Chapter 3 #2
“Yes, I met Matt then. That’s another thing you might have mentioned.”
“What’s to mention? He lives next door and takes care of the place.”
Okay, that throws me a little. Because he’s right—Matt wasn’t earth-shattering news. The lack of internet is far more important. “Well, okay, but it just would have been nice to know a strange guy was going to approach me the second I got out of my car. Stranger danger, you know?”
At this, he actually laughs a little. “Matt’s a good guy. Friend of the family my whole life.”
“Is he really the chief of police?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I don’t know. He just didn’t seem very police-like.”
“I’m not even sure what that means,” Kev replies. Then asks, “Why do you sound so mad about everything?”
The question hits me like a brick to the head. I want to scream at him: Why wouldn’t I sound mad about everything? My life has turned to shit! But I keep my cool. Because only some parts of that are Kevin’s fault at the moment. “Kev,” I say, “this place, um, isn’t exactly what you described.”
“It’s not? How so?”
Okay, so my friend did not purposefully and willfully send me to this unpleasant living environment—he’s just delusional. “The house,” I say. “It’s, um, well ... you made it out to be some uber charming cottage, but it’s kind of run-down. I don’t think much has been changed in fifty years.”
When he stays quiet at this, I feel bad and go on. “I’m sorry. I know it was your grandma’s house, and I’m sure it was nice back in the day.”
Finally he admits, “I guess I haven’t paid attention. And I’ve only been there a few times as an adult.”
Well, that explains a lot. He was describing it the way he remembered from his childhood, not as it actually is. “Has ... anyone in your family been here recently?”
“My parents stayed there for a few days after Grandma died to clean out her clothes and the food from the kitchen. A cleaning person comes every few months, but I guess our grand plan to use it for getaways hasn’t really materialized the way we thought it would.
” He adds, “Is it ... that bad, Jess?”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s fine. It’s clean. It’s just not ... the quaint cabin-in-the-woods vacation rental I envisioned from your description. Add in the lack of the internet, and, well ... there might have been a short period of time when I wanted to rip you limb from limb.”
“And now?” he asks cautiously.
“I’m over it. The harming-you part, I mean. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the rest.” I sigh. “Though speaking of wanting to kill you, Tiffany called on my drive down. To tell me none of this was her fault. Did you have to be so honest with her, Kev?”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry about that, too. I was trying not to answer her questions, but she started out as an investigative reporter, you know. She’s not afraid to keep asking the tough questions until you crack.”
“You make it sound like she had you in a dark room shining bright lights in your eyes.”
“I feel like a cruddy friend right now. And not even a great boss.”
Crap, now I feel bad. He took me to chemo, after all. And even that aside, I cherish him. “It’s okay,” I promise. “This too shall pass.” I don’t bother to tell him my plan to come home as soon as I have a put-together home to come back to—that can wait for another day. “How’s Patrick’s grandma?”
“About the same,” he answers on a sigh. “Is it wrong that I’m kind of jealous Nana gets to spend so much time with him lately? I barely see him.”
“Yes,” I confirm. “That’s very wrong. Insanely wrong.”
“I know. I’m a terrible person. I just miss him. I miss our normal ... us—the way we usually are, the way we’ve been up to now. I miss normalcy.”
I hear ya, buddy.
“I’m going on a diet, though,” he says.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
I can’t help it—I laugh.
He does, too. “Hey,” he says then, “what about the lake? Surely the lake’s still nice. What do you think of the view from the back porch?”
“I haven’t gone out back yet,” I confess. “I’ve been unpacking all afternoon.”
I can almost feel him shaking his head. “You have to check out the lake, Jess. It’s beautiful. You’ll love it.”
“I’ve heard that before.” I snicker.
“I mean it. The house might have gone out of style when I wasn’t looking, but a lake doesn’t really change.”
“I’ll check it out tomorrow,” I promise, though I can’t help feeling skeptical at this point.
“Tomorrow? It’s right outside the door, Jess.”
“I know. I’m just ... tired, I guess.”
I hang up a few minutes later thinking about that old adage: The only constant in life is change. I feel like it’s got me surrounded lately and won’t let me escape. And the things I want to get back just seem farther and farther away, no matter how hard I chase them.
I dig into the staples delivered by the cowboy wannabe and make breakfast for dinner—eggs and toast. I don’t make very good eggs—I like them over easy, and they’re always either too hard or too runny.
Tonight it’s too hard. But it’s fine. A mediocre meal pretty much matches the rest of my day.
Tomorrow I’ll check out the market near town, and if I have to, I’ll make the trek to Walmart.
I’m pretty tired of being in my car after such a long drive today, but what better do I have to do?
After cleaning up the dinner dishes—there’s no dishwasher, big surprise—I plop back down in the easy chair by the window, pick up the phone, and call Sydney.
I get her voicemail, though. Of course she’s busy—beautiful summer night in the city, long days where it doesn’t get dark until after nine, new man in her life. It’s Friday. She’s probably having ice cream.
“Hey,” I say, trying not to sound sad, “just wanted to let you know I made it to Lost and Found. It lives up to the name—it’s in the middle of nowhere.
And the house is ... a letdown. And get this—there’s no internet.
And I have zero bars. Seriously. So you’ll need to call me back on this number and hope I just happen to be here.
I’m going to venture out tomorrow to ..
. you know, keep busy. But it’s fine. Everything’s fine. I hope you’re doing something fun.”
I could go outside myself, check out the lake, enjoy the cooldown that comes at the end of a hot June day before darkness falls.
But my heart just isn’t in it. It’s that simple.
Seeking out a pretty view and a bit of fresh air just sounds like too much trouble to me right now.
Besides, my new neighbor might be out there.
Instead, I reach for the TV remote. By flipping around, I do find a station, and it’s showing a rerun of a sitcom I’ve already seen.
I watch it anyway, trying to get pulled into that world—anything to get pulled out of mine for a little while.
It doesn’t work, and I lament the loss of my streaming capabilities anew. Sometimes escape feels so ... vital.
When the show ends, I turn off the TV and walk to the built-in bookcases across the room.
A quick perusal tells me that Mabel was big into doing jigsaw puzzles and reading mysteries, with a little romance mixed in.
I see a John Grisham novel I haven’t read and pull it down, returning to my chair.
But the light isn’t good enough for reading—I’m instantly squinting.
I could go around to other lamps and other sitting spots, but that quickly I feel defeated.
When a shock of orange neon light draws my gaze out the back window, I realize a spectacular sunset is happening outside and that apparently the back porch faces west. But even this is not enough to lure me out.
I wish I hadn’t come. But the truth I face just now is that if I’d stayed home and not scheduled the remodel, I’d still feel empty. Alone. Forgotten. Irrelevant. Being stuck on an isolated mountain in a cottage at the end of Lost Valley Lane just shines a brighter light on it.
As darkness finally swallows the little house, I decide to call it a day. I resolved not to sleep my life away, but right now, it feels like the only thing to do.
It feels strange to undress in the middle of Mabel’s clouds, but I change into a tank top and pajama shorts, then walk into the bathroom. I look in the mirror to apply scar-minimizing cream to my lumpectomy and chemo port scars. I wash my face and moisturize. I see myself.
I really . . . see myself.
The truth is, I try to avoid that these days. And I usually do pretty well. But for some reason, tonight, I’m seeing ... me.
I see my head covered with this painfully thin, brown, curly cap of hair.
I see my eyes looking larger for the lack of hair, and a little sunken, from the general trauma, I guess.
I see my cheekbones more prominently for having lost some weight, and again, no longer having a mane of hair to balance it all out.
I see dark circles beneath my eyes, and a complexion that for some reason looks ruddier to me lately for no particular reason.
I see wrinkles and lines like the ones I observed on Kevin last week and can’t deny that my cancer journey has aged me.
I feel like me on the inside, but I don’t look like me on the outside. It’s a strange feeling. I am, of course, still me. But aren’t we also what we see in the mirror? When that changes, suddenly, it can be hard to recognize yourself.
I think of those women who carry this all so well, the ones who walk around so cool and confident without their hair, some even by choice.
I envy them. I view myself as a confident person, but it dawns on me now that maybe there’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance.
Maybe true confidence comes from a place where you really don’t care how you’re seen or if you fit society’s standards of beauty and normalcy—and maybe arrogance needs . .. hair.
I’m mad at myself for caring. Mad at the world for caring. Mad at the station managers for caring. My eyes get glassy and feel strained until I’m forced to reach up and wipe away a tear. Do not cry. You’re tougher than that.
I cried a lot back when my parents died, and after that, I just ... stopped. I quit giving in to that level of despair. I refuse to give in now, when all the hard times are over. Or they’re supposed to be anyway.
A moment later, I turn back the fluffy white covers on Mabel’s bed and ease into it. It’s ... incredibly soft and cozy. I feel cradled. I feel like I’m floating. I look up at the clouds and suddenly see the appeal.
Did Mabel want to float away from her own life, too? Float away from everything to a place where none of it matters? Where it’s all just about the floating? I understand Mabel a lot more in that moment.
I take in the floating sensation and let it own me for a few minutes. It’s honestly the best I’ve felt all day. Floating in Mabel’s clouds, it doesn’t matter what I look like, who cares about me or who doesn’t, what my plans are, what my life is. It’s just floating.
When I reach over to turn out the lights, I expect full darkness to descend, but enough moonlight seeps through the windows to softly illuminate the whiteness in the clouds that I can still see them a little in the dark.
So I still feel like I’m floating on a cloud. And when I least expect it, I drift sweetly and swiftly off into a more peaceful sleep than I’ve had in a while.