34. Thirty-four
Thirty-four
Our weekend alone is the calm before the storm. With the complex dedication—the big fundraising gala event—and Lyra’s graduation, if life wasn’t hectic before, it is now.
Me at meetings for graduation ceremony preparations and carting the boys around.
Lyra taking finals and finishing the last of her scholarship applications.
Camp scrambling between baseball practice, games, putting out last-minute fires for the dedication, and finalizing the schedule of hosted games and tournaments for the summer and fall.
Even though we’re passing ships all day, we’re still in bed—together—at night.
My camera is always with me, coming out in the in-between moments.
Life feels like I’ve always imagined it should. Busy but full.
I know quieter days are coming. I’ll have more time for photography and can figure out my next steps. When the busyness dies down, I can chase my dreams and keep all this. For the first time I see that maybe life can be both.
“What are you going to do when the complex is done, Dad?” Lyra asks as she scoops chicken and rice onto her plate.
His eyes narrow as he chews his food, wiping his mouth. “What do you mean?”
“You’re always chasing the next big thing.” She chuckles at her very accurate observation, causing me to unintentionally go still.
Camp’s eyes go from Lyra’s slowly to mine. He clears his throat. Seemingly trying to choose his words carefully. “Jack has his sights set on nationals next year. Probably have a good shot. Last few years it’s gone to teams in Florida and Ohio, but I think it could be our year.”
Nationals?
A longer season.
More away games.
His dreams, not mine.
“Nationals?” My voice is a whisper as I feel everything from the last days slipping through my fingers.
“He says he thinks the team has a shot,” he says, eyes steady on me as he speaks.
I nod, blankly. All I can think: I knew this wouldn’t last.
“The assistant coach setting the big goals?” Lyra teases with a grin, ignorant to the implications of what he’s just said, popping a spoonful of food into her mouth. “Losing your mojo, old man.”
“Watch this!” Ty shouts, catapulting a spoonful of food into the air that Thor catches with a slobbery lick.
Hank’s voice is somehow louder. “Let me try!”
Using his hand instead of spoon before I can stop him, chicken and rice landing on the floor with a splat.
The familiar feeling tickles my spine. The walls close in. Camp laughs with a shake of his head at the mess as Lyra rolls her eyes. Calls them gross. Says something about not being able to wait to move out to get away from them.
It’s muffled.
Happening around me.
3-2-1.
3-2-1.
Another lob of food into Thor’s mouth.
My ears ring.
I can’t breathe.
“Boys!” I snap, dropping my fork on my plate and jerking to a stand, making my chair fall to the floor. “Why does every dinner have to turn into a damn circus?”
An immediate silence falls across the table, and the only sound is Thor licking up rice from the floor.
“Sorry, Mama,” Hank says in a quiet voice.
“Yeah, well, if you were so sorry you’d stop throwing food everywhere. No wonder Ms. Mitchell is losing her mind with you two!” I want to take the words back as soon as they are out, but instead, I glare at them both—watery lines in their eyes—before storming to the kitchen.
Camp follows me, quiet as I take aggressive pulls of paper towels from the roll.
“You okay?” he asks, putting his hand on my forearm, which I jerk away.
“Fine,” I snap.
“You seem upset. I’ll talk to them about feedin’ the dog at the table. I know it’s—”
“It’s nothing, Camp. It’s fine. It’s typical. It’s all typical.”
He stares at me. “If this is about—”
“It’s about nothing.” I pull my shoulders back and force a smile I don’t feel. “It’s fine.”
At the table, I drop to the floor, beginning to wipe the rice and slobber up, the burn of tears that want to shoot out of my face burning like lava behind my eyes.
Camp is chasing the next big thing.
That isn’t me.
Camp is home now, but it won’t last.
The last few days become fool’s gold disguised as something real, and I was the fool too blind to see it for what it was: fake. A fairy-tale ending in a mere seventeen days.
“I know it’s last minute, but, J, I was wonderin’ if you’d want to give the welcomin’ speech at the gala? You know this town as well as anyone—the school.”
I look up at him, wondering if I’ve heard him wrong. The eager look on his face lets me know I heard him just fine.
As I scrub dog slobber and rice.
As my world crumbles around me.
Camp wants me to give a speech about the very thing I would like to burn to the fucking ground.
I open my mouth, snap it shut.
Again.
And again.
Finally, my voice works. “I think Lyra should do it. It would mean more coming from a student. And she would have no problem gushing over the great Camp Cannon.” I look from him to her as I stand, soiled paper towels scooped in my hands, face hot. With a tight smile I add, “Be good practice for graduation.”
The boys stare at their plates, Camp nods slightly, and Lyra says in a soft voice, “Sure, Mom.”
Without saying another word, I carry the mess to the trash can, grab the keys to the minivan off the hook, and walk out the door.
I drive without direction or destination. I drive until I spot a vacant parking lot of a dilapidated gas station on the edge of town and park. Busted windows, a broken door, and overrun with weeds and garbage, it’s an actual representation of my life.
I park, then cry. I weep for every single thing that’s wrong in my life.
When my face is dry and throat raw, raindrops start to fall on the windshield with collective splats, like God knows I have more misery to purge.
I stare at them, trying to count every drop.
A blue light strobes through the rain and I squint to make out a police car parking next to me. Great . The door opens, closes, and a blurry blob makes its way toward me and taps at my window.
I wipe my eyes and roll it down.
“Ford?” I say with a slight laugh.
He returns the smile, surprised, no doubt expecting naked teens or a drug deal. “June.” He chuckles, popping open an umbrella over himself and the down window of the minivan. He looks at the empty passenger seat and into the empty back. “Didn’t expect to see you. The hell you doing out here?”
“Ah, you know, just your everyday desperate-housewife nervous breakdown in the middle of a storm.” Thunder rolls as if I planned it, and we both laugh. “I’m fine, just needed a break from . . . everything. Then the storm.”
He’s quiet, takes a breath, looks into the rain and shifts his weight.
“So, uh, how’s Camp?”
I snort a laugh. “That’s not who you want to ask about.”
He raises his eyebrows; I do the same, daring him to deny it.
A breath puffs out of him and the expression on his face lets me know I’ve read him like a book.
“I’ll help,” I tease, lowering my voice. “‘June, I’m wondering how Scotty is.’ To which I would respond, ‘Slightly insane and taking no prisoners, so figure out what it is you want before you try to crack that shell, or she’ll go full-blown Mike Tyson on your ass again.’”
He laughs softly, adjusting his grip on the umbrella as he rests his free hand on the holster of his gun. His gaze shifts down the rainy road. The lights from his car strobe against the side of the minivan, reflection bouncing off the side mirror and the million droplets around us.
“She hate me?” he asks, looking at the ground where puddles are forming around his black shoes.
I sigh, trying to answer that landmine of a question. “When Zeb died—the way he died—it broke her, Ford. You don’t come back from that easily. Hell, you took twenty years.” We exchange a look, and I think back to all those years ago, Scotty devastated, trying to make sense of it all. Blaming everyone. Especially Ford. “And Scotty is Scotty. You’ve been gone for a while”—the rain starts to fall harder—“which I’d love to hear about in less soggy circumstances. But she . . . if you want to talk to her, it’s going to take work. You have to decide. I’m her best friend, the closest thing to family she has in this world, and she barely talks to me about it. It’s just . . . messy.”
He grunts, nods, scrubs a hand on the angle of his scruff-covered jaw. “Everything okay with Camp?”
“Ha!” I bark out. “That’s . . . also messy.”
“Ah.” His phone rings, knowing look on his face as he slips it out of his pocket. He waves it toward me. “Gotta take this. Drive safe, June.”
I smile, roll up my window, and watch him hustle through the rain to his car.
Then, with only one place to go, I turn the windshield wipers on, cue up a podcast, and start the drive home.
THE PERFECT MOM PODCAST WITH ABBIGAIL BUCHANAN
EPISODE 212: Quieting the Noise in a Loud World with guest Erin Gaves
Abbigail: Alright, mamas, we have guest Erin Gaves in today, author of Shut the Hell Up! A Guide to Silencing the Noise in a World with Too Many Microphones . And, I can be honest, I’m as much excited as I am nervous to jump into it today. Welcome to the microphone, Erin. [Chuckles.]
Erin: Thanks so much for having me, Abbigail. I’ll apologize before we start, I mean no offense toward your mic.
[Both laugh.]
Abbigail: Okay, I’m ready for it. So, even though I’m one of the people with a microphone like you call out in your book, I actually agree so much with your messaging. Can you tell us a little bit about why you wrote this book?
Erin: Absolutely. I’ve always been pretty transparent with my journey, so I won’t shy away from the personal details here. My husband and I didn’t have a ton of money, but it was important to us that I stay home. So we budgeted, cash envelopes and all, [chuckles in understanding] and we made it work. I never had fancy things, but we had what we needed. We were so dang happy. Then, one day, it’s like social media just blew up. I didn’t know what was happening in my kids’ classrooms if I wasn’t in this online group or what the band schedule was at our favorite restaurant if I wasn’t following their page. So, I did what everyone did, I got online. I had accounts. I followed and shared. And while nothing changed at home—absolutely nothing—I suddenly felt extreme dissatisfaction in my life.
Abbigail: Mm. Can you give an example? I know we’ve all felt this, but I’d love to know your experience.
Erin: Oh gosh, of course. And I could give you a million, but the one that stands out to me the most was about a couch. We had this couch that was so comfortable. We saved and saved because I wanted a new couch, and we got it, it had these reclining ends and huge puffy cushions the kids were obsessed with. Anyway, I get this couch—chocolate brown—and we all love it, right? Then, the internet shows up. And this couch that I loved I suddenly think is hideous. Like, it’s dark and dated and not light and sleek. And I’m devastated. Like I go on and on and on about what a mistake it was. All because some stranger on the internet posted photos of a couch that I never would have thought about otherwise. I was literally influenced by strangers to hate what I had just loved. And that’s how it started for me: a stupid couch, and it just got worse from there. I’d take a vacation but was never quite as happy because people were taking other vacations. Better ones. Buying better cars. Educating their kids differently. Going on fancy date nights. I was influenced—repeatedly—to buy and do things that made others happy. Others that knew nothing about me. Others that I knew nothing about! I was basing my life choices off the choices of people that were total strangers.
Then, one night I listened to this podcast from a mom that never let her kids inside, and they never wore shoes unless they were going out in public. Cited facts on how kids used to be this way and how much happier they were. How much healthier. Summer was coming, and I thought, this all makes sense. This is what I’m going to do.
On the first day, it was fun—novel. I sat outside with them, read books. Ate watermelon. Made a fort. The whole bit. The next day was not great. An hour outside without shoes and we were all pretty miserable. But I kept going, because follow-through. Because studies and someone else was doing it and they were so happy. By the end of the second day, all three of my kids went to bed crying, one of them had ringworm, and I had a sunburn.
Abbigail: Oh no!
Erin: Right? So, I guess, all that to say, I tried to be someone I’m not. I like museums. I like libraries. I like AC and shoes. And seeing someone else do it differently made me feel like I was doing something wrong. Like I had a problem I didn’t even know I was having. I got defensive, felt inadequate, and tried to fit in a box that wasn’t me-sized. But with all the noise, it’s so easy to forget that there’s more than one way to do just about anything. There’s no one way to have a happy life.
I wring my hands around the steering wheel, instantly irritated.
I cannot relate .
My decisions have never been rash. Influenced. I’ve had problems, and podcasts show up with solutions. They don’t make the problems. I’m not manufacturing any of this.
Abbigail: I’m sure I am not alone in my confession here, but, been there. [Groans in embarrassment.] Like, so many times. Now the question I’ve been dreading but I want to just rip the Band-Aid off . . . why don’t you share your thoughts on podcasts?
Erin: [Exaggerated sigh followed by a laugh.] I promise it’s not that bad. I actually like podcasts.
I smile, validated. “See!” I say to the empty minivan.
Erin: BUT! I think they need to come with the same label as, say, a bottle of vodka: Please listen responsibly. [Chuckles.] Because, yes, a lot of the people we listen to on podcasts are often experts—therapists, counselors, doctors, you know, whatever—but they aren’t experts on us , on our unique situations. If you’re having marriage issues, and someone on a podcast gives a blanketed piece of advice, like, say, “If you’re always arguing, go on more dates.” Something like that. Well, what if your spouse has a problem with drinking or pornography or is abusive—going on more dates isn’t the answer there, right? Or, what if it’s not so severe, what if the suggestion is go on more dates, but you are going through financial hardships and literally can’t afford more dates. All of the sudden you might think there’s no saving your marriage because you can’t afford the solution.
Abbigail: So context matters?
Erin: Context absolutely matters. You can apply this to every scenario. Parenting techniques. Dieting. Clothing. Gosh, even back to the stupid couch, right? The post I saw that said this was the couch to have was a single woman with no kids and a ton of money, yet I completely disregarded those details. I just thought: If she has that couch, her house looks like that, and she’s so happy, I need that couch. Nothing else mattered. And it’s not just one person, it’s millions. Everyone has a platform.
Abbigail: And a microphone.
Erin: [Chuckles.] And a microphone.
Abbigail: So, what do we do? How do we combat all the noise?
Erin: Yeah, so that’s tricky, right? It’s the modern world, technology is here to stay. I can’t tell the future, of course, but I can’t imagine social media shrinking away either. So the most obvious choice is to unplug, but that’s not always realistic. I would just say, for every feed we scroll, every expert we listen to, every time we compare what someone else has to what we don’t, observe what’s happening. Why do we care? Are we really that unhappy? Do we really need more advice or do we just, you know, need to have a real conversation and listen to our gut? [Pause.] A lot of us already have the people that matter most—who know us best—willing to help and listen, but we ignore them . . . I’ll make it simple. When we want to read a book, we look at reviews—often there are thousands of them—from perfect strangers. We don’t know them, they don’t know us, but we let them dictate what we are going to read. Why? Why do we care so much about what books people we don’t know read versus the people that know us best?
I slam my hand against the power knob, silencing Erin. I scoff. Smack the steering wheel. Scoff again. Because, where does she get off? Like—what does she even know about anything? She’s probably just jealous because she’s not an expert! Looking for a quick buck so she can buy that stupid couch!
I listen to the people around me. Do I listen to the people around me?
I think of Scotty and I on the couch of Happy Endings as I bitch and moan and she tries to help. Think of Mave and her damn cookies, telling me how I’ve been reading Camp all wrong.
I blow out a heavy breath, roll the window down, and let the cool air and raindrops fly into the opening and slap my skin doing nothing to ease the tension that’s seized my entire body. I can’t explain it. How defensive I am from the podcast. How stripped bare. It’s as though every word spoken was for the sole purpose to attack me.
What’s worse, I can’t shake the feeling that, even though things weren’t perfect between me and Camp, even though I was drowning in the monotony of my life, maybe I messed everything up. Went about the solution entirely wrong. Acted without context.
When I get home, the house is dark and quiet, and when I join Camp in bed that night, it’s without touching him, without talking to him, and without trusting a single thought I have.