Chapter 2
two
AMANTHA
Two months later, I dodged Chicago foot traffic on the snowy sidewalk.
“Not again,” I groaned.
Besides the fact that “Amanda” had been scrawled across my cup for what felt like the ninety-millionth time, they also got my order wrong.
I wondered what it would be like to be a woman who could correct the barista and ask them to remake her drink.
I bet a woman like that probably went to spin class every Thursday and didn’t have enough dry shampoo in her hair to be considered a walking fire hazard.
I made a mental note to keep away from any open flame.
The steaming cup warmed my hands in the chilly air. I took another tentative sip and tried not to gag at how bitter it was.
I recalled my parents trying to explain their decision after I got teased for my name in the third grade.
We all sat on our peeling porch swing as Mom said in her thick, midwestern accent, “We named you Amantha because it is the most elegant name I’ve ever heard.
It’s beautiful, just like you, sweetie. Isn’t that right, Frank? ”
“Sure, Sweetums. That’s right.”
I suspected that Mom could have named me something crazy and Dad wouldn’t have batted an eye.
Happy wife, happy life, and all that. My dad was a simple and serious man, but he had a soft heart.
As far as I could tell, he cared about three things: Mom, me, and his beloved Minnesota Vikings football team.
That late summer day, Dad’s brown hair had dripped with sweat beneath his Vikings’ ball cap as he leveled his gaze with mine.
“Now you listen to me, Squeaks. A name is just a name. But who you are? Now that’s the good stuff.
” Then Dad ruffled my hair and tickled me till I laughed through my tears.
“Tough as nails, Squeaks, ever since you were born. Barely enough strength to grasp my finger, but man alive, you’d squawk and squeak till you got your way.
” His calloused thumb brushed away my tears. “Now, what are you, Squeaks?”
I recited the expected response. “Tough as nails, Daddy.”
“That’s my girl.”
A blaring taxi jolted me back to reality, and I took another caffeinated sip of the wrong name. The winter wind chapped my cheek, so I pulled my scarf further up over my chin and caught sight of my watch.
Crap.
Running the rest of the way while dodging sheets of ice, I flung open the frosted glass door to Thatcher and Brown Therapy.
I tried to ignore my twisting anxiety as I panted my apologies to the receptionist for being late.
Plopping into a chair, I unwound my scarf and stuffed it unceremoniously into my bag.
“Samantha?” A woman poked her head through the door. “Your therapist will see you now.”
While it felt like the universe was out to get me, I smiled at her anyway. It wasn’t the receptionist’s fault I had a weird name.
Trailing the woman down the hallway, I felt like I was walking onto a stage, buck-naked. Vulnerability wasn’t my strong suit—it felt more like my birthday suit.
Even though I’d been seeing Linda Brown since Ryan ruined my life two months ago, I still dreaded these weekly sessions. Ironic, since I willingly subjected myself to the torture and paid the co-payment. How much of a masochist was I?
Regardless, my life was hanging by a thread, and it was starting to fray.
“Come in, Amantha. It’s good to see you!”
Today, Linda’s billowing pants were patterned with maroon paisley, and her loose, cream button-up contrasted beautifully with her ebony skin. Streaks of gray peppered her black hair.
“Thank you. Sorry I’m late,” I mumbled and plopped down on the comfortable couch. “I couldn’t find parking nearby, so I had quite a walk.”
“It’s alright. How are you today?”
Ah, the niceties. The calm before the storm. The pleasantries before the proverbial full-body cavity search.
I found it funny that I always responded with “Fine” or “Great,” before proving why I was, in fact, neither of those things.
“I’m great.”
“That’s good to hear. So, let’s check in with you. How are you handling everything?”
I blew out a long breath, not knowing where to start. Not wanting to start. Everything felt easier to ignore. After all, grief and loss didn’t sting as badly if they were left alone in their hive. Poking the wasp nest seemed like a very stupid idea.
“I know these last few months have been hard for you,” Linda said.
Understatement.
I would have rolled my eyes if they hadn’t been smarting with tears.
I bit down on my lip, swallowing the sob threatening to ruin my composure.
The last few months had been a train wreck.
I had been a train wreck. The divorce was nowhere near settled, though it seemed like Vanessa had settled—into Ryan’s city apartment.
“It’s alright if you’d rather not discuss it today,” Linda said. “Let’s start with a different question. Amantha, who are you?”
My brows furrowed. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Who are you?”
“Um…”
It’s not like we haven’t met before, Linda.
“I’m a mother? A daughter? A wife?” I winced. “Was a wife.”
“Those only speak of your relations to others. Dig deeper. Who are you, Amantha?”
Panic sped my pulse. Surely I should know this answer. I racked my brain for any semblance of the woman I once was. Nothing seemed to fit anymore—like half the jeans in my closet.
“I don’t know.” My throat tightened. “I’m not sure.”
Sympathy settled in the lines framing Linda’s hazel eyes. “Have you lost yourself?”
A lump continued to swell in my throat. Where had I gone?
“Yes,” I whispered, ashamed and embarrassed all over again. How much had Ryan taken from me? How much had I willingly given?
“Well then, it’s time to find yourself. Life happens. We change, we grow, and sometimes lose sight of ourselves in the process. It’s completely natural, but it can feel painful and unsettling at times. Let’s go back to your roots.”
Finally, something easy.
I gulped down air like I’d been underwater. The rest of the session passed as I recounted the happiest memories I could remember.
Most Saturday afternoons growing up, rain or shine, Mom and I had explored our local flea markets. Mom was obsessed with anything from the Victorian era, so we scavenged as many pieces we could find to fill our humble home.
Those afternoons felt sacred. They provided time to reconnect and tell Mom all about my meager social life. But above all, my favorite part of the markets had been the art.
I loved art. No, I breathed art. I could stand stock-still for hours, losing myself in those dusty white tents. Paintings spoke through cadenced voices of history and beauty. Brushstrokes held emotions. Pencil scratches told stories.
It always amazed me how something as simple as a medium on canvas could emote so much. Chartreuse, burnt sienna, midnight blue—the colors swirled and pulsed until I was sure they were breathing.
I recounted seeing my favorite painting for the first time at the ripe young age of sixteen. It had been love at first sight. A vibrant hummingbird took flight amidst a full spectrum of color. Fragile, yet powerful.
“Then what happened?” Linda asked, jotting down a few more notes. “What did those experiences lead you to?”
That very next weekend, I had rushed back to the beautiful hummingbird painting.
Relief washed over me when I found it still there.
Mom chased after me into the white canvas tent and gawked at the price tag.
There was no way my parents could afford such an expensive piece.
After conversing with the vendor, Mom paid a down payment to hold the painting. I was responsible for the other half.
I had never worked so hard as I did that summer. I bagged groceries and returned carts at the local grocery store. I walked dogs, even Mrs. Spencer’s mangy old schnauzer with the lazy eye. In September, the vendor placed the precious painting into my hands.
That same painting hung above my bed until I graduated high school. Afterward, I took the painting and an art history scholarship to Chicago, Illinois. My Master of Fine Arts in Criticism and Curatorial Practice then set me on a path to be the best art curator the world had ever seen.
Linda’s pen flew across her notepad. “So, what do these events tell you about yourself?”
I chewed the inside of my cheek, giving my lip a break. “I suppose I’m hardworking? I love my family? I love art?”
A twinge of sadness accompanied my question-like statements. I hadn’t so much as stepped foot inside a museum since Anthony was born.
Anthony.
The vivacious, spunky, joy of my life had become my entire world, and I had sacrificed mine.
“What a wonderful start,” Linda said, her hazel eyes twinkling.
I slumped against the backrest of the couch, exhausted.
How were happy memories supposed to ease the ache still throbbing in my chest? How was the past supposed to prevent my nightly anxiety episodes as I lay alone, knowing Ryan wasn’t?
A soft alarm chimed, its melody irritatingly optimistic.
Linda smiled and said, “Alright, Amantha. What a wonderful session. For homework, I’d like you to continue our work to rediscover your identity. It’s also time you got a life apart from your child. Try something new. Find a hobby. Join a club. I’m looking forward to seeing you next week.”
That advice left a bitter taste in my mouth as I trudged through the exit. I ignored the wary glances of passersby as I muttered to myself.
“It’s time I got a life? I have a life, Linda. I’m on the PTA for goodness’ sake.” I threw my scarf around me, accidentally whipping myself in the eyeball. I cursed. Stalking toward the distant parking lot, I tried to breathe through the anxiety now gripping my chest.
“Of course I have a life.”
I sounded about as convincing as a lying toddler with a chocolate-smeared mouth.
“How original.” I huffed a white cloud in the frigid air, making a woman walking near me skitter away a few steps. “I’m just another thirty-something woman with an identity crisis.”
What was I supposed to do? Crochet myself a new identity? Was there a club for Unfortunate-Washed-Up-Moms at the YMCA?
An hour later, I shifted my van into park, idling in the snowy driveway of my suburban home. The quiet hum of the engine attempted to calm my nerves. I leaned against the headrest, letting the world go dark.
What had happened to me? When did I lose myself?
My phone’s vibrating ringtone danced across the passenger’s seat. My mother’s twinkling blue eyes grinned up from the contact photo. I picked it up and accepted the call.
“Hey Mom, what’s up?”
Ambulance sirens and stammering panic filled the speakers.
“Amantha? Sweetie, can you hear me? Dad’s had a heart attack.”
Blood sped through my veins as I weaved through traffic. I prayed to any deity that existed that I’d make it there in time. That Dad would make it.
A heart attack. Dad had been shoveling the latest heavy snowfall from his driveway three hours away from me. Through the living room window, Mom had seen him collapse, clutching his chest.
Tall, strong Dad… collapsed? I couldn’t picture it.
Wouldn’t picture it. He’d be fine.
Tough as nails.
“Dad’s stable at the moment, but he needs surgery. The paramedics took him to Silver Birch Hospital. The operating team is getting ready for him, and they say he’ll be in surgery for about four hours. Hurry, won’t you?”
You can’t leave me, Dad.
I willed the universe to deliver the message as I frantically searched for the freeway exit ramp.
Especially now, without Ryan. Anthony needs you. I’m your Squeaks. I’ll always need you.
As the hospital came into view, a wave of relief warred with a sense of foreboding. I dashed to the emergency room entrance, hanging up a call with Anthony’s school. He’d go to the neighbor’s house after school until I could get home.
“My dad came here for a heart attack and was taken to surgery,” I wheezed at the receptionist.
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Frank Adams. I’m his daughter, Amantha.”
“Okay, Samantha, he’s in surgery on the sixth floor. Take a right off the elevator.”
I was off and running.
Stay with me, Dad. I need you. Mom needs you.
The scent of an astringent cleanser burned my nose as the elevator doors revealed a waiting room. The faded waiting room chairs looked as though life itself were leached out of them.
Mom’s short, soft figure stood beside two towering doctors, one still wearing a surgical mask.
She wore no make-up, and her cropped blonde waves were in disarray.
Her small, wrinkled fingers spun her wedding ring the way she always did when she was nervous.
The other hand held something clutched to her cable knit sweater.
I stepped out of the elevator as a nurse crossed my path with a man in a wheelchair.
The cowlick in the back of his light brown hair sent a stutter through my hopeful heart.
But the nurse pushing the stranger continued around the corner and was gone.
I refocused on Mom, but something had changed in her expression.
A tightening of her mouth. Large, horrified eyes.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Mom shook her head in disbelief.
She took two steps away from the doctors as both of them seemed to reach instinctively toward her.
Her wild blue eyes found mine, and I saw the truth deep within them.
Whatever had been clutched to her chest fluttered out of her grasp.
A glimpse of gold and purple bounced once before settling onto the disinfected linoleum. Mom’s knees slumped to the floor beside it.
Dad’s Vikings ball cap.
And then, Mom was wailing.