Chapter 18 Cam
Chapter 18
Cam
Riley and I were perusing the aisles at the craft supply store in town this morning. I could count the number of times I’d come in here on one hand. This week was Riley’s last week of school before the holiday break, and one of her friends taught her how to make friendship bracelets out of embroidery thread, and she was determined to make as many as she could for Christmas gifts.
“Daddy will want a green one,” she said as she pulled a couple of different green embroidery flosses off their hooks.
“Good choices,” I said. So far, we had a slew of pinks, purples, and reds. The greens would be perfect for Gus, and I grabbed a couple of yellows, too. “Are they all going to be monochromatic?” I asked and Riley looked up at me, confused. “One color or different versions of the same color.” I nodded toward her hands. “Like how those are all green but different greens.”
“Mon-o-chruh-mat-ik,” Riley repeated quietly to herself—memorizing the word and storing it away. Smart girl. “No. Auntie and Teddy and Ada are going to get rainbow ones,” she said.
“They’ll love that,” I said. “What about Papa?”
“Yellow, I think,” she said with a nod. “Because he said he misses the sun and summer.”
“That’s thoughtful, Riles,” I said.
“What color do you think Dusty will want?” she asked as we went back to perusing. I froze.
“U-uh,” I stuttered. “I didn’t know you were making one for Dusty.”
“I have to make him one,” Riley said. “He lives in our backyard, Mom.” Good point. “Do you know his favorite color?”
“Blue,” I said without thinking. Images of blue sour straws on a hike, blue Jolly Ranchers in a truck’s center console, and a blue margarita at Chili’s flashed through my head. “His favorite color is blue.”
—
After we bought out half the embroidery floss in the store, Riley and I walked down the street to the coffee shop. It hadn’t snowed in a few days, so the sidewalks and roads were mostly clear, but it was cold as shit—even though the sun was out. I held Riley’s gloved hand in mine as we walked. Well, I walked. Riley had some pep in her step today—and every day—and her walk was more of a half skip.
It was little things like that, or the way she squealed when she ran, that made my heart swell up in my chest. To me, it meant that she felt safe and happy—loved. I never would’ve done any of that as a kid. When she talked constantly or danced in the kitchen without any sort of inhibition, I hoped that she never lost her joy.
A bell rang as we opened the door to the coffee shop. We were immediately hit with warmth and the smell of coffee and warm sugar. Even though The Bean had always been a Meadowlark institution, it had come under new ownership a few years ago, and they had really stepped up their game.
Once we were inside, I let go of Riley’s hand, and she made a beeline for the pastry case—checking out all of her options before we ordered.
I felt eyes on me as I waited in line. It hadn’t been that long since the not-wedding, and people clearly still hadn’t moved on. I didn’t want to know what they were saying—I didn’t care. Well, I did care, actually. Deeply. But it was easier to pretend that I didn’t.
After a minute, Riley scampered back to me. There was only one person ahead of me now. “So,” she said, “what if you get something and I get something, and then we split it?”
“Excellent idea, Sunshine,” I said. “What do you have your eye on?”
“The chocolate cake,” Riley said, smiling wide. The chocolate cake in question had chocolate ganache with a layer of strawberry compote between the two layers. “It’s decadent,” Riley said with a nod.
“That’s a good word,” I said.
“Teddy taught it to me.”
It was our turn now, and the cashier waved me up to the register. “Hi,” she said. “What can I get for you guys today?”
“You go first, Sunshine,” I said to Riley. She liked to order for herself.
“Um…” Riley said. “Can I have a small vanilla steamer and a piece of the chocolate cake, please?”
“Sure thing,” the cashier said with a smile. “And for you?”
“I’ll have a small latte with skim milk, please, and…” I looked over at the pastry case. “A slice of coffee cake, please.”
“Absolutely. It’ll be right out.”
Once we sat down, Riley was able to remove a few of her layers to reveal her white knit sweater with a red heart in the middle.
“Are you excited to have a break from school?”
Riley nodded. “Yeah, but I like school, too. This week was fun. We watched the Grinch and frosted cookies and made ornaments.”
“I love the ornament,” I said. Riley’s teacher had each student make a small stocking from felt and decorate it. Then, she cut a little circle out of the front and put Riley’s school picture in it.
Riley told the teacher she needed to make two because her parents didn’t live in the same house, and the teacher let her, so Gus and I each got a very glittery stocking ornament.
“And we colored, too,” Riley said. “A lot of coloring.”
“Is that your favorite thing to do at school, do you think?” I asked. “The art stuff?” Riley’s adjustment to first grade had been a little bit rocky. The first day of the second week of school, I walked into her room to wake her up, and she told me she was too sick to go. She didn’t have a fever or a runny nose and she said her stomach didn’t hurt, but she looked at me, and her big green eyes were full of tears, so I let her stay home.
I had to work, but I set her up on the couch with a few movies and some saltines while I got some things done in my office. When I got to a place where I could stop for the day, I went out and lay on the couch with her. After a few minutes, she burst into tears and confessed that she wasn’t really sick. I held her tight and let her cry before I asked her why she didn’t want to go to school.
She wiped her nose and said, “I didn’t know that being in first grade meant that I had to go to school all day.” The year before, Riley had only been in morning kindergarten. She was absolutely torn up about the fact that she had to be in school for seven hours.
I watched Riley’s face morph into her thinking one—cutest face in the world, by the way. “I like library time, too,” she said. “And my teacher says that I’m good at math.”
She didn’t get that from me. I hated math.
“Do you like math?”
Riley shrugged. “I like that I can do other stuff when I finish it early.” Ah, she had a strategy. Now that was like me. I loved that she was using the analytical part of her brain; except, in her case, she was doing it to do things she loved, as opposed to when I was growing up, when all I used it for was to get other people to love me.
I always thought maybe if I changed this or did that—got the highest grades, ran the fastest, and did the most—I would be the best. Then my parents would have to be proud of me if I was the best, right?
You would think. Generally, I only really got a rise out of my parents when I was doing something wrong, so in adulthood, I think I just tried to keep them happy. That way, they’d leave me alone.
I never wanted my daughter to feel that way. I wanted her to enjoy spending Saturday mornings with me at the craft store. I never wanted her to feel like we couldn’t share a brownie and a coffee cake or sit at a table and enjoy each other’s company. Personally, I can’t say I ever enjoyed my parents’ company, and I would guess they probably felt the same.
Like any parent, I had expectations for my daughter. I expected her to be kind and curious and hardworking. I had hopes for her, too. I hoped she would never feel unloved or disposable. I hoped she had dreams and that she was brave enough to go after them.
But I never wanted the hopes and expectations I had for her to overshadow the hopes and expectations she had for herself. Because if I did my job right, she would have them, and they would be wonderful.
I never really saw myself as a parent, but when I was younger, I wondered if I was capable of being a good one—like Dusty’s parents. They were the first example I had of parents who were…there. My parents had always been more of a presence in my life versus being actually present. They inform every decision I make because they’re on my mind almost constantly—even though I don’t see or hear from them very often. I feel like I live my life like they’re watching—in an ominous way.
I’m sure they’ve been proud of me at some points or found joy in something I achieved, but I don’t think they knew how to communicate those things. I think they only knew how to communicate disappointment, which I understood now as kind of a double-edged sword for them and for me.
On one hand, I hated it when they were disappointed or upset with me, but when they were displeased, I got the attention that I used to crave so badly.
Sometimes I found myself wondering if I used to use Dusty as a weapon against my parents, especially after my mother found us kissing in his Bronco. Once he was no longer a secret, our relationship became the only way I had ever successfully worked against their wishes, to stand up for myself. But I think he saw himself as more of a shield—something that could protect me.
I hoped my daughter never needed either of those things.
“I love you, Sunshine,” I said. “You know that, right?”
Riley’s forehead wrinkled. “Duh,” she said right as an employee dropped our drinks and pastries off at our table in mismatched mugs and on mismatched plates.
“I like plates like this,” Riley said.
“Plates like what?”
“Plates that don’t match. Can we get some for our new house?”
“Have you seen our plates, Sunshine?” I laughed. I was definitely not a mismatched plates type of woman.
“Yeah. They’re all white and boring,” Riley said. Her eyes were alight.
“Ouch, kid,” I said. “You think my plates are boring?”
Riley nodded enthusiastically. “Really boring,” she said. “We should get rainbow plates!”
“What if we compromise and get some pastel plates or something? Or something with a pattern?”
“Pastel is light colors, right?” Riley asked, and I nodded. “Okay. Pastels are good.” When she took a sip of her steamer, which was just steamed milk and vanilla syrup, my seven-year-old looked like she was seventeen.
I swiped a bite of Riley’s chocolate cake. “Oh that’s good,” I said.
“Hey!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t even had any yet.” I shrugged, and Riley took the first bite of my coffee cake with a grin. As she chewed, she nodded and smiled.
“Good?” I asked.
“Good,” she said. Then, each of us got a bite of our own cake on our forks.
“Cheers,” I said, and we clinked our forks together.