Chapter 26. Juniper
Juniper
SONG OF THE DAY:
“Winter Song” by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson
When I get home
Lyric’s car is gone
and the house is eerily quiet.
So much for a merry Christmas,
I mutter
taking off my snow boots
and making my way to my room.
I’m about to slam my door shut
when Mom and Mama Alice appear.
Can we talk?
Mom says, eyes red
mascara smudged.
I open the door
silently
and sit at my desk.
Mom and Mama Alice
perch on my unmade bed.
I cross my arms.
So, what is this?
An intervention?
Of sorts,
Mom says.
Things got out of hand
earlier, Mama Alice starts.
We’d like you to talk us through
why you want to take a year off
and why you—
We really don’t like
that you lied to us,
Mom blurts.
Mara—please don’t
interrupt me. You know I hate it,
Mama Alice says
through gritted teeth.
Fine, fine. Sorry! Mom says
raising her hands up
in defense.
I stare at them both
dumbfounded.
Really?!
You, of all people, Mom
mad that I lied?
Junie,
Mama Alice warns.
Don’t be rude.
We’re not talking about your mom
or our separation here.
We’re talking about you—
your choices
and actions.
Help us understand.
This isn’t like you.
Sorry,
I mutter.
I was going to tell you.
But I was worried you’d respond
poorly which you did!
I think we were all caught off guard.
I know we didn’t respond well.
But the floor is yours now.
We won’t interrupt you,
Mama Alice coaxes.
As my moms sit on my bed
I try to explain
how I dream of mountains
as if they were long-lost friends
how I’ve always been able
to understand the language of water
of lakes and rivers and brooks
to feel most myself
when I’m running
or walking in the woods.
I try to tell them this is my time
to figure out what really drives me
that I hadn’t planned to do it all alone
that I’d been researching caravans
other van-life folks
to meet up with on the road.
Mom and Mama Alice
listen quietly
but their lips stay pinched
their eyebrows furrowed.
I still don’t like it,
Mom starts when I finish.
It’s too dangerous and
not practical, Junie.
I know we can’t force you
to do anything you don’t want to.
I’m just worried about your future.
What if you never want to go back
to college?
I won’t do that!
I’m just asking for a year,
I protest.
Junie—Mama Alice starts.
How about we
plan a camping trip
like we’ve done before
you and me
over the summer?
I can spare two or three weeks.
I shake my head furiously.
This is not about them.
I want to do this
on my own.
Well,
Mom sighs.
If that’s what you choose
we’re not funding a gap year for you.
That means after you graduate this spring
we won’t be paying for your
car payments
or your car insurance
and you’ll need to get
your own cell phone plan.
All your expenses for the year
food, clothing
supplies gas, whatever
need to be covered by you, and you alone.
We won’t have any money to give you
as an allowance.
Mom—
I didn’t expect you to cover everything
but my car payments?
You told me Chloe
was a gift!
I hate how meek I sound
but I honestly hadn’t even thought
about my car and phone bill
being something
I’d have to take care of.
Mom shakes her head.
Your car was a gift when we thought
you’d be using it
responsibly, Junie.
But we pay the bills
so we can change the rules.
That’s not fair!
Mama Alice clears her throat.
We’ve also decided that
we’re going to return
the laptop we bought you.
You can use your iPad
next year.
The laptop was something
for college.
And now that you’re not going—
I want to take a year!
I’m not
planning to rob banks
or do drugs.
I’m going to hike
and learn about sustainable farming
and tour the natural beauty
this country has to offer.
Then I’ll be back.
I’ll even live at home here with you both
if you want!
Go to State get my degree.
Whatever.
Why is this such a huge deal?
It’s just not—
Mom starts,
the vision we had in mind
for you or for us next year.
Mama Alice
grabs Mom’s hand then.
It’s time, Mara.
We can’t put this off.
Mom starts to cry.
What’s happening?
What is it time for?
I ask.
Junie—your mom and I
have decided to get
a divorce.
I want Mama Alice to stop
talking but she
just pushes forward.
We love each other very much
but after everything that’s happened
we’ve realized
we’ve changed
and we both need a new chapter.
No
is all I can get out.
And—Mom adds, wiping a tear.
Even though this is a mutual
decision we’ve got a life’s worth
of decisions to make.
Lawyers’ fees and divorce papers
are not cheap plus
figuring out how we are each going
to maintain our own households now.
Wait, what about
me?
I hate how childish
I sound.
Oh, love, Mama and I
will always have space
for you we just
will have our own apartments
or houses we haven’t
figured out all the details yet.
Right, Mama Alice adds.
I have to decide
if I want to stay here
or go back to Chicago.
But Junie—you’re graduating.
We’re all going to be
starting a new adventure
but we’ll always be your moms
your family.
I’m too old to cry about this
but everything
rushes out of me.
I feel so dumb
for being such a goddamn romantic
thinking my moms’ love story
could endure all.
For believing that
I too
could find my own
fairy tale with Lyric
for being such an asshole
to her and my moms
when all of it
was falling apart
for good
right in front of my eyes.
So, it’s all a scam
I guess?
I say into the silent room.
Did you ever even
love one another?
I really thought you two
were the gay dream
even after the separation.
Oh, darlin’,
Mama Alice says.
What if I told you
that doesn’t exist?
What if I told you there are just people
trying to love themselves enough
to love another? What if I told you
there’s no such thing as the one
but that in a lifetime you’ll likely
make numerous connections with people
that could become more?
But love—it’s a choice—a commitment to try
and fail, and try again
to invite in the unknown
and hold on to what makes you feel
alive and seen.
This goes for romantic, self, or community love.
It’s not about perfection
—it’s about being vulnerable—
welcoming in what cannot be contained
or bottled up and trusting it to guide you
somewhere new.
I’ve had twenty beautiful years
with your mom. Despite everything
it was worth it to try again.
Even though Mom’s the English professor
I swear Mama Alice could be a poet.
I let her words
echo through my mind
trying to find a place to be still.
We love you very much, Junie,
Mom adds.
That will never change.
Your mama and I
well, we have changed.
And we owe it to ourselves
to let this version of ourselves go.
Can you understand that?
I don’t know, I say
because it’s true I don’t know
where to go from here
how to accept this new reality
because it means that I’m also
changing that I’ll have to
reimagine who I am
move forward into
a new version of myself.
I don’t know anything,
I say.
Oh, Junie,
Mom says, coming over to give me a hug.
Neither do we.
Every day, we
do the best we can
make mistakes
and start over.
That’s life. That’s being an adult.
It never gets easier.
Well, what if this is a mistake?
I try one more time.
What if we don’t need to change anything?
Look, I can forget my whole road trip.
I’ll try going to college like you want
and you two can do couples therapy again
and nobody has to leave.
Mom cups my face in her hands.
That won’t work, my love.
Whatever choice you make
about next year
college or a gap year
Mama and I are moving on.
She kisses me on the forehead
but I barely feel it.
We’ll give you some time,
Mama Alice says, rising.
Come join us for dinner
when you’re ready.
We can talk more then
if you like.
Sitting down
at our cheerily decorated table
with moms who have fallen
out of love
is the last thing I want to do.
I’m glued in place at my desk
all the narratives I’ve held up
as absolute truth
spilled out onto the floor
a mess of fiction.
So, I lean into the only thing I know
that always helps.
I blast “Winter Song”
on repeat
as I flop onto my bed
like the dramatic
sulky teen I’ll have to
leave behind soon.
Why on earth did I think
venturing off on my own
being in love
adulting
would be all silver bells
and gumdrops?
Growing up
feels like absolute shit
right about now.
IS LOVE ALIVE?
IS LOVE ALIVE?
IS LOVE ALIVE?
Sara Bareilles cries.
And on my fifth listen
the tears come
fast and ugly.
I’m not sure what stings worse:
my moms the permanent fissure
in our little pod
or the fact that Lyric
was right about me being
an out-of-touch, entitled brat.