

# Out and Back

By

Diane Strong

Out and Back

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Diane Strong

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is for my children Emma and Jack,

So they may have a twisted version of the truth.

...and to the memory of my mother (duh)

# Preface

I realize that this book reads like a true story but it is not. Any similarities to people places or things are purely coincidental. Seriously...this _is_ a book of fiction.

This book wrote itself in four months. It did not edit itself however and for that I must thank the many first readers, especially Beth Dean for the painstaking work of correcting my grammar. I would also like to thank the most well-read man I have ever met, Riaz Dean, whom was my very first reader. If he had not said, "I really liked it!" I may never have bothered to edit it.

I would also like to thank my sister for designing the cover of this book and providing the inspiration for Leah. I am indebted to Rebekah Tilley for her thoughtful first reading, advice on self-publishing and priceless technical support, Jeannette Bracken who advised I make the lead character less of a Bitch and the various strangers who read and critiqued it honestly. Without the constant encouragement of my hardworking husband, Danny Strong and my mostly self-entertaining children, this book wouldn't have gotten written- at least not outside the confines of a detention center.

I would also like to thank The Georgetown Run Club and Intellectual Society, you are my favorite people in the world and it is because of you all that I stay sane (or at least think that I do).

If you are familiar with my writing, you will be happy to see my humor throughout this book. The main character is very real and we can't all be funny _all_ the time. We must also be a bitch. I hope you love her and hate her as much as I do.

This book was inspired by the death of my mother.
According to Chris W. on Yahoo answers: _"An out and back trail brings you back to your start."_

On the topic of bereavement, Hospice says: _"Each of us will take a different route. Each will choose his own landmarks. He will travel at his own unique speed and will navigate using the tools provided by his culture, experience, and faith. In the end, he will be forever changed by his journey."_

# Prologue

November 10, 2010

Facebook

Update Status: If you are the praying type, I'd appreciate you saying a prayer for my Mom...she is in the hospital . . .
November 12, 2010

Facebook

Update status: Mom has been downgraded to the ICU
November 14, 2010

Facebook

Update Status: The prayers seem to be working, Mom is making progress

It was a blur. I managed to pack and arrange for the pet-sitter and cancel appointments without thought. It just happened and I remember very little. I felt dazed.

On Thursday morning, I woke early so I could go for a run before we got on the road. I decided to be easy on myself and only go five miles. As I ran, I felt heavy and taxed, not at all normal for me. I struggled to get air between sobs. I tried to look into the eyes of the driver of each passing car. I wanted them to see I was crying, wanted to scream at them...tell them my Mom fucking died. She is gone. I had to stop multiple times, buckle over and catch my breath. But I had to run.

We drove half way, stayed at a cheap hotel. When we walked into the hotel room I couldn't breathe. I was trying not to cry and it took my breath away. The urge to call her and tell her we were half-way home almost killed me. I always call right now. Who do I call now? Who cares that I am half-way home, I am off the road, safe, at a hotel?

I can't cry in front of my children, I must be strong. I go to the bathroom and regain my composure.

At the hotel I have my first dream about her. I assumed she would come to me in dreams and tell me she loved me and life would be okay without her, but that's not the kind of dream it was. She was standing in the distance, smoking. She didn't have her nose on, and she was grinning I think. Then her doctor walked up to her and swung a huge padded bat at her. It knocked her down, and she got right back up saying, 'its okay'. Then he swung again, knocked her down and she slowly got up. He swung again and this time she only made it to her knees before he swung one last time. She didn't get up. I stood by and watched, unable to speak.

The next morning I woke early, stared at the ceiling remembering the dream, trying to make sense of it.

How could this be happening? Just weeks ago I felt as if life could not get worse. The struggle to get our home sold before the bank took it back had taken over my life. The fear of going bankrupt, going back to square one had intensified my life to the point that nothing else seemed to matter. And then suddenly the swirling stopped and here I am staring at the ceiling of a cheap hotel.

I went for a run along the streets of the unfamiliar town. It was cold, but I felt nothing. I couldn't breathe. The exhaust from the cars clogged my lungs. I ran in slow motion, trying to keep my normal pace and failing horribly. I do know that it is nearly impossible to hold back tears when you run. You either let it out in wails and keep running or you hold it in and stop for lack of oxygen. I chose to run.

# Chapter 1

November 17, 2010

2:03 PM"Yes, ahh this is Betty, I am a nurse at Grand Itasca Medical Center. I am so sorry but your mother's condition has changed dramatically, we need you to come down as soon as possible....She just coded and the doctors are doing CPR on her now. Oh, god... I am so sorry." "But I'm in Kentucky . . . ""Oh my, I thought I was calling Leah. I am so sorry. Your Mom, uh, she must have choked on her vomit, I was down the hall getting her feeding tube and she coded. She must have fallen because they are doing CPR on the floor right now. I am so sorry, so sorry."I can visualize Nurse Betty standing at the nurse's station that I have never seen, frantically glancing between my mother's room and her fingers that are continually winding the cord around her index finger. I picture her as petite, mid-forties. She is sweet, kind and honest. I have spoken with her numerous times over the last week, she's been my mothers' nurse nearly every day.I picture my mother's bloated body being slammed against the hard tile of the hospital room floor. I imagine the nurses fumbling with the oxygen mask, not sure how to cover the crater that exists where her nose once was. Just that morning my brother told me Mom was--and I quote-- 'not going to kick the bucket anytime soon, so you shouldn't need to come just yet.' She had made a turn for the better, she had a feeding tube, and she would finally get calories to nourish her screaming body. Those calories would heal her; she would slowly come back from the brink. Her hearing would come back, her eyes would heal from her cataract surgery, and she would regain her strength and be able to walk without collapsing. But death is never convenient is it? No. And mothers are not houses. You cannot put them up for sale when you have given-up on them.

While I was up to my eyeballs in my life back in Kentucky, my mother was dying in Northern Minnesota, without her youngest daughter there to tell her not to.

Despite the fact she was in the act of dying, my children still fought over a harmonica in my dining room, my house still sat for sale without an offer in over a year, my kids' library books were still overdue, my laundry was still waiting for me and my dinner still needed to be made before my husband arrived home. And as pathetic as it sounds, in the back of my mind I was debating if there would be time to go for a run before I had to head north to Minnesota.

I run. It is who I have become. When I discovered running four years ago it came as a welcoming challenge. What started as five laps around a gym track has evolved into a daily ritual of five or six miles of which I cannot function without. It is my cocaine. I need my fix. I need to have my hour alone on the quiet country lanes with myself and my thoughts. I need to plan my day, untangle the messes in my mind, focus on my future and lately, try to fix my mom.

They say you should take rest days. They say you need a day off each week to allow the micro-tears in your muscles to heal. _They_ are not dealing with a mother who is wallowing in her cancer, or kids who constantly fight or a husband who works too much. The last time I took a 'rest day' I felt edgy and irritable and unable to concentrate. I felt fat and bloated and guilty about everything I ate.

I need to run. If it is not for my health, than it is for my sanity and for the safety of those who surround me. And lucky for me I have been blessed with a husband who does not understand this desire to run, but none the less bends his schedule and enables me my vice without hesitation. He is the one constant in my life, unchanging, never judging, consistently a beacon in the night.

# Chapter 2

Damn it Mother! I told you this would happen. I told you, you wouldn't live to see Christmas. I told you! Why didn't you listen to me? I was right. I told you. Now look at you, you're gonna die. Damn it!

It all happened so fast. Late Sunday night she had fallen in the kitchen and as usual could not get up. Dad tried to help her but it ultimately took half an hour to get her off the floor. As usual, she hit her head.

On Monday Dad told me all about it. He sounded so desperate, as if he couldn't do it anymore. He sounded spent. Normally he just sounds pissed-off at her. He gets pissed that she can't remember things, that she doesn't eat, that she drinks non-stop and falls down sometimes two or three times a day. He is pissed at himself for not being able to help her. But on Monday, he just sounded desperate.

I meant to talk to Mom after my Dad confessed the fiasco of the night before, but I knew she was trying to get ready to go to town with my Dad, and these days it took her a long time. I cut my conversation with Dad short without talking to her and immediately called Leah.

Leah still lives in my hometown, so does my brother but he is oblivious as to what my parents are doing or going through. Leah is stuck with many of the responsibilities involved with my parents, since I am a thousand miles away. Leah has committed her Tuesdays to my parents for over a year now, ever since my Mom went through radiation and needed someone to drive her to Hibbing once a week. Now she takes my Mom around town on Tuesdays to get her shopping and running done, then they have lunch together.

Recently Mom quit asking Leah to take her to the liquor store; she was tired of having to explain why she was buying ten bottles of liquor and mixes when she just purchased that much the week before.

Emotionally Leah was torn. She was resentful that she was losing vacation time in order to run Mom around. Not that she would ever be able to take an actual vacation that consisted of more than a few days; the newspaper couldn't survive without her that long. Really, the vacation days would be lost if she didn't use them. I think it was the lack of appreciation that bothered her most.

Each week Mom would eat less and less at lunch. All Leah could do was sit and watch. If she could have shoved the food down Mom's throat, I think she would have.

When I phoned Leah at work and told her about the desperation in Dad's voice she promised she would call me right back. She did. Together we decided that the following day would determine our ultimate plan. Assess Mom, insist that she call to make a doctors appointment ASAP in which Leah would accompany her and give her the choice of either coming to live with Leah, or go into a nursing home where they can make sure she eats.

In Kentucky, I got out my Grand Rapids phone book and started calling Nursing Homes and Human Services. As it turned out, in order for social security to pay for a Nursing Home, Mom had to be sent there by her doctor and only after spending two days in the hospital.

Convincing a doctor to admit my Mom would not be hard. My mother was sustaining herself on about 300 calories a day and most of them were from the margarita mix. A woman her size, all of five feet, requires 1,000 calories just for organ function. She was suffering the effects of malnutrition. Why her doctors hadn't already admitted her was beyond me. Most likely, they didn't know she was collapsing from weakness, vomiting half the time when she tried to eat, dealing with water retention in her legs that caused them to weep serous fluid. One good look at Mom and the doctor would admit her, I was sure of it. Mom just had to agree to the doctor's appointment."Mom looked worse today than I have ever seen her." Leah says, "And then she said she was in the mood for a burrito. I took her to Taco John's and went through the drive-thru then sat in the car while she ate it." Leah's voice gets serious now, "I almost called 911, Amber. She took one bite and it was like her body was revolting against her. She started gagging and I couldn't tell if she could breathe, I thought she was choking. Then she finally stopped and said it happens sometimes when she eats."I knew what she was talking about; I had been on the phone with Mom a few times when she started coughing, then gagging and had to hang up suddenly. It sounds horrible. What's even more horrible is the thought of vomiting without a nose. Half of the vomit would come out the cavity where her nose once was. The tissue of the cavity was very sensitive adding to her misery."That was when I told her she had to come live with me. I told her that at least I would be there in the morning and evening to make sure she was eating.""So what did she say to that?" I say."She said no, she was afraid to be left alone. And I have to say I agree with her. She is so weak Amber." Leah pauses. "I told her we had to go to see a doctor together then, and we were gonna tell him everything that is going on. She called while I was sitting there. We have an appointment Thursday.""And guess what else Amber? She agreed to go into assisted living. It surprised me."

*

I finally spoke to my Mom on Wednesday.

"Hello?"

"Mom?"

"Oh hi honey," She sounds trashed.

But lately that is the norm. I don't think she is necessarily drinking more than usual, actually she is probably drinking less. It's just that between the lack of calories and the narcotics, the alcohol is hitting her harder than ever. She sounds like a sleep deprived drunk.

"Mom, you there?"

"Yeah honey"

"Leah wanted me to make sure you ate something, she said you promised you would eat tonight."

"What?" she says this with astonishment. "No I dote have any halucin'tigent'tic drugs!"

Huh? What the..? What the hell was that about?

"No Mom, did you eat? Leah said you promised. Have you eaten anything?"

"Oh, naw." She says in a given-up, yet matter-of-fact voice.

She isn't even bothering to add a 'not yet' or 'I was just thinking about what to eat', she is not making excuses anymore.

"So ma, I'm glad you're going to see your doctor with Leah. And I really think that going into assisted living for a while is a good move."

"Yeah..." Her voice is a honking hush. The nasal, hare-lip voice that has become hers.

"I think Dad will be okay, Mom. He's a big boy, he can handle being at home alone for a bit."

"I def-in-ately think I should get a walker. E'veryone keeps telling me to get a walker. It would keep me from falling. And hitting my head....I can't keep hitting my head."

"A walker? Yeah Mom, that sounds good."

At this point, I realize I have lost her. It has been gradual until now, but today she is not hearing me. She is having her own conversation and it's confusing. I realize now that we waited too long.

Back home in Kentucky I went through my days as if nothing were wrong. It was hard to tell weather this was really the end or just another episode. So I busied myself with my life. I ran every morning, I got my kids up and fed them and prepared their schoolwork for them. I did my grocery shopping and kept up with the laundry. On Tuesday I went to my run club and didn't even mention my mom's situation. My run club was aware that my mother had cancer, but I didn't want to think about it when I was with those friends, so I left them out of the details.

The kids knew there was something wrong with grandma...and with me. I was becoming more and more short with them. My morning runs were no longer enough to deal with the stress. I found myself craving an evening run which was impossible since Trent was at work. I was praying that no one would want to see my house, dreading a call from my realtor. Despite needing desperately to sell the house, I couldn't bear the thought of preparing it for a showing.

I was craving my mother's advice. I was wishing I had someone to talk to and she was the only voice I wanted to hear. But talking with her was not only unproductive, it was crippling to me because I may never speak to her again the way we used to. I may never have my friend back. She may already be too far gone. Trent tried repeatedly to comfort me and encouraged me to talk but I was cold and pulled away.

As I kept up with my routines, I was interrupted a few times a day with a phone call from Leah giving me an update.

The doctor had her admitted into the hospital on Thursday after her appointment. He sent for blood work, he was pretty sure she was in renal failure. He also wanted a culture done of her legs, which were now covered with splitting, seeping tissue from the swelling. They were leaking enough serum to soak through her pants.

She was started on IV fluids since she was extremely dehydrated. They also gave her a sedative to combat the withdrawal symptoms that were sure to come. With this, she slept. She would not wake again until Saturday afternoon. The nurses gave her a diaper and hoped to see normal bowel movements instead of the runny smears they had been seeing.

Leah was spending most of the day with her, watching her. She would take breaks to run her teenage girls to hockey practice or to friends but otherwise she was there.

On Saturday the nurses couldn't rouse her, it made them nervous. Leah gave Mom a shake and yelled at her and suddenly my mother woke. She was quite responsive and talked a little. She said she didn't remember ever agreeing to go into a nursing home.

She complained of being very tired but ate some applesauce and moved her arms and legs a little.

Meanwhile I am getting updates from Leah and the nurses. Do I need to be there? Should I come? I needed to know. On Saturday, Leah said to give it a couple more days,

"At this point Amber, I think you will just stress her out."

Stress her out. I can believe that, I wasn't even surprised to hear it. It has been me that has been brutally honest with my mother this whole time. Sure I started off nice, urging her to make changes, but eventually my 'intense' nature took over.

Five years ago my mother was a tough lady. She worked her ass off as a chef, would come home and haul water to horses, drag hoses around, treat injuries, then go inside and prepare a steak dinner for her and my Dad. She opened her own doors, packed bales of hay, threw wood, and dealt with sticky jar lids. She was very independent and she liked her drink at the end of the day.

Everything changed when she had her rotary cuff repaired. Suddenly Joyce was forced to allow others to do things for her. She became more dependent on others and soon she was comfortable with that. She found herself retired and went on permanent disability. Her evening drinks became afternoon drinks, her afternoon drinks became noon drinks.

Fast-forward 2 years. After a year of misdiagnosis ranging from allergies to a bone chip, my mother is diagnosed with melanoma in her nasal cavity. The plan is to remove half of her nose then reconstruct the nose using facial tissue. The doctors felt it would be straightforward.

As a nutrition guru and self-proclaimed expert on treating cancer naturally, I immediately started in on my mother about all the changes she needed to make. She needed to start eating lots of dark green veggies, raw preferably. She needed to eat lots of fruit. Antioxidants were very important. She should start to exercise to reduce her stress and optimize her health. She should avoid sugar, processed foods, definitely quit smoking and probably try to cut back on the alcohol.

My thinking was that if I had cancer, I would do everything in my power to defeat it. I would stop doing the things that caused it. I would try to live my life to the fullest.

"Mom, I did a little research on nasal cancer. It says that it is most common in people who drink and smoke. It's caused by drinking and smoking."

"MY doctor says this is NOT my fault."

"I'm just saying Mom; I think you need to make some changes in order to give yourself the best odds of beating this thing."

"I have been through so much, Amber. This is very stressful, the last thing I can do right now is quit smoking."

"Having cancer is making you too stressed out to quit smoking?"

"One thing at a time, Amber. My doctors haven't said anything about changing the way I eat."

"Of course they haven't Mom, there is no money in nutritional advice."

"Now Amber, I am doing everything I can do right now."

It was so frustrating. She took a position I couldn't understand. It was completely opposite from what I would do and it drove me crazy. I realized it was out of my hands but I found it difficult to just sit back and watch.

And of course I had my own life to deal with back home in Kentucky. My life didn't just stop because my mom was diagnosed with cancer. I was deciding whether to sell my home, I was tossing around options for my children's education, I had begun serious training for races, and I was trying to be a supportive wife and a super mom. I had what I would consider to be my own problems. I could solve my mom's problems if she would just listen to me. But she wouldn't.

Unfortunately my mother, a smoker for 40 years, failed to quit smoking before her first reconstructive surgery. The surgeon hacked at her face anyway and tried to grow a new nose up by her eyebrow. Each surgery seemed to leave new, more impressive scars on her face. She had one that went through her forehead to her hairline another that went through her cheek to her ear. It was as though they were trying to save her nose despite her face. It was horrible. And ultimately, the reconstruction failed. Her skin would not heal properly because she refused to quit smoking. The saddest thing was that the surgeon knew it wouldn't heal, yet he kept hacking away.

# Chapter 3

Status update Facebook:

Amber: ran her hilly six today, had a PR (personal record)!!

Amber: is gearing up for a 10 miler this Saturday

Amber: is pumped about the race this weekend.

Amber: says thanks for all the good luck wishes, she came in first in her age group!!!

Over the last year, I have become addicted to Facebook. It began with the thrill of finding out what happened to all those people in high school and evolved into an opportunity to brag about running and racing on my status daily.

Back in high school I was considered a burnout. I cared more about what party I was attending that weekend than anything else. I didn't play sports. I smoked. No one thought I would do anything with my life. Facebook was my chance to show everyone that I did turn out successful. I have a graduate degree and a successful husband and beautiful children... and I run. I know this is something the Jocks in school would never have expected. They may be all fat and working at a car lot but not me, I'm a runner.

While perusing Facebook one day in January of 2009 I came across a posting by a guy I grew up with. He had posted an invitation to donate money to the Larry Freeburg Foundation. It was a foundation in memory of his father who died of Oral cancer less than a year ago. A picture of Larry holding a large mouth Bass with a huge smile stared back at me.

At some point in the spring of 2009, I decided I was going to step up my game and run a full marathon. All my Running World magazines show people in tears with big pink ribbons and a picture on their shirt, "this one's for you Mom". Everyone runs for a cause. I wanted to run for a cause. Besides, if I did the marathon to raise money for a cause, I would be less likely to quite midway through training. And that's when I got the idea.

Chad Freeburg

Facebook Message

Subject: Larry Freeburg Oral Cancer Foundation

Chad,

I know this might seem a little strange and if you don't think it is a good idea I promise not to be offended. Well, I am planning to run a marathon this fall and I would like to raise money for a cause. I was wondering if I could do it for the Larry Freeburg Oral Cancer Foundation.

My mother was diagnosed with nasal cancer, but it was removed and she is fine now. I know this sounds cheesy but I had a dog that survived oral cancer. She was my baby before I had babies

Anyway, talk it over with your family and let me know what you decide.

Amber

***

Subject: RE: Larry Freeburg Oral Cancer Foundation

Amber,

That sounds great. My family would be honored to have you run your first marathon in memory of my father. Just let us know what we need to do.

Talk to you soon,

Chad

I did run the marathon. I set up a Facebook page so everyone could read about my training and encourage me. I had tried to convince others to run the 5K or 10K that same weekend. It turned out that not nearly as many people cared about my running as I had hoped.

Sure, I had a decent amount of people who joined my fan page, but for every friend that joined, three others didn't bother. I sent out personal email messages to my family and friends telling them what I was doing and how they could donate money to the cause. Only three family members paid up, most claiming not to have the extra funds. My sister-in-law wished me the best but said to 'please not send her any emails about how the training was going'. I found it all quite humbling and had no choice but to laugh.

But the one person in this world whose pride I had most wanted, the person I most wanted to impress, was my mother. And she didn't seem to give a rat's ass about the marathon. She didn't seem to care nor comprehend the lengths I was going to to complete the agonizing 26.2 mile run. 'That race thingy your doing' is how she would refer to it. I had told her about Larry, how he died of oral cancer and I was running for his Foundation, but she must have been too drunk to remember the details.

I have always called my mother while making my dinner. Usually--in the past anyway--she was only a few drinks down and completely coherent. Occasionally she would forget what we talked about, but it was rare and was due to an early celebration of some sort, like a birthday celebration.

I looked forward to our nightly conversations. She would listen intently as I told her about the kids and their antics. I would tell her all of my options; keep the house and get a job to help with the mortgage; sell the house and buy something smaller free and clear with the profits, or win the lottery and pay it off. She would usually agree on whatever I decided was right and then list off all the reasons that my decision was the right one. She gave me confidence.

Every night she would ask what I was making for dinner, and every night I dreaded telling her because she would always respond with either, "ick" or "I hate ----". And since I was not the perfect wife or mother I wanted to be, I tended to prepare the same dishes for my family every week. I was usually in the middle of a big dinner rut that consisted of the same five meals until Trent would finally break down and beg me to make something different.

She hated pesto, so the pesto pasta with grilled chicken and corn was usually a "I _hate_ pesto", She liked Tilapia so when I was making Salmon, brown rice and broccoli I usually got an; "ick!".

But when I was too lazy to prepare the usual and suggested I make a dinner of eggs and sausage she was in absolute agreement with me, "sometime it's okay to have breakfast for dinner". That statement was exactly what I needed to hear. I needed to be told it was okay to not always be perfect. And coming from a woman who would serve ice-cream for dinner on extremely hot days in summer because "it's made from milk and milk is good for you"... it didn't at all surprise me.

These days she was always pretty trashed by the time I called and it was getting harder and harder to talk to her. The conversation would usually involve me repeating the previous nights conversation, me getting frustrated and vowing never to call her this late in the evening again.

But I loved talking to my Mom. She always seemed to listen with endless patience as I would ramble on about my day and my troubles. She always had something wise to put in and I would hang up feeling better. No one else gave a shit about the things I talked about. No one else seemed so fascinated by my newly acquired bits of knowledge, laughed at my silly animal stories, apologized for my sorrows, assured me everything would be okay... "I promise".

So 2009 was a little less satisfying. I either had to call her earlier in the afternoon, or opt out of my Mom fix for the day.

Somehow, training for the October marathon was gratifying. I was making a family feel honored. The Freeburg's always at the very least gave a 'like' to my status updates, but usually there was a comment.

"Dad would be so honored Amber"

"I know Dad is on your shoulder, you're not alone."

Not surprisingly, I never felt alone on all those long hard training runs. Quite often, I was joined by a Falcon. He would swoop down low as if to say, "I'm Here Amber, you are safe, let's do this." and then he would glide off into the distance and perch on a tree as if keeping lookout. "Caw"

I would often cry on my runs. I would imagine my mother getting weaker with each surgery, sitting at her kitchen table smoking, trying to muster the strength to get on with her day. The image of her and my Dad spending each day the same long way made me feel so sad and helpless. So I ran harder. It seemed the sicker and more depressing her life became, and the less I had control over what was becoming of her, the more I ran. It was all I could do. In my mind I was becoming healthier as she became sicker. Maybe if I ran hard enough, I could make her healthy again, I could fix her. She couldn't run. I ran because I could.

I signed up for The Twin Cities Marathon. Since Chad and the rest of the Freeburg's all lived in Minnesota, and that of course was my home state, I thought it would be nice. I was hoping that even though the race was four hours south of Grand Rapids, that maybe some of my family would come to visit us at the hotel or even better, cheer me on in my race.

One of the biggest grudges I have against my parents is the fact that they would never come to visit me. If I wanted to see them I have to travel to them.

I have lived in what I consider some really interesting and beautiful places, but no convincing would entice them to make the trek to see me. So I would drive home.

During undergrad I lived in Billings, Montana. It was a 13 hour drive; I could do it in one long day. It seemed easy as I was still so young and homesick. I would fill my thermos with coffee, slam back a few pep-pills and chain-smoke my way home.

I never visited them when I lived in Alaska, but I was only there for a year. When Trent and I were first engaged, we lived in Colorado. It was a good 16-hour drive home to Minnesota but Trent and I were childless then, so we often made the trip in one long day with our dog riding proudly between us.

Up until I had kids, going home was not that big of a deal, I had a social life then. I still had friends who lived in the area that I looked forward to seeing. I mean really, I was going home to hang with those friends and party, not just to see my parents. But once the kids were born, my mother really started to hurt me.

I have yet to meet anyone who didn't have family waiting for them at the hospital when their first child was born. My mother spoke briefly of coming to Kentucky to help me. She said she might come a couple weeks after Chloe was born so I would have a chance to settle in. It broke my heart when she never came. Trent and I did the entire pregnancy, birthing classes, the birth, and learning the ropes of a newborn entirely by ourselves. Even though Trent was thirty-one and I was twenty-nine, I still felt like we were a couple of kids pretending like we weren't afraid. We stumbled our way through and grinned along the way. People would look at us and assume we had help.

To this day, whenever I hear someone say that their mother is coming to help them, I try to convince them that they are blessed. When I talk to other mothers who have grown kids having babies, I tell them how wonderful they are for going to be with their daughters. Their daughters may never thank them, but if their Mom wasn't there they would feel abandoned.

Abandoned. That is what I felt.

When I became pregnant with Jake, rather than be happy for me my mother acted a little annoyed. Her dream of having a doctor for a daughter was becoming less and less likely with each child I bore. I let her down.

" _Another_ baby Amber?"

"Uh...yeah. I know we were a little surprised too."

"This is it though, right? No more after this?"

She didn't come for Jake's birth but that wasn't a surprise either. Trent and I were more confident now and it must have showed because she never even mentioned coming.

~:~

As it turned out, my mother had a doctor's appointment at the Mayo and would be in the Twin Cities the same day I was arriving for my marathon. And believe it or not, she agreed to come visit me and the kids at the hotel.

I was driving from Kentucky with the two kids aged three and five. Trent stayed home to take care of the animals and work at the hotel. It was going to be a very short trip. I would arrive Friday, meet with the Freeburg's on Saturday while they ran the 5K and 10K race. On Sunday I would run my marathon, recover at the hotel Sunday night and head home on Monday.

My sister was coming on Friday to stay at my hotel with her teenage girls, Abby and Jess. She would watch my kids while I raced on Sunday. As usual, she had jumped at an opportunity to let our kids reunite and bond. She has always treated the idea of family like a gift and gone out of her way to keep ours together.

~*~

On the drive up, I had played over in my mind the dinner I imagined we would share with my parents and my uncle who was their driver. I imagined us all at some chain restaurant like Applebee's having a beer and waiting for appetizers as the kids colored and my mother tried to get to know them.

I pictured in my mind how I would struggle to keep the kids focused and not annoy my parents too much. My Mom would be all smiles, even though she wanted desperately to have a cigarette. Then my Dad would get up without explanation, head out the door and smoke, not apologizing to the non-smokers trying to enter through the fog. On returning, my father would sit down while simultaneously burping out the word "yep". I would cringe and my Mom would look at me as if to apologize for him. We would eat and enjoy ourselves and then we would say a sad goodbye and I would feel good about the fact that my parents spent a memorable evening with the grandkids they saw only twice a year. The kids would have a memory of them, a good one.

"Mom? Hi! I'm here! I'm about 10 minutes from my hotel."

"Oh, okay, well we are heading out of Rochester now, we can be there in about 45 minutes."

"Perfect, I can get checked in and...."

"We can't stay long though, just for a minute, we need to get home."

"Oh? I was hoping we could have dinner or something."

"No, we want to get to the other side of the cities before we have dinner, too many police out in the cities."

"Oh, okay..."

They called when they arrived in the parking lot. My mother looked hesitant to go up to my room, since it was a non-smoking room. But they came up anyway. They sat awkwardly on the beds while I put some of my stuff in the drawers and asked questions about her appointments.

"Does anyone want a beer?" I say,

"Oh, no. We can't have a drink until we get to the other side of the cities, there are way too many police here." My uncle says.

"Okay, whatever. I'm having one, even if it is warm. Eight hours in a car with two little kids calls for at least a few."

"Well honey, I hate to leave but it is going to get dark soon and we need to get on the road."

They were there for less than forty minutes. It was the one and only time my mother ever came to see me and the kids. My son doesn't remember them that day, my daughter "sort of does".

Each time I would visit Minnesota with the kids, we drove for two days--seventeen hours--to get there. Traveling with small children is challenging. My mother had no idea, the farthest she ever drove with us as kids was to a campsite 40 miles from our house. She had no idea how annoying a three year-olds voice could be when it echoed off the windows of the sealed interior of a car for eight hours straight.

At least on the drive up to Minnesota we had the anticipation of Christmas to come. There is no more beautiful place to be in the entire world at Christmas, than in northern Minnesota. And the vision of a perfect Christmas celebration with my family made it seem worth the 17 hour trip.

After being away from my family for six months, I was excited to see my sister and brother and nieces and nephew. But most of all I was excited to see my mom and her always amazing Christmas display. Though her outdoor decorations consisted only of a simple star on the barn, her indoor decorations were impressive. She would empty her hutch of the family pictures and replace them with a glass train that moved along a track, no fewer than 12 glowing angels, a moving carrousel, and a couple Santa's.

Her tree went through changes each year, sometimes it was flocked, sometimes it wasn't, and sometimes it was flocked white, sometimes blue. But it was always the biggest tree she could fit in her living room and it was always alive. She collected Santa Clauses so she had them in every possible location...on the TV, on the gun cabinet, on the built-in bookshelf. And she loved sleighs. She had large ones and little ones and she filled them with gifts just like they did in the store windows.

Christmas was so magical growing up. At least that is how I remember it. I love the way the Christmas lights on the tree would show through the ice covered glass of our huge picture windows. It was as if every time you drove into the driveway you were reminded that the anticipation of Christmas was waiting inside for you. My heart would blip when I saw it.

Each year my brother and sister and I would be told to sleep-in on Christmas morning, but we never did of course. After a year or two of being woken at 3am, my parents made a new rule. They kept the door leading to the upstairs locked until 5am on Christmas morning. Since we all slept in the basement, we were forced to wait to see what Santa brought. Each year we would wake up at 3am and sit on the steps leading to the upstairs waiting for 5am to roll around. By the time my mom would open the door at five, we were all fast asleep on the steps.

We were all greedy, selfish little kids. After a childhood of perfect Christmases, the tween age years hit. It seemed no matter what my mother did, us kids complained about our gifts and hated her for not getting us the right thing. She learned quickly that we all had to have the same number of gifts. It didn't matter, or we thought, that she spent the same amount of money on each kid. What mattered to us was the fact that we all had the same number of gifts in front of us on Christmas morning.

My mother was always tweaking Christmas in an attempt to get them perfect. One year, after hearing us complain about not having enough gifts, she managed to fill the floor around the tree with an overflowing pile of gifts. We were stacking them and arranging them daily to make room on the floor so we could see the TV. On Christmas morning my mother stood at the living room door in her bathrobe, holding her coffee with a grin. She knew we were finally going to get enough gifts to make us happy.

As I began unwrapping box after box of underwear, then a box containing a pair of camouflage sweat pants I became enraged. I threw the box at her demanding to know where my real presents were. "You want lots of gifts? You got lots of gifts!" She was tickled with herself. It was as if she knew she couldn't do the right thing so she did what we wanted...and won.

As we got older she was careful to ask us exactly what we wanted for Christmas, so as not to mess it up. As teenagers our wants were getting more expensive and it was clear that we would only get a few gifts since they cost so much. Since we basically knew what we were getting, it took much of the mystery out of our gifts and magic out of Christmas morning.

But the following year (in what I consider to be a brilliant move), my mother miss-labeled all the gifts. So it looked like none of us got what we asked for. Then on Christmas morning she slinked her way to the tree and grabbed a present for Leah and gave it to Blake. We all sat dumbfounded. Then she told Blake to open it. And just like that, she brought the magic back to Christmas morning.

So it was worth it to me to drive 17 hours to try to re-create those Christmases from my past and because I wanted so badly to have my kids know their grandparents. I loved my parents and I hoped they would too.

With two small children, the smoke filled house they lived in became a bone of contention. It was almost unbearable to be in. I had come to accept who my parents were, no longer expected them to change. I tolerated their behavior but drew the line at my kids being exposed to it. So me and my family stayed at my brother Blake's at Christmas and would go out to my parent's house on Christmas morning.

My mother tried to keep the smoke away from us. She would go to the basement stairs and smoke while we were there. It didn't make much of a difference however because my father, stressed out by company, would chain-smoke at the kitchen table.

My kids would avoid the kitchen in order to avoid the smoke, and my parents wouldn't leave the kitchen except on Christmas morning while we opened presents in the living room.

Most of the visions my mom probably had of my kids was the view of them sliding down the hill outside the kitchen window.

When we would leave after an awkward dinner, our throats would burn and our clothes and hair would reek of smoke. We couldn't wait to shower as soon as we got back to my brothers. We got into the habit of leaving our winter coats in the car.

~*~

The last two years Trent and I decided to stay at my uncle's cabin in the summer. The little cabin sat on a lake just 30 minutes from my parent's house. So we would drive 17 hours from Kentucky to the cabin, and they would have to drive 30 minutes to get to the cabin to visit us. They came twice for less than an hour the first summer, and didn't come at all last summer.

We were all being stubborn. Since the Minnesota trip was also our family vacation, we wanted to do more than just drive from family member's home to family member's home. We decided that they could come visit us at the cabin, and hang out with us. If they wanted to see us, they could come see us. So of course I assumed they didn't want to see us.

I should have known better. I wasn't the only neglected child, and my kids were not the only neglected grandchildren.

My sister and brother live in Grand Rapids. My sister has two girls and my brother has a son. I know the answer to my distant parents is not to live closer to them. My parents never attend sporting events in which the grandkids play, seldom talk to them, and never called them. We were abandoned by them. And I am sure, they felt the same.

~*~

Truth be told, my mother and I never really got along face to face anyway. We annoyed each other. I am too hyperactive for her, always moving, never sitting still, wanting to do things rather than talk about doing things. Mom liked the idea of many things but only did a select few things. It all sounded good to her, but not good enough to do.

We got along famously on the phone however. She could sit and relax, smoking at the table sipping her cocktail while I talked away. I would go on about all the grand things in my head while folding clothes, making dinner and sweeping the floor. It was perfect. Perfect.

# Chapter 4

Summer 2009

"Hey Mom, how's your trip going? I don't mean to bother you while you are on vacation..."

"Oh no honey it's fine. We are having such a good time. The puppy is adorable, I'm going to name her Montana since I met her in Montana."

"Ohhhh, that is so sweet..."

"You will never guess what happened yesterday. We were visiting one of those old ghost towns and I bought a Choco-Taco, you know...one of those frozen ice-cream filled tacos that are dipped in chocolate?"

"Yeah?"

"Well I took a bite and the taco part stabbed through the roof of my mouth and now there is this big hole there...."

"What? . . . a hole?"

"Yeah it is really weird"

"Mom, that's not normal, your upper pallet is made of really strong cartilage, it shouldn't be able to be poked through like that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah Mom, I've seen a dog with a stick poked through the roof of its mouth but it literally... like... landed on the stick to make it go through. You need to call your oncologist Mom, I think the cancer might be back"

*

Every medical situation I encounter is compared to an animal. After working at veterinary clinics for six years as a technician, I have seen almost everything...having to do with animals. But we are all mammals and as far as I am concerned we are interchangeable.

And just like that with no intentions of doing so I put a damper on her vacation. She had gone to visit her cousin, Margo. It was the first vacation she and my Dad had taken since my grandfather died about 10 years prior. I was a crappy daughter.

*

The Mayo performed a biopsy. It was oral cancer. She was diagnosed on Thursday, October 1, 2009. I was driving to the Twin Cities Marathon when I was told the news. Suddenly I was running for my mother AND Larry. Larry lived for four short years after his diagnosis. It would be different for my mother, she was diagnosed early....I was convinced.

***

October 2009

After multiple face-disfiguring surgeries to grow a new half nose for my mother, they removed the remaining half. They also removed her upper palate, her two front teeth, a few incisors on each side and a portion of her throat. Without a nose she could no longer smell, without a palate she could no longer feel her food, after smoking for forty years she could no longer taste her food....my mother was in trouble. But we didn't realize it at the time, neither did her doctors.

*

It was interesting, her not having a nose. It threw things off a bit. Where were her glasses going to rest without her nose? How would she know if she had a cold? How would she sneeze? What would happen when there is nothing to stop her vomit from going out her nose? There was nothing like learning the hard way.

After they removed the rest of her nose she stopped wearing her glasses. This is when the emails stopped. She couldn't see to read emails or receive photos I was sending of the grandkids. She refused to get rid of her expensive 'high-speed' dial up, convinced that someday she would be able to use it again. She would hold her glasses to her mail like a magnifying glass to read it. The bills were paid, never late. The charities received their checks as usual.

"What did the doctor say about how you've been feeling Mom?"

"They think I have a cold, but they can't tell for sure."

"Oh, really? I suppose it's hard to tell without a nose..."

"Yeah, but he gave me some prescriptions and that should help..."

"A prescription for a cold?"

"Yeah, something for my cough and something so I can breathe better."

"A cough suppressant and a decongestant? Why do you need a prescription? You can get all that stuff over the counter."

"I don't know Amber, they just gave them to me."

"It sounds like they are running you through the mill, trying to make you happy by giving you a prescription. Damn I hate doctors. They don't know anything! Have you been eating Mom?"

"Ah, not today, but I ate a huge dinner last night....."

My Mom used to be so proud of eating her ramen noodles. Ramen noodles. I have a secret weakness for the damn things too but I am not sure it was her best bet since she was fighting cancer. She would make the ramen noodles (two cheers for that) then sit down and gnaw on one long noodle for twenty minutes trying to get it from the fork to the back of her throat then down to where she could swallow. That was a triumph. It really was for her. In her screwed-up silent misery, that was a triumph. She was embarrassed to tell us, but it was.

The bowl of ramen noodles she was so proud of eating today, would be the same bowl that she was bragging about to Leah three days later. She never finished a bowel before they were tossed out, sour. As we cursed her for not eating, she cursed us for not understanding.

*

I imagine what she would say if she had found the courage to explain her situation,

"Tape your nose closed, burn off your taste buds, and put a large foreign object on the roof of your mouth. Now, take your favorite food, what is it? Chocolate? Lobster? Pasta? Take a big plate and pile it high. Now go to town. See how long it takes before you are exhausted from effort and deflated from lack of satisfaction. Go ahead, buy all your favorite foods, stock your cupboards, maybe eventually you will find something that you can taste. Maybe there is something out there you can enjoy. Remember how much _food_ was a part of your life. Remember all the times you craved something and stopped yourself for fear of indulgence? Remember all the great times you had over a meal? Food is an intricate part of life. Without it I have little left to enjoy except my drink."

*

My Mom was never a textbook anorexic, at least not that I know of. She weighed herself everyday, that's not abnormal...I do it. But she was always aware of her weight. She would acknowledge weight gained and promptly diet. She was not _always_ dieting. She would get to her preferred weight and maintain it by eating accordingly. I think she was never happy with her weight, like most of us. There was always someone skinnier, more beautiful, but she simply did not see herself able to attain that.

Mom loved food. After all, she owned a restaurant then went to work as a sous chef. She loved recipes and inventing new recipes. And when she invented a new hit she would often gain weight from indulging in it. She would then forbid herself the delicacy, suffer, and lose the weight again.

I remember a conversation with my Mom, it was after she started radiation for the oral cancer. She had met a new friend, a woman with the same radiation doctor. This woman had throat cancer, or at least she had it at one time. They shared the same doctor, the same narcotics, and the same American Legion.

"Amber, I met this woman, she is amazing."

"Really."

"Yes, she used to go to Dr. Soandso, he still writes her prescriptions for pain medications."

"Hmm, how nice of him."

"She is _so_ thin."

It wasn't, "She is so thin, I am worried about her..." no, it was more like; "She is so thin, I am jealous of her...."

In the back of my mind I am picturing Adi, my best friend in middle school as a twenty-year-old, dying of cervical cancer. She looked like a skeleton with skin stretched over it. So thin. About to die.

When Mom said it, it caught my attention. Did she really think this 'thinness' was attractive? It's the death walk, right? I must have heard her wrong.

But as the months went on and Mom told me of her new weight, I began to wonder.

"I am down to 110 pounds. That's too low."

But her voice was not that of a concerned person, she almost seemed excited, accomplished.

"I've _never_ been that low!"

"Yeah well, you should eat ma! Have you tried those Boost drinks yet?"

"Awe they make me so full, I can't drink those."

"So drink a little now, and a little later and a little before bed..."

"I'll try again maybe..."

"Get one right now, while we're on the phone."

"They're all the way out on the porch, Amber. Maybe tomorrow, not today."

"Mom, just get up and get one now, while we are on the phone...seriously."

"I will get one tomorrow, I promise. I am done for tonight, I've already eaten a ton."

From the sound of it you'd think my Mom's porch was three miles from her kitchen, or maybe through seven, key-locked doors and a stack of heavy boxes. It wasn't though, it was eight feet from where she was sitting. Stand-up...walk to door...open door...reach down and get one. That close. We discussed her drinking the Boost on a weekly bases for at least a year. She always claimed she would try again and never did. To this day, the 6-pack of Boost is still sitting in her front porch collecting dust.

# Chapter 5

Sunday, November 14, 2010

"What's that Mom? Okay, I'll tell her. 'Amber, Mom says she is sorry she refused your call yesterday. She says she doesn't even remember the nurses handing her the phone."

Leah relays to me over the phone the status of Mom as I pace in my kitchen back home in Kentucky. Trent glances up at me from the floor as he puts a puzzle together with the kids. His concern warms me.

"So she's looking better then? Maybe the fluids are working."

"Yeah, I mean, she had almost a normal conversation with me today. We talked about the little dogs, it made sense."

"God I'm happy to hear that. So is she eating?"

"Yeah, she ate a little ice cream today, I ordered a bunch of stuff I thought she might eat but all she ate was ice cream. At least it's something."

Things were looking up. Mom was making more sense as the sedatives wore off. She was sitting up and trying to eat. We were all feeling more optimistic, letting our guard down a little. At this rate, she would be going to the nursing home within days.

~*~

Monday, November 15, 2010

When I called to talk to the nurse this morning, she had bad news. Mom had started hallucinating last night. She was banging her head on the hospital bed railing, trying to squeeze between the rails. She kept saying she had to get to the doctors house so he could scrape her legs. The nurse said it was most likely from withdrawals and was forced to give Mom more sedatives. So back to sleep she went.

*

Monday evening I called again to check up on Mom. Bea was the nurse on her station.

"Look, I am 17 hours away, if I need to be in Minnesota, I need to know in advance."

"Yeah, I understand."

"So tell me if you think I need to come."

"Oh, well... I don't know...yeah, maybe you should....."

I can't remember why I chose not to go at that point. I was asking the nurse her honest opinion and she gave it to me. Why didn't I go then? I wonder if maybe I was in denial. Maybe I would have been pissed if I drove all that way and she lived. How horrible is that? For whatever reason I remained at home getting constant updates from my sister, the nurses, and on a rare occasion, from my brother.

*

Monday, November 15

"Did the nurse tell you? They downgraded Mom to intensive care." My sister says gravely.

"Yeah, I heard. Why haven't they put a feeding tube in her?"

"I guess even though she is not completely competent, she still has to sign a release for one."

"So what's the problem?" I say annoyed.

"She hasn't been awake long enough to talk to her about it."

"I just think that she needs calories, how can she eat when they keep drugging her?" I start to sound even more serious, "You need to rally for a feeding tube Leah."

"I am Amber!...I'll see what I can do. I'll call you later when I find out."

I realize that withdrawal from alcohol can be dangerous, but I was questioning their use of sedatives at this point. I had reason to believe that Mom hadn't been drinking as much as we thought lately and that the symptoms they were seeing were not due to withdrawal.

They had done a CAT scan on Friday and saw an unexplained congested area. I wonder now if her cancer hadn't returned with a vengeance.

I wonder if my mother may have had meaningful conversations with her children if she had been awake to talk to them. I wonder if she would have expressed her final wishes, or complained of being uncomfortable. But she slept.

*

Monday evening, November 15, 2010

"So, they got her to sign the paperwork for the feeding tube."

"Yes! That's great news!"

"But they are going to wait till tomorrow before they put it in."

"What? Why? She needs it now! She needs calories today!"

"I know, I am not happy either, I talked to Blake and he is pretty upset too. We all think it needs to be done sooner rather than later but the doctors want the sedative to wear off a little more before they take her to surgery."

"Whatever"

"Oh, and another thing, they got her stool culture back, it was positive for C. Diff."

"What is that?"

"I don't know, they didn't seem too concerned but they are starting her on antibiotics,"

I am such a control freak, I couldn't stand not being able to control my mothers care. The doctors have done such a disservice to my mother up to this point, I just wanted to take over, tell them to shut up and listen. "You had your chance to fix my Mom! It's MY turn now, you listen to me you little bastards..."

*

I just happened to be at the library with the kids when I got the last call about the C. diff. so I checked it out on the internet. It turns out it is a very common infection of the bowels that almost always occurs in patients who are in hospitals and have been on antibiotics. Prior to her trip to the hospital my mother was put on antibiotics for her eye that refused to heal after cataract surgery.

The website said the infection is usually treated successfully with antibiotics and many doctors' advise probiotics. This is something I am a big fan of. We have a slew of good bacteria in our gut that helps to extract all the good nutrients and vitamins out of our food. Antibiotics kill those good bacteria allowing dangerous bacteria, like C. Diff. to take over causing diarrhea and poor absorption of vital nutrients.

"Hi, this is Amber Stoneway, Joyce's daughter. Can I speak with Joyce's nurse?"

"Hey Amber, this is Bea, I'm Joyce's nurse tonight."

"Well I just wanted to know if the doctor has my Mom on probiotics."

"On what?"

"Probiotics" duh

"For what?"

"To replace the C. Diff that the antibiotics are killing. I think it's really important."

I know she doesn't have a clue what I am talking about and I hate sounding like a know-it-all when I talk to people who also think they know it all.

"Well...I can talk to the doctor about it in the morning but I don't think we normally use probiotics..."

"Well some doctors do and I think he should, could you tell him that for me?" Now I am just sounding stupid.

*

Tuesday morning, November 16, 2010

"Good news, Amber. They are taking Mom in this morning for the stomach tube. Don't get too excited though, I guess they don't start using them right away. They usually wait a day before they put food through it."

"What? Man, if that's the case they should have put the damn thing in days ago!"

"Don't shoot the messenger, I'm just telling you what they told me. I'll call you when she gets out of surgery."

I used to get annoyed by my Mom eating. I remember dinnertime as a child. 'Mom, can I have more milk?' 'Mom, will you get us napkins?' 'Can I have more corn Mom?' By the time my Mom finally got to sit down and eat her dinner, we were all nearly finished with ours. After a long day cooking on her feet at work, then coming home and cooking again for us, she would sit down with a welcome sigh.

Her jaw made this sound. I don't know if it was TMJ or a popping joint or what. Every time she took a bite there would be this sound, like cracking your knuckles. If she was taking a big bite like with a sandwich, it was even louder as if echoing off the insides of her cheeks. I used to give her disgusted looks. Sometimes I would say how disgusting it sounded, other times I would feel guilty for such mean thoughts and keep my feeling to myself. It's not as if she could help it.

"Did you have braces when you were a kid Mommy?"

"Nope"

"Why are your teeth so straight?"

"Dunnow"

Her teeth weren't' just straight, they were perfect. Somehow us kids got stuck with crooked, square, discolored teeth but hers were perfect. They looked like pearls. They were not the bleached white teeth people seek out today, but they were a beautiful shade of creamy white. She was meticulous about her teeth. I think she knew they were beautiful and that they made her even more beautiful.

*

Tuesday, November 16, 2:00pm

"Hi, this is Amber Stoneway; I am calling to see how my Mom is doing. Is her nurse available?"

I wonder if they are getting sick of me. They must think I am the daughter who doesn't care enough to drive 17 hours to be with her Mom during such a traumatic time. I'm the bossy know-it-all daughter who bugs them multiple times each day, the one who asks to talk to Joyce but Joyce wont stay wake long enough to accept calls from.

"Yes Miss Stoneway, this is Amy, I'm your Moms nurse today."

"I am just wondering how she is doing with the stomach tube. Do you know when you plan to start feeding her?"

"She is doing great actually. We have her on 2 tablespoons every hour."

"Really! Oh, that's wonderful! And how is she responding to it?"

"Very well, she seems more alert and is responding to us. We start physical therapy tonight."

Wow, she must be out of the woods, or at least on the edge of the forest where the sun trickles through. I guess staying home was the right thing. Now I can plan a trip to visit her in a month to be with her in the nursing home. I can help her there, once she has her strength. We can spend long hours talking and she can get to know her grandkids in her new, stronger, sober state. I should plan to spend Christmas with her . . . she would like that. It nearly broke her heart when we stayed in Kentucky last year for Christmas. She didn't even bother setting up her Christmas tree...I felt so guilty about that. I'll make it up this year.

# Chapter 6

November 17, 2010

9:00 am

*

"Hello?"

"Hel'loo."

"Oh, hey, hi Blake! How's it going? You at the hospital?"

"Ye'ap, djus thought I might call you with an update"

I don't know if Blake was aware of the fact that I had been getting continuous updates from Leah and the nurses or not. I just thought it was sweet that he called. He's my big brother and he never calls me.

"So how is she? I heard they started feeding her yesterday."

"Well, they have her up and they are feeding her. She has a PT appointment this morning. No rest for the wicked. They are hoping to get her out of here and into the nursing home Friday."

"Really! That's great!"

"So I just want you to know...she's not gonna kick the bucket any time soon. You don't need to rush here. Not any time soon anyway."

What a huge relief. There is still hope. Mom is going to turn back into the feisty lady she used to be. A spitfire..Yeah.. I think if she just gets her calories, gets her energy back and starts feeling good again...once she knows what is like to feel good she won't go without food. And now that she has the feeding tube eating won't be so difficult. It will be an option actually. She can get her real calories though the tube and if she feels compelled to eat orally, she can.

# Chapter 7

November 17, 2010

2:45 PM

*

"Amber, I know you have questions but I don't know how to answer them. The nurse is right here. She's Mom's nurse and was in charge when it happened...I'm gonna let you talk to her okay?"

"Hello?"

"Yeah..."

"Amber, this is Bea. I'm the nurse who was in charge of your Mom when it happened."

"What happened? Betty, the nurse, she said she choked?"

"I had your Mom sitting on the side of the bed, she was talking a little bit. We were getting ready for another feeding. She started coughing and asked for a towel. I helped her onto the chair next to the bed, she was very safe there. I walked down the hall to get the new tube for her feeding when I heard the alarm go off. I ran to her room, she was on the floor, and they were doing CPR on her. The doctors and nurses reached her within a minute or two. They performed CPR for over 15 minutes before getting a pulse. She didn't fall to the floor, she had quit breathing in the chair so they pulled her to the floor, which was the closest stable surface. She is on a ventilator now. I'm so sorry. Is there anything else you would like to know?"

"Do people come back from this?"

"Yes, some people, but not people in your Moms condition. I'm sorry."

*

I spoke with the doctor. He started from the beginning, listing all the odds against my Mom. She had initial renal failure. Her renal 'numbers' were the only numbers that were normal after the incident. She most likely had a blood clot break off in her leg. It traveled along and blocked a main artery to her lung. There is a special name for it. Because she was basically dead for the 15 minutes they were doing CPR, her brain activity was zilch. She was suffering from C. Diff. infection, she had another mysterious something going on in her head causing shadows on the CAT scan and oh yeah her blood ph was not conducive to life. She was being kept alive by the ventilators. We could put her in an ambulance and rush her to Duluth where they were better capable of treating the blood clot situation but that would not change the fact that she was brain dead...and she would most likely die on the way...alone, without family by her side.

Ultimately, the family chose to take her off the ventilator to die on her own. In the end, my Dad and my brother left before she quit breathing...it was too much for them. Too much for them to stand next to the woman that stood next to them for 47 years, and 39 years respectively.

Leah of course remained by her side till the end. So did Tracy, my sister-in-law. For some reason women seemed to be equipped better to deal with the most painful situations in life...and death.

"I'm going to put the cell phone up to her ear now, Amber. I'll give you a couple of minutes to talk to her."

They had pulled the trachea tube and now we were all waiting for her to stop breathing. The doctor thought it would only be about 10 minutes or less before she would pass.

"Mom?...

...It's me

...Amber"

I wanted to thank her for being my mom. That was all I wanted to say. But I couldn't get the words out. I slid down to the floor of my kitchen trying to catch my breath as Trent pulled the kids from the room to give me privacy. I could barely breathe, listening to her rattling breaths. I could hear the fluid, which was most likely the leftover vomit they claimed never happened. It was horrible. I hadn't finished talking yet.

"Amber, are you done? Cause I want to talk to her alone before she..."

"Ah, yeah. That's fine. Go ahead."

"I'll call you back when she's gone."

Leah called me back about 15 minutes later. She said they were playing a lullaby over the loudspeaker in the ICU so patients could go to sleep. She told my Mom that it was her cue, that it was time to go to sleep. She slowly stopped breathing leaving behind the corpse of what used to be my Mom.

# Chapter 8

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Update status: This Sucks.

*
Unfortunately, for my Mom, she died the Wednesday before the last weekend of rifle hunting season in northern Minnesota. Since my brother wanted one last weekend to kill his buck, he insisted we wait until Monday to have the funeral. That gave me plenty of time to get there.

My Mom had not left specific instructions. She never planned on dying and I guess none of us ever bothered to ask her that stuff. The only thing I know she wanted was to live out at the farm till the day she died. She almost pulled that off. She only spent the last six days in the hospital. I assumed we would bury her fully intact in the ground. Where we would bury her, I hadn't a clue. I guess I envisioned it being in the graveyard down the street from my childhood home in town. I assumed her funeral would be an open casket so we could all glance in the coffin and confirm any doubts that she was truly dead.

"We are going to have her cremated."

"Really?"

"Well yeah, she wouldn't want all her friends seeing her like this." My brother tells me this with an unspoken "duh".

I guess I just assumed, after all her fucking surgeries and especially the final one which I am convinced killed her, she might want to show off all the handy work performed by the ignorant plastic surgeon she loved so much.

I begged her not to have that last surgery. I even went as far as to call her surgeon at the Mayo and insist he not perform the surgery. I didn't actually talk to him just his chief resident. I threatened malpractice if my Mom failed to recover from the last surgery.

"Well, at least you'll look good in your coffin Mom."

"Amber!"

"Well! You are in NO condition to undergo an _optional,_ cosmetic procedure Mom! That doctor just wants your money. He doesn't give a shit about you."

"Amber, he is leaving the Mayo to be closer to his family. He has his Mom in Pennsylvania, and he wants his grandchildren to know her. I think that's really nice Amber."

"I can't believe he told you he wants to 'wrap you up' before he transfers hospitals! I mean, when he saw you two weeks ago he insisted on waiting till your strength was back, he said you weren't strong enough for surgery yet. Do you feel stronger today than you did two week ago Mom?"

"Well, no."

"See! He wants this surgery for selfish reasons. He only wants to make himself feel better. He doesn't give a flying fuck about you."

"Amm-ber!"

"I'm sorry Mom, but that is how I feel. If you go ahead with this surgery, you won't live to see Christmas."

I often wonder if I caused this. Did I put all these negative thoughts in her head? Did my telling her she would die, cause her to die? What if I'd been Miss Optimistic? Would it have been that hard to tell her every day how strong she was and how she would come back from this hell, rather than telling her every day that she needed to eat? That she would die if she didn't eat? I am such a bitch. Such a negative bitch.

~*~

Before we had left Kentucky, my lower back started hurting. I think I carry stress in my lower back. The long hours in the car didn't help. We stopped at a play-place for the kids on the second day. I hate fast-food and the germ infested play-places they lure kids in with but they needed to run. Being in the car for two days was making them crazy and thus Trent and I crazy too.

By that night my son was sick, undoubtedly he picked up something at that play-place. Jake is always the first to get sick and the last to get better, poor guy. The rest of us started getting congested by the next morning. It was an upper respiratory thing not the flu, thank God. But it was bad nonetheless. I began losing my voice on Saturday. People probably thought I had exhausted my vocal cords from crying. Maybe I did. I don't remember. I just know that the pain of my mother's death was felt throughout my entire body, the toll it took on it surprised me.

I seldom buy new clothes. I am extremely thrifty and usually buy used clothes or buy off a clearance rack. I knew when we got to Grand Rapids I would need to get a black outfit for the funeral. I didn't like anything in my closet. My two black dresses had already been worn to funerals. Isn't my Moms funeral special enough to have it's own funeral outfit? Besides, no one wears dresses in northern Minnesota...not even to funerals.

*

We decided to stay at a cheap motel in Grand Rapids. I couldn't bear staying with family. I knew I would need my space. It was near town and almost exactly half way between my brother and sister's houses. When we arrived Chloe and Jake plowed through the motel room door as if it were the Ritz Carlton. As Trent and I unloaded the luggage, they shot back out of the room fighting over who got to tell us about the mini-kitchen first. They had never seen a room with a kitchen and it was by far the highlight of the trip so far.

*

On Sunday I went to Target and spent $60 dollars on a black outfit. I have never bought a brand new outfit including shoes. The last time I had a new outfit, including shoes, was when my Mom bought us new school clothes in junior high.

I choose black skinny pants, a black low-neck sweater, a black wrap and black slouchy boots. The boots were on clearance, so was the wrap and sweater. But the pants, I actually paid full price for them. It was difficult to justify. I kept telling myself, "How often does your Mom die?" When I looked in the mirror at the outfit, all I could think about was how badly I wanted my mother's approval. I think she would have liked it. I could hear her saying, "oh that's perfect honey."

Chloe peeked in the room, smiled and said, "You look pretty mommy." I shushed her away.

~*~

Monday November 21,

The Funeral

I set my alarm for 7:00am Monday morning. I wanted to get a run in before the funeral. I knew I would need it to calm my nerves. Minnesota had four inches of snow on the ground when we arrived Saturday, and there was another two inches of fresh snow as I began my run. The air is so unbelievably rich with oxygen. I feel drunk with appreciation as I sprint around the lake and into town. The temperature is a brisk 20 degrees but it feels good. After just 3 miles I slow down, unaware I had been pushing too hard. The last two miles are slow and feel hard, an unusual feeling for me. The closer I get to the motel, I realize, the closer I get to the funeral.

*

I peel off my wet clothes and step into the steamy shower. The water stings my cold skin, but I bask in the pain, feeling it is punishment well deserved. I stand in the mirror with my bra and underwear on, applying a little eye make-up wondering if it was a bad idea. I avoid putting eyeliner or mascara on my lower lid. I stare at my reflection, then my hands, and see my mother's hands. They are square and useful, not pretty or delicate. I carefully get dressed in my new outfit, taking off the tags. When I am finished, I step out of the bathroom.

"Do I look okay?"

"You look wonderful."

"Let's do this."

As I walked through the doors of the Libby funeral home, kids leading, my husband guiding me with his hand on the small of my back, I am on a mission. Find a place to hang jackets. That is first and foremost. Before I make it to the coat rack I am stopped by my aunt. As she begins to express her sorrow Trent takes my coat and heads for the coat rack. He disappears with the kids, allowing me to mingle with relatives and friends of my mothers.

It is clear that I am the only one who got the memo about wearing black to funerals. My family looks out of place, my daughter with her dark green dress, my husband in a black suit, and me in my new outfit. My son blends in with his sweater and slacks. In northern Minnesota proper funeral attire for men involves your nicest flannel shirt and slacks, or jeans if they are new. The ladies wear slacks and a nice sweater, but occasionally go as far as to wear a pretty necklace.

My husband would later comment that of the seven funerals he had attended, he had never been to one where the men didn't wear suits- not until my mothers.

As I stood speaking to various relatives I would glance from side to side. I could pick out the faces of my brothers closest friends from High School. I saw a few of my sister's friends. They would return the glance with an understanding smile. My sister's co-workers, even her boss attended. They had so much support. Where were my friends? I did grow up here. Didn't they see in the obituaries that my mother died? Didn't they read it on Facebook. I know they did, I had about a hundred 'I'm so sorry Ambers'. Where are those friends now?

Before long the people are being ushered into the room where seats are lined up and a podium sits. In the center of the room sits a table surrounded by flowers. On the table is a wooden box and next to it is a beautiful black-and-white picture of my mother when she was 18 years old. It was a wedding gift to my father, a gift he forgot about.

The immediate family is ushered to the front row. I have never sat in the front row before. Everyone can see me, or at least the back of me.

The preacher, who is my second cousin, begins to talk about my mother. It is clear he did not know her. He had only met her once about 3 months ago at another funeral he was performing. He is trying his best though. He gets carried away with a story that only he understands and I begin to wonder if people are going to start to get up and leave out of sheer boredom.

At last he opens the floor to anyone who would like to speak. My sister immediately gets up.

As she stands at the podium unfolding a piece of paper I am thankful for her. I couldn't bear the thought of no one getting up to talk. Maybe this would spark a line of friends wanting to share warm memories about my mother.

Leah's voice is a little shaky but she stands tall and speaks in a matter-of-fact voice. She begins by saying how her and my Mom had differences and how they didn't always get along. Than she said she had come to respect her for who she was even if she didn't agree with her lifestyle. And that in the end Mom lived her life on her terms and then she said she loved her and she would be missed.

I couldn't help but feel the entire room tense up. It was clear that Leah held resentments, but obviously loved Mom very much. The silence that followed was painful. "Please, someone get up!" The music started to play as my aunt stepped up to the podium. The musicians needed to be stopped so she could talk.

My mother's sister gave a lovely speech about my mother and her life and after that the room began to relax a little. As she sat down the silence began again and then the music started. "No, not yet! Please, someone get up there!" My mind was screaming.

At last, a friend of my mothers got up and the musicians were once again silenced. She told a story that was funny only to the few of us that remembered it. I tried to catch her eye and telepathically thank her for speaking. Then she left the podium and the silence started once again.

When it became clear that no one was going to get up, I found myself standing in slow motion and moving toward the podium. I don't know if the music had begun or not, all I could hear was white noise in my ears. I hadn't planned to speak. I wanted to but hadn't written anything. I had so much to say, but couldn't put it down in writing. And now, here I was standing at a podium, shaking visibly.

I glance up at the audience but they are a smeary cloud through my tears. I almost run back to my seat. I am speechless. I cannot speak. I have lost my voice, literally. So with the little sound I could make I just started talking,

" _Um...I'm the youngest of the three kids. I was always the spoiled one._

I never wanted to leave my Mom's side. My sister and brother went to California to see my grandparents when they were eleven but when it was my turn to go I didn't go because I didn't want to leave my Mom.

She used to give me a kiss and I wouldn't lick my lips all day because I didn't want to lose her kiss.

I grew up and graduated High School and I left her. I traveled and lived all over and the whole time she wanted me to come home.

...

But we used to talk on the phone.

...

My husband used to make fun of me because I would talk to my Mom every night. She always knew what to say, and she was always so proud of everything I did.

And now, she's gone. She lived her life on her own terms, and she died on her own terms and it's going to be okay."

Before I sit down, I look up at the audience. My brother is crying. I must have made some sense if he is crying. Or maybe he feels sorry for me for making such a horrible speech. It is clear now that I am the last speaker. I sit and Trent grabs my hand and squeezes, Chloe is crying for me and Jake is a little bouncy over the excitement of his mom being on stage.

Finally, the musicians are allowed to play my Mom and Dads song: Go Rest High on That Mountain. My Dad brakes into audible sobs and we sit not knowing what to do next. When the music stops the funeral director gets up and announces that the reception will be held at the American Legion and then he begins ushering people row by row out to the hallway.

*

On the drive to the American Legion, my husband timidly reached over and touched my knee, then says he thought it was good that I got up and spoke. "Thanks babe." Was all I could say. It meant a lot to me because at the time I didn't know if it was the right thing to do.

At the legion most of the men in the family were up at the bar having a drink. Everyone else walked to the basement where there was tuna salad sandwiches and coffee set out near long tables and aluminum folding chairs. I looked around at the paneled walls and fluorescent lights and felt sorry for my Mom having such a tacky reception.

People were talking, that was good. Silence and fluorescent lighting would be unbearable. I listened to the chatter and tried to eat the tasteless sandwich. The coffee tasted good. Afterward I went up stairs to the bar to be with my Dad. Trent took the kids back to the hotel. My aunt came over and told me that my mother loved me very much.

"She was horrified when she found out she was pregnant with you Amber. She didn't want any more kids. She was horribly sick during the entire pregnancy and was openly resentful toward you. But when you were born, something happened. She just fell in love with you. She always said you saved her, how you got her and Ronnie into horses. I mean look around, their home on 80 acres, that's all because of you. She loved it all."

I realized later while lying in bed at the motel trying to sleep that I forgot to tell them about her walking me to school in her robe and slippers.

My Mom would stand out at the bus stop with me in her robe and slippers. Sometimes, when the bus would come I would refuse to get on. I didn't want to leave her. She would wave the bus on. Instead of going home to change she would just walk me to school hoping I would go in by myself. It would eventually come down to us standing in the hall, her trying to convince me to go into class while I clung to her blue and white flowered bathrobe.

# Chapter 9

I decided that my job would be the house. I am not good at organizing funerals or doing paperwork but if there is one thing I am good at, it is cleaning.

The farm sits 17 miles northeast of Grand Rapids on a dirt road. The driveway is long. As we approach in the car we are greeted by a sign that used to say, "Miller's Quarter Horses", but the last time it was repainted, the 'Quarter Horses" was left off.

We crest the hill in the driveway. From the top, you can see the house, the detached garage, the huge Morton building, the tack-shed, the barn and the little cabin that Trent and I were married in front of. To the left of the hill sits a tall evergreen, under which several cats, dogs and horses are buried including Jo, my childhood show-horse.

My mother had bartered the gravestones. They had a friend who needed money, and she had dead animals that needed to be remembered.

We park the car behind my mothers Buick then climb the three steps to the porch where my mother used to sit watching the horses on cool summer nights, smoking, with her drink in hand. We knock on the door, it's frame still gnawed and scarred from their old dog that died years ago. I push the door open, "Dad? It's just us." He sits at the kitchen table, his forehead resting in his left hand, which is also holding a burning cigarette, his right hand holding a pencil to a crossword puzzle. He glances up with a forced smile toward the kids and says 'hi'.

The house is worse than I have ever seen it. It was always tradition for me to clean when I came home to visit. It began when I was a child and my mother went back to work full-time. She was always too exhausted to clean and our house was an embarrassing wreck. On weekends I would surprise her by cleaning as best a nine-year-old could. I always knew I could win her pride by doing the dishes and vacuuming.

As an adult it became more of a necessity. If I was going to stay at their house I had to clean because I couldn't stand the filth. Even though I know she appreciated it I also know it bothered her because of my constant bickering about all the crap they hung onto and refused to throw away.

I send Trent and the kids into the living room to watch movies away from the smoke. I ask my Dad where he wants me to start and he just looks at me and shakes his head. It is just too much for him to consider. He had told my sister that he wanted my mother's clothes taken away, so I grab some large trash bags, and head to the laundry room to get started.

As I enter the laundry room, I am surrounded by her. The tall dresser she's had since I was born, the low and long dresser with the mirror where she sat to get ready every day. The same exact place I sat as she carefully fixed my hair for my wedding.

On the dresser, on a dainty little metal stand is her wig. The dresser is cluttered, piled with her make-up, lotions, perfumes. On top of the mess is her discharge instructions from the hospital, ointments, tape, glue....so much of her.

Her computer, the one she spent a fortune on, the top-of-the-line one with a backup hard-drive so she would never lose documents, sits covered in dust. The expensive oak filing cabinet sits stacked with all the things she meant to file but never did. The only thing that made it in the cabinet was pictures, piles and piles of pictures of past parties, past horses, and a past life.

I have to start with the floor. The floor is covered. Most of it is trash; plastic hangers, empty laundry detergent bottles, plastic wrapping, cardboard inserts from stuff she bought. It all goes in the trash bag. Next I go through the piles of folded clothing on the ground. There were two stacks and they reach all the way to my knee. I notice on top of the pile, a pair of underwear. They look just like my Victoria Secret underwear. I look at the tag, they are a Wal-mart brand. Then I notice the dark stains. Too bad, they are so cute, but I don't think Goodwill will accept them. I find pair after pair of stained underwear. This must be from the bowel issues she told me about. I sort the piles. By the time I am finished, I have a stack of bath towels, a stack of my Dads' clothes and a large garbage bag filled with my mothers' clothes for Goodwill.

I open a white plastic bag. In it is a pair of grey Danskin Now pants, an oversized shirt, socks, shoes and a winter coat. She wore these clothes into the hospital. Oh, God! My sister had taken them home and washed them, then returned them to the hospital with the intention of Mom wearing them home.

Did my Dad bring this bag home? I pull out the coat. I need a new winter coat. This one is new, a Columbia. I try it on. It is huge! I look at the label, it's XXL. Why on earth would a five foot, one hundred pound woman wear an XXL coat? I put it back on and walk into the living room to show my husband how ridiculously large her coat is. . . was. As I do, Montana, her three-pound Shiatsu/poo comes running from the kitchen, then stops in confusion.

She thought I was Mom. She looks up at me with her glossy black eyes. She is so confused. I pick her up and close my eyes to keep the tears from coming. In a way I feel sorrier for her than I do my father. At least he knows what happened. Poor Montana doesn't understand. Where is her Mommy? What have us strangers done with her? Why am I wearing her Mommy's coat? I'm so sorry Montana. But your Mommy isn't coming back, and neither is mine.

It is so weird. I almost feel ashamed at how easy it is. With each piece of clothing I pick up I see her wearing it on various occasions, then I put it in the bag and move to the next piece. It actually feels good. For so long I have wanted permission to go through the house and de-clutter it. Just get rid of all the crap they didn't need. It is almost freeing. I don't think twice as I put her favorite sweaters, the ones with wolves on them, in the bag. I fill three bags within an hour. Somehow the ease with which I am able to do this justifies my actions. This must be Mom or God or something telling me this is okay, that it needs to be done...keep doing it.

Trent takes the bags, one after another, out to the car so my father won't have to look at them. I make a bag of stuff to keep, that Leah and I can go through together later. It has shoes, socks, and a few pieces of clothing that are newer and will fit either her girls or us. In the bag is the plastic hand mirror my mother used. I want it, I need a hand mirror. I find bag after bag from Wal-mart. Some have different shades of foundation in them, some have new pants or shirts that were never warn. Had she meant to return them?

On her long dresser, I find a stack of Healthy Eating magazines. There must be forty of them. How long had she been saving these? And since when did she care about eating healthy? Each magazine has at least three or four yellow post-it notes sticking out from various pages with her block-style writing on it: _RONNIE LIKES, CHICKEN PIE, SHRIMP PASTA..._ I vaguely recall her talking about new recipes she found. Yes, she went through a phase after the first surgery where she began trying new recipes. I nearly tossed the whole pile into the trash, then I stopped and touched the notes and the ink on them. I decide I will keep them. I like to cook healthy.

As I clean I continuously wash load after load of laundry. The folded clothes on the bottom of the pile have dog hair on them. I don't want Goodwill to throw them out so I wash them. I don't want them to throw Mom's clothes away. I wash my Dad's sheets, as he requested. I organize and fill the tall dresser, now empty, with my Dads' clothes. The top drawer was broken, I left it empty as I envisioned my Dad opening it and it falling on his feet. He is on blood thinners, he can't get a bruise.

When I am about finished, my Dad walks into the room to get something. He notices the picture of my Mom from the funeral. I had placed it on the newly cleaned long dresser. He stops.

"Where'd that come from?"

"It has writing on the back...it's to you...from her...for your wedding."

"It's nice."

He can't look at it. He leaves the room.

Finally I pull out the vacuum and give the room a once over, it looks much better. I take a wet rag and wipe the dust and talcum powder off every surface I can reach. My back is killing me, but I can't stop until I am done.

I walk out of laundry room feeling like I have accomplished something, stand up straight and stretch my back. My Dad still sits at the table, trying to avoid contact with the bags I keep bringing out of the room. I tell him I am done with the room and ask what he wants me to tackle next.

"The ice box."

"Consider it done."

I grab the trashcan from under the sink and drag it to the refrigerator. I have an idea of what I am in for. My mother kept leftovers until they announced on their own that they were no longer edible.

I open the door and the first thing I see is the ramen noodles. They are in a delicate white bowel with cellophane wrap on it. It doesn't look like any are missing, maybe she made them and never got around to eating them. Maybe she ate a noodle or two and got full. Who knows. My eyes wander to pans with lids and dried blood on the glass shelves and half drunk Pepsi's that no doubt belong to my father.

I stand so my body blocks my father from seeing what I am doing. I know the strong connection between my mother and food. As if possessed, I start grabbing things and tossing them. I reach into pans with my bare hands and scoop the rotten food out, then set the pan on the floor beside me. At last, I grab the white bowl, scoop out the ramen noodles through the cellophane and dump them in the trash. I look at what I have done and burn the image of those noodles on my brain.

*

The next day I wake early for a run before I head back to the farm. This is a therapy session I will need more than ever. It is colder today, I do not dress any differently. I wear my tights with shorts over them, my long-sleeve technical shirt with a synthetic tee over it, my ear band and neck muff, mittens, normal running socks and shoes.

Twenty degrees was perfect, but today I feel the cold after just two miles. I took a new route through the woods. It was beautiful. There were fresh deer tracks between the pines and sun trickled through as I crunched my way. It was amazing. I forgot how cold I was, protected by the forest. As I came out the other side, I planned to loop around through town and head back to the motel. The wind catches me by surprise as I exit the woods. I feel my cheeks, they are numb. As I race along on the sidewalk, I start to question whether I should have dressed warmer. My thighs are burning. It's not my muscles, but my skin burning. I knew I was too cold. I run faster, in a panic. I am freezing to death. I don't want to die. Should I stop a car and get a ride? How much farther is the motel? I am so cold.

A familiar house on a familiar block calms me. I am close. As I round the corner, I see the motel and I throw a kick to my run. My toes sting. I reach the door. I slam it open and throw myself inside, safe. Trent and the kids turn from their cartoons in surprise. I look down at my Garmin to see how fast my pace was in my death panic. It was slow, so slow. What is wrong with me?

In the bathroom I strip off my clothes and look in the mirror. My skin is red. I am not frost bitten, not even close.

Trent and the kids opt-out of the farm trip today. He and the kids spend the day with my brother and his son while I return to the farm alone.

At the farm, I tackle the other big projects. I make a pile of all the charity junk mail and individually call each one. I explain that my mother enjoyed supporting them but that she is no longer with us, please stop sending requests for donations. I go through the mail piece by piece. I separate the bills, write the checks and have my father sign them. I cancel her cell phone. I find a business card from her eye doctor. I remember her telling me she had new glasses to pick up. I call the eye doctor, explain that Mom died, would he please donate the glasses? Yes, he would and he would not charge for them. I feel blessed. There are good doctors out there.

I try to sort my father's medications from my mother's medication. I make a basket for them. I gather all the bottles belonging to my mother and put them in a box to be taken and disposed of properly. I keep the pain medication, put it in the cupboard. In the cupboard I see prescriptions for her ears, for her eyes, even one for anxiety attacks. Really Mom? Then I see the extra large vitamin C bottles. I revisit the conversation we had a month ago...

"So Mom, there is new research showing vitamin C cures cancer. It's an antioxidant. It is good at binding with free radicals. Maybe you should add Vitamin C to your pill box."

She didn't like to eat but she would take almost any pill she thought would fix her. I asked my Dad if she had started taking them and he told me she couldn't. Her doctor had told her it would interfere with something. Yeah, those doctors really seem like they had a grasp on my mothers well being. Assholes.

I see my mother's purse hanging from her chair at the kitchen table. It is a beautiful white purse with lots of big silver buckles. She could be so stylish when she wanted to be. I open her purse knowing I need to cancel her credit cards. I find a greeting-card from me filled with recent pictures of my kids. I wonder if she could see the pictures. I remember the message she left on the answering machine in her strange new voice:

"Hi honey, I just wanted to say thank you for the pictures. They are wonderful. And thank you Chloe for the nice drawing."

Trent told me about the message. When I got home there were three messages on the machine, hers was first. I listened to the beginning and then skipped through it to the next message. I wish I had listened to the whole thing. I wish I still had the message. I want to hear her voice again.

She has a neat little card holder, it has all her credit cards, insurance cards, ID, and membership cards. Her purse is really clean, abnormally clean. It must be a brand new purse because she only cleaned out her purse when she bought a new one.

Thursday was Thanksgiving. I didn't go to the farm. Instead we all went to my aunt and uncles. I returned to the farm on Friday. I decide to focus on the rest of the kitchen. The floor was filthy, and covered with bags and bottles. I start at the floor near my mother's chair. There are plastic bags with bathroom items in them. One had toothpaste, one had a twin-pack of deodorant. I go to the closet to put it away and find six more tubes of new toothpaste and three more twin packs of Suave deodorant. As I look through the closet, I realize she had multiples of everything...Vitamin B12, my Dads' Old Spice, my Dads' deodorant, and shampoo. Was she turning into a hoarder?

When I got to the floor near her chair, it was wet. I felt the rug and it was wet too. I searched for the source of the water and discovered the dog's huge water dish was leaking. I had just filled it today. How long has it been leaking? I crawl under the table where the large dog bed is and lift it. It is wet and moldy. I have to ask my Dad to move his feet so I can pull the hair-covered dog blanket out and put it all in the washing machine. The entire rug was wet and ripped easily as I pulled on it, rotten. My parents sat at this table day in and day out, how did they not realize the rug beneath their feet was rotten and moldy? How did I let this happen.

My Dad's lack of concern for the issue makes me feel less guilty about it. I make sure to get the doggy beds washed and dried. I try to get to my Dad's pile of stuff next to his chair but he gives me the, 'don't touch my shit' look. I encourage him to go through it and he promises he will, he says he will have plenty of time now.

Next, I move to the floor between the cupboards and the refrigerator. More Wal-mart bags. These are filled with boxed food; noodles, Rice-A-Roni and chocolate syrup. All her favorite foods, all the dishes she hoped to be able to eat. I open the cupboard to put it away and discovered the reason they were on the floor. The cupboards were packed full, not an inch of space for more food. My Dad could survive an entire winter and never go to the store. So I wipe the floor and try to stack the food neatly. My Dad tells me to take whatever I want. But I don't eat many processed foods so I leave it for my sister to pick through.

The kitchen counter is a nightmare. Every time I am here I try to organize the damn thing and it never looks any better. If I try to put the salt, pepper, Mrs. Dash, Accent, Tabasco and all the other various spices into the cupboard where there is a great spice rack, my parents would gripe about how they can't find them. There are three knife blocks on the counter. One holds a complete set of steak knives, one has knife service for eight and the third is a set of four filet knives. Seriously, how often can they possible use fillet knives? On one side of the knife-blocks are glass containers of fancy red and green foil covered Dove chocolates that my mother has had for five Christmases. There is also a box of Thin Mints, a gift from 3 Christmases ago. There is an opened bag of potato chips that I know she offered us this past summer. There is a George Forman Grill, a Deep Fryer, and a Toaster. On the other side of the blocks is a recipe box, a Kleenex box, a pile of rubber bands, can cozies, a collectable shot glass I gave my Dad this summer (what was I thinking?) and the previous list of food additives. The little space not covered with crap, is wiped mostly clean. The surface under the crap is coated with a layer of grease, dust, hair and various food additives.

Since I can remember, this is what our kitchen counter has looked like. I think back to the counter growing up, the little nooks and crannies filled with school papers, bills, warrantees, owner's manuals. What did not fit on the counter was stacked in the center of the kitchen table. As an adult, I have rebelled. My counters are neat, and sparse. Nothing is allowed on the dining room table except my plant, which is a centerpiece. Everything has its place. If a child leaves a toy on my counter I turn to them in rage and threaten to toss it in the trash if it doesn't find a home. I refuse to live like this. I refuse to make my kids grow-up in a house like this. So I went to the other extreme.

*

This summer when we came up to Minnesota, Mom said she needed help de-cluttering her house. I said I would love to help and planned an entire day out at the farm doing nothing but de-cluttering. I walked in the door. Her frail body sat at the kitchen table. She turned and smiled, excited to see me. I look down at her feet. There are boxes, some empty, some full. I suggested we start with the boxes since I could hardly move with them there. I asked what they were and she grabbed one, held it to her chest and said,

"Do you want to see?"

"What is it Mom?"

"It's something I ordered from a flyer in the mail..."

"Mom! Really, do you need any more crap?"

"Now just wait until you see it."

She was always so calm, so kind, no matter how mean I was being. She carefully opened the box as if she were unwrapping a priceless glass vase. Inside was a Styrofoam box. She pulled the lid up to reveal fifty, plastic covered dollar bills, each in its own plastic baggy.

"What is it ma?"

"There is one from every state!" She pulls one out to show me.

"And I bought the case too, isn't it gorgeous! It's oak." She loved oak.

As she starts to put the dollars back in the Styrofoam box, I stop her.

"What are you doing? Let's put them in the case!"

"Oh, I am afraid they will get scratched."

"Well let's just leave the little baggies on them, that'll protect them."

"Well..."

"Look Mom, you can't just leave them in the boxes on the floor forever. Where to you want to keep them?"

"I would _like_ to put them next to the safe in the bedroom closet but I can't get to it. Oh, it's such a mess."

"Okay then Mom, you sit here and transfer the bills to the oak case. I'm going to go start in on the closet."

And that was how I spent the entire day. I was so proud of my mother. I asked her to come into the bedroom and sit on her bed so she could tell me what I could put in the Goodwill bags. She got rid of so much stuff. Stuff she'd had for decades. She let me toss brand new pairs of shoes that didn't fit anymore. She was amazing, as if she was finally willing to let go of all the crap.

I even handed her boxes of papers, I told her to pick out anything important and make it fit in a shoebox I had set next to her. I was completely flabbergasted when she actually did it. She could see her closet take shape and it excited her. I needed another large bag and she instantly got up to grab one for me. Two steps later she was on the ground, confused about how she got there. I was too. I pulled her up to her feet and she slowly walked away to get another bag.

When we were done, the closet was nearly bare. It had room for more clothes if she wanted them. I went to the kitchen and grabbed the wooden case. She put up a fight about tossing the cardboard box it came in, insisting it was worth more in its original packaging. I convinced her otherwise. She bought a beautiful presentation box, and I refused to display it in a shipping crate.

For weeks after I left, Mom would tell me over the phone how beautiful her closet looked. She said she liked to just sit and stare at it. I told her I wish I had time to help her organize her long dresser, since she spends so much time there. She insisted that the closet was plenty.

# Chapter 10

On Friday night, after a long day working out at the farm, I sit at my laptop. I have avoided my emails and Facebook, I just don't have anything to say. I leave my latest status up, since the situation did in fact still suck.

I didn't bother with either of my email accounts, I didn't feel like scrolling through the garbage. I went to Facebook, typed in my password and watched as my page came up. I had 23 more comments on my status. I didn't bother looking at them, instead I went to the search and typed in Joyce. Before I could type in the last name, my mothers miniature image showed up. I clicked and her profile page showed on the screen. I scrolled down to _send message_ and clicked.

Facebook Message:

Subject: I miss you

Mom,

I keep wanting to call you and ask you what the hell I'm supposed to do without you. The world seems so lonely without you here, so empty.

*

Before I had left the farm on Friday, Leah had called to ask if I would swing by the funeral home and pick-up Mom. She didn't want me to say anything to Dad about it. She didn't think he was ready to deal with it. I assured her I would pick up the box and sneak it into the house on Saturday, when I planned to go back there. My Dad had also requested that I stop by the liquor store to pick him up a jug of Captain Morgan's rum, also to be delivered to the house tomorrow.

So in the car was my mother and a jug of rum, how fitting. I was exhausted. My chest-cold had worn me out. Lucky for me, Trent and the kids went to stay with his mother for the night. I climbed into my pajamas, grabbed a beer and the remote and relaxed in front of the TV. Despite my exhaustion, I lay awake. The last time I looked at the clock it read 2:53am.

I startled awake to my cell phone ringing, the clock said 6:15am. It must me an emergency, who calls at 6:15 on a Saturday morning? It's Leah. I try my hardest to get my throat to produce sound.

"el'o?"

"Amber?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"Were you sleeping?"

"Uh, yeah" duh

"I'm sorry... did you leave Mom in the car last night? Because she hates being cold."

"Um, well I bought rum for Dad, it's in there with her."

"Can you go get her...please."

"I gotta go Leah."

I lay there for five minutes trying to convince myself to go back to sleep. Then I jump out of bed, slide into my boots and trudge through six inches of fresh snow to the car. I open the passenger door, "Come on Mom" grab the box and head back inside. I sit her on the small table and head back to bed, grabbing my phone in the process.

"I brought her in."

"I'm sorry I woke you, were you out partying last night?"

"No, I came back here but I couldn't sleep. I got maybe three hours."

"Oh, do you want to go back to sleep? I was going to bring you over some breakfast and some coffee.

"That sounds great Leah, I'll see you soon."

Thirty minutes later my sister and I sat talking about the progress I had made at the house and what she was going to have to deal with paperwork-wise. My job was easy, I would work my ass off for a few days then leave. She would be stuck there to deal with insurance agencies, bills and making sure my father was taking care of himself. Leah asked what I did with Mom. I glanced down and slightly right.

"Oh my God!"

"What? You didn't realize she has been sitting here the whole time?"

"No Amber, I didn't realize we were having breakfast with Mom."

"Yeah, but as usual, she's not eating."

After our breakfast I went out to the farm one last time. I walked in and to my surprise, my Dad was not at the table smoking. I assumed he was in the bathroom or maybe taking a nap in his bedroom. I snuck into the living room where my mother's hutch was. It was filled with her most favorite pictures. I quietly opened the door, Blake and his wife on their wedding day stared back at me. I gently sat the cremation box on the shelf next to my niece's hockey picture. I quietly shut the door and turned around. I was startled to see my Dad laying in his recliner, with a blanket over him, staring at me, confused.

I went on as if I wasn't putting his wife of 47 years into her favorite hutch.

"Oh, hi Dad, you takin' a nap?"

"Trying to"

"What's wrong? You can't sleep?"

"The damn dog keeps barking to go out, then barking to come in. Do you think you could wash this blanket for me? It's stiff as a board."

To my horror the blanket covering him was stiff with dog urine. At least I think it was dog urine...who knows. I quickly grabbed all the throw blankets I could find, minus the one I shoved in the garbage for lack of substance, and tossed them in the washer. I went looking for more blankets that may need laundering before I leave the state. As I swiveled one of the recliners in the living room, I find a pile of Christmas gifts between the chair and the lamp table. They must be from two Christmas's ago, the last time we had Christmas at her house.

I remember her sitting in this recliner, anticipation on her face as her grandchildren opened gifts from her she had hoped would be perfect. We would have to convince her to open her gifts from us. She sat with a pile of them on her lap, not caring at all about them. All she cared about was everyone else. She just wanted everyone to be happy.

I found a down comforter in the corner of the bedroom. It was covered with bloodstains and unknown greenish-brown smears. I took a bottle of Tilex and started spraying the spots. I realized that I hadn't yet vacuumed in his bedroom so I grabbed the super fancy vacuum they bought from a salesman a couple years ago. I loved the vacuum but I didn't think it was worth the $3,000 they paid for it. As I rolled it over the stained cream colored carpet it clinked and clanked as chunks of dried dog poop sucked up the hose. No amount of vacuuming was going to make this carpet look good. Maybe I should have a carpet cleaning company come out. I don't know if Dad is ready for that much commotion yet.

I walk into the kitchen and my father is sitting smoking and crying.

"Turn it up, this is our song."

I walk over to the radio and turn up the volume until Vince Gill's voice fills the room. He is telling my Mom to go rest high on the mountain, that her work here is done. My Dad sobs openly. The only time I ever saw him cry growing up was when his mother died. Now, he cries shamelessly at the table with his head in his hands. I think this is healthy, emotion is healthy.

I leave the room to give him his space. What will he do without her? After forty-seven years together, what will he do? What will it be like for him to look up from his crossword puzzle and see an empty chair with her purse hanging on it? Will he convince himself that she is napping? That she is in the bathroom? Will he go into the laundry room after I leave and grab the photo of my mother and place it on her side of the table next to the ashtray, and pretend she is there beside him as always?

On Saturday night Trent, my sister and one of our friends meet at a local pub for some beer and pizza. I was dazed from lack of sleep but very much in need of beer and food. I ordered a bucket of beer and sat back to listen to the chatter at the table. I looked up as a group of guys enter the bar. Unbelievably, one of the guys is Chad Freeburg. He sees me and comes over, gives me a big hug. He is all smiles. He said he was in town visiting his Mom, had spent the day cleaning the cobwebs and dust balls out of her house. I told him I had been doing very much the same at my father's house today. It was odd the things we shared in common. He asked how I was doing and I said I didn't know, to ask me some other day. I introduced him to Trent, they made small talk about how crazy I was to be running in this weather. I told him that his mother had come to my Mom's benefit. He knew. I told him that my Mom really enjoyed talking to her. I recalled the conversation.

"Your friend's Mom came to my benefit."

"Who? Which friend?"

"You know, that friend you did that running thingy for?"

"Oh! Chad's Mom came?"

"Yes! She is so sweet Amber, she told me that you ran that marathon to raise money for her husband's memorial foundation."

"Yeah Mom, you knew that."

"I guess I didn't realize he died of oral cancer."

"Yeah, it was a little coincidental."

"She was so nice, so supportive. Did you know that he only lived for four years with the cancer?"

"Yeah, I heard that."

"That's not very long."

My Mom only lived for one year and one month.

*

When I get to the part where my Mom calls the marathon a 'running thingy', everyone laughs. Chad laughs, my sister laughs, we all laugh. They understand my frustration. And they are right, it is funny. What else can we do but laugh. It feels good to smile. I realize that I am enjoying myself. As I look around, I am starting to feel normal, appreciative. So I laugh some more.

# Chapter 11

Facebook Message

Subject: Dad

Mom, I am worried about Dad. He isn't eating. He heats-up cheesy hotdogs and feeds them to the dogs. His eyes are always sad. I have to leave tomorrow.

You were so dedicated to Dad, I'm surprised you didn't stick around just to make sure he had his dinner each night.

It was hard to leave Minnesota, but at the same time, it was good to be going home. It was good to be going back to normal, where I could pretend my Mom wasn't dead. Where I could just go on with my day to day and deal with it when I felt like it. At my Dads house it was so weird. Her things were everywhere, despite me removing her clothes, she was everywhere. She was in the pictures placed lovingly in her hutch, on the little shelves with tacky frames and mementos. She was in the dying plants in her living room, in the dusty runner she laid across the refrigerator. Everywhere I looked, she was there.

But the house was so completely empty of her. It was as if everything she had touched died along with her. She was so gone, and it was very much apparent in her house. My poor father, at least I get to leave.

We are driving home. I am wearing a pair of her socks. They are practically new and I need socks. They are really nice, very cushiony and they feel good on my feet. I look out the window and watch the prairie pass by. I have no reason to go back to Minnesota now. I used to get so excited to go back home, even when I wasn't seeing much of her. But now, I never want to go home, it feels like there is nothing there now. I feel homeless. I want to call her and tell her we are almost half way, that the kids are driving me crazy. I want to tell her how Jake and Trent were playing tick-tack-toe and they got to the end of the game and no one won and Jake said, "we're in a knot aren't we Daddy?" He called it a knot, but he meant a tie. Only she would appreciate how cute that is. Or maybe she would have a year ago.

I decide to call my Dad. I have vowed to call him every day. The phone rings, and rings, and rings...

"Hi, you've reached Ronnie and Joyce, sorry we've missed your call, please leave a message..." beep.

I hang up. Wow, that was weird. I wonder if my Dad ever calls home when he is out, just to hear her voice. I would. Then I call back, surely I can think of something to say.

"Hi, you've reached Ronnie and Joyce, sorry we've missed your call, please leave a message..." beep.

"Uh, hey Dad, it's just me...Amber. I thought I would call and let you know that we have made it to Rockford...our halfway point...we always stop here on our way home. We're safe, probably going to get a bite to eat and watch some boob tube. I'll call tomorrow when we are on the road. Ah, I ah...Love you. Bye Bye."

That wasn't so bad. There is no satisfaction however. My mother would be so happy that we made it this far safely. She would want me to call when we made it home too, just so she wouldn't have to worry. She worried about me. No one worries about me. I am Miss Independent, problem solver, never shaken by anything. She worried, and I appreciated that. I equated that to love. She loved me.

That night we went out to dinner. I ordered the salad bar. I walked up, grabbed a plate and looked up to see my Mom gingerly picking miniature corncobs out of a dish. Her hair was a perfect chocolate brown football helmet. As she turned to me, she was someone else. My heart started beating again and I began to scoop romaine onto my plate. As I turned to head back to the booth, my eyes swept the tables and booths, looking for her. Maybe I could see her again, just for a moment before I get back to my life at that booth with my family.

As I sat down Chloe shot me in the face with her straw wrapper and laughed. I taught her that and now I am the victim of my teachings. She jumped up to reach over my plate and grab the wrapper so she could do it again. Her arm caught Trent's Iced Tea and it dumped onto the table and my plate.

"Damn it Chloe!"

"Sorry Mommy."

"SIT and Eat!" I give her the serious stare.

I flag down the waitress and we get the mess mopped up. I go back up to the salad bar and return to the table upset because now everyone has eaten except me and the kids were losing it. I would have to shovel the food down rather than enjoy it. So typical.

"I had a dream about your mom last night." Trent says casually, while dipping his French-fry in ranch.

"You did? What was it about?"

"Oh, I don't know, she was just in it."

I think Trent wanted to give me a piece of her. He had already had two other dreams with her in them. I only had the one. I was still waiting to hear from her.

In second grade we had a nurse come to our class to tell us how bad smoking was. She drilled into our heads the many ways smoking will kill us if we do it. She gave a slide presentation showing us what a healthy lung looks like compared to a smokers' lung. She handed out pamphlets about the dangers of smoking, and more on how to quit smoking.

I was horrified. For all of my seven years, I knew she was going to leave me, I feared it every time we said goodbye. Now, for the first time, I knew it would be smoking. Smoking was going to kill my Mom. I had to stop her, I had to help her before she dropped dead. For some reason I wasn't as concerned about my Dad. I guess I thought he was invincible.

I scooped up several copies of each pamphlet offered on the presentation table, put them in my backpack and walked the four blocks to my house. As I walked, kicking up dead leaves along the curb, I contemplated how I was going to bring up the subject of her smoking herself to death. My mother always met me with open arms, loved me and squeezed me. She gave homemade cookies and prepared well-balanced meals every night. But there was a world we never entered. The unspoken. How I knew these things were not to be talked about, I haven't a clue. Did she reprimand me as a four year old for asking the wrong questions? Beat me silly? I don't remember.

When I got home, I was greeted with my hug and a snack. I watched her. I watched her take her cigarette from its pack, light a match, shake it out. She breathed in deep and let it out with a sigh. I wanted to cry. Didn't she know? Now every kind thing she did, I wanted to cry. If I made her mad, I wanted to cry. I don't want her to be mad at me when she dies.

I decided I would get the smoking message to her without talking about it. I collected the pamphlets from my backpack, there must have been at least twenty. I snuck into her bedroom while she was in the bathroom. I put all of the pamphlets under her pillow, she would find them when she went to bed. She would be happily surprised. It would be like finding a gift under her pillow. She would wake me early, eager to talk about the pamphlets I brought home from school. I could tell her how badly I want her to quit smoking and she would look at me with love and say, "of course I'll quit honey, anything for my baby."

That night I fought sleep. I was excited about the next day. When I woke, the birds were singing at my window. I slid out of bed, excited to find my mother, sure she would be intently reading the pamphlets at the kitchen table. I walked to the kitchen, she was not there. My brother and sister were watching Saturday morning cartoons in the living room. She must still be sleeping. I open her door slowly, trying to avoid the little creek it always made. I was hit with the smell of sleep, my parents forms curled under the white crocheted blanket. Maybe she hasn't found them yet.

I went to the kitchen to make my cheerios. I grab a dirty bowl and wash it with my hand under the cold running water, pull a spoon out of the silverware tray in the drainer. From the cupboard, I grab the Cheerios, they are almost gone. I pour the last of them in by bowl, then turn to put the box in the trash. There in the trash are my pamphlets. She put my gift in the trash. The shock left me without an appetite, the hurt left me confused. She never spoke of them. I was too ashamed to ask why.

Our house stands tall and regal as we pull into the driveway, the red and yellow Rector Haden for-sale sign stares at us as we pull in. My Golden retriever comes bounding toward us as we exit the car. The kids run to give her kisses, she can't stop slashing her tail through the air. Trent and I methodically go to the hatch and grab luggage and bags of dirty clothes to take inside. My home is cold but welcoming. I drop the bags in the laundry room, already overwhelmed at the thought of laundry and unpacking, then walk to the hall and turn up the heat.

I walk to the computer, hit the button on the answering machine, I have six messages waiting to be heard. I anxiously anticipate my mother's voice being on the machine, wondering if we made it home safe yet. My heart leaps and falls in the same instant as I remember she is still dead. There is a message from my swimming partner wondering if I wanted to do some drills on what would have been last Friday, she is giggly and apologetic for not swimming last week. She doesn't know that my mother died. I couldn't tell her, afraid I would cry. She is one of the few friends I have that is not on Facebook. Two messages later, she calls again, wanting to know if I can swim today. There is an automated message insisting this is not an emergency but that I should call to talk about lowering my interest rates. My sister is the last message, she wants me to call her but it is nothing important.

I reach down and hit the power button on my computer. As it fires up, I glance through the mail, separating the junk from the bills. I click the internet icon and type in Facebook.com.

Facebook Message

Subject: I'm safe

Mom, we arrived home today all safe and sound. You don't have to worry about us anymore.

P.S. Why did you throw away all those smoking pamphlets when I was in second grade? Maybe you would be alive if you had read them.

I go back to the laundry room to get the first load of clothes started. As the water runs, I pull open the white plastic bag and am overwhelmed by the sickly smell of smoke and Tide. My mother's sweater, the one she is wearing in a picture of our visit two summers ago, is on top. I toss it in. Part of me wants to leave it untouched the way she left it, but the realistic side of me is gagging. I have used unscented detergent for at least 10 years, I can't handle the overpowering scent of her clothes. Tide, Deep-fryer grease and smoke. It will take three washings before I can even consider wearing it. I toss in more sweaters and pants. Next, I toss in her socks. I pour a half cup of my homemade detergent in and shut the lid. I don't know why I insisted on taking all of her socks home. They were all so cozy looking, and new. I could wear them and it wouldn't be obvious that I was wearing her clothes. They could be a secret piece of her that I wear every day.

I reach down and pull the dryer door open. Damn. Of course, there are clothes that need to be folded. I make an umph' sound as I stand back up to turn the dryer onto fluff mode. That is not my umph', that is my mothers' umph. She made that noise, and ever since I had the kids, I make that noise too. I find it disturbing to hear it now. I look at the laundry bags and give a toothy wince. That is hers too. Damn this is annoying.

The next day, a Tuesday, I wake up exhausted. I am having a hard time adjusting to losing an hour after being on Central time for over a week. I had woke up at 3:00am and lay there thinking rambling thoughts of my mother until at least 5am. My alarm went off at 6:30 and I snuck into the kitchen, thankful for the hour of silence I get to soak up before I go for my run and come back to the chaos of my life. As I sip my second cup of coffee, I hear Jake waking up. I scoot out the door quickly, leaving Trent to deal with breakfast. I have to run. Twenty degrees in Kentucky feels much colder than twenty degrees in Minnesota. I don't enjoy my run, it feels like too much effort. I return cranky, knowing this day is going to be difficult.

When I walk through the door, Trent kisses me goodbye and leaves for work. The kids are at the table eating breakfast; Chloe eats cheerios, Jake is having waffles. They are yelling at each other and it quickly turns into hitting, Jakes milk tips over and begins dripping onto the Oriental rug below the table.

"God Damn it you two!" I grab a towel and start into the dining room.

"Why do you always have to fight? Don't touch each other!" As soon as I say that, Chloe starts kicking Jake under the table as if I couldn't see.

"Chloe! How dare you! Go to time-out. Now!" I know she is getting too old for time-out but she is also too old for spankings. If I don't send her to time-out I am liable to smack her up side the head the way my father used to do me.

I yell at them all the time. I am horrible. I don't know why I do it. They don't listen unless I yell. I can't tolerate so many things. When I am not yelling out-loud, I am yelling in my head and taking a deep breath. In a room full of parents and children, my voice carries like no other women. All action stops and people look at me as if in awe, or shock or both. I look so sane from a distance.

My mother was not like this, she was patient. I don't know where this comes from in me. I want her patience instead of her hands. I want her ability to forgive instead of her 'umphs and awkward frowns.

Facebook Message

Subject: Patience

Mom,

How did you put up with me without beating the crap out of me? Why were you so patient and why am I so short tempered?

At the grocery store, I roam the aisles, in a slow mood. The kids are being surprisingly quiet, they must be reflecting me. As I enter the cereal isle I scan for the usual; Cheerios, Grape Nuts, Post Raisin Brand, the only one without high fructose corn syrup. As I glance at the oatmeal, I see an elderly man bending down, squinting, his eyes trying to read the prices below the colanders.

I grab a box of instant, generic, peaches and cream oatmeal, toss it in my cart guiltily and begin to walk away. Then I stop. I turn around and see the old man still confused. I back-up my cart, scoot it out of the way of other shoppers and squat down next to him.

"Are you finding everything all right?" I say

"They don't have the two pound one I usually buy."

"Oh, are you sure?" I push a few cylinders around looking for the bigger tub.

"They have this one, but it says here it's almost six dollars. Can that be right?" He is pointing at a two-pound container of Quaker Oats, with a concerned look on his face.

"I usually only pay a couple dollars for it." He says convinced.

I don't know if he is remembering a time twenty years ago, when it was only a couple bucks or if he is just mistaken but I feel so bad for him I want to tell him I will buy it for him. I want to take his hand and walk him to the checkout, but not before doing the rest of his shopping. What if his wife usually does the shopping. What if she just died, or she is dying and he has been left to do this all by himself. He must feel so alone, and scared.

I look frantically at the shelf and the prices and see a tag for a two-pound container priced at $2.65, it is a generic brand. I start looking, is seems to be sold out. I start pushing the brand name tubs out of the way and magically there is one last tub. I hand it to him.

"Here you go! This one is only a couple dollars and its two pounds. It's the store brand but I bet it tastes okay. Why don't you give it a try." I am so happy

"Ah, let's see. Okay then. Thank you." He looks relieved and confused but in a happy sort of way.

I smile. "You know, I eat the store brand instant oatmeal and can't tell the difference." I smile more. I want to help him more. I am so happy to have helped him.

"Bye now." He says as he shuffles back to his cart and backs out of the isle.

A man strolls slowly past me with a kind grin on his face. It is as if he thinks I am a saint and I feel like a saint but at the same time wonder why I don't always take the time to help older people, especially with all the satisfaction it provides. I bump into Mr. Kind Grin repeatedly in the store. He is either still in awe that I am such a saint, or maybe he is just hitting on me. I am not really sure. I spend the rest of the shopping trip forgetting the things on my shopping list. I am strolling every aisle, despite being mostly an outside aisle shopper, looking for needy elderly people. I find that most of them are surprisingly confident in their shopping abilities. I catch their eye, seeking a subliminal message asking for help, but they all meet me with either a smile or a suspicious glare and hurry off.

I finish shopping, go to the large-load, self-checkout and start putting my canvas shopping bags on the carousel.

"Are you using your own bags?" a polite computer woman asks me.

"Duh" I say, no wonder my daughter says duh all the time.

"Are you using your own...Are you using your own bags?" she tries to ask me while I set a bag in each slot.

"Shut up, of course I am." I say under my breath so my kids don't hear me.

"Are you using"

"Yes!"

I finish setting the bags and hit the 'yes' button on the screen. If I hit the button before I actually get all my bags on the carousel, I know she will start asking me to remove the last object and scan it.

I love to pack my own bags, I am a control freak I guess. I also love being able to check all the prices for accuracy, that is the anal side of me. But I have no patience for stupidity especially in the form of talking computers. I am pretty sure the checkout attendants look forward to watching me check out as I talk openly with the computer woman. I tell her honestly and openly how I feel about her.

My kids are across the aisle directly in front of me. They are doing the same thing they do every time I come to Kroger to shop. They are flat on the floor, stomach side down, with their heads cocked trying to look for money under the change-counting machine. Jake has one arm completely under the machine, reaching for a coin just barely out of his grasp. I am ashamed that these are my kids, not because they are so openly looking for spare change, but because they are just slightly blocking traffic and people are having to swerve around their legs.

I just try to focus on bagging my items. If I don't acknowledge them, the shoppers won't know they belong to me. The attendants keep looking at them and have opted to do the same as me; ignore them. The thing is, the kids are quiet and for the most part, not hurting anyone or anything...except maybe their upper extremities.

"Do you have any coupons." Miss computer voice asks me.

"Why yes, yes I do." I say in a matter-of-fact voice

I slide my debit card, punch in my pin, collect my receipt and start loading my bags in the cart.

"Kids!" I say as if I am just noticing their sprawled bodies for the first time.

"Get up! Come on, time to go." The kids jump up and start running after me, hand held out offering me a view of their great finds.

"Mommy, I found seventeen cents! And Jake found a nickel!" Chloe announces.

"Good Job! Keep up the good work." I try to keep a decent pace.

We head through the sliding glass doors, and Jake jumps onto the side of the cart as we move across the street.

"GET OFF! Seriously Jake, the last time you did that you cut your head open. Do you SERIOUSLY think that's a good idea?"

A woman strolling into the store looks at me and smiles as if she remembers those days...kind of. She probably doesn't remember yelling at her kids military-style but something similar.

"Oops, sorry mom."

Sometimes my children's lack of intelligence really bothers me. I am pretty sure that even a black lab would learn that jumping on the side of a grocery cart and pulling all his weight toward the ground would result in a deep, bloody laceration on the side of the head. But my son does not. Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on him. I really don't know if it is normal or not. I give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he is a normal boy and possibly wearing his scar as a badge of honor.

My sisters had her kids a decade before I did. Back then, I knew how to raise kids. I knew exactly what she was doing wrong with her kids and how to make them behave...if she would just take my advice. It was clear to me.

It is no longer clear to me. And oddly, I am willing to read books on how to clean my house, raise an organic garden and train a puppy, but I have a difficult time making it through a book on how to rear a difficult child. I've never been in the military but I have decided that military style, or at least what I imagine military style to be, is the best way to rear the difficult child.

# Chapter 12

Facebook message:

Subject: Dad

Mom,

Dad wants to get a tractor. I am excited because he has big plans for reseeding the back forty acres into a "deer habitat". I am also concerned because he is, after all, still considered brain injured.

Us kids always thought Dad was going to die first Mom. We always thought you would be around to deal with him and his antics. We assumed we would have to deal with you and the Alzheimer's we expected you to get...just like grandma.

As it turns out, Dad is pretty capable. All this time you have been protecting him from himself and it turns out he can pull-off this independence thing pretty well.

For the first time ever, he has gone looking through your crap canals. Yes, Mom, he pulled out all your photo albums and found pictures he has never seen of his brother who died thirty years ago. He never even knew the photos existed. He went upstairs to go through the cubbyhole but stopped when he got to the Christmas stuff you left out from two years ago. He is running into mental roadblocks but he continues to delve nonetheless.

We talked about you on the phone today, it was the first real conversation we have had about your death

Facebook wouldn't let me write anymore. I had met the maximum number of characters.

I consider myself fortunate. I initially had intended to change the world, to do groundbreaking research, to go down in history. I was all about getting my PhD and then doing something big. I never planned to have kids, I never planned not to have kids either. Kids were never really involved in the big picture. I had C.D. my Red Healer, she was every bit of a child as far as I was concerned. I was able to express my motherly love toward her and all our cats and my horse.

When I was about 27, I missed my period. It was eleven days late and I was convinced I was pregnant, but I didn't tell anyone. I walked around with my right hand on my abdomen, feeling what I was sure was a pregnancy-caused distention. I was careful not to lift anything too heavy. I looked at my coffee, wondered if I was supposed to be drinking it. I felt exhausted. Unsure what to do, I called Planned Parenthood. I had done the same thing as a sixteen-year-old. As before, they told me to come in and take a pregnancy test. I did. And as before, they told me I wasn't pregnant. And just as before, I got my period within two days of bothering them.

I was relieved; after all, I didn't really want a kid right? I mean, I was in grad school and headed for a serious future. I was surprised at the sadness that came with my period. Part of me wanted to be pregnant. I talked with Trent. He always said he wanted five kids, I had always said he'd be lucky to get one. But together we decided that we would not try to get pregnant but we would not try _not to_ get pregnant. If it happened, it happened. It didn't happen, not right away.

My mother stayed home with her kids as long as she could. My fondest memories are of her and I being home alone, as my older brother and sister were at school. She would make me a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup, then set me in front of Sesame Street with a T.V. tray. We had our little routines and often we would have tickle sessions. It is all in my head like a fuzzy screen full of matte images.

My mother claims we were poor when I was young but as far as I could tell, we lived like kings. Who could want more than a three bedroom, two bath house on the edge of town with a big yard that backed up to a swamp that could pass for wonderland.

Our house was always cold in winter, and hot in summer and we ate a lot of macaroni and cheese with hotdog slices for lunch, and discounted steaks for dinner. But we grilled on the BBQ and we had a big fancy car, it was old but it was in good shape. We didn't accept charity, and as far as I could tell, we had all we needed. But we didn't.

When I was four, my mother could not make ends meet. The bill pile was getting bigger and the money my Dad brought home as a salesman wasn't cutting it. She decided to go back to work. Of all the days of my childhood it is this day that I remember most. She explained what it meant, that she would have to leave me every day. I remember standing in our basement laundry room, she had washed and dried her uniform and was preparing to take it out of the dryer. I was holding onto her leg, begging her not to go to work.

From that point on I never had her to myself again. She was always sneaking out to work, leaving me with different shades of babysitters. I would go down for a nap and awake to find her gone. I would cry and cry never knowing when I would see her again. The sitters were mean, one told me my hair would all fall out if I didn't stop crying. The sitters were neglectful and uncaring. One sitter brought her boyfriend over and would make-out on the couch. One would lock me in the basement until she felt like letting me out.

I may not have known whether I wanted kids, but I did know that if I chose to have them, I would raise them. I would be there to get them up every morning, I would have breakfast with them, make them nutritious little meals. I would have little routines with them and make memories for them, good memories. When they grew-up, they would not remember the day I went back to work as the worst day of their life.

When I finally became pregnant at twenty-nine, my OB told me it would be easy to go to school while I was pregnant and to go ahead and finish up. It was after they are born that they become harder to pack around. So I kept plugging away at a PH.D, not knowing what I would do with the degree once I actually got it.

Each week my belly grew and the questioning looks from my colleagues began. I know what they were thinking, they were wondering where my priorities were. I was a graduate student working in a lab with ten other women. Of the ten, only one had a child, and he grew-up in daycare and was now in school. The other nine women were childless and past their child bearing years. They had dedicated their lives to their job as a lab worker. They all had at least one abnormally child-like animal if not more. One woman had 26 cats, another had so many dogs that she was recently in the news for inhumane treatment of animals...the breeding got out of hand. My advisor, also a woman with no children and a PhD, bred Boston Terriers. She would smuggle them into her office and spend most of her day trying to sell them on her website. They were all women needing to do what women do...nurture. And they were all looking at me as if _I_ were the freak.

One day my advisor called me into her office, sat me down and told me my graduate status had been changed. The department had met and discussed my situation and now felt I should first acquire my Master's degree instead of doing the PhD option. After finishing a Master's degree, the Department would meet and discuss whether I should continue.

She later sent me an email stating that she 'once thought I was a brilliant PhD student but recently decided that I was simply not PhD material.

My mother was broken after hearing the news. For two years, my mother had been telling everyone that her daughter was going to be a doctor. She dreamed of having a child with such status. She encouraged me to challenge the department and go for my dreams. But I realized then, that my dreams had changed. I no longer cared about being a doctor I only cared about being a Mom. Rather then fight a battle I wasn't passionate about, I agreed to finish up a Masters and did so four months later. I was nine months pregnant.

After my successful defense and presentation of my thesis, I left the lab and my office for the last time. When I got home and checked my email, I found the letter I received from my advisor four months prior about not being Ph. D. material. I hit reply. Instead of addressing her as Doctor, as I had done everyday for the last 2 years, I called her by the name I thought she deserved.

Laura,

Now that I have finished my Masters Degree, I have decided you were right. I have lost focus and my priorities have changed. I am now going to focus my priorities on something you will NEVER know anything about: Being a Mom.

Amber Stoneway, MOM to be

So, here I am, seven years later and I consider myself extremely fortunate to have been able to stay home with my kids. Trent has been able to provide life's necessities with his job as a hotel manager. We have even been able to take some sort of a vacation almost every year. We have been mostly poor but as far as I can tell, the kids think we live like kings.

Trent has always wanted to be rich, but not me, I just want to be happy. I've never seen a rich person who looked happy. Luckily, Trent wants me to be happy more than he wants to be rich, so he has never asked me to go back to work, no matter how tight the finances have gotten.

I am seriously beginning to wonder about the memories I am making for my kids. Will they only have memories of me yelling at them and making them brush their teeth? I was the mean mom that made them make their beds and put away their clothes. I am the Sargent; Trent gets to be the good guy since he doesn't get to see them as much as me. Maybe the memories of my Mom in my early years are good because there are so few of them.

When Chloe was preparing to enter kindergarten, I decided public school was not going to be good enough. Since we couldn't afford to send her to private school, I made the decision to homeschool her. Add to this the fact that I grow an organic garden, have egg laying chickens, a goat I collect goat milk from and all the various green things in my life...I have been accused of being a modern hippie. Of this, I am not ashamed.

*

We have been trying to sell our house for a year now. We decided that we were living above our means and thought it was time to find a place that would allow us to put money away for the future on top of paying our mortgage. We bought our house with a construction loan five years ago, and when it came time to rewrite the loan, we no longer qualified. Not with the housing market the way it was and all the bank problems. The bank has been writing the loan on a year-to-year basis. They don't want the house, but they don't want us to have it either.

The bank knows we are trying to sell it, and we are never late on a mortgage payment. So we keep trying to sell, and they agree to keep rewriting the loan each year.

Unfortunately, the housing market has been horrible. So many people have lost their homes to foreclosure that the market is flooded with homes below value. We are one of the few people I know who actually have equity in their home. If we are able to sell it, we may even have enough cash to buy a home outright.

The thought of no mortgage makes me giddy. I can only imagine how much money we can pack away if we could get rid of this ridiculously expensive mortgage.

*

At 2:00pm on Friday afternoon, the kids and I are finishing up our schoolwork and getting excited about going out for dinner with Daddy at our favorite restaurant. It's called Jami's and is in a hotel that's only a few years old. No one in town seems to know it exist so it's always empty. But they have a great happy hour and a sweet little waitresses. The booths in Jami's each have their own TV. Trent and I actually get to have a conversation while the kids watch cartoons. I know it sounds awful, but since we don't have a TV at home, it's a real treat for them...and us.

The phone rings, it's the real-estate agency calling. They want to know if it would be okay for them to show our house Saturday at 10am. Yes, I say, that would be fine. Instantly I go into bitch mode. I am getting so tired of total strangers traipsing through my house, looking at my stuff and deciding if it's 'good enough' for them. My house never gets very dirty but it is still about a four-hour process to prepare it for a showing.

The house is 200 years old and collects dust easily. The floors are all wood and need to be oiled before the showing. All the windowsills need to be vacuumed to suck up the flies and ladybugs that die there. The windows need to be cleaned of the fingerprints and dog nose streaks, the stainless steel appliances need to be polished, the toilets scrubbed, the sinks wiped free of toothpaste, the rugs need to be vacuumed. On top of all this, I have to hide the basket of folded laundry that I use as a dresser so I don't have to go upstairs to dress my kids. I also have to hide the space heaters we use for supplemental heat, the junk bowl on the island, and all my kids artwork.

Since the showing is at ten in the morning, this means I need to start cleaning now. I go upstairs to straighten their playroom. It is a disaster. This upsets me. I grab a trashcan and begin filling it with little stickers that I peel off the wood floor, broken crayons, and various broken toys I don't think they will miss. I start collecting most the workbooks papers and put them into Chloe's desk drawer. There is a piece of paper on her desk covered with hearts that says: I loev my mom vry much. Sometimes I wonder if she is dyslexic. I still have another year before it becomes a huge concern though.

The toys get tossed into a giant toy box. I am looking at some of Chloe's artistic creations on the shelves, trying to decide if they can stay when Jake suddenly screams his 'I am seriously hurt' scream.

"I HATE you Chloe!" He says as he wipes his eyes. I am stomping down the stairs to see what the hell happened.

"He started it!"

"What the hell did you do to him?" I am looking at Chloe, boiling with anger.

"He hit me first!"

This conversation is directly out of my childhood. These are the exact words I would say to my mother and my sister would say to my mother but for some reason, I don't hear my Mom's voice. What did she say to us?

"Why do you two always have to fight?!" oh yeah, that's what she said.

"Don't touch each other!" Yep, she said that too.

I head back upstairs. I am on a mission. I cannot worry about them _and_ get this house ready for the showing. I have to get the upstairs done first. I finish up in the playroom, tidy the guest room, grab the dust mop and spray it with lemon oil. I run the mop over the floors and they look beautiful. I turn the lights off and head down the stairs, wiping down each step as I go. I get to the landing and head into the library. It is pretty clean already. We have a large screen TV in the library for watching movies. But since we usually only watch them on weekends the room stays fairly tidy. I run my rag over the windowsills and knock the dead flies onto the floor then run the oiled dust mop over the floor. I then wipe down the three coffee tables and head for the kitchen. The kids have found each other and are currently playing nicely. They decide to put on their mud boots and head outside to play. I take a deep breath of relief, they will be out of my hair for a bit at last.

I grab my iPod shuffle and attach it to my sweater, then put in the ear buds. Music always makes cleaning more tolerable. I crab the Ajax, my Seventh Generation bathroom cleaner, by toilet brush and a few cloths and head into the kid's bathroom. I call it the kid's bathroom because it has the bathtub and it is the one they most often use. It is off the main bedroom on the first floor. I pick-up the tooth brushes and fluoride-free toothpaste, put the cap on and toss it into the basket on the shelf. I don't mind this, or the toothpaste on the sink. To me it is a hundred times better than having to brush their teeth for them. Them brushing their own teeth is only topped by them pooping in the toilet when it comes to the ranking of 'most accomplished' days of motherhood.

Next, I attack the toilet. I flush it first, Chloe never flushes. I toss in some Ajax then spray some cleaner around the lid and seat being sure not to miss the front of the toilet where the yellow stain is forming on my tile. Why are boys so icky? Is it really that hard to control that thing? Come on.

I finish the toilet, shake out the bath rug and head to the kitchen to grab my broom and dustpan. As I round the corner, the horror of what I see sinks in slowly. Starting at the kitchen French doors is a trail of boots then straw that leads through the kitchen and heads into the dining room. Fuck!

"Chloe! Jake! You better not be up playing in the play room!"

"What Mom?" They yell from upstairs.

"Get DOWN here! I just got through cleaning up there! Damn it."

The kids come trampling down the stairs, like a herd of elephants. They are covered with little bits of straw. Evidently they have been jumping in the straw in the barn, a favorite pastime.

"Seriously! Are you serious? I just mopped all the floors up there and half down here. You have straw everywhere! Damn it you two!"

This is why I hate house showings. I end up yelling at my kids even more than usual and sadly, they get yelled at just for being kids. Next, I have to clean the windows, which means they can't touch any windows either. Pretty soon, they won't be able to do anything except play outside and only then if they promise not to bring out any containers to collect bugs in or toys to play in the dirt with.

By the time Trent gets home, I am in a horrible mood. I have everything clean so all we will have to do in the morning is run the vacuum over the rug and hide our stuff. At dinner, Trent says he had a horrible day at work. Something he did has gotten the attention of upper management and he has no idea what it is. The big boss is coming to town next week to have a meeting with him. He says he has racked his brain all day trying to figure out what it is to no avail.

Why anyone would want his job is beyond me. I can't stand dealing with employees. They always have excuses of why they can't work or do their job properly, they are always sick and you can't accuse them of lying. Then the hotel patrons are always complaining about something...ugh, no thank you. For some strange reason Trent loves it, usually anyway. He loves it when everything runs they way it is supposed to. And if it doesn't run smoothly, he says it's his own fault.

Another reason to hate showings: I have to set my alarm on a Saturday. It's not like I sleep all day on the weekend, no, I usually wake up about a half hour later than usual. My treat to myself on the weekend is to wake-up naturally, as in: no alarm. But because I want to run before we leave for the showing, I have to be up by seven. When the alarm goes off, I hit snooze, then lie there wondering if my snooze button even works. It has failed me in the past so I don't dare trust it today. I roll out of bed, grab my robe and quietly head to the kitchen.

Katie, my eleven-year-old dog, doesn't hear me come in. She sleeps rather heavily these days. I turn the light on and still she snores on her pillow. I grab the coffee pot, fill it with water, pour it in the top then grab a new filter, toss it in the cup and scoop out six scoopfuls of coffee. It will be good and strong.

As I am pouring my Grapenuts, Katie slowly begins to stand and stretch. She sits there watching me. I walk over and let her out to go pee. I know she won't though. She is going to walk to the end of the deck, turn around and cry at the door.

I pour the fresh goats milk over my cereal and grab the sugar. I hear Katie whining at the door and let her in. Never fails. One, two, three teaspoons of sugar. I know, but there was a day when I used thirteen. I grab my cup, toss in two ice cubes, a dusting of cinnamon and grab the pot before it is done brewing. I like my coffee strong, and Trent doesn't, this is how I compromise.

I grab my cereal and coffee and head to the dining room. My book awaits me. Ahhh, this is why I wake-up before the kids. This, right here. Silence, a good book, strong coffee...I look up and Katie is walking over to me doing the pee-pee dance. She has decided she is really going to go pee this time. So as usual, I get up and walk back into the kitchen and let her out. It's always something.

Right on schedule, I walk out of the bathroom and pull on my running tights, compression shirt and lace up my shoes. I grab my Garmin and iPod then head to the window where my thermometer reads 28 degrees. Such a tough temperature. I will start off freezing and end up hot. I don't care for either situation but I love this time of year for running. And it is so much better than a treadmill.

I let Katie back in, turn off the kitchen light so she can go back to sleep, then head out the door.

I walk briskly down the driveway, waiting for my Garmin to find a satellite so I can hit start. As soon as it does, I turn on my music, hit start and move into a brisk jog. As I run the usual cars pass me. Every morning I see the same ones, depending on the running route I take. Today I opt for my four and a half miler. I don't have time for five but need more than three so four and a half it is. I love this route, it's an out and back. It takes the main road for .67 miles then turns onto a narrow country road. It passes over a little grate-covered bridge, by cows and this little pack of white fluffy dogs that chase me until I yell for them to give up the fight because they are wimps and I know it.

There is a steep hill then it rolls on the way out. On the way back there is a long hill then it rolls and then there is steep descent. I love to hate hills. They are hard but they make me feel strong. They empower me. They also make me a faster runner. Since I am still trying to get my running mojo back after my Mom's death, I need the hills. I need to feel human again.

At the halfway point I am feeling good, I always feel good at the turn around. I made it half way and in my mind, the only thing to do now is run back home. The cows look ready to drop a calf any moment. They moan at me as I run by. I can barely hear them over the Blue October in my ear. I try not to let the music get too loud so I can hear traffic coming up over blind hills. As I round the last corner and prepare for the steep downhill I feel confident and in beat, I begin to shorten my stride and quicken my gait.

The road here is lined with rock driveways and pebbles are scattered along the surface. It makes for a tricky descent. If I go too slowly, the concussion on my knees is harder. As usual, I choose to go faster, with a faster turnover, smaller quicker steps. Suddenly, one of the white fluffy dogs shoots out of the ditch in front of me. I am forced to slam to a stop, which torques my knee funny and I trip over the top of it. I slam into the pavement with my palms first, then the rest of my body. It all happens very fast.

At first, I feel nothing. Then, as I roll onto my side, I feel my palms burning and a sharp pain in my knee. I look at my palms, they have deep gouges in them, blood trickles. Fuck it hurts. I slowly stand, "Damn dog! What were you doing?" My knee isn't as bad as I thought. I take a few awkward steps, look down at my Garmin. Damn, now my pace is all messed up. I hit the stop button. After a few yards to feel it out, I pick up a slow jog. My hands hurt more than anything but I can feel my knee too. I have to land funny on my foot to keep my knee from hurting. I run like this the rest of the way home, about a mile. I don't have time to walk.

When I step into the house the kids are up and already making messes. Trent is lying in bed awake. I remind him in my nice but annoyed voice that we have a showing in about an hour and a half and that he should get up. I get the kids started on the cereal, grab them some clothes to put on when they are done and I jump in the shower. My palms sting as the water hits them. My knee is throbbing.

# Chapter 13

Sundays are my long run days. The long run is a personal test. It challenges me to more miles than my norm and prepares me for a half marathon if I choose to do one. But more than anything, the long run is an hour and a half of 'me' time. I can go over the week I just had and prepare for the week ahead. I use the time to set new goals and make peace with my past. It is my in-depth therapy session for the week.

If I don't get my long run I know I will be pissy all day. My knee is practically normal and it is thirty-five degrees out. It is like heaven. The first few steps are touchy but my knee seems to warm out of it. My palms feel like they are throbbing as my blood begins to pump harder through my body. After a couple miles, I am off in daydream land thinking about all the things I am going to do when I get back from this run.

What I really want to do is call the people who were _supposed_ to look at the house yesterday and tell them "Thanks for fucking nothing you bastards! I don't want you to ever come back, don't bother, you're not welcome back, you missed your chance! I went to all the trouble to get my house ready for you, yell at my kids, hurt myself on my run and you're afraid of my dog!!! My eleven-year-old decrepit dog! What are you? Retarded?" That is why I hate house showings. Who do these people think they are? They had the nerve to say they would come back another time when we could arrange to take Katie away from the house. But did they call us and ask us while the house was still clean? No, they waited until this morning, long enough for the kids to put their hands on every window and appliance. What ever. Waste my time...bastards. I hate house showings.

As I run, my mind wonders. I've turned off my iPod. Sometimes I feel over-stimulated when I run with music. I can see a car coming around the bend up ahead. This is such a quiet little road, it always brings me back to civilization when I see a car. As is nears, I can see a helmet of a head barely peering over the steering wheel. Then I see the glint of glasses. The car is just yards from me now and it is my mother at the wheel. She is driving carefully as always, slightly forward in her seat to be closer to the wheel. I stare in awe. Then the car passes me and a little old lady turns to me and smiles the wrong smile.

I flash back to the day before my wedding, thirteen years ago. I had been in town, picking up my cake and my wedding dress. Trent had left for St. Paul to pick up his best man. We were getting married at the farm...at the hitching post. It was a huge corroboration to get the wedding done on a budget. Trent's stepfather would do the photography, his mother the flower arrangements; my mother would do the catering. I rented a huge tent and a DJ. My mother was able to borrow the tables and chairs from the hotel where she was a chef. My dress was being made by Adi's Mom, a gift. Adi had died that December of cancer.

I was driving out to the farm with the simple sunflower wedding cake and my amazingly perfect wedding dress. I was excited and content and found myself behind a really slow driver. I did my usual cursing, "why on Earth are you going so slow? Come on you idiot!" As I pulled around, accelerated and began to pass, I looked over to see what the idiot looked like. It was my Mom. She was hunched forward, driving close to the steering wheel, wearing her white chef's coat. She was driving home from work. Because as usual, her employer didn't give her the day off, even though it was the day before her daughter's wedding. So, she worked nine hours, then met with the delivery truck to get the catering food and was driving home. At home, she had a whole list of things left to do to prepare the food for my wedding. And I was calling her an idiot.

I had to slow as I began to choke back tears. My mother worked so hard. From the time I was four and she told me she was going back to work, to the very last day before she was forced to quit, she worked so damn hard. The restaurant treated her like yesterday's trash. She was given two weeks of unpaid vacation if she chose to take it. She had such a strong work ethic, she didn't complain.

She worked for five years without a rubber mat under her feet. I remember one telephone conversation where she was complaining of her back hurting. I had asked if they had cushioned mats for her to stand on,

"They used to"

"What happened to them?"

"Well, they picked them up and took them outside so they could deep clean the kitchen floors and they never put them back down."

"Those floors are concrete Mom, you can't stand on concrete all day."

"Well, what do you want me to do Amber?"

"Tell your boss to get you some mats! Tell him you'll sue him if he doesn't." I was so dramatic then, still am sometimes.

"Oh, geez. It's not that big a deal."

"Yes it is Mom!"

After I hung up with her that day I was so frustrated. She acted like it was some sort of honor for her to be working there. She had been there twenty years and seldom got a raise while they would hire some arrogant young guy chef for twice the pay, and she would have to train him. She was screwed daily. I hung up and called the hotel. I still remembered the number from all those childhood years calling her at work. I asked to talk to her boss. I told him who I was and that my Mom needed mats in the kitchen, that her back was hurting and that I was pretty sure it was the law that they had to have mats under her feet. The next week she called me.

"Amber!"

"Hi Mom."

"Well, guess what!"

"What?"

"I came into work this morning and you won't believe what was there."

"What ma?"

"There were brand new mats on the floor. The really nice expensive ones."

"That's awesome Mom." I couldn't help but grin.

After all the things my Mom did for me, I managed to do something for her and it made me feel so good. I did something to fix the things that were broken in her life.

I try to relax, take long controlled breaths as I run. I need to get a grip. I gave myself a week to do my running/crying, I need to run like a big girl now. As I approach mile four, of an out-and-back, I need to decide if I should go further. Four miles out makes for an eight mile run. I am feeling good, but I don't know if I dare push for more. By the time I decide I should go a little farther, I am almost at four and a half miles. I will go five, then turn around. I have made a decision.

At five miles I do a big U-turn in the road, being carful to watch for cars coming around the blind corner. As soon as I am heading toward home, I realize that I have been running with the wind at my back this entire time. No wonder I was feeling so fresh. The wind bit into my fingers and my ears. Now that I had a good sweat going, I could feel a definite chill. Fighting the wind soon became tiring. The agony of the past couple of weeks was getting to me. When I thought about it all, which I couldn't avoid now, it weighed on me. It was like dragging a dead dog behind me.

The wind stung my eyes, and tears began to drip down my cheeks. As I tried to forget about the pain of running against the wind, I thought back to Thanksgiving. My mother's funeral was the Monday before. I had not been home for Thanksgiving for at least 15 years. My Dad's brother and wife offered to host it at their house. My Dad seemed willing to do whatever we told him to do that week. He was simply unable to think for himself.

We all showed up around noon. My brother, his wife and child, my sister and her two girls, my second cousin and her girlfriend, my Dad's sister and her husband, a couple of my cousins from my Dads other brother. We all gathered in the house, sat in over-stuffed recliners and on L-shaped couches that were poised in front of a large-screen TV with a football game playing on it. We made small talk, as if my mother had not just died a week ago. My Dad sat on the couch, he had a permanent grin on his face but his eyes were wet and bloodshot. He was exhausted, but seemed content to be staying busy.

He looked nice. I was worried that he may not know what to wear without my Mom there to pick it out. But he did, he picked out his clothes and got dressed all by himself. I imagined him staring at that picture of my Mom wondering what she would suggest he wear. I picture him in the bathroom going through his normal morning routine, foaming his face, shaving with the hot water running while tapping his razor on the sink edge, shaking some Old Spice aftershave on his hand then patting his face sharply. This is the routine I watched every day as a small child. I remember it clearly. He would take a little comb, part his hair on the side then sweep it over his bald spot. But now he only had a bit on each side and a little in the back. No need to comb it really, except out of habit. When he would come out of the bathroom, the scent of aftershave and toothpaste would still be lingering.

Instead of seeing my Mom at her long dresser getting ready for Thanksgiving, however, he saw a framed portrait of her smiling as an eighteen-year-old. Is that the face he always saw when he looked at her over their 47-year marriage? Did he get done with his routine early, expecting to have to wait for my Mom, then realize there was nothing to wait for? He wouldn't have to help her down the side porch stairs, support her weak body as she walked to the car then assist her into the car like he had done so many times in the last year. He could simply walk out the door and leave. Just like that. How did that feel? Was it a relief? Did he feel like he was forgetting something? Did he miss the smell of my mother's hairspray and mousse? Her perfume?

There is a light mist now, the droplets are collecting on my lashes as I run causing the sensation of running through a dream. Only four more miles now, I can do this.

My aunt announced that dinner was ready, and slowly we all got up and formed a line at the end of the long table of food. We made small talk during dinner. I talked to my nieces about sports and school, my kids visited with my brother's son who was closer in age to them. We ate like we were not mourning the death of my mother. When we finished, my aunt kept my sister and I busy with dishes and to-go plates. She sensed we were a little lost. My uncle announced that he was going to the garage if anyone wanted to come. My brother, sister and I jumped at the opportunity to get away from the fake normalcy, grabbed our boots and coats then headed for the workshop.

My uncle has a cave that would make any man jealous. He had a wood-working area, every tool known to man, a wood stove, a wall of trophies; running, canoeing and cross-country skiing. There is a large fridge, inside is every rare small brewery beer within 1000 miles. He asked what type of ales we like, then dug deep into his fridge for something he thought we would appreciate. Then he went to the back of the workshop, grabbed two huge Rubbermaid tubs and set them on his workbench in front of us.

"I'm getting rid of them." He said with a big grin.

"Wow, look at all of these, this is amazing. Is this one from Boston?" I am in awe as I pick up one after another.

"Yep, that was 1982, I ran it in 1981 too." He held his chest high with pride.

"I can't believe you would part with these."

"Awe, I've had them in storage for years. What am I going to do with them? Have them bury me with them? Take as many as you like. I've already donated about a hundred to some kids in Bosnia"

Besides my niece, my uncle is the only other family member that runs. Actually, he doesn't run anymore, he had to give it up due to bad knees. In his prime, he set a marathon PR of two hours and fifty minutes. He was really good. I never appreciated how talented he was until I started running a few years ago. Now, after a lifetime of competing in races he was giving away all of his prized t-shirts. Is that what it all comes down to in the end? Is that what it is all for?

I look at my uncle, lean and charismatic. He still coaches cross-country, still enters cross-country ski races, still canoes every day in the summer. He is three years older then my Dad but the complete opposite from him. He is so alive. My Dad looks easily fifteen years older than this man in front of me. Maybe that is what it is all for.

I grab the Boston t-shirt, ultimately the most prized of the lot, and a few cool retro-looking tees I think will look good with blue jeans. I have not saved any of my race shirts. I give them all to Trent for him to paint in or do yard work. I don't believe in hanging onto the past. Besides, I keep getting faster, no need to stop time yet.

This is the most painfully long, least uplifting run I have ever done. Why is this so painful? I love running, this is supposed to feel good. My pace is embarrassing. I have agreed to give myself slack, not expect PR's during this time...this time of mourning? Is that what this is? But as I look down at my Garmin I want to give-up, I have not run this slow since I first started running. And I am pushing. At least it feels like I am pushing.

As I start the long hill-climb two miles from my home I do something I never do. I hit stop on my Garmin and walk. I am walking up a hill. I hope this doesn't start some bad habit of walking when no one is looking. This run is just a bonk. A lost cause. There is no point in adding more time to my current pace, I will just start back up when I get to the top. Who cares if it's not an even ten miles. I usually do.

As I walk, I notice the outside of my right knee is burning. I hadn't noticed it earlier. I try to stretch my stride, keep my knee warm as I walk. I realize now that I am favoring my right leg when I walk. I wonder if I have been running like this. If I have been running with a slight limp, I may have really messed-up my knee. I hope that my knee warms out of it once I start running at the top.

When I reach the top I brace myself for the last mile and a half. It is mostly downhill and flat. It is my favorite part of this run because no matter how far I have run I finish strong and fast. I pick up a jog and push into a run. The knee twinges and then quits as I wind around the narrow road to the last downhill. As I start the descent my knee begins to twinge again, with a slight burn. I immediately start walking. Once I am on mostly flat road I pick up my pace again, hesitantly. It seems okay. I will just get home and put some ice on it. It'll be okay. I need it to be okay. The thought of not being able to run scares me.

Facebook Message

Subject: I am sorry

Mom,

I am sorry I didn't come home for Christmas last year. I know how important Christmas was to you and I should have come. It wasn't the same here. I can't do Christmas the way you did. How did you do it?

P.S. I am sorry I was such a spoiled little whiney brat on Christmas morning. Why didn't you just put me up for adoption?

I remember the phone call to my mother when I found out I was pregnant with Chloe. She was worried about me finishing graduate school but she was also excited because now she could use the baby to get what she wanted. When Trent and I were living in Colorado with his father, we would stay with his Dad every-other Christmas. Trent hates Minnesota in winter, he hates the snow and the cold and being cooped up in a house filled with smoke.

"Well Amber, now you tell Trent that you HAVE to come home every Christmas so I can spend it with my grandbaby. No excuses and I mean it."

"Okay Mom, I will."

And I intended to spend every Christmas with her. I did spend every Christmas with her until last year. It just became so hard. Before having kids I was used to coming home, walking into her smoke filled house and not thinking anything of it. After all, I was a smoker before I got pregnant. She never knew that, but I was.

"Oh my god Amber! There are cigarettes in this drawer!"

"Yeah, I know. Gross huh?"

"Are there matches? Let's have one!"

"Lisa, smoking is disgusting! I will never smoke! It kills you!"

"My cousin, she came to visit us last summer and she taught me how to smoke like a movie star. It is so grown-up."

"You smoke?"

"Yeah! Duh, it's so cool"

Lisa was one of my friends in sixth grade who was out of my league. Her family built a huge fancy house on a lake and she was really smart. I had never had a friend as smart as Lisa. All my friends were like me, they were in the slow reading group in elementary school, they lived in trailers, their parents were never home. Not Lisa, her Mom stayed at home, her Dad built houses and they didn't smoke. Their house was clean and modern, it smelled like new carpet and fresh paint not like smoke and cat pee like mine did.

To this day I don't know why Lisa wanted to be my friend. I invited her to spend the night during sixth-grade English one day and that night her Mom was calling mine. This had never happened. Usually the kid said okay and just got off the bus with me. Lisa's Mom called to talk to my Mom. She asked a ton of questions and was very hesitant to allow Lisa to spend the night. She had allergies and we had cats. That was why we were sleeping in the camper instead of my house, to avoid cat dander.

I was so gobsmacked by the fact that Lisa had smoked, and since LAST summer no doubt, that I assumed rich fancy people must smoke. If they smoke, if smart clean people smoke, it must be okay. If Lisa smoked, there was no reason I shouldn't. As a matter-of-fact, if she smoked, I _should_ smoke, especially if I wanted to grow up to be like her parents. So we smoked a cigarette. Of course we didn't inhale, at least I didn't. I didn't know there was any difference. I thought you put the smoke in your mouth and blew out.

After she left, I would sneak into the camper, grab a cigarette and a lighter, then go for a walk on the trail down the street and have a smoke. I assumed I was addicted. I had to have one. I was very dramatic.

Later that summer while at a party I had snuck out to, a high school guy taught me how to inhale properly. After a few months of that I did become addicted. Sixteen years later when I was five months pregnant, I smoked my last cigarette. I never admitted to my mother that I smoked. I never smoked in front of her like my sister did. For some reason I could never admit to my mother that I smoked. At my wedding she pulled me aside, the DJ had Nine Inch Nails blaring and I was getting pretty tipsy.

"Amber, I know you smoke! It's okay. If you want to smoke you can."

"What Mom? Um, I'm going to go dance okay? Love you..."

It would be admitting that I wasn't perfect, and in her eyes, I was. I wouldn't do that to her. To the day she died, we pretended like I never smoked, like she never knew.

Chloe was six months old the first time my mother met her, it was Christmas. Chloe had been born in June. My mother, despite briefly considering it, did not make it out for the birth, or the tricky weeks that follow the birth of a first child. I had taken tons of digital pictures and sent them to her every few days.

The drive from Kentucky to Grand Rapids was 17 hours. We had to stop at a hotel half way. I had learned very early that I should sleep when the baby does. The idea of driving 17 hours to Minnesota while Chloe slept, and arriving with a wide awake baby and two exhausted parents didn't make any sense to me. I hear people talk about driving at night while kids sleep. I think they are insane.

I was so excited for my Mom to meet Chloe in person. We arrived in Minnesota around dinnertime. There was snow on the ground and twinkly Christmas lights everywhere. We passed through little towns with the tinsel Christmas decorations just like the ones that Grand Rapids had when I was growing up. I often wonder if the little town bought them for a great deal when Grand Rapids chose to upgrade to the newer fancy decorations.

As we hit the four-mile dirt road that led to my parent's house I was so giddy I could hardly stand it. We spotted deer in the fields as we got closer, noticed spots on the road where people had gone into the ditch then been rescued since the last snowfall.

My parents had been sure to have the driveway plowed. As we turned into the drive my heart was pounding with excitement. I hadn't seen my Mom since last Christmas. As we peeked over the top of the hill in the driveway I could see the farmhouse all cozy looking with the Christmas tree twinkling inside the front window. The only outside Christmas light was a massive Christmas star hung on the barn: my mother's trademark.

We pulled in and parked. I half expected my Mom to come running out demanding to see that perfect little baby. As we approached the porch I was almost certain she would be opening the door with a scream at any second. I opened the screen door and knocked on the storm door while simultaneously turning the knob. "Knock, knock! We're here!"

As I push the door open, I can see my mother getting up from her seat at the kitchen table. She is snuffing out a cigarette and blowing the smoke from her lungs into the air to the left and behind her. My Dad continues smoking barely bothering to look up from his crossword puzzle.

"Hi Honey! Oh, come here, come here." She gives me a big hug.

"Thiiiis is Chloooeee" I say proudly

"Oh, look at her." My mother says, lowering her head then carefully backing away.

I glance up to my Dad, offering to show him his newest grandchild, he peeks up from the crossword, gives a look and then a "humph".

I instantly notice the smoke. It is so thick I can hardly breathe. Chloe's face looks pink. Is she having difficulty breathing? She begins to cry. I exclaim that she needs to eat and then quickly wisk her off to the fresher air of the living room.

My mother almost pushes me away to nurse Chloe. Trent stays in the kitchen to try and make small talk with my parents. They are still not convinced that he is good enough for their daughter. Trent claims to care less but insists on being kind and talks with them.

My mother talks nervously with him while my father sits at his seat at the table, pretending not to notice him. When I am done nursing I reenter the kitchen. My mother tells me that she washed all the bed sheets and put them on the twin bed and the blow-up mattress upstairs. It was all ready for us. For some reason I appreciate this so much. I know that she had to go out of her way to get the sheets, wash them, and then put them back on the bed. This is how she shows her love for me, by doing these things.

Trent and I head upstairs to unload and situate our stuff. We are hoping that our things in the suitcases and diaper bag will avoid taking on the tell tale smell of smoke.

As we walk up the stairs, my mother's dog walks ahead of us leading the way. As he passed a couch in the first room he lifts his leg and pisses on it. "Hey! Stop that you filthy mongrel!"

The rug in the first room has spots of dried-up cat vomit. Or is it diarrhea? As we enter the large second room, the room we will be staying in, I notice all the dead flies. They are on the windowsill and on the floor along the baseboards. There is a layer of dust over the lamps and the arms of the couch and chairs. But the sheets are clean.

"This is disgusting." Trent says.

"The sheets are clean, she said she just washed them."

"This one smells like cat piss."

It did. I don't know if it was fresh cat piss or freshly washed cat piss but it did smell like cat piss. I did what I always did; I turned the sheets so the piss smell was at the bottom near our feet and tried to pretend it wasn't there. That was the only option. Even as a child we only had the sheet on the bed, never an extra set. If the sheets became un-usable, you went without sheets until someone washed them. Or you made do.

Trent was so tolerant. For a man who grew-up with Martha Stuart as a mother, he was so tolerant. He slept with piss-smelling sheets in a smoke filled house because that was what I wanted to do. I couldn't bear not being there with my Mom at Christmas.

But now as I lay on a blow-up mattress with my husband on my left and my six-month-old baby on my right, with cat piss burning my nostrils. Smoke drifting up the stairs. With half dead flies buzzing circles on the floor near my head. And my Dad who refuses to acknowledge my saint of a husband. I wondered: is this _really_ what I want.

The following year, my brother offered to let us stay in his spare bedroom. My mother was offended, I know she was. I tried to explain how bad second-hand smoke was for the baby but she simply refused to understand. How could it be bad? It was good enough for her kids. Her kids are fine. She ignored the fact that I had to sleep in a tent until I was six months old. That was before they knew the dangers of smoking. Now we all knew.

Over the years Christmas became less of a trip to be home _with_ the parents during the season and more of a trip home to be _near_ them during the season. We would stay with Blake, go to grandma and grandpa's for Christmas morning, open presents and have Christmas dinner. My mother would sit on the basement steps to smoke. Despite the fact that the smoke drifted up the stairs and into the kitchen, I appreciated it because she was at least making an effort.

Mom would claim every year that my Dad was 'hardly smoking at all these days'. Yet when we were in the house, he always chain-smoked at the kitchen table. If he wasn't smoking, he had a cigarette (or the filter) burning in the ashtray. I don't know if he did it to drive us away or because all the company made him need to smoke. Either way it was impossible to be in the kitchen. So on Christmas day my family, my sister and her girls and my brother, his son and wife would congregate in the living room while my Dad sat at the kitchen table and my Mom went from the stairs to the stove. We would have talked more if I was at home in Kentucky and she was sitting at the table holding the phone.

We would all bring our Christmas presents to the farm. The tree was beautiful. My mother truly loved Christmas and to decorate. This is the one area she made sure was perfect, free of dust. She cleared out her hutch to make way for a Christmas train and elaborate Christmas angels. She vacuumed around the tree to make way for her sleighs. She was sure to buy little gifts that would fill the sleigh and look perfect. She arranged her perfectly wrapped gifts, largest to smallest. And when us kids brought in our gifts she crinkled her nose at the quality of our paper and ribbon.

We would take turns unwrapping gifts. My Mom cared so little about what she got. All she wanted was to see the expression on each child's face when they unwrapped her gifts, the gifts that in her mind were perfect. Quite often they were perfect. She would splurge on the one expensive thing each child or grandchild wanted. She would outdo herself. Then the credit cards would come in and she would be more disciplined the following year. Regardless, to her Christmas was about giving.

My Dad would sit at the table smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee until the last possible minute. Finally he would come to the living room leaving his cigarettes in the kitchen. We would go in turns opening presents. The kids would be flabbergasted, excited and out of control, the adults more contained. My Dad would make a stack of his opened gifts next to his recliner. My mother did the same. Sometimes they would have to move last years stack out of the way to make room for this years.

Before we could sit down to dinner we had to deal with the table. The kitchen table usually sat next to the wall allowing room for only three chairs. Stacks of magazines, bills, insurance statements, tax documents, you name it sat in the center and pushed up to the wall. Every inch of the table was covered with various things from tissues to pencils, toothpicks to salt and pepper. The table had to be cleared, pulled out, wiped off and inserted with two additional table leaves.

Every year I tried to convince my Mom to take the time to go through the stack of crap and toss the garbage. But every year she magically appeared with a cardboard box, carried it to the table, and filled it with everything from the table except her necessities, like eyeglasses and cigarettes. She then carried the box to the enclosed front porch and deposited it on top of the box from last Christmas. It was the one time during the year that her table was clean and clear.

She was a keeper. Everything is important. You might need it someday. Everything is sentimental. She clung to things from the past like a baby to the nipple. She was grasping, struggling to hold on...to what? What was she holding onto? What was she afraid of?

# Chapter 14

I wake on Monday to the sound of my Garmin alarm chirping at me. I quickly grab it and turn it off trying not to wake Trent. He can sleep another half hour. As I reach for it I feel a hot pain. Shit. I fell asleep with the heating pad on again. I reach down my back and can feel a blister at the base and one on my thigh. It was on high. It is the only thing that seems to relax the tense muscles of my back these days.

I quickly brew some coffee and grab some breakfast then go out for an easy five miles. It doesn't feel too bad, I have to keep reminding myself to go easy after the long run yesterday. I not going to set a PR today but I feel like I may finally be getting my old self back. I am running and it felt good. It has been a long time. I am nearing normal.

When I reach the end of my driveway I can see the dining room light on. Through the window I can see that the kids are at the table eating breakfast. As I walk onto the porch Katie greets me with a tail that slaps the back of my knee as she curls around my legs. "Hey girl! How's my guard dog?"

I open the French door that leads to the kitchen. Trent walks out of the bathroom freshly shaven and smelling of soap and toothpaste. He looks handsome as always in his dress pants, shirt and tie. I could see a wrinkle of worry between his eyes as he grabbed his to-go cup of coffee.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just a little worried about the meeting with the head honcho today."

"Why are you worried, you didn't do anything wrong right?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"Maybe he wants to promote you."

"They said there were issues they needed to discuss. It doesn't sound like a promotion"

"I'm sure it's nothing, don't worry. It's a beautiful day, don't let this get you down. Okay?

"I'll call you later, when I know what this is all about. I gotta go. Love you."

And with that Trent grabbed his lunch and left. He seemed so stressed. He seldom lets things get to him. He was grinding his teeth this morning, a bad sign. I saw his beat-up Jetta speed down our road. I wish we could afford to get him a nicer car. He works so hard and doesn't get anything nice for himself. He always wants me and the kids to have nice things but never himself. He has told me many times how embarrassed he was to show up at work in his car. Here he is, the boss of the hotel and the bus boys drive nicer vehicles. I try to remind him that the bus boys probably still live at home and their car payment is the only bill they have. He knows, he says.

Trent came from a family that got a new car every few years. He never had to feel embarrassed when his Mom drove him to school or they were seen getting out of the car at the grocery store. My family got a new, used car whenever the old used car died. I would feel proud of the new used car for a week or two, until I realized it was still an old car. My parents always paid cash, never borrowed on a car. We started with station wagons. We had a red one, a brown one, a yellow one with fake wood paneling. Then we upgraded to the Lincoln Mark V, a total luxury vehicle with more buttons than last years sweater. You had a button to move the seat forward, back, up, down, tilt, and one for adjusting the cushion in the seat. My Mom loved that car. When you drove you couldn't feel anything. We could hit a curb and you'd barely feel a dip in motion.

I felt proud to be seen in that car. I would always look around for classmates whenever we stopped at the bank or the drugstore. I wanted them to see how rich we were, how nice our car was.

As the years went by, the paint began to chip and the controls in the car stopped working. It became embarrassing to be seen in. But my mother remained proud.

*

After the kids finish breakfast I grab them some clothes to put on. I lay out their coats and hats and tell them to meet me outside to milk our goat, Haven. I throw my winter coat over my running gear, grab Katie's food dish and scoop some of her special Canidae dog food into it. It is a grain-free food and very expensive. But it is the only food we can find that helps with her incontinence. I head out to the shed where I milk Haven, carrying my stainless steel bucket. The kids come shooting out the French doors arguing about who was going to get to the eggs first. We have three chickens that roam around our yard. They each lay their eggs in a special place but not very consistently in the wintertime. The kids love collecting eggs. Getting chickens is the best thing we've ever done.

After milking Haven I announce to the kids that they have 15 minutes before they we are going to start school. They stay outside playing while I hop in the shower.

I turn the shower off and hear the phone ringing in the kitchen. I grab my towel and hop into the kitchen dripping water as I go.

"Hello?"

"There is something wrong with Dad."

"What?"

"Dad is in the hospital. He went in to have his pro-time checked and they admitted him. They said his levels were too dangerous to let him leave."

"How did that happen?"

"I don't know Amber! I guess his nurse friend messed-up his pillbox somehow! It's not my problem, I'm just letting you know. I have to get back to work."

And she hung-up. My sister was notorious for hanging up on people. She always tried to do the right thing but would get annoyed when someone asked more of her.

My Mom used to set-up my Dad's pills. He was on so many. He took cholesterol-lowering drugs, three different high-blood pressure pills, thyroid medication, and Warfarin, a blood thinner because he has a fake heart valve. On top of his prescription medication he also takes vitamins, natural joint builders, fiber and acidophilus. My Mom, bless her heart, used to fill my Dads' pillboxes, one for morning and one for evening, every week. Even during the last couple months of her life when her brain function was questionable she filled his pillboxes. My Dad has never, not even once in the 25 years he has been on medication, had to fill his pillbox.

Now that my Mom was gone he has been having every Tom, Dick, and Harry fill the pillboxes for him. I did it once when I was there for the funeral, Leah filled it once, my Dads' friend from the bar filled it once and now my Dad claims to have a friend who is a nurse that promised to come out and fill it. She didn't show-up so he tried to do it himself. I know this because I talked to him the day after the nurse-friend didn't show up. Now he is in the hospital because he took too much Warfarin.

He must have really overdosed himself making his blood dangerously thin. He has always gone in to have his pro-time checked every month. Since Mom died he's been hitting the bottle a little more and they have kept a closer eye on the levels. He isn't supposed to drink at all while taking a blood thinner but the doctors realized a long time ago that he wasn't going to quit. So they have been adjusting his doses according to his alcohol consumption ever since.

"Hi, this is Amber Stoneway, I am Ronnie Miller's daughter. I am calling to check on his condition."

"Yes ma'am, let me connect you with his nurse."

I tap my fingers on the counter while I wait for the nurse to pick up. I am folded over at the hips with my back stretched to the counter, my butt up in the air. Trent likes it when I do this, he finds it very provocative. Much to his dismay, I don't do this to turn him on, I do it because it makes my back feel better.

"This is Bea, I am Ronnie's nurse, can I help you?"

"Bea? This is Amber, Ronnie's daughter. You had my Mom about a month ago, remember? I thought you worked in ICU?"

"Oh, Amber, I am so sorry about your Mom. Yes, I usually work in ICU but I work on all the floors, depending where I am needed."

"I see. So how is my Dad? He must have really messed up his pills huh?"

"His pro-time was dangerously low. His blood is not really clotting at all. The doctor wants to keep him until everything is normal again. It is a precaution, just to be on the safe side. He should only be here a day or two."

My Dad is 68 years old. He should be able to do things for himself but he prefers not to. At least I think this is true. Ever since my Mom died he has been a little on the invalid side. We all tried to help him get stuff straight, take care of the funeral, life insurance, bank accounts, that sort of thing. Leah still goes out every Sunday to help out but it is clear that he expects her to clean and do laundry and pay bills. She is overwhelmed and getting resentful. My brother does nothing. I can't do anything from Kentucky and Leah just gets more and more resentful.

I don't know what I should do. How do you tell your Dad to grow up and take care of himself? Tell him that just because he has never paid a bill doesn't mean he can't start now?

I tried to arrange a cleaning service to come out once a week but Dad never called them. I tried to arrange a nurse to come out to do his pills but Dad never called her either. He has Leah, he has friends, he doesn't need anything else. What more can I do?

As I am pondering the questions, still sprawled out over the counter, the kids come raging in fighting about who gets to carry the egg. Jake has it but Chloe is grabbing at his arm. As he slams the door shut Chloe pulls his arm and the egg hits the ground with a wet thud. Jake instantly starts crying as if he just lost his best friend. Chloe is already blaming him for his carelessness. She storms into the bedroom and falls onto her bed in an attempt to avoid punishment.

"It's okay Jake, there will be another one tomorrow. These things happen."

I am feeling exceptionally calm considering the enormous stress on my shoulders. I grab a paper towel and scoop up the mess, tell Jake to go wash his hands. I tell Chloe to go to the classroom (our dining room) and get started on her math. She storms into the dining room complaining about how she hates her life. She is six, how can she possibly hate her life already?

Jake comes out of the bathroom, pushes his hands in my face and tells me to smell.

"All clean. Good job."

I grab a puzzle and walk him to the dining room, seating him on the far end of the table so he won't bother Chloe. For a brief moment they are focused on something and I can get a few chores done. I start the washer, toss in some homemade laundry detergent and mix it into the water. I start piling in the dark clothes, shut the lid and grab a broom. Midway through sweeping the kitchen floor Chloe shouts at me, says she doesn't 'get' how to do this stupid page.

I take a deep breath, lean my broom against the wall and head for the dining room. Jake has already given up on the puzzle, he is now playing with cars under the table. Chloe is pointing to a word problem.

"'Make has ten balls', that doesn't make sense Mommy."

I tell her it is Mike, not Make. Mike has ten balls. Now she gets it. I return to the kitchen, grab the broom and start sweeping again as the phone begins to ring. It is no wonder I never get anything done.

"Hello!"

"Hey, it's me."

"Oh, sorry Trent. It's been a busy morning and as usual I can't seem to get anything done. My Dad is in the hospital. I think he is going to be okay he just messed-up his pills or something."

"Oh, wow. I lost my job."

"What? What the fuck are you talking about?" I hear the kids scold me for swearing in the background.

"It's complicated, I'll explain it to you when I get home."

"Trent! I don't want to wait, tell me now!"

"I'll be home in a while, I love you."

And he hung up. That makes two times this morning. What am I? The Plague? Seriously, am I that difficult to talk to? What does he mean he lost his job? He can't lose his job. We need his job. We don't have savings. We can barely make the mortgage as it is. Does he qualify for unemployment? Did he get fired? Oh God, I feel a sickening burning in my stomach. I can taste bile.

Chloe and Jake start fighting. Jake is pulling Chloe's toes under the table and Chloe is kicking at him.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!!!"

They instantly go quiet and look at me.

"STOOOOOP FIIIIGHTING!"

"Okay Mommy." They say with a barely audible voice in unison.

"ARRRRHHHHH, Don't look at me like that! Do your work!"

# Chapter 15

My mind races with overlapping thoughts.

What the hell is he doing? Why is it taking so long to get home? What? Is he stopping to get a coffee with what little money we have left? Why won't he answer my calls? If he takes any longer I will probably shoot him when he walks through the door. But we don't have a gun. We need a gun. No we don't, guns are dangerous.

I am cleaning, I do this when I am angry. I clean obsessively. I have been known to fold dirty laundry when I am angry. Really, I should probably get angry more often.

As I am scrubbing the toilet in the kid's bathroom I hear the door slam and the kids yell 'Daddy!'. I drop my brush and walk purposefully into the kitchen where Trent is giving the kids big hugs, trying to explain why he is home from work so early.

I eye him. We both know we should talk about this alone but that could be impossible for a while. I grab a pan off the pan rack and fill it with water. I put it on the stove, add some salt, put on the lid and turn the burner on high. I walk over to the cupboard and grab a box of Annie's Mac-N-Cheese. I tell the kids that lunch will be done soon but they need to finish some work first. I usher them unto the dining room and set them up with a stack of easy worksheets. I walk back into the kitchen, sliding the dining room door closed a little.

"What is going on? What the hell happened?"

"They let me go."

"What do you mean they let you go? Without any warning? Just like that?"

"They gave me warning, said it might happen."

"When?"

"The same day your Mom died, Amber."

"So you didn't TELL me?"

"Of course not, you didn't need any more stress than you had, I'm sure."

"Why? Why did they let you go? You have been there, like, ten years or something!"

"I've been there eight years. And it is because of the economy. Everyone is losing their jobs. The only reason they kept me this long is because of the World Equestrian Games, if it weren't for the games they would have let me go a year ago."

I stare at him wordlessly. I don't know what to say. I am breathing hard, pissed.

"What now?" I say at last.

"I stopped at the unemployment office on my way home. I should start getting checks in a couple weeks. But they won't be as big as my normal paycheck. I will start looking for another job tomorrow, I promise."

"How big will the checks be, Trent? We can't afford for them to be less."

"They will be about two-thirds the size, I guess, I don't know exactly."

"But the mortgage. What about the mortgage. The bank won't let us slide, we are walking on a thin line as it is. They won't renew the loan if you're not employed."

"I'll find a job."

"No one is getting a job right now!"

"Why are you so fucking negative all the time!"

"I'm not fucking negative! I am just freaked out because you lost your fucking job!"

"Well sorry I am not perfect like all your friends. Maybe you should have married someone with more potential."

"Whatever."

Facebook Message:

Subject: Help

Mom,

I need to talk to you so bad. What am I going to do? Trent lost his job. I know what you would say. "He is such a good man, Amber. He cares so much for you and the kids?" Yeah, I know, just like you used to say about Dad.

What do I do? We can't pay the mortgage, we will lose our house. We will be homeless. We are going to lose all our equity, it's all we have, Mom. We don't have retirement, we just have our equity.

Dad is completely helpless. He relies on Leah all the time and she is pissed. She feels guilty if she doesn't do what he needs her to do but she just doesn't have time. She can't keep up with her own life, let alone keep his shit in order. Why did you enable him to be so helpless!

I can't do anything from here. I feel useless. My life is falling apart and I have no control over it. What do I do Mom? What do I do?

On Tuesday, my run feels hard again. I have to stop and cry twice. My mind is racing with questions, busy trying to sort everything out. Every time I look around I think about how much I am going to miss this area. I will miss my running routes, they are my friends. I can't wrap my mind around what is going to happen. Trent says it will all be okay, but I don't see it. The loan is due to be re-written in March, that doesn't give Trent long to find a job. And Christmas, what about Christmas? Should I return the gifts I have already bought? The kids will never know, they aren't wrapped. We don't even have the tree up yet. Should I start looking for a job? Should I put the kids into the public school? Jake isn't even old enough for kindergarten.

On the last stretch of my run, I try to push hard and finish strong. Suddenly I feel a sharp pain along the right side of my knee. I stop running. What the hell? I start to jog again but am instantly punished with the sharp pain again. Damn! What is this?

When I get inside, Trent is on-line searching the job listings. He says there are few that look promising. He says he needs to update his resume but needs to focus. So he grabs his laptop, gives me a quick kiss and says he'll be home in a few hours.

I take over his seat at the computer, it is still warm with his presence. I click on the internet icon, Google, my home page, comes up. I type in 'sharp pain, side of knee, running'.

From what I can tell depending on which website is most accurate, it is my IT band. I am pretty sure the pain is a result of my altered stride that was caused by my fall a few days ago. I didn't think I was running abnormally but I must have been to make up for the pain in my back. This sucks. I will have to take time off from running. I need to run so bad right now. I need my therapy. The timing is horrible.

Chloe and Jake come pounding down the stairs, still not dressed. Chloe is carrying a candle shaped like a number six. It was from her last birthday. I am a little dazed by the news of my knee, but the number six brings back a memory.

"Oh, look at your birthday cake, it's so pretty Mommy!"

"and here is the candle"

"You only get one candle?"

"There's not enough room to put thirty-six candles on my cake honey."

"It'sa three and a six, thirty-six!"

"Yep"

"You're THIRTY-SIX years old! Wow, you are really old Mommy."

I don't know why I remember that day so well. I guess it was the first time my brain realized that my Mom was getting older and wouldn't stay forever the same. Thirty-six seemed so close to a hundred, and no one lived to be a hundred. Her mortality was reinforced that day... the day she turned thirty-six.

And thirty years later, when I was thirty-six, she died.

I promised the kids that we could put up the Christmas tree today. I take a quick shower and then head upstairs into the storage cubbyhole. It is freezing in there. It doesn't have a heat duct in it. It dawns on me that the one light fixture is broken. Jake takes off running for the playroom across the hall and returns with his Car's flashlight. Amazingly the batteries are not dead. It lights my way to the back of the storage room where the Christmas tree is.

The flashlight catches something in the corner. It is the highchair my mother sent me when I was pregnant with Chloe. It was the one and only baby gift I received from her. It is beautiful. It's hand made by the Amish. She didn't believe in cheap gifts. Nor did she believe in sending boxes of little gifts for the kids on a whim like most grandparents. She didn't like to buy cheaply made things from China either. She was notorious for giving gifts that were not age appropriate. For example when Jake was one and a half she bought a gift out of a magazine and was extremely excited about it;

"I think it will be perfect!"

"What is it Mom?"

"I want to keep it a surprise. But I think Jake will love it."

"I am sure he will, Mom."

"I bet Blake and Trent will love it too."

"Blake and Trent?"

"Yes! I can picture them on Christmas morning in the living room, playing with it."

I wish Christmas had always turned out the way she envisioned it, but it never did. The toy she was so excited about was a train. It wasn't a Thomas the Train, no, it was a fancy delicate train made of little plastic pieces that would break off if it was handled too roughly. The track wouldn't stay connected on the carpet so the train flew off. She was right, Jake loved it. He would grab the train cars and put them in his mouth as they passed. Then he would slam them down, breaking little pieces off as he did.

She always had a vision of what she wanted Christmas to be. We all do. But hers were simple visions. She wanted everyone to get along. She wanted everyone to love the gifts she got them. She wanted everyone to be happy, to eat together, and spend a long joyous day together.

But someone always got mad and either quit talking, or often in my sisters case, stormed out the door with her kids, not to be seen again that day. One of us always bitched about our gifts, or complained about her spending more on someone else. As children we were so selfish and unappreciative. So when we were adults she would often take the easy way out, to avoid the heartache, and just give us all cash.

As an adult, I always wanted Christmas to be the way she envisioned it, now that I was aware of how painful it had been in the past for her. I would try to be thankful and joyous, try to deflate little arguments, be optimistic. But the stress of Christmas always got my Mom drinking very early in the day, and that would ultimately put me in a bad mood.

Leah would end up doing most of the cooking. Whether it was because she wanted to, my Mom asked her to, or because my Mom was too trashed to, I am not sure. If anyone chose not to eat, like Blake's son who is a picky eater, or someone asked a question about the food, Leah would ultimately take offense and leave.

My mother was always left confused, wondering once again what went wrong with Christmas. She would take mental notes, and swear to change things so that the same thing wouldn't happen next year. When I try to think back, I wonder if she ever had her perfect Christmas.

I spy the huge box that housed the Christmas tree behind the boxes of our personal things we stowed for our house showings. I had to move and restack boxes in another spot to clear the way for the enormous Christmas tree box. By the time I emerged from the cubbyhole, I am no longer cold and actually have sweat dripping from my temples.

I drag the huge box down the stairs and into the library where we intend to erect the thing. Then I return to the cubbyhole to get the Rubbermaid tub filled with decorations. I hardly make it to the library before the kids are tearing off the lid to get at all the ornaments. While they dig I put in some Christmassy music and smile at them.

The Christmas tree is six feet tall and has permanent lights that are a part of it. It has about twenty little plugs that hang out along the center pole; it takes a rocket scientist to plug them all in their correct receptacles. I manage to get the front half of the tree twinkling with lights and announce that it was good enough. It is very possible that the other half doesn't even work, I don't remember from last year. They may not have ever worked, I wouldn't know, we got the thing at a yard sale when Chloe was six months old. It was a wonder it lit up at all.

I manually adjust the limbs of the tree so there are no obvious holes. It looks decent so I give the kid the go. I collapse onto the couch in seasonal joy and watch as they grab handfuls of mismatched ornaments and start hanging them all on the bottom third of the tree. I try and refrain from removing some of them and putting them up higher. After all, no one else is going to see the tree. As much as I would love to have friends or family over for Christmas, I know it won't happen. And honestly, what kind of inconsiderate asshole is going to ask for a house showing during Christmas.

The phone starts ringing and I leap up to grab it before the answering machine starts up. It is the secretary for Rector-Hayden. She says there is an agent who would like to show our house tomorrow at noon. Fuck.

As much as I want to sell my house, as opposed to give it back to the bank, I am pissed. Happy-go-lucky, let's-decorate-for-Christmas-and-be-jolly-Mom will now exit the house. Enter the you-kids-can't-decorate-anymore-stop-what-your-doing-and-leave-me-alone-to-perfect-this-damn-tree Mom. I hate house showings.

They didn't even look at the house. I spent hours dusting, scrubbing, wiping, vacuuming, and decorating Martha Stuart style, not to mention the Hitler-Mom I turned into while I was doing it. And the bastards didn't even come inside. They didn't realize how far away it was from Georgetown. HELLO, didja ever even bother to look at the listing? Didja read the part where it says: 'approx. 9 miles from Georgetown'? If you can't read, maybe your fucking realtor could have read it to you! ARRRRHHHH. I hate house showings.

That was Wednesday. Here it is Friday and I am ready to lose my mind. I haven't run since Tuesday morning, I am going to give my knee one more day to rest before trying to run again. I got up early as usual today and instead of running I pulled out one of my Yoga videos. I used to love Yoga before I became a cardio junkie. I keep reminding myself that this is my time to heal. Time to breathe and heal. Breathe, Amber. BREATHE!

I managed to reap the relaxing benefits of the yoga session for about seven minutes after I completed the video. It started with Jake waking-up before I was done and coming into the library to 'help' me bend into the various contortions. Every time I tried to upward dog or do cobra, his face or his butt was in my way. I gave up before I got to do the corpse pose that I "earned" according to the yoga man.

Now I am in the shower and I can hear the kids screaming and stomping all over the house. I can't tell, but I think Jake might be crying. There is a large crash and then I am sure that Chloe is crying. I can hear Jake saying over and over, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

My mind is racing, what could have broken? Is it important enough for me to get out of my protective shell of a shower and see if there is blood? What could it be? What could it be...FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck...

I storm out of the shower half-naked, leaving behind water puddles shaped like footprints. No, no please, no, no, did you....oh my god!

"Who did this!? Which one of you did this!?"

"Jake did it!"

"Why!? How?"

"I was making my plane fly Mommy . . . "

But I didn't hear the rest. Tears fill my eyes, as I scan the floor trying to convince myself that it wasn't actually my wedding vase that was broken into a trillion pieces on the floor. It had been on the shelf above the TV, a safe spot that the kids couldn't reach. It was safe. My marriage was safe. I remember when she gave it to me:

"What do you think? Do you like it Amber?"

"It's beautiful Mom, what exactly is it?"

"It's a wedding vase. See the pictures? The figure of a women and here is the man and here, this represents union."

"Wow! Did you have this made special? It has our names on it."

"I have a friend at work, her husband is an artist. I told him what I wanted and gave him drawings and he made it. He has a kiln thingy and everything. Do you like it? I was so excited to give it to you."

"That is so sweet Mom. Thank you."

I stood in the kitchen shaking, my hand covering my mouth. I keep seeing visions of my Moms face, how happy she was when she gave it to me. Like she finally got it right, gave the right gift. She was so happy when she realized I loved it. Her hands touched that vase, her heart touched that vase. She is dead now. My marriage vase is broken.

# Chapter 16

Facebook Message:

Subject:

I've never wanted to talk to you so badly. I want to call you and hear your voice. I need you to tell me that everything is going to be okay. I want you to tell me that it was just a stupid vase and it meant nothing. Tell me that kids make mistakes, tell me it was payback for when I broke your special candles. Tell me something because I have never felt so scared and empty as I do right now.

The vase was perfect Mom. It was the perfect gift and you did good. Every Christmas was perfect Mom, every one of them. If they went smoothly I wouldn't remember them. They were perfect. All the trouble you went to wrapping the gifts the way they do at the department stores, all the decorations and sleighs and the collection of Santa Clauses, they made it all perfect. Your Christmas trees were perfect. It was worth the trouble Mom. Even if we didn't tell you. We loved it. We did. We really did.

*

Trent was in a foul mood, he had sent his resume to six different companies and had been rejected by them all. He was overqualified for every single one. As it turns out, Trent isn't the only hotel manager out of work right now. Hell, there are guys out there with twice the experience looking for the same job he is. The job market is slim pickins. We talked about him trying to get a different job, anything, but he is being stubborn. He wants to hold out for hotel management.

On Saturday morning I let myself sleep until eight. Then I quietly got dressed, grabbed my running shoes and headed out the door without breakfast. I didn't want to wake anyone. I was excited to see if my knee would hold out. There was a little fresh snow on the ground and it was a chilly twenty degrees. I walked to the end of my driveway, frantically rubbing my hands together to keep warm. I knew that once I got moving I would warm up. I set my Garmin, hit start and began to jog. Instantly, shards of pain split down my outer knee. I stopped, dropped my head and started crying.

~*~

It is now exactly two weeks until Christmas. I decided to keep all the gifts I had bought the kids in the last few months. They were all on-sale or on clearance anyway. Trent and I decided we would skip the Christmas cards, including the infamous Stoneway Family Christmas letter, this year. I couldn't bring myself to talk about anything good, since the recent month had been filled with so much bad. We also agreed to send pictures of the kids to the grandparents and great grandparent. This would save us money on shipping and gifts. The aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews would just have to put up with a Merry Christmas call. We were on a budget.

In an effort to make Christmas memorable for the kids, I try to start family traditions. We go to the Kentucky Horse Park for Southern Lights exhibit. This is a slow drive through the park that includes hundreds of light displays worth ooohing and ahhhing over. Afterward we visit the concession stands for a special hot chocolate and funnel cake then visit the free petting zoo. Since I am friends with the owner of the petting zoo, I got four free camel rides. We stand in line to circle under the tent atop a funny looking animal. Chloe eagerly climbs aboard the thing, as I clumsily climb on behind her. They are much wider and much, much more uncomfortable than a horse. I can't take the silly grin off my face as we roll up and down with the step of the silly creature. We come back to the gate and dismount. I look over and see Jake and Trent walking slowly away from the camel ride tent.

"Hey! Aren't you guys riding?"

"He doesn't want to."

"Oh, come on Jake! It's fun. I'll go with you, come on."

"No, I d'wonna."

"Okay than, you don't have to."

I am a little hurt, unable to imagine any child of mine being afraid of an animal. Or worse, not wanting to be near one. I later see a single-Mom friend of mine that I know is tight on money...much like us now, I guess. I give her the last two camel ride tickets and tell her merry Christmas. I feel good about it.

I get a warm fuzzy feeling, seeing all the kids and the Christmas trees and feeling the anticipation of Christmas to come. We go back into the Horse Park museum building, into the basement where the trains are set up. The kids are yanking on our hands- pulling us as we tell them to 'wait, we are in line- we need to wait our turn'.

As we slowly enter the train display, I get lost in the detail of the people and houses and real twinkly lights. I watch as a train zooms by carrying a load of Christmas trees. As I bring my focus back a foot, I see the reflection of the viewers in the plexi-glass. I see the shape of a Dad with a kid on his shoulders. I see a new Mom carrying a baby in her arms. I see a stroller with a toddler stretching his neck out to see the trains. And then I see a football helmet. I see the reflection of her glasses, I see her favorite white sweater and her helmet of a hairdo. It's Mom. She is here. I look up to find the woman who was the image in the plexiglass, sure it would be some old lady that looks nothing like Mom. But I can't find her. I look back into the plexi glass to find the football helmet, but it is gone.

As we exit the train we walk through the hall of vendors. The area is packed, strollers everywhere. We snake our way through, trying to keep the kids moving before they have a chance to spot a trinket they can't live without. As we pass the guy with the wooden flutes and brightly colored Indian dolls, I smell her. Avon Musk. Mom.

Where did that come from? Can you even buy Avon Musk anymore. Do people still wear it? They must. Of course they must. Oh, I wish there was a Kentucky Ale vendor here. A beer sounds so good.

When we make it outside again, snow is falling. Wow. This is perfect. Growing up in Minnesota, snow falling two weeks before Christmas was no big deal. But in Kentucky it is a rare and cherished treat. Ever since we returned from Mom's funeral, Kentucky has received snow on a regular basis. Just when it would warm-up enough to melt, snow would fall again. This will be a good Christmas.

I hate sugar cookies. Except when they are fresh out of the oven, I hate them. The kids love them. Or at least they love making Christmas cookies with their 'Grandma Cookies', Trent's Mom. No one can compete with Grandma Cookies when it comes to making special moments with the grand kids. She lives in Minnesota too. Our visits during Christmas were always split between grandparents. Grandma Cookies could make cookie dough appear like magic. The kids walk through the door, she greets them with a basket of pre-Christmas gifts and hugs. She gives them non-stop juice, chocolate, graham crackers and snack trays. Just when you think she cannot be anymore perfect, she comes out with child-sized aprons and measuring spoons and beckons them to the kitchen for a round of non-stop memory-making cookie-baking. She patiently lets them use the cookie cutters and sprinkles. If the kids don't like her sprinkle color options, she goes to the cupboard and pulls out a rainbow of new options to choose from. She is better than Martha. I cannot compete with her.

Grandma Cookies heard I was making sugar cookies so she promptly emailed me her recipe. That was good, I didn't have one. On Sunday I announce to the kids that we are going to make Christmas cookies. They actually cheered. They were ecstatic. They each grabbed a chair from the dining room and bellied up to the kitchen island. I looked at the recipe and began filling the island with butter, sugar, and whole-wheat flour. No, her recipe didn't call for whole-wheat flour but that was all I had.

I pull out my bowls and the kids start arguing over who gets to add what. I tell them to quiet down, that we will take turns. I let Jake measure the sugar, he spills some and it flows to the floor like a waterfall. I feel my pulse quicken. "It's okay, let me grab the broom before we go on." Chloe gets to measure the flour. I can't keep my hands away. I simply cannot let her do it herself, I know she will spill and I can't handle the mess. I put my hand over hers and help her, measure it perfectly and plop it into the mixing bowl.

Once we get to the point of rolling out the dough, I am a little beside myself. This cookie making is really stressful. I don't own a rolling pin like Grandma Cookies. Neither did my mother. So I use a can covered with Saran wrap, just like my Mom. It works okay except the little lines the can leaves on the dough. The kids want to help but lets face it, rolling out dough with a can takes a lot more skill than a rolling pin, I better do it myself.

I go to the drawer and pull out the cookie cutters that I own, all given to me by Grandma Cookie...of course. I hand each kid a star, I have six different sizes. At first they argue over Chloe getting the bigger star, but the argument quickly turns into who gets to use the Christmas tree ornament. What Christmas tree ornament? I don't have one.

"Gwama Cookies has a cwismas twee ona'ment" Jake says.

"Yeah, well I don't"

"But Gwama Cookies has wots of shapes."

"Yeah, well, I don't. Case you didn't notice, I'm not Gwama Cookies! And probably--no, let me rephrase that--I will never be her. I will never be her. As much as I would love to be as patient, and crafty and amazing as her. I know I will never be her. Not without prescription drugs and I don't do prescription drugs."

The kids didn't get my joke but I was laughing. They laughed too, just to laugh with their Mommy. We all laughed. It was pretty funny.

On Monday I take the kids to the gym with me. I have decided to go for a swim since my knee is shot. I had to do something. I have made it through six holiday seasons without gaining a single pound and I am not about to start now.

I take the kids to the playroom. Chloe is the oldest kid since everyone else her age is still in school for a few more days. I give her a handful of review worksheets to do and kiss her. I tell Jake to be good, I'll be back in a couple hours. They love the playroom, it's the only time they get to watch TV in the morning.

As I head down the stairs to the pool I bump into a friend I haven't seen in a month.

"Hi Amber!"

"Hey! How are you? You look great!"

"Oh, thanks, I've been doing Keith's boot camp class for the last three weeks. It really seems to be working. My butt is rising!"

"Nice!"

"Hey, ah, how's your Mom doing?"

"She's dead."

"Oh m'god, I am so sorry. I didn't know."

"Oh that's okay, I forgot until just now."

"I'm sorry Amber"

"That's okay, I gotta go...I only have two hours of daycare, I'll talk to you soon okay..."

I opened the door to the locker room, walk in and am hit with a sudden nostalgic scent. It's her mousse. I look up and see a woman standing in front of the mirror, rubbing mousse into her hair. She is staring into the mirror with a serious look, like she had done this everyday of her life.

I take a deep breath and head for the toilet stall. It hits me so fast I can hardly breathe. My Mom fixed her hair carefully everyday. With purpose she sat at her long dresser, staring into that mirror, fixing her hair just so. For what? What does it matter now? What does it matter if it was perfect and round like a helmet, or brown or curled. What did it matter that she even had hair. Who cares? Did anyone besides her care what her hair looked like. And now that she is dead, who cares. All that work. All that time spent in front of the mirror. Part of the process. The daily process that means nothing.

I got dressed, looked at my 'Swim Workouts for Triathletes" book that my friend got me. I pick a workout and head for the pool door. On my way to the lap lane I grab a kickboard, a pull-buoy and take them to the end of the pool. I pull on my swim cap, put in my earplugs, and snap my goggles into place. The workout warm-up called for a 300-meter swim, a 300-meter pull and then a 300-meter kick. I sat on the edge of the pool, slid in and pushed off the wall with my feet. I swam lap after lap, 50, 100, 200 meters. When I got to 300 meters instead of stopping I kept swimming. I swam lap after lap after lap. I finally stopped an hour later, I had swum 3000 meters.

The mind can wander in a pool. You get into a rhythm and go into a zone. I get a lot of thinking done in a pool. Especially when I am not following a specific workout, when I just swim. Today I decide to envision my life the way I want it to be. I envision myself as a kind, patient mother who listens to her children with listening ears, not the ears that hear snips of their voice and respond with an ah-huh. I decide to trust my husband and his ability to take care of his family, no matter what. I will be a loving wife, a supporting wife, a wife he is excited to come home to. I decide to call my Dad everyday, to check on him and make sure he is okay and knows I love him. I decide to try a new school curriculum that involves lots of museums and travel and field trips and hiking and above all, is nothing like the public school system. I decide to figure out a way to swim four or maybe five times a week before the outings with the kids. At least until my knee is back to normal. I am a new woman. And now I am done with my swim.

I head up to the playroom after a relaxing shower, quietly getting dressed, applying make-up and blow-drying my hair. It was so refreshing to do these things without having to stop to break-up a fight or answer the phone. Like a spa, this must be what a spa is like. I climb the stairs two at a time, reach the top and briskly walk to the playroom. I am really close to my two-hour time limit.

As I open the door I see Chloe dressed up with blankets. I see Jake sitting cross-legged, transfixed on the TV. I go to the desk to sign them out and see Chloe's homework sitting, unfinished on the desk. I feel my pulse. She comes skipping over to me.

"Look Mom! I am one of those...you know... homeless people."

For a second, I actually forgot I was mad about her not doing her homework, and laughed.

# Chapter 17

On Tuesday, I wake up early as usual but decide ahead of time that I will go for a nice walk instead of a run. I have vowed to give my knee until Christmas to heal. No more runs, not even little jogs, until then.

I open the door to exit the house, let Katie in from her morning pee. As I hold the door open for her I glance around my kitchen. What a mess. It is obvious that I spent the day at the pool and the library and then the grocery yesterday, rather than at home cleaning like I should have been.

I leave my iPod at home, choosing bird song over Blue October. I get to the end of the drive, do a little stretch, twist and head out at a brisk pace. My knee doesn't hurt at all when I walk. I decide to play with my walking speed. How fast can I actually walk if I put my mind to it? How fast are those speed walkers in the Olympics? I bet they could walk faster than I can run lately. I want to get a cardio workout so I swing my arms purposefully and put a little wiggle in my hips as I move out. As I come to a slight turn in the road a car approaches. I instantly start walking like a normal person. It was my neighbor. He honks when he passes, startling me so much that I almost fall off the road and into the ditch. Jeez! Doesn't he realize how loud his horn is?

As I settle back into my speed-walking pace, I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I trip slightly on the end of a branch that is poking out of the grass and lying on the road. I decide to relax and breathe, eyes open this time. How is Amber going to spend her day today? Let's see. Well, I am going to begin by walking in the door after my walk and greeting everyone with a 'good morning!' I'll give Trent a kiss goodbye, because I am sure he will be eager to get on the job hunt. Then I am going to organize Chloe's assignments for the day. I will sit her down, have her do work and I will bring out some fun finger paints for Jake to work with while I shower. After my shower I will dress and check Chloe's work, compliment her on what a hard worker she is, tell Jake how amazing his art is. I will start the laundry and go about getting the house organized. We will finish school early today and head into Lexington for some fun-time at the Explorium. It's all about visualizing.

Visualize it Amber. Damn, has it been 30 minutes already? I haven't even made it a mile and a half. I better push it to the mile and a half point then really speed-walk home. That's only 3 miles. This walking stuff sure is slow. That and my toes are freezing. So are my fingertips. I decide to add some air punches to my speed-walk for extra cardio, and in an attempt to get blood flow to my hands. It works pretty well, until a school bus passes me and I see a dozen little punks pointing their fingers at me. Yeah well, at least I don't have to go sit for eight hours at school, ya little twerps.

As I approach my driveway I revisit my visualization. Breathe deeply Amber, let's make this day rock. Katie greets me about ten steps from the deck. She is slamming her tail into the back of my knee and urging me to let her back into the warmth. Jake must have let her out.

As I get to the French doors, one of them is open about two inches. I can feel the expensive heat flowing out. I push the door open, let Katie in and notice that all the lights are off. I follow the mud tracks to the dining room where Jake is wearing his mud boots and his Spiderman pajama outfit.

"Look Mommy, an Egg. Chick Filet laid it, I watched it come out."

"That's lovely honey. Where's Daddy?"

"He's still sleeping. So's Chloe. I ate already, by m'self."

I see a box of cheerios on the table, next to a bowl. There were cheerios on the floor and the seat. He must have ate them dry because I seen no milk. I walk into our bedroom and see the lump that is Trent in my bed.

"Are you planning to get up today?"

"Hu? Oh, I figured I'd sleep in a little. It's not like I have to go to work. I stayed up late last night watching movies."

"Oh, okay then. So you're resigned to giving-up. You gonna go sign us up for food stamps today then?"

"Oh give me a break. It's one day. Can't I just sleep in one day?"

"Well you know what they say, you are supposed to keep you're schedule. You're supposed to get up and get dressed like you are going to work, just go job hunting instead. If you get out of a schedule, you won't get a job...or something like that."

"Who says this?"

"I don't know...some magazine . . . or maybe I heard it on John Tesh. Ya know, it doesn't matter, I think it is good advice. Come on, get up. I'll get you some coffee."

Breathe and visualize.

"Chloe! Time to get up!"

Breathe and visualize. I pick out some clothes for Jake to wear, and leave them on the ends of his bed. I head into the dining room to start picking out Chloe's assignments for the day and realize I forgot to grab Trent's coffee. I head to the kitchen, grab a cup and start pouring. As I turn to head to the bedroom I bump into Trent, spilling coffee down the front of my shirt and scalding my chest. Trent gets a little on his foot. Breathe.

Trent hops into the shower so he can get out of the house and leave us to our school day. I go back to organizing Chloe's assignments. I put a couple of easy math sheets on top, ones I know she can do on her own while I shower. Then I walk into her room and tell her that she really needs to get up and get dressed. I tell her that if she is quick with her work today, we can go to the Explorium. She instantly hops up and starts getting dressed.

I head back to the kitchen, looking for Jake. I look out the window and see him staring into the chicken coop. He is the most patient child I have ever seen. He would stand there for three hours if he knew it would produce him another egg. I leave him to his hen watching for now.

Trent comes out of the bathroom, it is all steamy. He has shaved and smells wonderful. He heads into the bedroom to get dressed. Chloe enters the room dressed in a green plaid skirt, a pink floral print top and red Christmas tights. I start fixing her cheerios, smiling at how cute she is despite looking homeless. She sits down and eats. Trent returns with his laptop and briefcase. Just like a worker bee. He looks the part, now he needs to go get the part. I kiss him and wish him good luck.

Chloe brings me her bowl. I tell her to go get started on her math while I shower. I am breathing slowly, reminding myself I will have time to put my house back together as soon as I shower. Jake comes in and I tell him to leave his pajama's on since he is going to finger paint. I usually am not so forward thinking I almost applaud myself for being so clever. I set him up at the other end of the table. I know Chloe will have a hard time focusing, but I remind her about the Explorium and she focuses.

I walk into the bathroom, finally, a shower and a few minutes to myself. I undress, start the hot water and gently step on my bathroom scale to check my weight. Damn! I gained two pounds! This walking shit just isn't going to cut it. I put the towel on the sink so I can reach it after my shower and step into the steamy blissfulness of my shower. The hot water thaws my feet and fingers. I can feel the tacky sweat rinse away, it is quiet and wonderful.

Shit. The water is going cold. Shit, I still have conditioner in my hair. Oh, burr. Shit, shit, shit. As I am frantically trying to rinse the conditioner out of my hair with the last few drops of lukewarm water, Chloe starts beating on the door.

"Come on Chloe, I am almost done. Can you just figure it out or skip that problem?"

"No Mommy, it's not my work. Somebody wants to see the house."

"Huh! Yeah, NO! Tell them I am in the shower and to call back in ten minutes"

"No Mommy! Not the phone! The door."

The what? What is she talking about? I grab a towel and loosely wrap it around me enough to open the door, and grab the phone from her. As I open the door I am met with a smiling Chloe, she is pointing to the door. I lean out and see a woman standing, looking into my kitchen from the French doors. Are you kidding me?

I tell Chloe to hang on, slam the door shut and scramble to put my dirty walking clothes back on. I then try to towel my hair; it is greasy feeling from the conditioner. I take my hands and rake through it in an attempt to look civilized.

I walk out of the bathroom, scurry to the door and open it.

"Can I help you?"

"Oh yes! My name is Nancy Congelton... I am so sorry to bother you. I know I am not supposed to just walk up to a house that is for sale. But I saw the real-estate sign outside... and I saw the house and... well I don't have an agent and I am only in town for a couple more hours and I just had to see the house."

"Um. Well. I mean, the house is..."

"Oh, it's okay if it's a mess. I understand. It doesn't bother me really. I just...well I am relocating to this area for my job and well...can I come in and see the house?"

"I guess."

Of all the days to show my house, this had to be one of the worst. I wouldn't let my sister see my house like this let alone a potential buyer. We start in the kitchen. She looks around and smiles. All I see is the Cheerios box and the coffee cups and the toaster with crumbs and the fingerprints on the fridge and the messy stovetop. Oh this is embarrassing. I walk her into the dining room where Jake is sitting in his pajamas with paint on his hands, face, table, chair and a big smiley face on his picture. Chloe's work is strung out on the other side of the table; some of it has fallen to the ground where it sits- next to the many cheerios from breakfast.

I walk her into the kids' rooms where the floor is assumed to be wood but all you can see is toys and papers and books. Jake and Chloe come racing in, they start to show her all their toys. I shush them and tell them to go on. I take her into the kids' bathroom. Toothpaste stains their sink, toothbrushes are on the floor. There is a large turd in the toilet and the once blue water is green.

Breathe, relax, visualize. Visualize what? I am so humiliated. I decide that all I can do is laugh. I flush the toilet, put the lid down and walk her into our bedroom. As we walk the hall, Jake points up to the attic and tells the lady that the birds live there. Great. Now she knows we have a bird problem too. That's a real selling quality.

Trent didn't bother making the bed today, usually he does but he must have been too rushed or pissed to bother today. The room still smells of sleep. Trent's towel is on the floor. The KY Warming Spray is on the nightstand. I pray she doesn't notice. Then Chloe walks up, grabs it and says, 'what's this Mommy?' I swipe it and shove it in my pocket. 'Go on now!'

I walk her to the library, our most prized room. Half of the Christmas decorations are on the floor. There is tinsel hanging from the lamp. Our gifts are stacked like blocks (thank you Jake) in the corner of the room. There are books scattered on the floor, blankets strewed on the couches and chairs. I point out the fireplace, the 200-year old woodwork, and the original floors. I explain that the timing is really bad, apologize and encourage her to go online and look at the many beautiful pictures. She asks me about the acreage, has me point out the land boundaries through the window. I tell her about the outbuildings. She seems quite unimpressed.

I give her the information sheet that my realtor gave me to leave out for the showings. She doesn't bother looking at it, just folds it and puts it in her purse.

"Well I am really sorry to barge in like this. I do appreciate you taking the time to show me your lovely home. I must be off now."

"Alrighty. Bye Bye then."

I shut the door softly; watch the woman walk to her car. She doesn't ever glance back at the house. She just drives off. What kind of person would do that? The nerve. Of course she isn't going to like it, look at it, it's a pigsty! Oh what a joke. I need to call my realtor and ask what I am supposed to do in a situation like that. I shouldn't just let strangers in my house anyway. Right?

I walk back to the bedroom, start to peal off my dirty clothes. The KY Warming Spray falls from my pocket. I stare at it and begin laughing uncontrollably.

Despite the unusual morning, we managed to make it to the Explorium. The kids needed to let loose a little and I needed a break too. I sat on one of the many hard benches, watching as the kids went from the bubble room to the dinosaur puzzle. My phone starts singing and I reach into my purse to answer it. I don't recognize the number. I hesitantly answer.

"Hello?"

"Amber!"

"Yeah?" I vaguely recognize the voice.

"It's me, Jason. From Billings. Except I am in California now."

"Jason? Jason Ziggler? Oh my god! What's up?"

"Well, to make a long story short, I am still single, but a rich bachelor nonetheless. I moved here to California seven years ago to take care of my Dad, who had MS, but he died about six months ago. I inherited his house and decided to stay since I have a good job and a house now. So what's new with you?"

"Jeez Jason, uh...where to start, it's only been--what... four-teen years since we talked last? Well, I married Trent, remember Trent? And we have two kids. I have a Masters Degree in Vet Science but I stay at home and homeschool my kids. Hey, why aren't you on Facebook? I've looked for you."

"Because I don't want the government knowing any more about me than they already do. It's nobody's business what I am doing."

"Oh."

"Don't let me freak you out, I am just a little crazy these days."

"A conspiracy theorist?"

"Something like that, but not so much."

"Hey, what are you doing for Christmas?"

"Well, I usually spend it with my Mom, but she is going to Texas to see her sister."

"Would you like to spend it with us?"

And just like that, I invited someone who was almost a total stranger to Christmas. I mean, I know Jason, or I knew him, but he has obviously changed. We were best friends when I was in college, until he confessed his love for me...oh yeah, I forgot about that. This might be awkward. I am just so desperate to have people in my house this Christmas. This will be the last Christmas in this house. We will probably live in public housing or in a shelter next year. I want this year to be really special. I want to make my Mom proud. Or at least feel the letdown of trying and failing miserably. Is that too much to ask?

Once I got off the phone with Jason, I was feeling bold. I began thinking of people I could invite to Christmas--really get a houseful. I decided to host a party on Christmas Eve. While the kids played I made a list. If I didn't have their number I called information and got it. Then I started dialing. I called a few old friends I hadn't spoken to in years, they had families. They all appreciated the offer but had plans already...especially being that it was only a week and a half until Christmas. The friends I couldn't reach, I left messages with. I must have sounded desperate. I called a few of my closer friends from my running club. Two of them were leaving the state to be with family, one had to go to the in-laws and the other two were hosting parties of their own. They reminded me that I was invited. I knew I made this decision to have a party too late, but my determination remained strong.

I was feeling a little let down. It may be really weird to just have Jason over. As I am pondering local friends that may be able to come, my phone starts singing again. This time it is Leah.

"Hey Leah, what's up."

"Oh nothing. I am on lunch and decided to call since we haven't talked for a while."

"I see."

"I think my gifts may arrive after Christmas. I know that is awful but I just haven't had time to finish my shopping."

"You could always hand deliver them."

"Ha ha."

"Seriously, you and the girls should come spend Christmas with us!"

Silence

"Hello? Leah."

"I'm here, I was just thinking. That sounds great but I think I should stay here and spend Christmas with Dad. I mean, it will be his first Christmas without Mom."

"Yeah, you're right. I would even consider going up there but we can't afford another trip. Especially not now, with Trent out of work."

"How is that going? Has he found anything?"

"He has put his resume into a ton of different places, most have rejected him. There are too many overqualified people willing to work for minimum wage right now."

"What about the house?"

"I had a showing today!"

"Oh? How did that go?"

I proceeded to tell her the details of the horrifying morning. She was in hysterics when I told her about the KY spray. I then told her about the letter from the bank. They want to start the paper work for renewing the loan. We have to give income information. Once they realize Trent isn't working, they will let the loan mature and we will lose the house, and all of our equity.

She felt horrible for us. Despite being a single Mom, she is very successful and makes good money. She offered to lend us money but I refused. I told her it wouldn't change the situation with the bank. And I didn't feel comfortable borrowing money that I knew we wouldn't be able to pay back for years. It's not good for family relations. She ended the conversation suddenly, saying she needed to get back to work.

# Chapter 18

On Thursday I decide to go online and check my Facebook page for anyone I can invite to my Christmas Eve party. So far, Jason is the only one definitely coming. I have a few 'maybe's' from some friends from the Gym and Trent invited some guys he used to work with but he hasn't heard back either. It is just too close to Christmas, most people already have plans.

I wonder if I should just invite all my Facebook friends with a generic status update: Amber: is wondering if you would like to come to her Christmas Eve party! That sounds really desperate. But I am desperate. At the very least, someone has to come so Jason doesn't think I am a total loser. Not that I care, but.

I punch in my password and my Facebook page comes into view bit by bit. I have two friend requests, four notifications and three messages. I look at the friend requests. They are both from the homeschool Co-op that the kids attend. The people there are really religious. I keep ignoring their friendship requests; I don't want to scare them away with my Facebook personality. It swears more than they would probably appreciate.

The notifications are stupid. Someone posted an invitation to a gangster gathering on my wall, someone agreed with a comment I made about Leah's photo 3 months ago and someone likes my status. I begin to wonder why I waste my time with Facebook anymore. I don't know if the excitement of finding old friends has worn off or maybe I found every possible old friend and don't care about them anymore or maybe I grew-up after my Mom died. I don't know, but this feels more like a chore than a pastime these days.

I decide to see who has sent messages. There is a message from Jacob telling me that Jesus is coming. There is a message from Toni telling me to join the fight against Autism. And there is a message from Mom.

# Chapter 19

What sick bastard hacked into my Mom's Facebook account and sent me a message? I feel sick. I feel like someone dug up my Moms' grave and stole her identity, (even though she was cremated). I feel like ripping my monitor off the desk and slamming it to the ground. But I can't do that until I read what they wrote in the message.

My hands are trembling. I want to open the message, her photo staring back at me. But I don't. I want to send a message to the hacker, tell him he will burn in hell for this. But part of me wants the message to really be from my Mom. Most of me knows it won't be, and that will make me depressed. I have been fighting off depression since she died. I don't need this. Yes I do.

As I move the cursor to the picture and click, an enormous BANG claps out my window as sharp streaks of light shoot off my house. I fell out of my chair--literally. I don't know if it was the noise or the fear or what but I fell out of my chair. Rain begins falling in sheets outside my window. I slowly get up and inch my way to see where the sparks were coming from. The fuse box. Our outdoor fuse box. It's smoking. A millisecond later the lights flash in the house and everything goes dark and silent.

It takes a moment for me to take it all in. I look around, run to the computer. My Mom's message! No! It's black, the computer is off. I compulsively hit the power button with no response and the kids come screaming into the room. They had been in the playroom.

The storm took hold of the moment and raged. A rainy sleet slashed down outside the window. It went from mid-day sun to almost pitch black outside in seconds. The kids are still screaming. I hug them, tell them it's okay. I tell them to go together and get Jake's Car's flashlight. They scamper off, fueled by the excitement of not having any electricity. I still can't get used to the sound of thunder in wintertime, not even after living here for eleven years.

I try the phone. It's dead. Duh. I crane my head to see if the fuse box is on fire or just smoking. It looks to be smoking. I open the door and try to see it without stepping outside the doorway. It is melted. This can't be good. We can't afford this to happen now. Insurance. We have homeowners, yes, that will do. Oooh, deductions, yucky.

I grab my cell phone and call Trent. I tell him what happened minus the message I had received from my Mom. He tells me to call the electric company, then the insurance company. I knew that, I just needed him to tell me.

I use my cell phone to call the electric company and report the power outage. I am told by an electronic voice that they are experiencing a high number of power outages and mine will be dealt with in the order it is received. I doubt they can get my power working, that will take an electrician and a contract for a new 200-amp fuse box.

Next I grab the file for our homeowners and call the number of our agent. It is only four o'clock, they ought to be there. It rings and rings. Oh come on. Seriously! Suddenly, just as I am yelling into the phone about how normal people work until at least five O'clock, a woman picks up, gasping for air.

"State Farm Insurance, this is Emily speaking, how can I direct your call?"

"Hi Emily, This is Amber Stoneway speaking, I am a client of State Farm and I hear you are a good neighbor...and you are there." I sometimes get stupid when I have the shit scared out of me.

"Yes indeed Mrs. Stoneway. How can we help you today?"

"Well, it says here that my agent is Chuck. Is he available?"

"Actually, Chuck is on vacation this week, I am taking over for him while he is out. Let me go ahead and bring up your file."

I gave her the important information she needed to pull up our file. Then I explained the situation. She told me that yes it was covered under our insurance, after the thousand dollar deductable. She advised me to call an electrician; she gave me the names of a few that have good reputations. Emily also informed me that the insurance company would cover any expense incurred should we have to stay at a hotel. A hotel? Oh, yeah, no electric. How long will this take? I quickly thanked her and started calling electricians.

Burt's Electric was the only electrician that could make it out within twenty-four hours. I was a little concerned, all the other electricians were very busy, why was this guy so available? He seemed nice enough, and he warned me that the damage to the box could be extensive. He also said that anything plugged in at the time of the lightening strike could potentially be permanently damaged. My mind started going through all the items in my house that we leave plugged in. The computer, hopefully the back-up I did three months ago worked. The TV's, the lamps, the phone chargers, the washer the refrigerator, the stove--really?

Part of me wants to cry, but the other part of me is getting a little giddy at the thought of all new everything--especially in time for Christmas. The headache of it all is almost making me nauseous.

Trent was on his way home. When he arrived we gathered some things and headed to the Holiday Inn. Tomorrow after talking to Burt I will decide if I need to unload my refrigerator or not. But tonight we are going to make the most of it. We're gonna have a pool party.

When we settle into our room at the Holiday Inn, I ask to use Trent's laptop. I have been agonizing over the mysterious message from my Mom. I couldn't bring myself to tell him about it--not yet.

When I bring up my Facebook page, I click on messages and once again see her smiling back at me. I click on her image and see

Facebook Message:

RE: Subject:

Oh, honey. Everything IS going to be okay, I promise you. It WAS just a stupid vase, and it did mean NOTHING. I am not the vase, your marriage is not a vase either. I love you honey, no matter what. I am in everything around you, not just a vase.

Kids do make mistakes. Yes, you made mistakes and I knew you still loved me. It is not payback honey, it is just life. Those were just candles. We cannot control life. It is what it is.

I know you loved Christmas, despite your actions. I know now. You don't have to feel guilty, because I know your feelings. They are clear to me now.

Honey, please don't waste a second of your life wishing it were different. It is what it is, enjoy every moment. Happiness is where you find it.

I love you, I always loved you even when you were mean. You made my life special. Thank you.

Love,

Mom

My hands are shaking. As much as I would like to believe these are my mother's words, I know they are not. These are the things I want to hear, and that is all. I cannot fathom why anyone would do this to me. I just lost my mother for gods sake, who could be so, so... whatever, to think they have the right to play my Mom, to _replace_ her, in the form of Facebook messages? Sick fuck.

Facebook

Subject:RE: RE:

Who ever you are, you have a lot of nerve. How could you hack into my Mom's Facebook account and send me a personal message in her name? You should be ashamed of yourself. Please don't send me any more of your rubbish.

P.S. They weren't just candles.

My mother's parents lived in California. They would visit us in their gigantic motor home every summer. And every Christmas they would send us one extravagant gift for the entire family. One year they sent us an Atari. That was quite possibly the best Christmas present ever.

The year I was twelve, we received a huge box from them. On the outside my Grandmother had printed: DO NOT OPEN TIL CHRISTMAS!! She never wrapped the gift inside. So for two weeks we had to stare at that brown paper box sitting under our beautiful tree. All of our imaginations went wild. What could it be? Who knew? I couldn't imagine anything better than the Atari.

On Christmas morning, after all the gifts were open, my mother asked for the big gift from Grandma and Grandpa. As we fought over who would bring it to her she grabbed a knife from the kitchen drawer.

We set the box on the kitchen table and gathered around as she sliced the tape carefully. She pulled the flaps open and back. Inside were a billion Styrofoam peanuts. As she dug down I remember the scrunched up look on her face. She couldn't tell what it was by the feel of it. She slowly, as not to spill too many peanuts, pulled the thing to the surface. The sparkle of silver was the first thing I saw. What is it? She pulled it out more. There were arm-like things and a base and, "What is it?" We all had the same question.

"It's a candelabra!"

"A wha?"

"It's a candelabra" My mother says proudly.

"It sure is pretty."

"What the hell are you going to do with that thing?" my Dad says with a little laugh in his voice.

"I am going to display it. I am going to get some candles and display it. I think it is beautiful."

It was beautiful. And classy. And expensive. And upscale. All things that we were not. All things my mother secretly dreamed of being. She was so proud of that candelabra. She walked into the living room, looked around and decided the best place for it was on top of the plastic lid of the record player that sat on our console TV. Where else are you going to put a sterling-silver candelabra in a house that looked like ours? The stereo with a turntable was the nicest thing we owned, and we didn't even buy it. My Dad won it as a door prize at work. It stood there in all it's glory that Christmas day. All it needed was candles.

"I think I'll go with cream and burnt umber, to match the curtains."

"That will look really nice Mom"

I was the only one who shared the love of fine things. I was just as excited about owning a piece of the high life as she was. I showed it off to all my friends. It made me feel rich.

My parents went out every weekend. Just the two of them. They would go to the bars and hang with their friends. I was used to them coming home drunk and acting stupid.

One Friday night they came home as usual. They had evidently gone out shopping and found the perfect candles for the candelabra--burnt umber and cream. My mother was unusually happy and smiling as she led the way into the house. I met them in the breezeway. My mother handed me the box of candles so she could take off her boots. She wasn't drunk. But my father was trashed. As I led the way up the stairs, I opened the door to our kitchen. As I did, one of my cats shot out and past me. My father hated my cats. As it passed him, he kicked it. The cat hit the wall, landed and kept running to our basement.

I was raging. I loved my cats. An assault on one of them is a personal attack on me. For lack of any other way to show my rage, I slammed the candles to the ground and ran off to the basement to find my cat. My mother gasped--her precious candles.

I stayed away until they went to bed. When I finally came upstairs, the candles were on the table. Every last one of them was broken. She didn't deserve that.

Every time she tried to have something nice, someone destroyed it. This time, it was me.

(Friday)

Burt was one of the nicest old men I have ever met. He said he only works part time and that was why he was available. He is semi-retired. He said he likes to do jobs that are important and an emergency. He said he couldn't think of anything more important than getting a nice families' electric back on before Christmas.

Christmas! Oh, I almost forgot. The tree. Will I need a new tree too? And the party. Oh, I guess no one is really coming anyway, except Jason.

I stood behind Burt, shivering, as he assessed the damage on the fuse box. Much to my horror, he did one of those whistles that meant; 'this is not good but really impressive to look at'.

"I do believe this is the first time I've seen sich er thang."

"Does that mean you can't fix it?"

"Ah no. Not t'tall. I jis ne'er seen sich er thang. Mighty imper'sive."

"Thanks."

"The ol things gots ta go. Wont be too diff'cult tho."

"So you can do it then? That's great! How long will it take? And my electrical stuff, is it shot?"

"One thang atter time now sissy. We'll get ter it."

I love Burt--but I was worried. What if he's a really slow perfectionist? I mean, right now is not the time for slow perfection. Not that I don't love the Holiday Inn. It just isn't where I want to spend the holiday, especially when you are talking about a room with two queens, two kids, two adults and a conspiracy theorist.

Burt assures me he will know more in the coming hours. He suggests I go to the hotel where it is warm and tells me he will call me when he knows more. He claims to work best when he is alone, as opposed to having a neurotic women standing over his shoulder.

When I get to the hotel, Trent is sitting at the little table with his iPod on. The kids are both naked, jumping from one bed to the other. Most of the blankets have fallen onto the floor and the pillows are scattered haphazardly in corners looking like victims of a serious pillow fight.

I want to get mad and tell them to get dressed, stop jumping on the bed and pick up the blankets. As much as I am ashamed to admit, this behavior is of my own making. I never let them jump on beds at home, the one time it is okay is at a hotel. They know this and are sucking it for all it is worth. I think jumping naked, especially with the curtains open, is pushing it a little.

If it weren't 2:00 in the afternoon I might tell them to quiet down but we are the only ones at the hotel besides the housekeeping.

I glance at the laptop, he is checking job listings. He has sent his resume to at least 15 different companies, some of which would require us to move across the country. He has heard back from most of them--who declined him, but he has two interviews next week, which is reason to celebrate. Trent asks how the electric is doing; I tell him we can expect a call from Burt when he knows more.

I decide to give Trent some space. I grab the kid's swimsuits, tell them to put them on and start looking for some pool toys. The kids scream for joy in unison then begin to scramble into their suits as fast as they can.

I peck Trent on the cheek, grab the hotel keycard and my cell phone then we head to the pool. I remind the kids to walk quietly, just in case there are people sleeping in the rooms. I know there is not anyone sleeping, but they are willing to be quiet since the pool is their reward and the silence is nice.

As we approach the pool door the smell of chlorine envelopes us. We push through the door and are surprised to find a Mom and Dad swimming with their infant baby. I am reminded of the days of having to swim with the kids, before they could swim on their own without drowning. I remember looking at the other parents reclining on deck, reading books and dreaming of the day that could be me. Well here I am. It is me.

The kids toss their shoes in the general direction of a plastic table and cannonball into the pool. I gasp--hoping they didn't drown the infant baby in the process. I reprimand them for their carelessness and remind them that there are other people in the pool to be cautious of them. I turn to find a reclining chair, secretly wishing the other people would leave so I don't have to worry about my kids upsetting them. I just want to relax, let the kids get their energy out and gather my thoughts.

As I take a deep breath and settle into my chair, my cell phone starts singing. It would figure. I look at the phone number--I don't recognize it. I push the green button.

"Hello."

"Mizz Stoneway. Burt here. Looks like youz a lucky lady. This coulda bin much worse."

Burt goes on to tell me that the box has to be replaced, we knew that much. He said the strike did not hit the box directly. That as far as he could tell it was an indirect hit. If it weren't for the rake that was leaning up against the wall that acted as a ground, the hit most likely would have been much worse.

The strike did affect some of the wiring along the southern side of the house and all things plugged into it. He said he would bring in a drywall guy he knows to follow up after him, if that was okay. It was.

My computer, which had a surge protector , was a gonner. That will be the last time I buy a surge protector from a dollar store. My Christmas tree survived. My washer and dryer were fine, but my microwave, stove and refrigerator where shot. He said he would start in on the wiring tomorrow, but he doesn't work on Sundays for religious reasons. Figures. I forgive him.

When I asked when he thought he could have it done he sighed. I held my chest, worried about his answer. He said that if everything goes as planned, he should be done by Wednesday. YES! That gives me one day to clean up, and get new appliances before the party on Friday! It would be tight and stressful but completely doable. He ended the conversation with a cautionary note:

"Miz Stoneway, things hadlay eva goes as planned, but I'z prayin."

After hanging up with Burt I feel relieved and stressed at the same time. I have so much to do but so little time to do it. And I have to do it from a hotel room.

I focus on the pool. My kids are alone, the baby and her family left. They are diving for a rubber ring toy they found. I allow my vision to blur and just listen to the sound of kids and water.

She used to swim. My mother never worked-out, she didn't aerobicise or power-walk. But she liked to swim. I remember her swimming with us at the YMCA pool. Her dark hair looked black when it was wet. Her skin looked blotchy and I saw moles on her back that I had never seen before. She looked so peaceful in the water. She would close her eyes, reach out her arms without making a ripple and pull them toward her in a breaststroke. What happened to the woman who liked to swim?

In a sudden fit of energy, I strip off my clothes, exposing my two-piece suit and take a running jump into the pool. The kids look up in surprise. They cheer together, excited to see their Mommy swimming with them. I take a long underwater pull, making it all the way to the other side of the pool. I pop up right in front of them and squirt them with water. Then I dive back down and grab their rubber ring, bring it up and toss it.

"Last one there is a rotten egg!"

*

An hour later, the kids and I are running down the hotel hallway as fast as we can. We are freezing and excited to get to the hotel room for a warm shower and dry clothes. Before I can get my card out, Trent opens the door and lets us in. He is smiling and tells me he could hear us coming. He looks refreshed after a little quiet time.

As I start the shower and begin pulling wet bathing suits off the kids I tell him what Burt said. I ask him to call the insurance company to inform them and see if we can go pick out our new appliances. He grabs the phonebook and starts paging through it.

I put the kids in the shower and rinse their suits of chlorine in the sink. Then I go grab dry clothes for them. They are fighting when I get back. I pull them out one by one and towel them. I direct them to separate beds to get dressed. Then I pull the bathroom door shut. My turn. I did my share, now it is my turn at last.

I pull the strings on my top and let it fall to the ground then roll my wet bottoms off my hips. I take a moment to look at myself in the huge hotel-bathroom mirror. In the slight fog on the mirror, I could be her. I am her shape. I am almost a foot taller than her and a little more tone but I have her body. My breasts are small and my shoulders are wide just like hers. I have a defined waist and wide hips just like hers. I can picture her standing in front of her long dresser, naked, gathering up her pantyhose then pulling them on one leg then the other. She would get to the thighs then strategically, using both hands, pull them the final way over her rump and tummy.

Her tummy, it was not big, but it had a pouch of fat that held a large C-section scar that went all the way to her bellybutton. It made her stomach unsightly. One more scar she bore for her children.

As a prepubescent youth I secretly wished I would not look like her. I wanted larger breasts, rounder breasts. I guess I have learned to live with them. As a runner, they are perfect. As a wife, they feel less than perfect.

I opened the bathroom door, wearing my bra and underwear, freshly showered. Trent walked up behind me and gives my shoulders a tender squeeze. Then he informed me that I should get dressed quickly so we can have plenty of time to shop at Lowe's before they closed. I smiled knowing we got the go-ahead to buy our replacement appliances.

My phone starts singing. I look at the number--it's Jason. He is calling to give me the details of his flight. He will be arriving on Friday at 12:30pm in Lexington. I tell him I will pick him up--there is no need for a Taxi. He asks if there will be any single women at the party and I tell him I am not sure. I try to sound optimistic.

On the way to Lowe's, I call my Pet Care Service. I tell them that I will need them to care for my animals twice a day until Wednesday. They know the routine, as they have taken care of my animals during every vacation for the last seven years. I was assured by my agent that this too would be covered by our homeowners insurance.

We stop by the house and grab Trent a suit and tie for his interviews on Monday and Tuesday. I make him go in alone since I can't bear to see my house in a shambles. When he got back to the car he confirms that my decision to stay in the car was a good one. He even went as far as to ask me if I saw Burt's electrician license.

As we enter the huge sliding-glass doors at Lowe's the kids start begging to ride in the ridiculously large, two-seater, kid's cart. I automatically say no. I hate those things. I can hardly push the damn things let alone turn them despite my reasonable state of fitness. Trent of course say's "absolutely, anything for my babies." Hey that's fine by me --as long as I'm not pushing the damn thing.

He pulls the behemoth out of the cart rack and loads the kids. We begin our trek to the refrigerators. Along the way the kids start fighting about knees and the fact that they are touching each other. I knew this would happen. Our kids are too big for the silly thing. Trent quickly loses patience with them. Half way to the back of the store we abandon the kid cart and drag our crying kids to the refrigerators.

It takes Jake about a millisecond to figure out that he can actually fit into the refrigerators without the racks in them. A salesman comes strolling toward us as I am yanking Jake out of a nice stainless-steel Whirlpool. He offers to help us but we want to look alone for a while. We assure the guy that we will let him know as soon as we need him.

I have never gone shopping for big appliances. They have always come with the house. I didn't realize how many options there are. How many cubic feet of refrigerated space do we really need? My old fridge was plenty big--I wonder how big it was. I am really glad we didn't have to worry about dimensions, that would add to the stress of picking out the perfect refrigerator.

We finally decided on a stainless steel, 26 cubic foot Frigidaire side by side with ice and water in the door. I felt a little guilty about it being an upgrade from what we were replacing but I quickly got over it. Trent took down the information on his notepad that we would later give the nice salesman.

Next we were off to the stoves. The kids disappeared briefly--I had suddenly imagined them inside one of the stoves--pictured them bending the metal racks--me being forced to buy them, and then I heard them fighting. I looked down the hardware isle and found them fighting over an extendable paintbrush roller. Jake was pulling it away from Chloe, she wasn't giving in. He started his high-pitched anguish scream just as I approached them. I grab his shoulder, squeezing it hard, look him in the eye and tell him to drop it. Then I give Chloe the eye, lower my voice and tell her to put it back, NOW. I then give the order to march and we all walk back to the stoves.

I want a gas stove. I love the look of the big grates on each burner. Our house is all-electric however so gas is out of the question. I decided to choose the one that would help the house sell quicker. We chose a stainless steel, ceramic top with a speed bake button. I am not sure what a speed bake button is, but it sounds handy.

I let Trent choose a microwave. I told him to make sure it is stainless steel and doesn't require a post-doc to operate. I was done shopping, my brain was buzzing with choices and the kids were ready to leave. I walked the kids over to the Christmas decorations to wait for Trent.

As we approach the winter wonderland that Lowes has created for us, the kids run to the blow-up snowman and start punching him. Why? No one else in Lowes has kids that are beating the shit out of Frosty. Why mine? Why can't we just all gaze into the magical Christmas scene and daydream about Christmas morning? I tell them to stop or I will take away Christmas. They stop instantly and move on to the singing Christmas stockings. They are completely preoccupied by them, engaged. I take the moment to poke around and look at the decorations.

I spot a sleigh. It is red and made of wood, big enough for an infant to sleep in. My mother's was gold. She had many sleighs, but the one this size was gold. She would buy little gifts for all of us just so she could fill her sleighs with presents. Then she wouldn't let us open the presents until last so she could enjoy the filled sleighs as long as possible. She loved her sleighs.

Trent comes striding up to me. He tells me he chose the perfect microwave. Together the new appliances will make my kitchen look great. He tells me he has all the purchase information on them and we need to go pay for them and arrange the delivery.

He glances at the red sleigh, looks at me and sees the water in my eyes. He then tells me that he always liked the sleighs my Mom had, that we should bring one home next time we are visiting my Dad. That would be nice.

*

On Saturday morning we all sleep in till eight. Then we head down to the complimentary breakfast wearing our bathing suits. Jake has peaches and cream oatmeal, Chloe chooses Cheerios I have Raisin Bran and coffee Trent grabs toast and coffee. We all eat quickly, grab some bananas and apples for later and head down to the pool.

I am excited to swim, even though it isn't a real workout, it is as close as I am going to get. I am starting to feel sluggish without my daily run, so I decide to do laps in the hotel pool.

I am wearing my one-piece Speedo, my goggles and cap. As I dip down and begin my freestyle it is but three and a half strokes before I get to the end of the pool. I almost smash my head into the wall. There is no black line to guide me, no T to tell me when to begin my flip-turn. I turn and push off the wall, begin my stroke again and find myself smacking the shallow end of the pool with my hands. This is ridiculous. What was I thinking? Did I really believe I could do laps in a pool the size of a Volkswagen?

When I stand up, defeated, I see another family entering the pool. I quickly snap off my goggles and cap and toss them to Trent. I begin a pathetic little water-jog in place. Hey, this isn't too bad. I look a little silly but I can feel my legs working and before long I fall into a bouncy rhythm. The water jog doesn't seem to bother my knee at all. This will do, yes, this will do.

The kids want me to throw the diving-ring for them so I bounce/jog over to them and toss it then bounce/job back. We spend most of the morning doing this. My legs ache--this is good. My heart pounds hard and I am breathing hard and it feels good. It feels a little like a vacation, waking up in a hotel and swimming, no place to go, no job to go to. Trent looks relaxed reading the newspaper with his coffee. Everything feels good today.

I decided to head back to the hotel room to shower. The kids weren't ready to get out of the pool yet. Trent stayed back to watch them. As I enter the room it is dark and quiet. It has a faint smell of sleep and dirty clothes. I open the curtain to let some light in. Before heading to the shower I decide to go on-line quickly to check my Facebook page. I am curious to see if my hacker-Mom replied to my email.

As my Facebook page loads I notice that I don't have any messages. Huh. Guess I scared her off. Oh well. I want to send another message to my Mom but now I feel exposed and it just isn't an option. I want to tell her that I am doing better now, feeling good. That things are looking up. I want to tell her how well the kids are swimming now and how they fight all the time. I want to tell her about them beating-up Frosty, she would think that was funny. I miss her.

I pull up her Facebook page so I can look at her picture. I don't have any pictures of her at home, they are all in storage. I look at her, she glances back at me, smiling. She looked so good then, so alive. I type on her wall...I miss you Mom, more than ever.

I go to my home page and start typing in my status. I put up the blanket invitation to anyone who wants to attend my Christmas Eve party. I don't dare start a formal invitation, I'm really not that serious. Maybe people will see that I am having a party and they will be happy that I have gotten over my Mom's death so quickly.

I hop into the shower, my head starts buzzing again with all the chaos in my life. I start to get overwhelmed with my situation. I need to get my house back in order, get the electric done, clean, get rid of the old appliances, hook up the new ones, make a list of food for the Christmas Eve party (that I am determined to have even if there is only one guest), pick up some gifts from Santa for the kids. The laundry alone will take an entire day to catch-up on once I get home. I feel like I have so much to do but I can't do it until my house is ready. I decide to call Burt as soon as I get out of the shower. I will make sure his work is on schedule.

When I step out of the shower I can hear my cell phone singing. I quickly grab a towel and run to the bed to grab it. I realize the curtains are open so I snatch it and hop back into the bathroom.

One missed call. The number says: Chad. Chad? Why do I have a Chad in my phone list? Oh, duh, it's Chad from my marathon, the Chad who has a Dad that died of oral cancer. Why the hell is Chad calling? It isn't like we ever talk. I hit the callback button and wait for him to pick up.

"Hey Amber!"

"Hey Chad! What's up?"

"Well, I was just on Facebook and noticed you invited me to your Christmas Eve party."

"Well, yes... you and all my other 250 Facebook friends. But yes, absolutely, you are invited. Why?"

"I've never been to Kentucky, always wanted to go to The Derby... you know, thought maybe my fiancé and I could come out and attend your party."

"Seriously!? That is great! I mean... you realize the Derby runs in May right?...like, you wouldn't be able to see a race at Christmas."

"Yeah, I know. Actually I have a cousin in Cincinnati, I plan to be at his house for Christmas. So I was thinking... I could attend your party, it's only an hour and fifteen minutes from my cuz's house... I checked on Google maps."

"That's awesome Chad. Yes, come, bring your fiancé. Bring your cousin if you want, the more the merrier."

"All right then, I will call when I am in town. What time does the party start?"

"Six o'clock"

Well, that was weird. I mean, I guess I should have put up the invitation sooner. So I am up to three or four guests now. Not much of a party but it's a start.

Since I am holding the phone I decide to go ahead and call Burt. He doesn't answer his phone so I leave a message telling him I would like an update. I set the phone down and proceed to comb out my hair.

Before I finish combing my cell starts singing. It is Burt. He apologizes for missing my call. He was going to the bathroom, he says. This strikes me as odd. Burt is in my house, using my bathroom. He says the wiring is not as bad as he thought, that he is making good progress. He says the drywall guy is good, keeping up with his work. I tell him there is paint under the stairs to match if the guy can paint too. He says they already found it. This too catches me off guard. How did they find the paint? Before I can ask he says he talked to Trent earlier and he told him where the paint is stored. He says he may even be done early but not to plan to get back into the house until Wednesday.

I inform Burt that we are having new appliances delivered Monday and that we will be there to receive them and arrange for the old ones to be removed. He says that will be fine, that he will be sure and get the kitchen wiring replaced first. Before I hang-up with Burt, I invite him to my Christmas Eve party. He says that was 'mighty kind of me', and says his wife makes a real nice apple pie. He will be there with bells on. This should be interesting. My guest count is up to six or seven.

*

Since the room is still quiet, I realize I should probably call my Dad. It has been a while since I talked to him it has just been so crazy.

He answers on the second ring. He sounds down. He says things are as good as can be expected. He found thirteen thousand dollars in my mothers' checking account and got another ten thousand from her life insurance. He says he should be set for money for a while. This news is both surprising and relieving to me. I knew my Dad didn't have a mortgage but I wasn't sure if his retirement and social security were enough to get him by. Evidently it is more than enough if my Mom was able to build up thirteen thousand dollars in her account.

He said he has been keeping up on the bills with the help of Leah. He also said that between he and Leah his pill boxes have been stocked regularly. I tell him about the lightening strike, staying at the hotel and the new appliances. He laughs at it all--even when it wasn't funny. He is not good at conversation when he is sober. I tell him about my Christmas party, tell him he is invited. He laughs and says he can't leave his dogs. But thanks anyway.

I didn't expect him to come--he never comes. Just like my mother he never leaves the house. Except the two trips to Montana to visit my mother's cousin Margo for the last 2 years, they never went anywhere.

I ask my Dad if anything is new, he says not really. He says he talked to Margo yesterday for a long time. She is having a hard time with my Mom's death, misses their long conversations over the phone. I know how she feels. I run out of things to say or ask and tell my Dad that I will call him again in a couple days. He thanks me for calling him--says it sincerely. I tell him I love him and hang-up. It is easy to tell him now, like second nature. I had never told him that I loved him before Mom died. Now I tell him at the end of every conversation.

# Chapter 20

Sunday was slow and easy. It dawned on me after a morning of frolicking in the pool that I needed to empty my refrigerator. I wasn't sure how I had managed to make it this long without thinking about all the spoilage taking place back at the house.

I made a solo trip to the house. I left Trent and the kids at the hotel. I knew I didn't want the kids around the electrical mess and I would get the work done quicker without their help.

I went out to the shed and grabbed every cooler I could find. I assumed there would be a few salvageable things left in the refrigerator. I grabbed a towel from the kitchen drawer and wiped out the coolers as best I could. I was trying not to focus on the mess. Burt was not there, it was his day off.

In the kitchen he had left his little dusty radio on. It was playing the local Christian radio station KLOVE. Much to my surprise when I opened the fridge, I was met with a little gush of cool air. I started putting all the condiments into my smaller cooler. I drained my containers of goat's milk into the cat's dish. It had turned just slightly but they didn't mind. I began opening the containers of cottage cheese and sour cream to see if they were any good. Rather than risk it I tossed it all into the trash, feeling guilty about all the waste.

The freezer was still cold but not freezing. I knew that the meats were still good. I could hear my mother's voice in my head, it was telling me that as long as there are ice crystals left in the meat it could be refrozen. I unloaded the chicken and fish and beef and pork into the big cooler. The bags of frozen veggies were questionable. I held one to my cheek, it felt cold, icy even, then tossed them all in on top of the meat in the cooler.

When I was done I tied the trash bag and toted it out to the trashcan outside. Then I loaded the coolers into the back of my station wagon. I let all my critters know that I needed to hurry off and get some ice on this stuff.

# Chapter 21

Monday was crazy. Lowes said they would deliver the appliances at 10:00am and Trent had his first job interview at 1:00pm. We had all slept until eight-thirty and then had to scramble to get ready and go. I tried to talk the kids into staying at the hotel with me and let Daddy go to the house but they missed their pets and the house. I gathered all our dirty laundry and decided that we would spend part of the day out there doing laundry and cleaning what we could.

A guy by the name of Nate was coming to collect the old appliances. Nate works for Pepsi filling machines. He used to fill the machines at Trent's hotel and they hit it off pretty well. Trent knew that Nate collected scrap metal and called him to see if he wanted our old appliances. Nate said absolutely and even told Trent he would give us half the money for the donation.

It was nine-thirty by the time we left the hotel. It was a twenty-minute drive to our house. We were supposed to meet Nate at nine-thirty. We were all in a fowl mood. Trent called Nate's cell phone to tell him we were running late but could get no answer. We were banking on the Lowes delivery truck either getting lost, being late or both.

When we arrived at 9:55am (we had to swing through Starbucks on the way) there was no sign of Nate. Burt's van was in the driveway blocking the access to the house that the Lowes guys would need. Much to our disbelief we saw the Lowes truck coming up the road...they were 3 minutes early.

I jumped out of our car, which was parked along the side of the drive halfway in the grass. I ran to the house and pushed the door open. Burt jumped. I apologized and explained that he needed to move his van so the Lowes truck could get in.

Burt shuffled to the door without saying a word. Trent came in trailing the kids behind him. He said he got a hold of Nate. Nate got lost and was running late. Trent said that he and I would need to move the old appliances out into the dining room so Lowes could put the new ones in and connect them.

The Lowes guys were outside unloading our new appliances while I frantically picked up pieces of drywall and wire making a path for them into the kitchen. There was white dust covering every inch of my house.

The Lowes guys came in, offered to help us move the old appliances. They were much better at it than we were. Trent and I stepped aside as they quickly and efficiently moved the appliances. At the last minute we brilliantly changed our minds and had them move the old appliances out to the driveway. They were really nice about it.

As the Lowes guys started bringing in our shiny new appliances the kids came thundering in. Jake picked-up a piece of drywall and started using it as chalk on the tile floor. I had to drag him out of the way before he got plowed over by a stove. Just as the guys were finishing up with the appliances Nate backed his trailer into the driveway, blocking the Lowes truck. He's really smart. Now the Lowes guys had to help load the old appliances onto his trailer before they could leave.

Before Nate could leave I asked him if he had plans for Christmas Eve. He said he had a date with a six-pack and the TV. I invited him to the party, he said he'd think about it.

We made it back to the hotel in time for Trent to shower, shave and dress for his interview. He seemed unusually nervous. He has always been so easy going, nothing pushed his buttons. But today I could see the worry in his eyes, he was feeling the pressure. As the sole provider he was failing to provide for his family. These two interviews today were so important. I didn't know how to comfort him, I am such a failure as a wife sometimes. Why can't I just walk up to him, give him a big warm hug, tell him that he is my hero? I want to tell him that everything will be fine, it's in the bag, and they would be crazy not to hire such a talented good-looking smart guy who is also a perfect husband and father. Why can't I say those things?

I watch him; his hands shake as he tightens his tie. He always has a little shake when he does fine motor things. He smells so good. I hope that I radiate all those things I want to tell him. I stare at him, emanating my thoughts.

"What?"

"Nothing, I'm just watching you."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Nothing. It's... just. Well....you're my hero?"

He laughs and walks over and gives me the big hug that I should have given him. He tells me he loves me. How does he do that? How does he just walk up and hug me. He makes it seem so easy.

Trent calls me at 2:15, tells me that the interview went okay. They seemed to like him but told him they had four other guys to interview before they made any decisions. He said he was stopping for a coffee then heading into Lexington for his 3:00pm interview with the Hyatt Hotel people. He would call on his way back to our hotel.

*

It is 5:45 and Trent hasn't called. I don't dare call his phone. I have this fear that Trent left his phone on when he went into the interview and if I call they will know how unprofessional he is. But he isn't unprofessional, he turned the phone off, I know he did. But I am not going to call. Just in case.

I am nervous, what if he got into an accident? What if he is dead? What would I do? Where would we go? I can't stay here in Kentucky without him. I would need family to help me but my Mom is dead too. God I hope he's okay. Damn it Trent! Just call me would you?

My cell phone sings and I answer it without looking at the phone number.

"Trent?"

"Yeah, sorry it's so late."

"How'd it go? Are we celebrating tonight or what?"

"It was horrible. There were about twenty people there for the interview, all trying for the same job. I had to wait forever to even get in. My interview didn't start till almost five o'clock."

"Really, I'm sorry babe. Did the interview go okay?"

"I donno. By five I had lost all my mojo. I don't know how I came off. I mean really, do you seriously think that I have a chance in hell? Twenty people for one job. What a waste of my time."

"Well are you on your way here then? Are you hungry?"

"I'm starving. I haven't eaten anything all day and I drank that coffee. My stomach feels like shit."

"Let's go have some dinner and relax then. Me and the kids will be ready when you get here."

"Love you"

"Love you too... Drive careful!"

# Chapter 22

By Wednesday we were all getting tired of being at the hotel. It no longer felt like a vacation, it felt like prison. We didn't have personal space, all cramped-up in the little hotel room. The kids were actually getting tired of swimming--something I didn't think was even possible. Trent had left yesterday claiming he needed space to think. He sat at the Starbucks searching for other job opportunities. He hadn't heard back from either of the interviews yet and was getting a little depressed.

I called Burt to make sure he would be done today. He assured me he would be done by noon. That would give us enough time to get up, get showered, check out of the Holiday _In_ n and go shopping for food.

I replenished the ice in my coolers before turning in our room key. We piled into the car and headed to Kroger. We did basic shopping; I would save the final party shopping for tomorrow when I had a better idea of what I needed. The kids were rambunctious in the store, I should have taken them swimming this morning to wear them out. Trent focused on the kids while I focused on the groceries and we managed to get through the shopping experience without any scars.

I loaded all the groceries in the back of the station wagon next to the coolers and dirty clothes. I yelled at the kids to get buckled (three times) then we set out on our way to start the process of putting our house back together.

When we arrived Burt was loading the last of his tools into his van. He smiled and told me to come look at the new electrical box. He was very proud of his work and I was very proud of him for completing it on schedule. I thanked him repeatedly for all he had done on such short notice--and on time. I told him I looked forward to meeting his wife on Christmas Eve.

When I was done saying goodbye to Burt I headed to the back of the station wagon to grab a load of groceries. To my surprise Trent had already carried them all in. I grabbed the laundry, leaving the heavy coolers for Trent to deal with.

When I stepped inside my kitchen, it hit me like a wave. The sudden overwhelming scene bore down on me. There was an inch of dust on everything. Little footprints--white--led from the kitchen down the hall into the bathroom. My groceries were all sitting on the floor needing to be unloaded. The dirty laundry was piled next to the washer. My beautiful shiny new appliances were covered with dust and greasy fingerprints. As I scan the mess Trent comes in carrying the coolers and sets them at my feet.

I take a deep breath; decide to take it one step at a time. I walk over to the washer, discover a load of laundry in it, put it in the dryer and start another load. I first unload the coolers wiping down the condiments before putting them into my new clean refrigerator. I hand the coolers to Trent as I empty them, tell him to return them to the shed. Next I start putting away the groceries, as I do the kids come running in chasing each other through the drywall dust. I yell for them to stop, they freeze.

I hate to admit it; but I told the kids to pick out a movie then set them in front of the TV while I got my work done. I needed them contained.

Trent came back in carrying a huge stack of mail. I begged him to sort it while I finished putting away the groceries. He did. I went around with a trash bag picking up the large pieces of drywall, wood and wire. Then I grabbed my broom and swept up the biggest piles. I grabbed a bucket, filled it with warm water and a little cleaning solution then started from the top and wiped everything. Trent took a rag and went into the surrounding rooms that were not so badly affected by the dust storm. After two and a half hours of wiping, vacuuming, and wiping some more, I could see my kitchen.

I can run six miles and not be as exhausted as I am now. Why does this type of cleaning make me so tired? As Trent and I stare at each other, satisfied with what we had accomplished, the kids yell to us. Katie starts barking. Someone is here.

Outside a large brown truck is backing up our driveway. It's UPS. Did we order something? Trent looks at me and smiles.

"Our computer is here."

"When did we order the new computer?"

"When we were sitting at Starbucks avoiding the hotel room."

"Well, I hope _we_ can hook it up, because I'm spent."

"Not a problem, I'll get right on it."

It amazes me how handy Trent is. He manages to do just about anything I ask him to with little cajoling and seldom any complaints. I'm pretty lucky. My Mom was right, he is a good man.

While Trent is hooking-up the new computer, his cell phone rings. I listen to his side of the conversation trying to figure out who it is. All I here is, 'yes it is...okay... that would be fine... 10:00am on Friday, no not a problem, I look forward to it.'

"Who was that?"

"It's the Hyatt, they want me to come in for another interview on Friday."

"That's great! But on Friday? That's Christmas Eve."

"They said they apologized for it being Christmas Eve but they needed to fill the position and that was the only day the head honcho's would be available."

"Do you think you could pick up Jason after the interview, his flight gets here at 12:30, and you should be done by then, right?"

"Yeah, that should be fine. It will be awkward though. You think he still has the hots for you? What if he murders me so he can move in on you?"

"Shut-up. I am sure he is completely safe... I think."

Thursday is completely disorganized. I am trying to get a rhythm down, a sequence to help me accomplish everything I need to get done. All our clothes are finally washed, dried and put away. Now I am trying to wash all the bedding for the spare room.

Nate called and told Trent that he decided to come to the party. He is bringing his girlfriend Lisa, a heavy-set woman who is happy to be fat since it is healthy fat. She used to be hooked on meth and is in recovery.

My guest list was up to seven. We had Nate and Lisa, Chad and fiancé, Burt and wife, and Jason. It's not a lot but still, it was something. I needed to go shopping and start preparing the food. I planned to do lots of appetizers and finger foods. I also still needed to do Santa shopping. This meant that I needed to go shopping alone.

Trent was outside putting up extra lights. I wanted the house to look spectacular for the party. He went into our storage and brought out every string of light and Christmas decoration we owned. The kids were 'helping' him--if you can call it that.

I put the last load of blankets into the dryer, grabbed my grocery list and my purse and my jacket. I hollered to Trent and the kids, told them I would be back in a couple hours.

I can get lost when I am shopping alone. The complete concentration is such a treat for me. I find myself reading ingredient lists and contemplating prices, all things that are near impossible when shopping with kids.

I start in the toy section; I pick out a few simple gifts for the kids then find some fun stocking stuffers. I refuse to go overboard with gifts, they would rather play in the mud than with a toy anyway.

As I stroll out of the toy section in persuit of the grocery side of the store I am assaulted by a large Roll-Back sign in the center of the isle. It reads $138.00, but there is nothing there to go with the price. A woman in a blue vest is standing next to the sign talking to a woman with her hands on her hips and head cocked.

"We sold out of the trampolines but we are giving rain-checks if you would like one" she says apologetically.

My heart does a double-take at the price. It is less than half the price I had seen them for in the past. The kids have been begging for a trampoline. They would do flips if I got them one for Christmas. But we're moving... or we will be... it probably isn't a good idea.

"Ma'am?" I interrupt carefully

"Yes?"

"When will you have the trampolines in stock?"

"Not till after Christmas."

Hmmm. How could I make this work?

"Can I get one of those rain-checks please?"

I load up on fancy crackers, three different types of cheeses, spreads, shrimp, cream cheese, deli hams, carrots, cauliflower, broccoli, pastries, and breads. I drive to the bakery and pick out Christmas cookies and desserts, even a nice cheesecake. Then I swing by the Liquor Barn and pick out a nice array of white and red wines, dark beer, and a cheap light beer for me. My car is weighed down with food and gifts and I am having guilty pangs about the money I just spent. But it has to be perfect. I have never hosted a Christmas party and this will probably be our last Christmas in our house because it will most likely go back to the bank. I picture people mingling, laughing, Christmas music in the background.

As I drive home, snow begins to fall. Yes, this is perfect. We may actually have a White Christmas.

*

I am in my bathroom looking at my scale. I haven't stepped on it yet. I know that if I have gained weight it will ruin my day. I know I have gained weight, I haven't run for over a week and I am pretty sure my pool jogging didn't really burn that many calories. But what if I haven't gained weight? The only way to know is to get on the scale.

Two pounds. It's not bad considering. But it upsets me anyway. I get a sudden sinking feeling. I should be ashamed. My mother would have jumped for joy to see two new pounds on her scale. But she never did. She just saw the pounds disappear, and it scared her. Despite her crazy desire to lose weight, it scared her when she couldn't control it.

Today is Christmas Eve. This is the big day, the party. I have so much to do but I am so excited. Tomorrow is Christmas, the first Christmas. There will be no phone call from my Mom wishing me a Merry Christmas, she won't be asking me how the kids liked their Christmas gifts, she won't be wishing I was there in Minnesota with her. What will it be like for my Dad? Will it be another day? Get up, start the coffee, sit at the table, do crossword puzzles. I feel queasy with a combination of sorrow, excitement, dread and happiness.

I set the alarm this morning. I got up and had my quiet time with my book and Grapenuts. I started putting the appetizer plates together. My new refrigerator is packed with an assortment of yummy treats and savory snacks. I put the beer on ice in the cooler, brought out the Yankee candles--the ones that smell like gingerbread cookies. I am sure I have enough food for everyone. I found some Christmas CD's in the drawer of music, I almost forgot about them.

Before the kids wake up I grab some construction paper and markers from the craft drawer. I carefully draw and oval and add long lines around it making a poor rendition of a trampoline. Then I write, "A TRAMPOLINE JUST FOR CHLOE AND JAKE!" I find some gold star stickers and cover the paper with them. On a roll now, I get out the Elmer's glue and glitter and make fancy swirls all over the paper. The aroma of glitter and glue is so nostalgic, I feel like I am floating on clouds made of my childhood Christmases.

I am awoken from my art frenzy by the sound of little feet thumping down the stairs. I carefully slide my project onto the top of the refrigerator to dry. I frantically start sweeping glitter with my hand into the garbage then cover it with a paper towel. Later I will wrap the picture and label it to Chloe and Jack from Mom and Dad.

Trent got up and made the kids breakfast then showered and shaved to get ready for his interview. Chad called to get directions, said he would see me at six sharp, asked if he should bring anything.

Trent left for the interview. He assured me he would pick-up Jason before coming home. He said that if I didn't hear from him by one-thirty, that I should call the police. I laughed, kissed him, wished him good-luck and pushed him out the door.

By twelve o'clock I was feeling extremely confident. The house looked spectacular, there was a nice four-inch blanket of snow covering the ground, the kids had managed to stay out of the spare room and keep all their messes in their playroom. I still needed to shower and get ready. I should do that before Jason gets here. I decide to get the mail first.

I walk quickly to the mailbox, grab the stack of mostly junk mail. I start walking toward the house sorting through it as I go. I stop dead in my tracks, shocked. I see her writing, I see Merry Christmas. What is this? Mom?

It is a postcard addressed to Chloe with our address hand written in my Mom's writing. It reads "FROM GRANDMA & GRANDPA, MERRY CHRISTMAS". I turn it over. It is from Highlights magazine, she bought Chloe a subscription for Christmas, she must have done it before she died. I look and find another one to Jake, she bought him a subscription to High Five. Tears start to roll down my face, I miss her.

I look at my watch, it's almost one. I have to get showered and dressed before Trent gets here with Jason. I run to the house, kick my boots to the corner and head to the shower.

I am out and dressed by one-fifteen. I am blow-drying my hair when I see the car pull up to the house. I feel butterflies in my stomach. I haven't seen Jason for so long. I watch as they both get out of the car, go to the back, open the hatch and start pulling Jason's bags out. I call to the kids and they come running from the playroom. I quickly remind them to be on their best behavior--be polite, don't ask personal questions, flush the toilet after you poop--and so on.

I have a huge smile when they walk in. Trent looks tired. Jason is smiling holding out his arms for a hug. I walk up and hug him and tell him he looks great because he really does look good. I introduce him to Chloe and Jake, they are shy and giggle then they scamper off to the playroom. I apologize for being a little messy, tell him I was in the process of doing my hair. I take him to the guest room, tell him to unload his stuff and relax while I finish getting ready.

While I finish my hair I ask Trent about the interview. He says he's not sure. They were polite--said they had two others to consider. They had to have a meeting to decide. They said they would call either way by this evening. I still can't believe they are doing this on Christmas Eve. Where are the families that belong to the people doing the interviews? What does that say about the company?

The waiting was getting to me. Now I had to wait for six o'clock _and_ wait for the job phone call.

*

By four o'clock I had the kids in their cute little Christmas outfits. I was praying that they would still be clean by the time the guests arrived. Jason and I had nervously caught up on our lives while I did the last bits of food preparations. We still hadn't heard anything from the Hyatt people.

As I was wiping down my tables one last time I saw a minivan slow then turn into our driveway. I was squinting trying to make out the driver. I hollered to Trent, asked him if Nate drove a minivan. He said no. Who ever it was they were early. It was okay. I was ready.

*

As the minivan got closer my eyes were deceiving me. It looked like my sister was driving. The rest of the windows were tinted. I sat staring, confused. The driver turned. It _was_ my sister. She smiled a huge smile and waved excitedly.

"Oh my God! It's Leah!"

"Leah?"

"Yes! It's Auntie Leah! What the hell is she doing here?"

We all scrambled for our boots and coats and headed out the door to great her. Her two daughters slowly crawled out of the minivan, ran over and hugged the kids. I gave my sister a big hug and asked what the hell she was doing here and who's minivan she was driving.

She said they flew into Lexington and rented the minivan. It was a surprise; she wanted to surprise us for Christmas.

"Why the minivan? That's not really your style Leah."

"Because we needed something big enough for Dad to ride comfortably in."

"Dad?"

As she said this my Dad appears, carefully stepping out of the minivan in slow motion. I am floored. I run over and help him out. He stands up slowly and balances himself. I give him a big hug and he says, "Well hello dare!"

It dawned on me that I only had one guest room. We all head inside and discuss sleeping arrangements. Leah said she would get a hotel but I insisted that we all stay here, at least tonight since it is Christmas Eve. Jason insists that my Dad take the spare room since it had the most comfortable bed. We decide that Jason will sleep on the couch and Leah and the girls will sleep in the playroom. Trent pulls out two mattresses from the storage room. They arrange them so that they can all sleep on them. I pull out some sheets and give them a couple blankets that I had in the dryer.

By the time we have the sleeping arrangements made and Leah's gifts put under the tree I realize that I don't have enough food for tonight. There is just enough time to run into Georgetown and grab some more. Leah offers to go and Jason offers to go with her. Abby and Jess stay here to entertain my kids. I am a little flustered, but it is still all going quite well.

At five-thirty Burt arrives with his wife. I take their coats from them. Burt's wife Myrtle is a lovely woman with a cute reindeer sweater. It even has little bells that jingle as she walks. She presents a beautiful apple pie and I take it from her. She asks what she can do to help get ready for the party. I open my fridge and start handing her things to put our on the dining room table. Burt quickly snatches Trent and starts showing him all his handiwork.

As Myrtle and I are setting out the last of the trays I see another car pulling into the drive. This time it is Nate and his girlfriend. I was not sure what to expect, I had never met her. I answered the door, said Merry Christmas and they came on in. I took their coats. Nate was wearing a blue Carhart coat with Pepsi embroidered on the breast. His girlfriend Lisa handed me her black leather coat. It had lots of buckles and reminded me of the kind I wore when I was in high school. She had a Harley-Davidson shirt on. It was new. It looked nice. She politely introduced herself, smiled, exposing a couple teeth that were slightly blackened and rotten. Typical meth-mouth I thought. She covered her smile with her hand, embarrassed. She was sweet. She quietly apologized for her teeth said she was having them fixed as soon as she could afford it.

Nate walked off to find Trent, Lisa walked behind me and I told her to help herself to the food and drinks. I was sure to put a few waters and pops in the cooler too. She grabbed a water and walked shyly into the kitchen where Myrtle introduced herself. I went off and put the music on. I started with Frank Sinatra.

There is a knock at the door. I open it to find Chad and his fiancé standing at the door. They are dressed very elegantly. Chad wears a black knee-length wool coat. His fiancé is in a similar coat only it is cream colored with a tie at the waist. I greet them with a big Merry Christmas, Chad gives me a big bear hug and introduces me to his fiancé Amy. She is stunning. She must be ten years younger than him and may actually be a model, I'm not sure. I take their jackets from them and encourage them to go on in, help themselves to the food and drink. I tell them I will be back in a second to introduce them to the others.

As I take their coats to our bedroom I blush. I wonder what Chad thinks of my company. He is probably used to really hip parties with people his own age that are very successful. Here I am out in the country, my guests made up of a retired electrician and his reindeer-wearing wife, a metal scrapper and his ex-meth head girlfriend, a couple of teenage girls, my elderly father, and I can't wait for him to meet Jason. I giggle to myself. I don't care. These are my people. They are who showed up and I am delighted to have them. Screw Chad if he doesn't like them.

As I turn to head back to the party I bump into Trent. He kisses me and tells me that I am needed in the kitchen. Leah has returned with extra food and wants to know what to do with it.

When I walk into the kitchen I can't help but notice the fake laugh my sister has. That is not how she laughs. Weird. Her and Jason seem to be getting along well. They have some inside joke they are laughing about. Something about the way the checkout lady kept calling them 'sweetie'.

My Dad is listening as Burt tells him in detail about the repairs he did to my electrical work. My Dad is not talking he just smiles and laughs whenever Burt pauses. I am happy to see some of the sadness gone from his face. He has a little pinkness to his cheeks. He looks healthy.

As I put some of the groceries into the fridge and fill the cooler with more beer I glance around. Everyone seems to be getting along and mingling. Chloe and Jake come running through the kitchen chasing each other. They almost plough over Myrtle. I run after my kids, yell at them for being so rude. Threaten to take all their Christmas presents back to the store if they don't start to act civil. My face is flushed with embarrassment as I apologize, outraged by the behavior of my children. Myrtle smiles, takes my hands and holds them in hers then looks into my eyes.

"Now honey, you listen heeya. Theys just kids. And this is Christmas. Theys only young once, you enjoy thum. Theys not perfect, no. But I's bet you weren't neither when youz a youngin."

I smile

"And dontchu goes appoligizin for um neitha, theys addorble."

"Alright then. Thank you."

Jake and Chloe came marching into the kitchen, Jake behind Chloe. They walked right up to Myrtle and in practiced unison said "were sorry for almost tripping you". Myrtle looked at them and told them thank you. Then she told them to go on and have a good time. I looked at Myrtle, proud of my kids. She knew.

Trent startled, his phone was on vibrate in his pocket. He excused himself from the room to answer the call. I took a deep breath, I knew it was Hyatt. I could hardly wait for him to come back and tell me what they said. I try to distract myself by starting a conversation with Nate about working for Pepsi.

As I am about to walk into our bedroom and see if I can tell what Hyatt is saying by the look on Trent's face there is a knock on the front door. I am caught completely off-guard, I am not expecting anyone else.

I change my course and walk through my guests to the front door. When I open it I find a sixty-something woman with long grey hair and a western style coat staring at me.

"Can I help you?"

"You must be Amber

"Yes, I am. Can I help you?"

"I am Margo."

"Margo?"

"Your mother's cousin... from Montana."

"Margo! Oh my God! It is so nice to meet you. Come in! What are you doing here?"

"It's a long story, but I am here to apologize to you."

"Apologize? I don't get it."

"Can I put this coat somewhere, and maybe we could talk privately for a minute."

When I emerged from the guest room with Margo, I was greeted by the kids. They said, "Who's THAT?" I introduced them. This is Margo she is your third cousin. She was someone who was very special to Grandma Horses. They simply said 'oh', and ran off to play more with Jess and Abby. As they ran off Jake stopped turned and said that Daddy needed to tell me something.

The phone call! I completely forgot about the phone call. Oh, I hope it is good, I hope we can go to sleep tonight knowing that Trent has a job to go to next week. Oh that would be so wonderful. I can't imagine anything more wonderful.

I quickly introduce everyone at the party to Margo. My Dad was the most surprised to see her. He had been speaking with her over the phone a lot lately and had found a good friend in Margo. They instantly connected and began talking.

I scampered over to Trent and pulled him aside. I was so excited. He looked at me very seriously. Shit. He didn't get the job. I can tell by the look on his face. Damn it, this is going to ruin my perfect Christmas party.

"Do you know some lady named Nancy Congelton?"

"Hu? Who?"

"Nancy Congelton"

I stare at Trent, I have that dopey toothy frown on my face that I got from my Mom--I can feel it. I am just so confused. What the hell is he talking about and why does that name sound strangely familiar?

"I don't know Trent, should I know Nancy Congleton? Did you get the job or not?"

"That wasn't the Hyatt that called."

"Well then who was it?"

"It was our realtor. We have an offer on the house."

\---------------------------------------------------------------

No fucking way. No way! That crazy lady that barged into my house without an appointment wants the house? How could she? The house looked like it was hit by a bomb! And she wants it? She offered $15,000 under our asking price, but it was enough. And we could still negotiate. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. This is amazing. This is actually better than Trent getting the job. He can get a job next week... or next month... I don't care, we have an offer!

I can't wipe the huge grin off my face as we return to the party. All the guests are looking at me and Trent wondering what we were doing in the bedroom. I almost hate to spoil their thoughts with the news. I have to, I can't let my Dad have visions of me screwing my husband, it's not right.

I grab a wine glass from Leah and a fork from Jason and make a tinking sound loudly so everyone can hear. I tell them that they may not know it but our house is for sale and that we just got word that we have an offer. I make a toast to the house and to Nancy Congelton and her bad manners. I am so happy. After such a difficult few months my heart is light and I am the most thankful person in the world.

Chad held up his beer and hits it a few times with his fork. He says he wants to make a toast too.

"I have met all of you now, but you may not know why I am here. Amber and I went to school together a long time ago. In 2009, my father died of oral cancer. We started a foundation in his honor. Amber contacted me out of the blue and asked if she could run her first marathon in his honor, and to raise money for the foundation.

"Despite injury, Amber completed the marathon and helped to raise two thousand dollars for my Dads' foundation. She inspired my family to go out and raise more money in new and challenging ways. She is inspirational. So here is to Amber!"

Okay, that was really embarrassing. And now I am crying again. I wonder if I have any make-up left on my face.

Jason grabs a fork, starts smacking his wine glass.

"To great people!...And a beautiful woman!" he glances at my sister.

What the? Seriously! Oh this night could not possibly get any stranger. I did not see that coming.

My Dad is next, he smacks his fork to his glass of Captain and Coke.

"To old friends." He looks at Margo.

With all the toasting going on I hadn't noticed Trent leave the room. Worried that he may be getting tired of all the people I walk away looking for him.

I find him in the bedroom, he has his back to me, he is putting his phone back into his pocket. He turns and sees me standing there. He smiles.

# Chapter 23

She apologized. She said she knew my Mom's password.

There had been pictures from her vacation in Montana. Mom didn't know how to post them to her Facebook page, so she emailed them to Margo, gave her the password and told her to post them.

She said she was mourning the loss of my Mom. She was curious, wondered if people wrote messages to dead people--like she had. So she went into my Moms Facebook page and noticed she had messages.

I wasn't the only one who wrote her. Her brother had, it was a very personal letter, she couldn't elaborate it wouldn't be right. She said there were others, a friend from the bar, my sister. But it was my letters that most concerned her.

She said she was worried about me. So worried. She thought I was spiraling, would maybe do something stupid. She knew I just needed to hear that things would be okay.

She said that my Mom talked about me all the time. She was so proud of me. She knew that I was special. I was her baby. The one that kept my parents together, the one that changed their lives. She said I could do no wrong... not in her eyes.

She said she knew what my Mom would say and that she had to say those things. That she regretted it as soon as she sent it. She was sorry. So sorry. She knew she had no right. She was so sorry.

# Chapter 24

The party was a success. Everyone had a wonderful time. They were all gone by eleven. My Dad and Margo went to bed early. They agreed to share the bed, but for obvious reasons that was all. My sister and I put out the Santa Clause gifts while Jason sat on the couch watching us. I was not very good at Christmas but I felt like I had pulled off the perfect Christmas Eve. If tomorrow was a flop it would be okay, a payback for all the Christmas I'd ruined for my Mom.

The kids managed to sleep until six-fifteen before stomping down the stairs to see what Santa brought them. I heard the ruckus and stumbled out to the kitchen to put coffee on. As I walked in I was hit with a wall of smoke. My father was standing at the counter smoking, tapping his ashes into a spent beer bottle, most of them missing the opening and falling to the counter. He said he has been up for a while and wanted to make coffee but couldn't find the coffee filters.

I took a slow breath, reminded myself that it would be okay. I could get the smoke smell out after he leaves. I smile at him, find him a better container for his ashes. I assure him coffee is on and will be ready momentarily.

When it was done I poured a cup and brought it back to Trent. He was sleeping. I bent down kissed his cheek and said, "wake-up Mr. Big Shot Hyatt Man". He opened his eyes and told me it was too early. I reminded him that it was Christmas morning, we had a houseful of guests and he was personally responsible for making sure this was the best Christmas ever.

I walked into the living room, Jason was sitting-up confused about the hour, watching as the kids pulled cheap toys from their stockings screaming. I tapped him on the shoulder told him there was coffee in the kitchen if he wanted some. The kids were comparing gifts making sure they each had the same number from Santa when I left them and returned to the kitchen.

My sister was making her way into the living room with her girls following closely behind, they had smiles on their faces. When I go to the kitchen my Dad is their filling a cup with coffee.

I poured the last of the coffee into the top of Trent's cup and started another pot. I opened my new shiny refrigerator and grabbed three tubes of cinnamon rolls. That is what she would have made if she were here. I pull out the non-stick cookie sheet, pop open the rolls and begin placing them on the sheet in a circle. My Dad takes his cup of coffee to the porch and lights another cigarette. It is the first time I have ever seen him go outside to smoke.

Margo stumbles into the kitchen, asks for some coffee. I ask her how long she will be staying and she says she has to leave around noon to catch her flight home. She has family expecting her for dinner. I can't believe she came all this way just to apologize.

By seven-thirty the kids are begging to open their gifts. The adults have all eaten a cinnamon roll, had their coffee and begin to congregate in the living room. It is awkward, not everyone has gifts. Jason just brought himself, he hadn't really celebrated Christmas since his Dad died. That was okay. My Dad never bought gifts but we had a couple for him. My sister brought as many as she could fit into her one piece of luggage she was allowed to bring on the plane. I had some little gifts for her and the girls.

Leah handed out her gifts first, the kids tore into them. Chloe scowled as she realized her gift was a Barbie, she hates dolls. I cringe at what she might say next.

"It's Kentucky Derby Barbie" Leah says proudly

"It's a Barbie" Chloe frowns

"They released her in 2009 for the 135th running of the Derby. I got her on line, she's collectable."

Chloe starts toward me to hand me the Barbie.

"Put it in the re-gifting box mommy."

I gasp, "We are not re-gifting this honey, it isn't just a Barbie, it's a collectable. It's a really nice gift!"

"But you say collectible stuff is crap mom."

"Not collectable Barbies! Oh, Chloe. Come on, you need to thank your auntie for such a nice gift." I am so embarrassed.

It's true. I hate knick-knacks and collectables and have always made it very clear to my kids that I think it is all crap. I don't know how to handle this situation.

I glance at Leah, she is glancing at the door possibly planning an early escape. She has nowhere to go. I look at her and mouth the words: 'I'm sorry'. She hesitates, cracks a grin and turns away with a tight look on her face. She is upset.

I hold up the wrapped picture of the trampoline and tell the kids that this gift is for both of them. I have Chloe open it carefully so she doesn't rip the picture. Jake screams, saying it isn't fair that Chloe gets to open it. I shush him, trying not to let his whiny scream interfere with my excitement of the trampoline.

Chloe pulls out the picture and holds it with her pointer-finger and thumb as if it's a dead mouse.

"What is this?"

"Look at the picture honey, what is it?"

"It looks like a picture of a drum or something..."

"It's not a drum. Jake, what do you think it is?"

"A hamster cage?"

"Is this our gift mom? You made us a picture for our Christmas present? Do you have more gifts for us?" Chloe snaps at me with one hand on her hip.

"No, it is a picture of your gift." I say trying to keep a polite smile on my face.

"You got us a HAMPSTER!!!" Jake hollers, jumping up and down.

"No! It's a trampoline! I got you a trampoline!" My hands are spread, pleading my case. Hoping it all makes sense now.

"But I want a hamster!" Jake screams and stomps his foot.

"I don't want some stupid picture of a trampoline; it doesn't even look like a trampoline. Why did you give us a picture?" Chloe storms out of the room.

I collapse on the couch, head tilted in awe, my face sporting my mother's dopy, toothy frown. I glance over at my sister. She was smiling. I think she feels better now.

~*~

As much as I wanted to savor the moment, Christmas morning happened too fast. The kids calmed down, forgot about my gift and tore through their remaining gifts not taking the time to say thank you. When they got to the last present they wanted more and let us know we were mean for not giving them enough.

I swore I wouldn't let myself get my hopes up. I would just take what came and that way I wouldn't be let down. But I did get my hopes up, and I was let down and a little sad. They are kids. They are selfish by nature. They will regret it someday.

I snuck away from the living room. I wanted to put the ham in the oven for Christmas dinner. I walked over to my computer logged onto my Facebook page. I had to tell her about Christmas.

When my page appeared, I had a new message. I clicked on it, and found my Mom's face staring back at me. One message from Mom. Boy that lady has some balls.

Facebook Message:

Subject: Christmas

Merry Christmas honey. I have a message for you. We all go to the same place eventually, though we all take different paths. You will find your way honey, trust me. You are never alone.

P.S. Christmas was perfect.

# Chapter 25

I left my sister to handle Christmas dinner and took Margo to the airport. We shared small talk along the way. She told me about all her children and the dynamics between the oldest and youngest. She told me how her husband died of a heart attack three years ago. She assured me that my Dad was doing okay considering my Mom died so close to the holidays and it hasn't been that long.

As we pulled up to the airport I got out of the car and went to the hatch. I opened it, pulled out her single bag and handed it to her.

"You came all this way to apologize for posing as my mother."

"I had to, I just could not live with myself. I couldn't do it over the phone. I needed you to know how serious I was."

"So why then? Why did you do it again?"

"Do what honey?"

"Send another message! Why?"

She looked at me seriously. She looked directly at my eyes, and said nothing.

"You sent another message."

She grabbed her bag, gave me a tight hug . . . said the hug was from my Mom. She turned and strolled away. Then she glanced back over her shoulder,

"No. I didn't."

# Epilogue

On Sunday I wake early before all of my houseguests. I quietly pull on my running tights, my long sleeve shirt, my running socks and my shoes. I don't want to wake anyone. I grab my headband, my gloves and leave my Garmin on the desk. I don't care how fast or how long I run I just want it to feel good.

As I step out onto the fresh snow I see my breath. The streets are still dark, the sun is peeking up over the cow pasture. There are no cars, not today.

I walk briskly to the end of my driveway, do a little twist to warm-up my back. I take a deep breath, and head out.

The tap, tap, tap, of my foot quickly falls into a rhythm. I feel like I am flying. The sky is pink and the land is white and I can't imagine a place more like heaven. I make the right turn onto my favorite road. I want to scream with joy. My knee feels great, my legs are so fresh I feel like I could run forever. I get to the top of the first hill and am met with the familiar drowning cry;

"Caaawww"

I look up. He has a friend today.

"Caaawwww. Caaawww."

#  

# About the author:

Diane Strong lives in Kentucky with her husband and their two children. She received a liberal arts degree at Itasca Community College, a Bachelors of Science in Psychology and Equine Studies from Rocky Mountain College in Billings, Montana and a Master's degree in Veterinary Science from the University of Kentucky.

She writes a small column for the Georgetown News Graphic and homeschools her children. In her spare time she competes in road races, triathlons and adventure races. She is the founder of the Georgetown Run Club and Intellectual Society. She loves what she does.
