, Mom.” He cringes slightly and eyes a group of girls who walk by carrying boxes.

“Goodbye, sweetie.” I have to squeeze the words from my throat.

Turning, I follow Carl down the sidewalk. One step. Two. Three. Four. Deep breaths. In…out…in…out. Bringing Troy into the world was less painful than sending him off on his own to explore it. The cord may be cut, but we’re still connected. At least I am; when I look over my shoulder, Troy isn’t watching us leave, as I’d expected. His head is turned toward the dorm.

I flash back to the painting on the wall of the hospital labor room eighteen years ago. The mother clinging to her child, the boy detached, looking off into the distance.

“Don’t forget to call AAA if you have any car trouble,” I yell. “They’ll even change a flat tire or come out if you lock your keys inside.”

Troy turns squinting eyes on me, his shoulders slumped, his arms at his sides.

“He can change his own damn tire,” Carl mutters and tugs me again.

“Your allergy medicine’s in the first-aid kit I packed for you,” I add as Troy starts for the dorm.

“Dana.” Carl walks faster.

A sob builds in my chest as I watch the back of my baby’s shiny dark head, his tall, lanky frame, merge into a throng of University of Colorado freshmen hauling boxes and trunks, beanbag chairs, mini-refrigerators and stereo equipment. In my mind, he’s three years old again, lost in a crowd, and I can’t get to him. It’s almost more than I can do to look away. “I can’t stand to leave him.”

Carl digs keys from his pocket and gives me a sympathetic smile. “We’ve known for almost a year he’d be going to school here.”

I swipe at my eyes with a shaky hand.

We walk the rest of the way in silence. When we finally reach the car, Carl heads for the driver’s side door, and I head for mine.

I sink into my seat. “I feel like we’re abandoning him in a strange place with a bunch of strangers.”

“He’s not a little boy anymore—he grew up. It happens to everybody if they’re lucky.”

“He may look grown, but he’s still a kid.” We buckle up. “He doesn’t know how to take care of himself. He isn’t ready.” My nose starts running as we pull out. “He’s only done two loads of laundry in his entire life, and both of those were last week. The second time, I still had to give him directions. What if he doesn’t remember?”

“He’ll figure it out.” Carl turns onto the road. We merge into traffic.

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Then he’ll wear dirty clothes. Nobody ever died from wearing the same underwear two days in a row. He’s a big boy, Dana. It’s time he started doing things for himself. You spoiled him.” Wincing, he glances at me and quickly adds, “We spoiled him. Taylor, too.”

“Why’d he have to get that stupid basketball scholarship?” My lip quivers as I stare out at the brilliant blue cloud-scattered sky. “We should’ve insisted he go to a Texas school. You make enough money. We didn’t need the tuition cut.”

“Honey, don’t. He’s closer to home than he would be if he’d gone to the University of Texas.”

“But he knows people in Austin. We know people. What if he hates it here? What if he’s lonely?”

“Troy’s never had any trouble making friends, you know that.”

“What if he gets into trouble? There’s no one to call who could reach him quickly. He could get sick.” A tear rolls down my cheek and drips off the tip of my chin.

Carl reaches for my hand. “It’s hard for me to let go, too. Give it some time. We’ll adjust.”

“It happened so fast….” Leaning my head back against the seat, I close my eyes and hear a voice from the past…. Enjoy every second…. Tomorrow you’ll wake up, your daughter will be getting married, and this one will be off to college.

Damn that nurse for being right.

All the way to the Avis car rental agency, I weep softly. On the shuttle bus from there to the air terminal, Carl holds me while I press my face against his shoulder and weep some more. When the plane lifts off, I touch the window, look out at Troy’s new home. And weep. By the time the city disappears, I’m numb, wrung out, my tear supply drained dry.

Already hard at work on a presentation for a prospective client of his ad agency, Carl glances up from his laptop. He doesn’t appear to be the least bit emotional. He had his brief teary moment and got over it. Easy for him to say we’ll adjust. Our kids growing up and leaving doesn’t change his life as drastically as mine. He isn’t losing his job of the past twenty-two years. Taylor and Troy have been my entire world. What am I supposed to do now?

“Taylor Jane’s picking us up, right?” Carl asks.

“She said she would. I gave her our itinerary.”

“We should’ve called her before we took off. I wouldn’t put it past her to forget. She’s probably preoccupied with her big plans to marry Moo-ney.” His head bobs left to right and his lip curls when he speaks each syllable of our future son-in-law’s name. “What kind of name is that, anyway? His parents must be a couple of kooks.”

The wedding. I sit straighter. Sniff. Pull a tissue from my purse and dab my eyes.

“We have a few things to discuss with our daughter when we get home,” Carl says grudgingly. “Such as how those two think they’re going to support themselves. I don’t get it. The kid’s nothing like any of Taylor’s prior boyfriends. What kind of life does she think she’s going to have with someone like him?”

I sigh. “She isn’t thinking. She hardly knows the guy.” They met over the summer when Taylor moved home after graduating from Southern Methodist University.

“If she’d wait, she’d probably find someone at grad school.”

Because of Taylor’s average grades, Carl had to pull a few strings to get her accepted to a master’s program at Texas Tech.

“Some kid with a smart head on his shoulders,” he adds.

And without a ponytail brushing them, I think.

“Someone with reasonable ambitions,” he continues.

Rather than pie-in-the-sky dreams of becoming his generation’s Jimi Hendrix.

“Someone clean-cut.”

Meaning, no multiple earrings or five-inch-long goatee.

“She probably won’t even go to grad school now.” Carl presses a hand to his stomach and winces. “Damn engagement’s giving me an ulcer. I wonder what she has in mind for the wedding?”

The wedding. I push negative thoughts of Mooney aside and smile. Taylor announced her engagement two days before we left in Troy’s Jeep to drive him to college, so there wasn’t much time to talk details. But I do recall mention of a January ceremony.

Dabbing my eyes again, I dig in my purse for a pad and a pen. If she’s determined to marry Mooney, maybe I could convince her to do it in December instead of later. We would have to get busy, but a Christmas wedding will be beautiful.

“What are you smiling about?” Carl’s expression shifts to one of amusement. He studies me over the tops of his reading glasses.

“What do you think about a Christmas wedding?”

He holds up both hands. “That’s your department, not mine. If there’s going to be a wedding, I guess that’s as good a time as any.”

“We could have it at the Club.”

“What if they want a church wedding?”

“Even better. Can’t you just imagine how beautiful the sanctuary would be filled with roses?” I nibble my lip and squint, seeing it all in my mind. “Red ones. I’ll call the florist and ask what they’d cost.”

“Won’t the church already be decorated with flowers for the holidays? You could use those and save us some money.”

“Poinsettias are too predictable. Everyone will expect them.” I push against his arm with my palm. “Don’t be such a cheapskate. She’s your only daughter.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining. Spend the money if it makes you happy.” With an indulgent smile, he leans over and pecks my cheek. “I’ll just work harder.” Digging in his pants pocket, he pulls out an antacid and pops it into his mouth.

“We’re doing this for Taylor, not me.”

Carl raises one brow; the corner of his mouth twitches. “Whatever you say.”

I nudge him with an elbow. “Stop it. You’d love a big shindig, too, and you know it.”

“What I’d love is for Taylor to wise up and reconsider. But I’m all for whatever it takes to make my girls smile.” He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Feeling better?”

Surprised to realize that I am, I grin. “Much.”

“Good.” Carl pats my hand, then returns his attention to his work.

The wedding. I take a deep breath, then start scribbling. Red roses. Mistletoe. A red velvet cake. A string quartet…

CHAPTER 2

“You did what?” I slam the car door.

Behind me, in the back seat of our Lexus, Carl swears softly.

Taylor flips the blinker, turns out of the airport parking lot and lifts her chin. “Mooney and I eloped. And don’t yell at me. I’m trying to drive.” She keeps her focus on the road.

I glance back at Carl. He’s shaking his head and muttering, but he doesn’t appear to be as stunned by the news as I am.

I return my attention to Taylor. Her long blond hair looks sleek and glossy as she tosses it off one shoulder with the flip of a hand. Troy is dark like Carl. But our daughter inherited my Scandinavian coloring. Her temperament, though, is all her own. “When did this elopement take place?”

“Night before last.”

“You could’ve called us,” Carl says.

“I didn’t want to ruin your time with Troy. Besides…” Her mouth curves up slightly at one corner. Her I’ve-got-a-secret smile; I know it well. “I wanted to enjoy at least one day of our honeymoon without having to deal with you being mad at me.” She glances my way when she says this. To hear her talk, anyone would think I rant and rave at her every hour of the day.

“You had a honeymoon?” I ask.

“A mini one. Until we can do it right.”

I cross my arms and lean back. “What did you do?”

That smile again. “Mo-ther.” She giggles.

I lift my gaze to the ceiling. “You know what I meant. Where did you go?”

“We flew to Dallas and stayed at the Mansion.”

Carl blurts a laugh. “I guess sweeping up sawdust at Home Depot pays more than I thought. Or has Mooney changed jobs again? I can’t keep up.”

“He’s a musician.” Another hair flip. “The other jobs are only temporary. Until the band breaks out. Code Freak will have plenty of gigs then, and Mooney will rake it in. They already have lots of fans who follow them everywhere.”

“Tomorrow’s gigs don’t pay for the Mansion today,” Carl says from the back seat.

Taylor’s eyelashes flutter ever so slightly, a movement only a mother would detect. And decipher.

I squint at her. “You paid for the honeymoon, didn’t you. For the hotel and the flight.”

“My money is his now. Just like his is mine.”

“Your money?” Carl sputters. He sticks his head up front between us. “Did you land a job we don’t know about?”

Since graduating in May, Taylor has worked hard on perfecting her tan; that’s the only work she’s done.

“Taylor…” I sigh. “The money in your account is for you to live on while you’re getting your master’s at Tech.”

“We didn’t blow that much.”

“Don’t the other members of Mooney’s band live here? How are they going to practice if he’s living with you in Lubbock while you’re going to school?”

“I’ll apply for the program at WT instead.”

“Isn’t it too late?”

“I’ll apply for the spring semester.”

I glance at Carl. “Do we know anyone at WT I could call?”

Taylor lifts her chin. “I don’t need you to get me in.” She sounds offended.

“Do you know someone?” I ask her.

She glares at me, and I immediately regret my implication. But she knows as well as anyone that her grades are subpar.

I try to find a positive side to all this. If, by some miracle, she does get in at WT, at least she’ll be closer to home. West Texas A&M is twenty minutes away from Amarillo, as opposed to the two hours it takes to drive to Lubbock.

“Please don’t spend any more of the money in that account on extravagances,” I say to her. “It’s for tuition and books. Things like that.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

“Just so you’re not tempted,” Carl says, “I’ll call the bank tomorrow and have you taken off the account.”

“Dad-dy. Don’t you trust me?”

The question elicits a wry chuckle from Carl. “Where do the two of you plan to set up house?”

“In Mooney’s aunt’s garage apartment.”

“That place he lives now?” My stomach drops. I went there with Taylor once when we were shopping and she found Mooney’s cell phone in her purse. He needed it, so we dropped by. The sight of that apartment made me wonder what on earth Mooney had done to brainwash my daughter. Before meeting him, she wouldn’t have stepped foot in such a place. Peeling paint. A dangling shutter. A swamp cooler in the window. A thorny, weedy patch of yard. The inside was worse. Stained, threadbare carpet. Musty, stale beer scent. Dark stuffy rooms—three of them; a living room/kitchen combo, one bedroom and a tiny bath. Completely depressing. I can’t imagine Taylor happy there.

“The two of you should move in with us,” I blurt in desperation. “We have plenty of space. Too much for two people.”

“Dana.” Carl groans, and Taylor looks as if she’s been slapped.

I know what’s going through his mind. He can’t stand being in the same room with Mooney for more than a couple of hours. How would he manage to share a house with the boy for who knows how long? But I know Taylor. As soon as her love-induced, or lust-induced, stupor wears off, that garage apartment will horrify her. She likes pretty things: flowers, hardwood floors, landscaped backyard pools. Comfortable things: thick carpets, modern appliances, central heat and air.

She pushes the gas pedal harder. The needle jumps to eighty. “Relax, Daddy. We wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you. Besides, I like the apartment.” She never could lie convincingly. Her marital status may have changed, but that hasn’t.

As Taylor turns on screeching tires into our neighborhood, I stare out the window. Goodbye, red roses…mistletoe…red velvet cake…string quartet. Goodbye, my reason for getting out of bed in the morning for the next few months. “Why, Taylor?” I ask quietly. “I was planning such a beautiful wedding for—”

“That’s why, Mom.” She whips into our driveway. “You were planning. I knew that’s what would happen. No matter how hard I’d try to stand my ground, you’d turn it into your wedding, not mine.”

“Young lady…” Carl says, but his voice trails off and he doesn’t finish the sentence.

“It’s true,” Taylor huffs. “She doesn’t think I can do anything right without her input. Even plan my own wedding. It would’ve ended up being all about what she wanted, not Mooney and me.”

Tears sting my eyes, but I’m too stunned, too hurt, to speak. Carl remains silent, and I can’t help wondering if he agrees with her.

Taylor hits the button on the garage opener hooked over the visor. The door glides up. She pulls inside. As she helps us carry our bags into the house, nobody speaks.

Carl scratches his head. “I need a shower.” He kisses Taylor’s cheek. “Are you happy, punkin?”

She blinks her big blue eyes at him and smiles. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Well, then…” Carl sighs and hugs her. “Congratulations, baby.” He doesn’t sound any more excited than he looks, but Taylor either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

She beams. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Pulling his suitcase behind him, he leaves us alone in the living room.

I kick off my shoes and collapse on the couch. Taylor slouches beside me, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry, Mom. I was a little hard on you in the car. I know you’re disappointed about the wedding.”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetie.” Ignoring my aching bruised feelings, I smile at her.

“I know you and Daddy don’t like Mooney.”

“It’s just—he’s not—” I hesitate. “Daddy and I wanted you to have—”

She narrows her eyes. Her nostrils flare.

“I need to get to know Mooney better, sweetie, that’s all. I’m sure he’s a wonderful person.” At least I hope he is. Somewhere beneath all the hair and rock-jock attitude.

“He is.” Taylor’s eyes dare me to doubt that.

I take her hand. “The truth is, I’m a little worried about how the two of you will get by and—” Her fingers tense; I give up. “I guess I should be thinking about a wedding gift. Is there anything in particular you want?”

“I’ve been talking to Mooney about that.” She pops upright beside me. “We would absolutely love to go to Hawaii for our real honeymoon.”

I lift my brows and start to tell her no. No way in hell. Not a chance. She didn’t consult with us before she spent her college money on a rushed elopement. She deprived her parents of watching their only daughter wed. Deprived me of the experience of planning a wedding with her. It will take some time and several glasses of wine to get over all that.

But I’m no stronger than Carl. One look, and her excited eyes get to me, like always. How can I disappoint her? Making her happy makes me happy. And when she’s sad, I’m sadder. True, I think she made a mistake marrying Mooney, but my parents thought the same thing about me when I married Carl. In time, they grew to love him and, though right now I can’t imagine it, I’m hopeful we’ll learn to love Mooney, too.

“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 keep me company. “I’ve been thinking that you could use some things to spruce up your apartment. You know, to make it your own. A home instead of a bachelor pad.”

“You’re buying?” Suddenly, her voice sounds cheerleader-perky.

“Didn’t Mooney get paid Friday?” She still owes me for the groceries from two weeks ago. Neither she nor her new husband showed up with a check to reimburse me on his prior payday.

“Yeah, Mom, but we do have bills to pay, you know. And he needs a new amplifier for the band. They have a gig coming up and—”

“Sure, why not?” I interrupt. “The shopping spree’s on me.” Anything to get me out of this house.

“You think Elaine might be able to go?”

Elaine is a decorator who has helped me off and on through the years. She possesses the creative eye that I don’t. Still, garage apartments are not her forte. Maybe she will take pity on Taylor when I explain the situation. “I’ll give her a call and see,” I say. I’m feeling better already. Nothing is more fun than shopping with Elaine. And I could stand some easygoing time with my daughter. She hasn’t had a second for anyone but Mooney since the day they met. “When do you want me to pick you up?”

A pause, then Taylor says, “Do you have to go with us?”

Flustered, I stammer, “Well, yes. I, um, thought I would. Why?”

“It’s just…” A dramatic sigh. “We have completely different taste, Mom, and you always try to influence me.”

“Since when?”

“My condo at school? Remember? It ended up looking like your house.”

“That’s not true.” How is it she always puts me on the defensive? “I might have made a few suggestions, but nobody twisted your arm, Taylor. I never forced you to let me buy anything for you that I liked and you didn’t.”

The vacuum quiets. I prop my elbow on my hip and pull the phone away from my ear to distance myself from Taylor’s whine.

“But you make me feel like I should buy what you want.”

Even with the phone extended, my daughter’s haughty voice comes through loud and clear.

Myra walks in, looks at me, raises a brow and heads for the sink.

“You hate the stuff I like,” Taylor continues. “You put out a vibe that either I have to go along with you or I get nothing.”

“Taylor Jane Logan! When was the last time I denied you anything? Hmmm?”

Not realizing I’m watching her, Myra rolls her eyes, then picks up a sponge and turns on the faucet.

A blush heats my face as I press the phone tighter to my ear and lower my voice. “You’re imagining things, Taylor. But if you feel that way, then you’re perfectly free to pay for everything yourself.”

A laugh sputters out of Myra. She glances at me, sobers, coughs.

“Yeah, right, Mom. Pay for it with what?”

“I guess redecorating isn’t such a good idea, after all.”

“So now you won’t pay?” Tears fill her voice. “Fine. I’ll just get a prescription for Paxil, then. This dump is so depressing I can barely drag myself out of bed in the mornings.”

I close my eyes. “You couldn’t drag yourself out of bed in the mornings when you lived here, and this house is certainly no dump.” Tapping my foot, I ask, “Have you talked to anyone at WT about their graduate program?”

“Not yet.”

“They aren’t going to come to you and beg you to apply, Taylor.”

“Very funny, Mom. I know I’m not as smart as Troy. You don’t have to keep reminding me.”

“I’ve never said that! Anyway, Troy’s scholarship was for basketball, not academics.”

“Oh, yeah. Just another thing he’s got going for him that I don’t. Athletic ability.”

“Taylor…quit feeling sorry for yourself. Get out of bed and do something.” With a start, I realize I should take my own advice. This morning, Myra rang the doorbell at eight-thirty and woke me. Yesterday, I slept until ten.

“So you won’t call Elaine?”

I count to five. “You call her, Taylor.”

“And you’ll pay for her time?”

“I’ll pay for three hours.”

“Three hours? That’s not long enough to decide on anything. How about six?”

“I said three.”

“Five, then.”

“Four,” I say.

“Okay.”

Proud of myself for not letting Taylor have her way, I send Myra a smug smile. She shakes her head, squirts Soft Scrub onto the stainless steel sink, and it occurs to me that I really didn’t stand my ground. Taylor managed to weasel an extra hour out of me. Once again, I’ve been manipulated by the master.

“What about the stuff we pick out?” Taylor asks.

Because I know my own weaknesses, I turn my back to Myra, disgusted with myself. Why do I always give in? “Get prices and give me a total. Then I’ll decide.”

“Okay.” Taylor sniffs but doesn’t argue, and I think to myself, She knows I’ll pay, whatever the price. She knows I’m a pushover when it comes to her and Troy. Everyone sees right through me. Even my housekeeper.

After hanging up, I consider calling my mother to ask if she wants to have lunch with me; that’s when I know just how desperate I am.

I need a walk. Fresh air to clear my mind, to give me perspective and revive my energy and enthusiasm. To help me figure out what I’m supposed to do for the rest of my life.

CHAPTER 4

Fifteen minutes later, I stand on the curb across the street from the high school my children attended. Classes are in full swing. Vehicles pack the student parking lot. A black Chevy Tahoe pulls into the visitor’s section, followed by a white minivan. Marliss Crocker and Vicky Avery. I remember it’s Tuesday and check my watch. After ten. They’re late for the first PTA board meeting of the year. I know the schedule by heart. Last year and the year before, I chaired the fundraising committee. Since my kids started school, I have served in every position at least twice, including president.

Atop a pole at the school’s entrance, the American and Texas flags billow and pop in the breeze as Marliss and Vicky climb from their vehicles. The greetings they call out to one another, their laughter, drift to me. They meet and start toward the building, side by side.

I feel thirteen again, as if I’ve arrived at my best friend’s house and discovered she’s having a party, and I wasn’t invited. Marliss is president this year. Vicky took over my position. I nibble my thumbnail cuticle. Marliss couldn’t organize a kindergarten homeroom party, and everyone in town knows Vicky’s careless spending habits bankrupted her husband last year. When those two were elected, I almost choked. They’ll squander all the money I worked so hard to raise for the school; I just know it.

Before they enter the front doors, Marliss glances back toward the lot. I scurry behind a car parked at the curb where I’m standing. Too late. She sees me and waves, then turns and says something to Vicky. Pausing to squint my direction, Vicky waves, too. Despite the distance separating us, I see the shock and pity in their expressions as they exchange a glance, then disappear into the building with their heads together.

I kick a tire. Why would they feel sorry for me? Squaring my shoulders, I straighten my wrinkled, coffee-stained T-shirt. So what if I look like I just climbed out of bed? I deserve a leisurely morning now and then, don’t I? I raised my children. I served my time as a volunteer. I’m retired. No shame in that. They’re just jealous that they aren’t free to do whatever they want to do.

Pushing tangled hair from my face, I step off the curb and jog across the street. Maybe I’ll take up running. Buy some of those cute little shorts and spandex tops with built-in bras and sail by here every morning looking toned and lithe and smug while they’re dropping off their freshmen and nibbling a doughnut, sipping their four-dollar five-hundred-calorie lattes with hazelnut syrup and wishing they’d worn elastic-waist pants instead of jeans.

When I reach the corner, a sharp pain stabs into my side and I have to stop to catch my breath. In the past two decades, the extent of my exercise program has been chasing kids, a daily leisurely walk and an occasional Kathy Smith fat-burning video. And the latter only if I had a special occasion coming up, such as a wedding or a class reunion, and I wanted to squeeze into something slinky and impress somebody. The truth is, I’ve been guilty of frequent doughnut and latte breakfasts myself. It’s no wonder that, right now, my throat aches, my shins and calves hurt, and I feel as if I might puke.

Clutching my stomach, I cut across the parking lot, then lean against the building next to a bush, panting. A flash of color on the other side of the window catches my eye. I peek in.

Even though they sit with their backs to me, I recognize all but a couple of the ten or so women inside. My former fellow PTA moms. Why are they meeting in the cafeteria? We always met in the auditorium. Leave it to Marliss to make waves.

I scan the group. Polly, my best friend, sits front row and center tapping a pencil against her chin, her curly dark hair still damp from her shower. Alice Mays sits beside her, still trying to look sixteen. She wears a too-tight spaghetti-strapped tank she probably borrowed from her daughter, short-shorts, tall-wedged sandals and her trademark ankle bracelet that spells her name in tiny silver letters; I see it because she has one leg crossed over the other and she swings her calf back and forth. In the back row, Sherry Pembry is nodding off. Marliss stands in front of the group, facing me, animated as she talks.

The pain beneath my rib cage subsides until only an aching emptiness remains. How did I get here? Forty-six years old, outside my kids’ former high school spying on the women I used to lead. Replaced. Displaced. Dethroned. An outsider looking in at a kingdom I once ruled.

My calf cramps. Cursing quietly, I reach down to rub it and stumble. To steady myself, I press a hand to the window and, when I glance up, Marliss catches sight of me. Our eyes meet. My heart jumps. I step out of sight behind the bush. Leaning back against the building’s cool brick wall, I close my eyes and concentrate on trying not to cry from humiliation.

A minute later, I hear the bush rustle, and open my eyes again. Polly stands in front of me.

“What are you doing, Dana?”

“Would you believe training for a marathon?”

She frowns.

“How about that I’ve hired on to wash these windows?”

Her brows arch.

“I didn’t think so.” I sniff and nibble my lip. “What are y’all talking about in there?”

“Ways to raise money for new lockers.”

I stand straighter. “Volunteer to find sponsors and I’ll do it for you. You know I’m good at that. The best.”

“Dana…” A sympathetic, concerned expression replaces Polly’s frown. “I’ve already volunteered to head up the back-to-school bake sale.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Why would you want to do that? Don’t you know how lucky you are to be through with all this?” She motions toward the building. “When my time comes, I’m going to enjoy doing nothing for a while.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Doing nothing gets old really fast, believe me.”

“But at lunch the other day you said—”

“I lied. I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. I’ve cried every single day Troy has been gone. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m completely and utterly pathetic.” I burst into tears.

Polly hugs me. “Do something just for you, for a change. You’ve earned the right.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Start a business. Get a job. Really run a marathon.” She steps back. “Give yourself some time. It’s only natural you’d be having a tough few weeks. You devoted yourself to those kids. Every day will get better, you’ll see. You’ll figure out what to do.”

My lower lip quivers. “I miss all this.”

“You’re only remembering the good stuff. You’re forgetting the aggravation.”

“Being a mother is the only thing I know how to do.”

“That’s not true.” She looks astounded that I would think such a thing. “You have a lot of talents.”

“Name one.”

Polly blinks rapidly. “You—” A short, sharp laugh, then she says, “You’re being silly.”

“You can’t think of anything.” I squint at her.

“Of course I can. But I need to get back to the meeting right now.” She takes my arm and tugs. “Go home. Make a list of all the things you’ve always wanted to do but didn’t have time for, then pick one.”

I wipe my eyes with the back of one hand.

“I’ll call you tonight,” Polly yells as she walks away.

For a full minute, I remain behind the bush, my arms at my sides, my gaze on my new Cole Haan sneakers. She couldn’t think of anything. My best friend could not come up with one single thing I’m good at.

On the walk home, I detour to the elementary school both Taylor and Troy attended. Small children are at recess. Settling on a nearby park bench, I listen to their squeals, their laughter. Watch them run and skip and climb on the playground equipment.

I miss my little girl and little boy. As much as I love my grown-up children, I mourn the loss of the kids they were. I miss their bright smiles when they would look up and see me enter a room. I miss the days when Troy talked my ear off and I didn’t have to bribe Taylor Jane with money to interest her in spending time with me. I miss being wanted, being needed.

Was life as simple and fulfilling back then as I remember it? Or, as Polly suggested, am I forgetting all the aggravation?

Leaving the park bench, I head for the sidewalk, still watching the children play.

“Is she a stranger?” I hear a tiny voice ask and turn in time to avoid running into a young woman who escorts a child toward the school building.

I duck out of their way. “Excuse me.”

Wariness clouds the woman’s eyes as she scans me from head to toe, and I realize how I must look: swollen eyes, slight limp, uncombed hair and wrinkled clothing.

“Is she, Mommy?” The little boy gawks at me over his shoulder as they pass.

“Yes, Cody,” the woman answers in a hushed tone, hurrying him along. “And we don’t talk to strangers, remember?”

Squaring my shoulders, I limp toward the street on my throbbing calves. In less than an hour, I have been reduced from a smug and admired marathon runner, at least in my own mind, to a person small children should avoid.

Mother’s powder-blue Cadillac pulls to the curb outside the front of my house when I turn the corner onto my street. She climbs out, looking like an ad for Talbots, crisp and tailored, every highlighted hair in place. “Where’ve you been?” she calls to me.

“Walking.”

She meets me center-yard, hugs me. “I say this with love, darling. You look like hell.”

“Thank you, Mother. That’s just the look I was striving for.”

Following me to the door, she says, “Seriously. I’m worried.”

“About me?” Surprised and oddly pleased, I pull my house key from my pocket. “Don’t be.”

“Carl needs you, Dana. He’s at the prime of his career. This is no time for a meltdown.”

So she’s worried about Carl. I should’ve known. “He’s fine, Mother.” I open the door and we walk inside. “And I’m not melting down. Even if I were, he’s so busy right now with work, I doubt he’d notice me dripping.”

She settles at the kitchen table, lights a clove cigarette, sizes me up. “You should fly to Colorado Springs and stay at the Broadmoor, pamper yourself at their spa for a week. A wife sometimes needs to take a bit of quality time for herself in order to give her best to her husband.”

“What 1955 guide to wifely duties did you read that in?”

“I mean it.” Mother props her elbow on the counter so that the smoldering cigarette tip points up at the ceiling. “You’re the one who needed a weekend at the Mansion. Not Taylor Jane and that long-haired, freeloading flake she married.”

“At least Mooney has a job. That’s more than I can say for Taylor.”

“Mooney.” Mother huffs, then mutters, “Dear God in heaven.” She takes a drag.

Myra emerges from the adjoining utility room carrying a basket of clean laundry.

Mother greets her with a nod and a half-assed smile.

Myra grunts and leaves the room.

I notice the blinking red light on my phone answering machine and push Play.

“You have two messages,” a robotic voice informs me, followed by a beep, then Carl saying, “It’s me. I have to take a prospective client to dinner tonight. Peter Celine. Celine Designer Shoes out of L.A. I know you’ve heard of them.”

Who hasn’t? I’ve ordered from their catalog many times. And Taylor probably keeps them in business.

“They’re bringing stores into this area soon. Cross your fingers I land the account. It’s big bucks. Don’t wait up.”

Another beep, then a voice says, “Mom, it’s me.” Taylor yawns. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch this morning. I started my period. If you really want to go with Elaine and me, you can. She’s meeting me at Wall Trends at 1:30. My car is on empty, so pick me up at 1:15.”

“Where did that child learn to use such language?” Mother asks.

“From listening to you, most likely.” Scooping yesterday’s mail off the counter, I shuffle through it. “Why don’t you go shopping with her and Elaine? I’m not in the mood anymore.”

“You’re asking me to drive through your son-in-law’s neighborhood?” Mother feigns a shudder. “No, thank you very much. I value my safety and my hubcaps.” Her mouth pulls into a thin line as she drags my half-empty coffee cup across the counter toward her. “Besides, I’m still not speaking to Taylor Jane.” She flicks ashes into the cup. “I may never get over her marrying that grease monkey. He has a tattoo, for heaven’s sake.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“On his shoulder blade. A dragon or some other such nonsense. I saw it when they were swimming over here one day when you weren’t home. What on earth has gotten into that daughter of yours?”

Lust, I think, but say, “I believe it’s called love.”

“Love.” Mother huffs again. “Ridiculous.”

I sit in the chair across from her and begin untying my shoes. “Daddy had a tattoo, or have you forgotten?”

Her rigid mask slips, and I glimpse the softness behind it, the hidden side of my mother I wish she allowed other people to see. “That’s different. Your father was in the navy.”

“Well, Mooney’s not a grease monkey, he’s a musician.” I stress the word like Taylor does, trying to convince myself as well as Mother. “Rock-and-rollers have tattoos these days. And he works at Home Depot sweeping sawdust now, not at the oil-change job.”

Scowling, Mother studies her fingernails. “Janet’s daughter Lynette asked me to have you call her.”

“Lynette Ames?” Janet is my mother’s lifelong best friend. Lynette is Janet’s daughter.

“It’s Yancy, now.”

“As in Mrs. Gregory Yancy the neurosurgeon? I didn’t know he and his first wife split.”

“Lynette made her move before the ink on the divorce papers dried. She’s a very sharp girl.”

The words gold digger come to mind as I remove one shoe and start untying the other. “I can’t remember the last time I saw her.”

Whenever it was, it hasn’t been long enough. Ever since we were little girls, Lynette has made it her mission in life to one-up me. First, she had to have the bigger toy, then the bigger bra and the better grade. Next came the more popular friends and studlier boyfriend. Later, the more prestigious college, followed by the fancier house and richer husband. She has had three of those.

“What does she want?” I ask.

“To invite you over tonight, I believe.”

“Why? Does she have something new she wants to rub in my face?”

“Lynette’s youngest went away to school last year. She understands what you’re going through. She was very sympathetic when I told her what a mess you are right now.”

“Thank you for doing that,” I say sarcastically. “No doubt she wants to see for herself and gloat.”

“Why do you have to be so suspicious of her? She’s reaching out to you.”

“She’s treated me like crap for years. Especially when we were in school.”

“Maybe she wants to make amends. Call her. Whatever she has planned for tonight, go. It will be good for you to get out and socialize. And it would be a coup for Carl’s business if you eased into the Yanceys’ social circle, anyway. Besides, Carl’s working late. What else do you have to do this evening?”

“Nothing, Mother.” I reach for an apple in the bowl that sits center-table, imagine throwing it at her but bite into it instead. “Thanks for reminding me.”

CHAPTER 5

“How’d the meeting go?” I ask Carl the next morning when he enters the kitchen where I’m toasting bagels and making coffee. He was already home and snoring when I returned from Lynette’s last night. I had left a note on his pillow, telling him where I went.

Carl’s mouth curves up at one corner as he takes the bagels to the table and sits. I know that smile; it means success. “We’re in the running. It’s down to Logan Advertising and a Dallas agency.”

“That’s fabulous, honey! Congratulations.” I pour us each a cup and limp over to him on my still-aching calves.

“I don’t have to tell you we’re considered to be small potatoes. Beating out all the other Dallas and Houston agencies we were up against is a feather in my cap.”

“I’m sure you’ll outshine this last one, too.” I smile at him. “To a profitable 2007.” We clink our coffee cups together.

“Hear, hear.” Carl sips, and so do I. I notice that his hand shakes slightly as he lowers his cup. “Celine’s thinking is that, since we’re located in the area he’s targeting, we should be more in tune to the marketplace than the larger agencies down south.” Carl explains that he and his team will be developing a campaign to introduce Celine Designer Shoes to area customers. “Peter Celine will be back October twenty-seventh to take a look at what we come up with. He’s bringing his wife. Apparently, she’s in on the decision-making. I said we’d have them over to dinner that night.”

“I can handle that. I’ll put it on the calendar.” As if I could forget. It’ll be the only thing written in for the entire month.

“I’m afraid, until then, I’ll be working weekends and nights.” He yawns. “I’m getting too old for this. I’m counting the years until Troy can take over.”

I smirk at him. “You’re not even fifty. Besides, you love your work.”

“Guess I’m a little burnt out. After twenty years of the same thing, you get tired of it.”

“Who do you think you’re kidding? You’d be miserable without the agency to keep you busy.” As miserable as I am without my old activities. “You’ve always given it a hundred percent.”

“That just means I’m obsessive-compulsive when it comes to my job.” He gives me a self-deprecating smile. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just feeling the pressure, that’s all.”

Concern tweaks me. Carl has always thrived on a challenge. “What would you do without your work?”

“Who knows? Sell seashells by the seashore. Twiddle my thumbs.”

“Believe me, that gets old fast, too. Thumb twiddling is tiresome.”

Carl blows into his cup. “So how was bridge?”

“It’s a cover.” I sit across from him.

“What do you mean?”

“Bridge is a cover for Lynette and all her friends to get together once a week and have a pot party. They started the tradition after all their kids left home.”

Carl sputters and spills his coffee, but maneuvers so that it hits the place mat rather than his crisp white shirt. “You’re kidding? Pot, as in marijuana?”

I nod. “As in grass, weed, pass me that doobie, dude, wow, man, this is some good shit.” The coffee cup warms my fingers as I lift it. “Apparently, after Lynette’s daughter left for college, Lynette was cleaning out the girl’s closet and found a joint hidden in an old shoe. She brought it with her to bridge that night and bridge went up in smoke, so to speak.”

“Back up.” Carl lifts a knife to spread cream cheese on his bagel. “Lynette said ‘Pass me that doobie, dude’?”

“No, I did.”

The knife pauses in midair; Carl stares, looking uncertain and a tad bemused.

“Relax. I’m only kidding. I said no to the joint.” I take a bite of bagel. “Maybe I shouldn’t have. Lynette is a lot friendlier and fun stoned than she ever was sober. They were laughing hysterically by the time I left. I could use a good laugh.”

Carl frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to end up like those women, Carl. So bored that the highlight of my week is sneaking off to bridge night and having a few bong hits with the gals.”

“How do you know they’re bored?”

“They said so. Do you know how bad off Lynette must be to admit that to me? They were all stay-at-home moms and now they’re stay-at-home wives trying to figure out how to fill their time. Just like me. I swear, I’m thinking about firing Myra and doing all the housework myself. That’s how desperate I am for something to do.”

Carl laughs, then mutters, “That oughta last until you break a fingernail.”

I glare at him.

Sobering, he says, “So do something. Find a hobby. Take piano lessons. Art lessons. Redecorate the house. Go spend a week at some fancy spa.”

“Why is everyone so fired up to get me to a spa all the sudden?”

“You love going to spas.”

“Not as a career. I want to do something productive.” Wincing, I stand and walk to the counter where the paper lies folded.

“Are you hurt?”

“Shin splints. From my brief stint as a marathon runner.” When he frowns, I add, “Don’t ask. It’s just another of the many things I suck at.” The look Carl sends makes me blush. I’m feeling sorry for myself and he knows it. I know it. “At least I’m a good mom,” I mutter, feeling pathetic.

“You’re a great mom.”

“Yeah, well, the job description has changed now that the kids aren’t living under our roof. I guess I’m having a hard time learning the new rules.”

“You’ll figure it out.” He clears his throat. “Polly called last night. She said you showed up at the PTA meeting.”

“She did, did she?” The traitor.

“She’s worried about you.” He coughs. “Barbara Smart called, too.”

“Troy’s fifth-grade teacher? Why?”

“She’s the elementary school principal now.” He coughs again. “Some mother complained that you were, um, scoping out the children on the playground yesterday?”

“Scoping—” Remembering the woman and her little boy I passed in front of the school, I slap a palm against the counter. “I wasn’t—”

“I know that. Barbara does, too. She assured the woman you’re harmless.”

I return to the table and sit again, avoiding Carl’s eyes. “Jesus.” I press fingers to my forehead. I’ve never felt so humiliated. Well, maybe when I was caught playing Peeping Tom at the high school yesterday, but that’s the only other time.

“Barbara had already spotted you out there before the woman complained,” Carl continues. “She suspected you were crying, and she wanted to make sure you’re all right. That’s the only reason she called.”

I could tell him I’m not all right, that I feel as if I could cry another bucket of tears right this minute. That I’m ashamed of myself for being so pitiful, for not being able to pull myself together and get on with my life. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to get things done, but since Troy went to college and Taylor married, I’ve lost that ability, along with my pride.

I unfold the paper. “I’m thinking about looking for a job.”

His gaze flicks away from me then back again. “O-kay.”

I hear an unspoken but at the end of that word.

“Say it, Carl.”

“It’s just…I don’t want you to tie yourself down to anything.”

“Why not?”

He continues to avoid my eyes. “I don’t know. Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“Nothing.” He faces me. “I’ve been looking forward to spending more time together now that the kids are gone.” He pats my thigh. “The end of November, I have a conference in Vegas. While I’m in meetings you can hang out at the pool if it’s warm. Or you could shop or head for the spa.”

The spa again. I sigh. “That doesn’t solve my problem of what to do when we’re home. Which is the majority of the time.” I open the paper to the Classified section.

He’s quiet for a few seconds, then says, “Getting a job can be expensive. There’s the increase in income tax and the cost of a new wardrobe. Not to mention the extra gas to drive to work and back every day.”

I lower the paper. “So it’s okay with you if I go to work just as long as I find a job that…one—” I lift a finger “—allows me to schedule my hours around yours…two, is within walking distance of our house, and…three, pays cash under the table. Did I cover all the requirements?”

Carl’s neck reddens above his collar.

“Oh,” I continue, “and my boss should allow casual wear at the office so I won’t need new clothes.” I thrust out my lower lip and nod. “No problem, honey. That should be an easy job to find.”

“I don’t care about the expense. I just don’t want you to have to plan your life around someone else’s schedule.”

Other than yours, I think, but keep my mouth shut.

“Why don’t you just volunteer?” Carl murmurs, careful not to look at me. “We don’t need the extra money yet.”

“Yet?” I tilt my head and study him. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“No, it was a slip of the tongue.”

What’s up with him? “I’ve been volunteering for the past twenty-two years,” I say. “For once in my life I’d like to know how it feels to earn money of my own. To actually accomplish something and be compensated for my work.”

I’m on the verge of tears again, though I’m not sure why. Blinking them back, I glance at the clock on the wall, put the paper aside and scoot over to grab the phone.

“You already found a job listing that interests you?”

“I’m calling Troy. It’s time for him to get up.”

“What happened to his alarm clock?”

“Nothing.” I punch in the number. “He’s developed a bad habit of turning it off, then rolling over and going to sleep again. So, I’m his backup. He said if he missed another eight o’clock class, the professor would dock his grade. Last week, I started calling him every morning.”

“He’s only been there two weeks. How many classes has he missed?”

“Too many, obviously.”

“Getting to class on time is Troy’s responsibility, not yo—”

“Good morning, sweetie,” I say, interrupting Carl when Troy utters a groggy H’lo at the other end of the line.

“Rise and shine!”

Troy groans.

Carl shakes his head and mutters something under his breath.

“Are you getting up?” I say into the phone.

“Yeah,” Troy answers in a hoarse whisper.

“Are you sure? Or do I need to call again in five minutes?”

I hear rustling, then he says, “No, I’m up.”

“Okay, sweetie. Have a good day.” After I break the connection and put down the phone, I turn to find Carl squinting at me. “What?” I ask.

He reaches for the paper and begins scanning the Help Wanted ads. “So…what kind of job are you thinking about?”

CHAPTER 6

Five Weeks Later

“Dana?” A knock sounds at my bedroom door. Tugging the blanket more tightly around my shoulders, I continue to stare out the window into the backyard, and rock.

It’s windy and unseasonably cool. In the wee hours of this morning, when I couldn’t sleep, the Weather Channel predicted an early winter nationwide. That might explain the squirrel’s frantic behavior. The one who lives in the oak tree. I’ve named her Tizzy, and she’s late this morning. She hasn’t made an appearance.

I say the squirrel is a she. For the past few days, Tizzy has run frantically up and down the tree trunk gathering grass and twigs, scraps of paper that have blown into the yard, then taken them back to the nest she’s building, tucked away up high in the crook between two branches. On occasion, one of her babies ventures partway down the trunk and the dog next door, whose head is, more often than not, poked through a hole in our fence, goes into a barking frenzy. Then Tizzy appears out of nowhere, putting herself between her tiny offspring and the dog, chattering and darting back and forth at the base of the tree until her baby goes back where he belongs.

Another knock sounds. The door squeaks open. “Dana? It’s Polly. Can I come in?”

I turn and see her curly dark head poking into the room. “Sure.” I return my attention to the window as Polly crosses to stand beside the rocking chair I’m in.

“When you didn’t answer the door, I called information for Carl,” she says. “He gave me the combination to your garage-door opener and told me to come in. You’d better call and let him know you’re okay.”

I don’t tell her that I’d be lying; I’m not okay. I don’t know what I am, but okay isn’t on the list of possibilities.

“Are you going to call him?”

“When he doesn’t hear from you in the next few minutes that I’m hurt or dead, he’ll assume I’m okay, put me right out of his mind, and get back to work.”

I hear the musical beeps from her cell phone as she punches in numbers. While she murmurs quietly to my husband, I continue rocking.

“Why haven’t you answered any of my calls these past couple of weeks?” Polly asks when she’s finished talking to Carl.

“I didn’t know you’d called.”

“I must’ve left at least twenty messages.”

“I haven’t checked them, and Carl never does.” That’s my job. Menial. Easy. Right up my alley.

“Carl’s worried about you, honey. I am, too.”

“Join the club. Mother thinks I’m off my rocker. That’s what she told me last night.” I laugh a little. “She’s wrong about that. I’ve spent the past three…” I frown. “Or maybe it’s been four days… Anyway, I’ve sat right here in this rocking chair for quite some time, and I don’t plan to get off of it anytime soon.”

Except maybe to go to Tuesday night bridge at Lynette’s, though even that has begun to lose its luster. Still, Lynette and her friends provide the only good laugh I get these days. And I don’t even indulge in the leafy green appetizer. The stoned bridge ladies have been discussing a road trip sometime in the near future and tossing around possible destinations. They’re looking for somewhere they haven’t already visited a dozen times, which is difficult since travel is high on their list of pastimes. They want a place they can spend their husbands’ money on jewelry and clothing, great food and massages. They asked me to join them, but I’m not sure I can muster the energy.

Outside, Tizzy’s baby runs down the tree trunk, all the way to the ground. He darts across the yard alone. A first since I’ve been keeping tabs on the tree. The baby squirrel disappears, and Tizzy scampers down from the nest seconds later, pausing midway, her head jerking left and right, up and down. She chatters and chatters, calling him back.

“Have you ever paid attention to what goes on in your yard?” I ask Polly, my gaze on the frenzied squirrel. “Whole lives are being lived out there. Dramas. Celebrations. Births. Deaths.”

Polly kneels beside me and touches my arm. “You need to get out of this house.”

“Why?”

Still no baby squirrel. Tizzy descends to the base of the tree trunk.

“Did you make that list, like I told you to? The one of all the things you’ve always wanted to do but didn’t have time for?”

“Yes.” I flick a wrist toward my dresser. “I think it’s still over there.”

Polly stands and crosses the room. A second later she says, “This paper is blank, Dana.”

“I couldn’t think of anything.”

“I don’t believe that. Surely you have things you want to do. Besides having a family, I had other big dreams when I was young. Then I got busy and pushed them aside. It must be the same for you.”

I shrug.

“What were your dreams before you had your kids?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Dana—”

“It doesn’t matter.” For the first time since she entered the bedroom, I cease rocking and face her. “Whatever they were, they’re gone now, and even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t know how to begin to accomplish them. All I’m good at is being a mother. That’s it. Period.”

“Being a mother is no small thing.”

“But it’s not marketable, and I don’t have any other skills. Not anymore.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I tried to find a job.”

She nods. “And?”

“Do you know what businesses are willing to hire a middle-aged woman with a twenty-four-year-old philosophy degree and no work experience? None. Not even the kind that require their employees to ask, ‘Would you like fries with that?’ They think I’m overqualified, and I’ll be bored. As if I’m not already.”

“You didn’t find anything?”

“Nothing. Nada. Zilch.”

“You could go to work for Carl.”

“No way. I’ve been working for Carl for more than two decades here at the house. Besides, he gives me money. I don’t have to earn it.”

She sends me a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry. Maybe it’s just bad timing. Closer to Christmas, I bet you could find work in a boutique or something like that.”

“It’s mid-October. What do I do until then?”

Polly crosses her arms. “I don’t know. But I’m not going to stand here and watch you waste away feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Neither am I.” Mother strides into the room, a Coach purse I’ve never seen before slung over her shoulder, a clove cigarette poised between her fingertips. She puts her purse on my unmade bed, stoops and grabs my robe from the floor and tosses it at me. “Get up.”

“I—” The phone rings. I pull it from beneath the blanket across my lap, ignoring Polly’s narrowed eyes when I check the caller ID.

“So you didn’t know I’d called, huh?” she says.

It’s Troy. For the first time in a long time, I feel like smiling. He hasn’t answered his phone in four days. “Hi, sweetie.”

“Hey, Mom.”

He sounds funny. “How are you?”

“Terrible. I’ve had a cold since last week.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“What could you do? You’re hundreds of miles away.”

Don’t remind me.

“I thought I could sleep it off so I didn’t go to class.”

“Good. You need your rest. Don’t push it, Troy.”

“Tell my economics teacher that. When I called him, he said I still have to take the test even though I missed the lecture today.”

“Did you explain that you’re sick?”

“He didn’t care. He wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Maybe he’d listen to me. You want me to call him?”

A pause, then he says, “I don’t know. I doubt it would make any difference. He’s a major butt-hole.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try.”

“Okay, call him. Say I have a fever.”

My pulse jumps. “Do you?”

“Probably. I feel like crap. Tell him there’s no way I’m gonna be up to taking that test. I’m too sick to study.”

“What’s his name and number?” Before he can answer, I say, “Just a minute.” I snap my fingers at Mother and motion for the blank piece of paper on the dresser, mouthing the word pen.

Rolling her eyes at Polly, Mother brings them to me, then takes a deep drag off her cigarette. Tilting back her head, she blows out a stream of sweet-smelling smoke.

“Okay,” I say to Troy. He coughs before rattling off the information. I write it down. “You sound awful. Are you taking any medicine?”

“I don’t know what to take.”

“I packed a decongestant and cough syrup in your first-aid kit. It’s all labeled. Maybe you should go to the student clinic and make sure it’s nothing serious.”

“I’m too tired. I’m achy, too.” And whiny. Just like when he was little and not feeling well. My heart squeezes with love for him. “I just need to sleep,” he says.

“Are you eating?”

“A little. The food here sucks.”

“No wonder you’re sick. Take those vitamins I bought for you. And don’t try to go to classes tomorrow, sweetie.”

“I won’t.” He yawns. “I wish I knew someone in my English class who’d share notes with me.”

“You haven’t made any friends?”

“Not in that class.”

“Well, ask someone. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.” I sigh and bite my lower lip. “If I was there I’d go and do it for you, sweetie.” I watch Tizzy darting around the yard worried about her baby, and sympathize. “I wish I was there to take care of you while you’re sick, too. Make some hot tea in the microwave. I put a box of chamomile in your grocery supplies. And don’t worry about economics. I’ll call your teacher right now.”

“Oh, good gawd,” Mother drawls as she returns from flushing her cigarette down the toilet in the adjoining bathroom. “How old is the boy?”

“Is that Grandmother?” Troy asks.

“Yes. You want to talk to her?”

“Sure.”

“Here she is. Goodbye, Troy. Take care of yourself. Love you.” I hold out the phone to Mother. “Don’t talk long. I need to call his teacher.”

“Oh, please.” She takes the phone, presses it to her ear and says, “Hi, darling.”

I shift my attention to Polly. “It’s hard being away from him at times like this. It’s always hard, but him being sick makes it worse. I feel so helpless.”

“I’m sure it won’t be easy for me, either, when my kids go away. But they have to grow up sometime.”

I push out of the rocker and the blanket falls from my shoulders to the floor. “How can we just expect them to take care of everything on their own overnight? They’re used to having us in charge one day, and the next they’re supposed to handle their lives like an adult?”

Mother says goodbye to Troy, then hands me the phone. I glance at the professor’s name on the paper in my hand and begin punching in his number.

“Damn it, Dana, you’re making a mistake.” She pulls another cigarette from her purse. “Do you want Troy to become a man, or a wimp?”

I turn my back to her and put the phone to my ear.

“After he graduates and starts working at the agency, are you going to gripe out Carl if he doesn’t give Troy a raise every year?” The phone starts ringing. When I continue to ignore Mother, she says to Polly, “Come on. Let’s see if there’s coffee in the kitchen.” They leave the room.

Twenty minutes later, Mother returns to the bedroom alone.

“Where’s Polly?”

“She had an appointment.” Mother sits at the edge of my bed. “So…what did he say?”

I open my closet door. “Troy’s right—the man’s a butt-hole.”

“Rules are rules. Troy needs to learn that.”

“Sometimes rules need to be changed. And people have to stand up and speak out against injustice to make that happen.”

“So, let Troy be the one to stand up.”

I pull out my suitcase and put it on the bed beside her.

“He is the one who should buck the system, not you, darling. What are you doing with that suitcase?”

“Packing. If he needs me, I’m there.”

“You’re flying to Colorado?”

“Driving. I just got off the phone with the airline. The next flight out is late tonight, and I’d have to go standby. I don’t want to risk it.”

I unzip the suitcase, open it.

Mother reaches over and closes it again. “You’re being ridiculous. What on earth do you think you can do for him?”

“I’ll talk to his teacher in person. He’ll see I’m serious about this if I meet him face-to-face. I’ll go to Troy’s other classes tomorrow and take notes for him, and I’ll nurse him through his flu. He can stay with me at the hotel until he feels better. I’ll feed him chicken-noodle soup.”

“He has a cold, for God’s sake. He didn’t even sound all that congested. You’re just looking for an excuse to go see him.”

I return to the closet and start pulling out clothes.

“Does Troy know you’re coming?”

“I want to surprise him.”

Her laugh is sharp. “Oh, he’ll be surprised all right. Get ready for a fight.”

“He’ll be relieved.”

“What about the dinner party for Carl’s new account?”

Why, oh why, did I tell my mother about that? “What about it? It’s a week from Friday.”

“He needs you here while he’s preparing that presentation, Dana. Carl shouldn’t have to worry about whether or not you’ll have everything ready for the dinner party. He needs your moral support.”

“What do you want me to do? Pull out some pom-poms and do a cheer every night?” Not that Carl wouldn’t like that, but it’s not happening.

“Cook him well-balanced meals. Give him back rubs. It’s a very big deal for him, you know that. For you, too. It’s your financial future we’re talking about.”

“Carl will be so busy he won’t even miss me, I promise you. And I’ll be home in plenty of time.”

Mother watches me pack. When I finish, I close the suitcase and dial Carl’s number.

“Troy will balk if you just show up,” he says.

“He’ll be happy.”

“I was an eighteen-year-old boy once. I know what I’m talking about, Dana. Trust me—he won’t be happy.”

“I know our son. We have a closer relationship than you had with your mother. He actually likes me.”

Carl sighs. “That’s a long drive alone. Can’t you wait and fly out in the morning?”

“I don’t want to wait. Besides, the ticket costs a fortune last minute.”

Giving up, Carl tells me to be careful. Mother mumbles something, but I don’t hear what she says.

Outside the window, the baby squirrel runs up the tree trunk, followed by Tizzy. They pause on a bough and she holds out her tiny paws to offer him something. I smile. It’s probably an acorn for his growling stomach.

CHAPTER 7

The sun has gone down by the time I pull into the visitor’s parking lot a block away from Troy’s dorm. I’m road-weary, but too excited to care. It’s been seven and a half weeks since I last saw my son. I can’t wait to see his face when he opens the door and finds me outside of it.

As soon as I know how he’s doing, I’ll call around and find a hotel suite with two bedrooms and a kitchenette. Considering how lousy Troy feels, I’m sure he’ll jump at the chance to get away from his roommate for a while, out of that cramped dorm room with those tiny matching twin beds. Once he has settled in at the hotel, I’ll run to the store and buy a few groceries. Seven-Up, hot tea, chicken-noodle soup. A little tender-loving care from his mother and Troy will feel better in no time.

Tomorrow, while he sleeps in, I’ll attend his classes and take notes, then schedule a meeting with his economics teacher. If anyone can set things straight with the man, I can. This isn’t the first time I have had to confront a teacher on behalf of one of my kids.

I park the Lexus, grab my purse and jacket, and climb out, pausing to stretch my aching back. As I start down the sidewalk, I slip the jacket on. The temperature has dropped since I last stopped for gasoline and to throw away trash from a fast-food lunch on the go. Dense clouds hang low in an inky-black sky. On the radio earlier, an area weatherman said to expect snowfall tonight in most parts of the state. I shiver and hasten my pace, wishing I had brought a heavier coat.

It’s a quiet Wednesday evening. Students stroll across campus, alone or in small groups. Others are on bicycles, a few on Rollerblades. I take deep breaths of brisk air and try to recall what it felt like to be young and away at school. Polly’s questions about my dreams before I married and became a mother drift through my mind.

What did I want?

To meet someone and fall in love. To have children. But what else? What possessed me to study philosophy, of all things? Pressure to declare a major at the end of my sophomore year? All the courses I had taken up to that point transferred, so I didn’t lose any hours by becoming a philosophy major. Was that the appeal?

Memories of my own uncertainty filter back to me. I felt overwhelmed, adrift and desperate. Desperate to make a choice. Afraid I would make the wrong one and end up stuck in a career I hated for the rest of my life.

Funny how I’ve come full circle; I feel the same now. Uncertain. Overwhelmed and adrift. Desperate and afraid. But I don’t want to think about all those feelings at the moment. They aren’t important as I open the door to Troy’s dorm. Carl and I must have walked this route more than a dozen times while helping Troy move in, carting box after box up to his room.

When I reach the wall of elevators, I push the up button and wait. Soon, a ding sounds and the doors slide apart. Three laughing guys reeking of cigarette smoke step off, and I step on, followed by a boy and a girl who can’t keep their hands off each other. I push Three.

“Five, please,” the young man says, and I push that number, too. “Thanks,” he mutters, then I’m forgotten. The doors close, trapping me with the musty, leftover scents of a multitude of students who have stood here before. Smoke and spilled drinks. Sweat and unwashed clothing. Pepperoni and popcorn and who knows what else. They’re all there. Signs of young life on the run.

To avoid the giggling couple in the corner, I fix my gaze on the numbers above the doors. None too soon, the doors part onto the third floor, and I’m off and walking the narrow stretch of hallway that leads to Troy’s room, my heartbeat keeping time with my step. Young men and women cut glances my way as we pass one another. Some mumble greetings, but no one looks me in the eye.

The boom and screech of rock and roll hits me long before I reach Troy’s door. I assure myself the music isn’t coming from his room. Troy is sick. His roommate wouldn’t be so inconsiderate. But after a few more steps, I realize the music is from Troy’s room. Voices and laughter, too. In his effort to make new friends, is my son reluctant to stand up for himself? Am I going to have to play the bad guy for the sake of his health? If so, I’m willing.

At his door, I make a fist and pound three times.

“It’s open,” Troy yells.

Turning the knob, I push in.

He sits on the bed playing a video game, a beer can propped on one thigh, his back to the door. A girl with henna-red hair sits on the bed, too, facing him, her legs crossed beneath her, an open magazine in her lap and a beer between her knees. She wears pajama pants and a T-shirt, no bra. The girl glances up and straight at me. Her eyes widen, but before she can say anything, Troy crushes his can and blurts, “What took you so long, dickhead? We’re out of brews.” He tosses the can onto the clothes-strewn floor and turns, his face falling when he sees me. “Mom…”

He and the girl both scramble to their feet as, behind me, a male voice calls, “Logan, you bastard, you owe me. I almost got caught sneaking these in here.”

I look over my shoulder as a skinny, freckle-faced young man bursts into the room pulling a twelve-pack of Old Milwaukee from beneath his coat. When he spots me, he stops short, moving the pack of beer behind his back.

I return my attention to Troy. “I thought you were sick. Too sick to study, isn’t that what you said?”

“I am…sort of. I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Obviously.” I look at the girl. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

“She’s—”

“Kate,” the girl says. Standing, she wades her way toward me through a sea of discarded clothing, wadded-up napkins and notebook paper, magazines, shoes and crumpled cans.

I shake the hand she extends, then turn to the boy at the door.

“I’m Bennie,” he says. With a sheepish expression, he transfers the twelve-pack from his right hand to his left so he can shake with me, too.

“I’m Dana Logan. Troy’s mother.” I glance back around in time to see Kate exchange a wide-eyed glance with Troy that clearly says, Shit! What are you going to do?

Aloud, she says, “We should, um, let the two of you talk.” Kate starts around me. “Come on, Bennie.”

“I’ll call you,” Troy says to her.

“Later, man,” Bennie mutters.

They close the door.

Color rises to Troy’s face, familiar red splotches of embarrassment and irritation. He clears his throat. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“Why? So you could hide the evidence and pretend to be sick?”

“What are you trying to do? Catch me at something?”

“I wanted to surprise you. I see that’s exactly what I did.” My throat aches with disappointment as I motion to his crumpled beer can and the littered floor. “I believed you, Troy. I came to fix things with your economics professor and to help you get over your cold.”

“You were supposed to call him, not show up at his door.”

“I did call him. He was adamant about you taking the test, so I thought it might help if I spoke to him in person. And you said you needed someone to go to class and take notes for you since you’re so sick.” I cross the room and pick up Kate’s beer. “I didn’t realize this stuff cured the flu.”

“You drove all this way to take notes for me?” His voice rises an octave.

Someone pounds on the door and shouts, “When’s the party?”

Troy walks to the door, cracks it, pokes his head out. He talks quietly before shutting it again and moving around me to stand beside the bed.

“I came to take care of you,” I say.

He tugs at his hair and groans. “I’m not ten years old. Couldn’t you have gone over the teacher’s head and called the dean or something? And mailed some antibiotics? I don’t need you to wipe my nose anymore. Stop trying to run my life like you always have.”

His words slash like a knife and the last of my self-esteem bleeds out of me. My certainty that I’ve always been good at one important thing. The most important thing. Being a mother. I have prided myself on always giving him and Taylor what they need, but have I? The expression on his face seems to indicate otherwise.

I stare at Troy and realize I don’t know him. Not completely, as I did when he was a little boy. But he’s not that little boy anymore. An entire segment of his life exists that is separate from the one we share. That segment is off-limits to me, and he wants it to remain off-limits.

Reluctant understanding dawns when I consider my relationship with my own mother. It’s normal for Troy to pull away from me. He needs to, in order to become an adult. I can’t remain the center of his universe.

Still, it hurts to think he hasn’t missed me at all. Am I the only one struggling to let go of our prior relationship and move on to a new one? Is it easy for him? I should be happy he and Taylor are growing up. Isn’t that the whole point of raising a child? But I’d like to think that I’m more to them than a bank account, a complaint department and a repairman; someone to call only when they want money, have a problem or need something fixed.

“Why did you call me?” My voice breaks. “What did you expect me to do?”

“Not make me look like a freakin’ geek in front of everybody. You always have to butt in.” He turns his back to me.

Trembling and fighting tears, I reach behind me for the doorknob. “You want me to butt out? Okay. I will. But your dad and I didn’t send you here to party night and day, then skip your classes, Troy. We expect some effort on your part. The money we give you isn’t to blow on beer. It’s easy to let yourself get distracted and before you know it, you’ve flunked out. Or lost motivation and dropped out.”

“Maybe I should drop out. I’m only here because…” He flushes a deeper shade of red and looks away.

“Because why?” I ask softly.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Talk to me.”

“Why? So you can spell out what you and Dad expect from me?”

Torn between wanting to shake him and wanting to hug him, I stare at Troy for several more drawn-out seconds. I sense he’s as conflicted and confused as I am. “Maybe we should postpone this conversation until we’ve both had some time to calm down.” I open the door. “Good night, Troy.” Leaving his room, I dodge a string of gawking students in the hallway.

Cold wind bites my cheeks and blows hair into my face when I exit the building. I move quickly down the sidewalk, anxious to escape the chill and my own humiliation. Halfway to the lot where I’m parked, Troy catches up to me, matching my pace so that we’re side by side.

“Mom…I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.” I keep walking.

“It’s just…you treat me like I’m still a kid. I’m sick of it.”

“Then quit acting like a kid, Troy.”

“The beer’s no big deal. It’s not like I drink all the time or anything.”

“I hope not.”

“I don’t need you to do every little thing for me anymore.”

“No, just the things you choose not to do.” He and Taylor both. I reach the car and fumble in my purse for my keys.

Troy fidgets beside me. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

I turn to him, grieving what we’ve lost, the closeness we once shared that I’m desperately afraid we won’t ever find again. “I’m sorry, too, Troy.”

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