51. Consistent Fraction
consistent fraction
Mirren
Cartoon me is pulling a Maria in The Sound of Music twirling on a mountain top. I’m engaged. To be married. To a man I fell into while he was wearing only a towel. We definitely win for most interesting meet-cute—that’s for sure.
Real me can still feel where I got railed by the man, wondering how I got so lucky, and hoping that when they say you just know, the amorphous “they” are right.
I fight with everything in me not to shift or wiggle in my uncomfortable airplane seat. It’s mostly uncomfortable because I’m sitting next to my mom who drones on and on about the op.
She’s a backup. Only a backup. But we both know she’s going to insert herself in the mix at the most inopportune time. She had skills, still does, but if I’d had any other choice, I would’ve taken the option behind door number two, because June Jones is June Jones. Enough said.
“I think I’ll get some shut-eye.” I sure hope that came at the right time in her diatribe. I’m fairly certain she’s trying to figure out how to reorganize the whole plan, assuming I’ll agree.
I close my eyes and turn up the volume on the white noise in my ear buds.
Sleep won’t happen. But I can zone out and consider finishing—okay, fine… starting—my Christmas shopping. This year, I’ll need one extra gift. For my fiancé, no less. I guess I should think about weddings too.
No. Not today. The last thing I need is my head in the clouds.
I even out my breathing, though Mom may not notice or take the bait and let my mind drift.
“So, Mirren, tell me about yourself.” Diane begins micro-planing lemon peel into the mixer full of cookie dough but stops to prompt me. “I just know you’ll be in our lives for a long time. So catch me up.”
“Not much to tell you, Mrs. Anderson—”
“Pish posh”—she slaps a hand through the air—“I’ve already told you to call me Diane. Mrs. Anderson won’t do.”
“Diane.” Why is that so hard for me? “I joined the Army young and had to leave because a knee injury meant I couldn’t participate the way I needed to.
” That’s a sanitized version, but it’s the truth, even if it’s just a fraction of the truth.
“So I bought a house in my hometown and use it as rental income.” Also a fraction, but it’s the story I’ve sold to everyone so at least it’s a consistent fraction.
“And my Strider was one of your renters?” She turns the mixer back on for a moment.
“Yes, ma’am, but apparently he knew my brother from way back.”
She adds what looks like white chocolate chips and gives the mixer just a second or two to combine.
“Why don’t you leave it running? I’m sure there’s a reason.” I gesture to the KitchenAid appliance that’s surely older than I am and has seen more batches of cookies than I will in a lifetime.
“Early on, you want lots of time. The creaming makes a difference. At the end, it can put too much air in the dough, making it tough. At this point, combining is good; whipping is bad. Do you like to bake?”
“I’m not much of a baker. Hell, I’m not much of an anything, actually. I was too busy until the last year or so. And then, maybe I was depressed… or too focused on recovery. That’s a long way to say no.” My chuckle is met with her laughter.
“I always baked and cooked with my kids. The girls had to learn how to change tires. Strider had to learn all the ‘girl stuff’”—she makes air quotes—“though Jim and I don’t see it that way.
Well-rounded humans aren’t limited by sex as to what they can do.
Our kids needed to be self-sufficient and capable, whether that was plumbing fixtures, or basic automotive repair, or cooking.
Strider had extra time at home of course.
” She starts rolling dough into balls when the scale tells her they’re the right weight. Weight!
“Yeah. He’s told me about his condition and his sick days home from school.”
Her hands reach for the bowl but stop as she turns to me.
“There were some rough days in there too. Early on, we did everything but wrap him in foam rubber to make sure he wasn’t injured.
It’s not hemophilia, but it was too close to risk in our less-educated, younger days.
Hell, we were your age probably…” She leaves that hanging, dangling bait for me to fill in the blanks.
“I’m twenty-seven,” I offer.
“Ah. Maybe just a smidge older than you, but yes. What’s a mother to do… throw him to the wolves and let them sort it out?”
I shake my head, but the question wasn’t for me.
She’s lost in the past. Grabbing more dough, she goes back to work.
“All we wanted was for our kids to be healthy.” She extends fingers covered in goo to me in a stop gesture.
“Don’t hear that like we were upset he was sick.
On the contrary, we wanted healthy, happy kids, and where we could aid in his health or happiness, we were going to.
Well, that blew up in our faces.” She continues weighing and making cookie balls on a huge sheet tray.
I’d offer to help, but I don’t get that that’s necessary. She’s rather lost in her world, and these small actions are keeping her in the present.
“Now don’t hear me say boys will be boys in any way other than those exact words.
Bruised and brave could describe most kids under ten, but for Strider, it was an understatement.
If he could’ve gotten away with jumping off the roof, he would have.
Riding bikes with no hands was the least of my concerns.
Standing on the seat going full speed with absolutely no control—that was my Strider.
So when he got to a point where a bruise or a break might kill him…
” She stares out the window and into a past that seems to still scare her.
“I did what anyone would do in that situation. I brought him inside when his condition was active and told him whatever story would stick to keep him safely in these four walls.” She looks around the house as if a younger Strider still runs through these halls.
“When remission came—and understand remission was easily seventy-five percent of the time. Flares were few and far between but were rough on him and scary for me when they showed. So when he was in remission, he had carte blanche to be a crazy boy.”
“Except for jumping from the roof,” I put in.
“Exactly.” Her shoulders rise and fall dramatically.
“I’m a reasonable woman, Mirren. I knew there would be broken bones or, God forbid, pregnancy scares.
With Sam I had to worry about toxic paints absorbing into her skin.
The walls were covered. We knew which battles to pick and her bedroom walls weren’t it.
She was so talented. Why not give her a room-sized canvas.
Lorien and her chemistry, the same. You get my point. But when he was ill…”
“He took that as lying…” My tone is plain with no hint of judgment.
“I mean, technically. Yes. But what should we have done? Sat him down that young and say ‘your body is attacking your blood. You could die at any time with the wrong move’? That seemed a bit cruel for a kid to hear, when we could protect him.”
I nod, not in agreement, but in understanding.
From ten thousand feet, it’s so easy to see both sides of this.
Strider’s hatred of lies and secrets. Being kept in the dark.
Not having agency in his life. And in Diane’s desire for him to have a normal childhood, void of the things that are parents’ worst nightmares.
“We made the wrong choice. He’s been very clear about that.
But we didn’t know any better. We were young, navigating an illness that was largely unknown.
I don’t think I heard the word ‘autoimmune’ in the wild again for twenty years after his diagnosis.
In groups of scared moms, sure, but in common conversation?
He was out of college by the time the world caught on. ”
“I don’t have a dog in this fight, Diane. I’m not judging. I can’t tell you I’d have any clue what to do, even now, and my generation tends to talk things out, ad nauseum, and emote.” I shrug. “There were downsides both ways. You know that.”
She nods and washes her hands. “I do. And I don’t know if Strider would feel equally as strongly if we’d done the opposite. He tends to be passionate about issues and people that interest him.” She levels her gaze on me. “You, for instance.”
I blush under her scrutiny. “Will you share that lemon cookie recipe with me? I don’t presume I’ll make them correctly the first time, but if they’re Strider’s favorites, I’d like to have them in my arsenal.”
“It’s a recipe. No fail, I promise. Just follow the steps.
Don’t tell Lorien I said that. She really wants to be a baker.
I mean, she tries, but somehow”—she throws her hands wildly about—“my brilliant daughter can manage to mess up the simplest of cookies. And, yes, I’d love for Strider to have this kind of love in his new home.
” Her face goes sad, but her tone lies through it.
“And we’ll bake when we get together. New recipes each time. That work?”
“I’d love that.” I hope the sincerity on my face and in my voice reassure her that it’s the truth. “Plan to come down for Mardi Gras if you can. It’s more family friendly than New Orleans and nothing like Rio. You’ll love it, and we’d love to have you.”
“We’d love that, sweetie. Now, twenty-four hours is best, but we’ll let it chill a while and see if we can’t sample our cookies after dinner.”
Our cookies? I did absolutely nothing but perch on a stool and listen to her tell me how much she loves her son. If I get credit for that, then okay, but truly, I get the better end of the deal.
“I won’t argue. They smell divine.”
She puts an arm around my shoulders and leads me to the living room. “And they taste even better.”
“Ladies and gentleman, we’re beginning our descent into Austin.
Please return your seats and tray tables to their upright and locked positions and stow all of your carry-ons.
Flight attendants will come through the cabin one last time to collect all remaining service items. As always, thank you for flying with us and welcome to Austin. ”
As I come back to the present, I’m struck by two things. First, how different my childhood was from Strider’s. I’m the baby; he’s the oldest. I had five older brothers. Bruised and brave is an apt description. Mom trying to contain them would’ve been as challenging as Diane doing so for her son.
And two, while I’m technically a spy like my parents, what I did for the Army, was the same as Diane. Strider’s mom was a nurse before she retired. How peculiar is the world, that the man who hated being sick, ended up with a medic for a fiancée.
I pray he never needs those skills.