Chapter 14
Fourteen
shambolic (adj.): obviously disorganized or confused
Carly
“Lord, send help,” I whisper into my rearview mirror.
There’s an angry red dent in my forehead where I’ve been resting it against the steering wheel here in the farthest corner of the Macy’s parking lot for the last who-knows-how-long.
I’m hot and I’m sticky. Not that I terribly mind a little extra dewiness. But just rain, already!
What I mind, after sitting through a two-hour meeting with my publishing team in which I not only didn’t push back on any aspect of their proposed book tour as I’d planned but I feigned enthusiasm .
. . what I mind is feeling as if I capsized my own ship in a brackish swamp.
Overdramatic, I realize, but here we are.
What compels me to always be so agreeable? It’s a millstone, I tell you. A curse. I’ve no one to blame but myself.
My phone buzzes on the seat next to me. I stare at it dully. That’s bound to be my Yvonne, champing at the bit to hammer out travel details. When I finally flip it over on the last ring, it feels like a million pounds in my hand.
Except it’s not Yvonne. I sit up straighter. Filling my screen is Lucy’s darling face.
Trouble is, we just spoke the other day. Something’s wrong. But when I rush to accept the call, her tone is blithe. The best medicine for what ails me!
“Is this a bad time?” My shoulders relax. “I’ve got a few minutes before I have to pick up the kiddos.”
“No, no, not at all, honey, not at all.” Here’s what is truly ludicrous. No matter how many ways we assure our grown children that we’d rather hear their voice than anything in all the world, they see themselves as an interruption.
Although, why wouldn’t they assume such a thing if they grew up with a too-busy mother? It’s nauseating. I can’t think about it.
“I was just . . . hang on a sec,” I say, gathering my handbag off the passenger seat.
As soon as I’m safely across the parking lot and inside Macy’s, I continue.
“As a matter of fact, I was just birthday shopping for a certain dapper young man turning nine. Everything okay out there? Do I hear wind?”
“Yeah, I’m sitting outside the library watching the leaves swirl. But Mom, you’re nuts! You’ve already done plenty. You don’t need to—”
“I may not need to, but I get to. I know how much Chase likes his polo shirts, and—”
“He literally wears them out.”
“So then let me have a little fun dressing that boy in some new colors. I’m his Mimi! And is he still into Star Trek?”
“I promise you, he will never not be into Star Trek. Alright, you win, but I strongly suggest sticking with shades of blue. And you know his fabric requirements, right?”
“Yes, I know.”
Lucy says, “You know that creepy feeling when there’s some tiny, scratchy thread inside your bra, except that it’s invisible, and you can’t find it?”
“That’s the worst.”
“Just happened to me today. I figure for Chase it’s like that.”
“And how is my favorite Trekkie?”
At my daughter’s soft chuckle, the last vestiges of my earlier pity party melt away. “He’s great. Probably still coming down to earth after his class field trip exploring a ginormous underground cave south of here.”
“How exciting! I don’t suppose you got to go along? That would be a fun one.”
“No, Mom. I had to work. In fact, that’s what I called about. Something . . . work-related.”
“Oh, shucks. Well, I understand how it is. I missed so many of yours and Vanessa’s.”
A beat of silence hangs between us.
I clear my throat. “You say you called about work?”
“You’ll never guess what I’ve been up to.” Her voice ticks up, as if she’s got a pocketful of good news.
“Should I try?”
“I’m just saying, you might want to dust off your attagirl, Lucys. That is, if you still have a stash of them hidden somewhere.”
“Oooh! Something . . . daring?”
“Mmm, not quite running-with-scissors daring. But Lucy Montgomery daring?”
And to think, she called me! That all-is-right-with-my-world feeling settles over me, in spite of the arctic-level air conditioning in this overly illuminated department store and the wide-eyed looks of recognition I just got from a pair of shoppers.
After launching into an adorable mandate not to say “I told you so,” Lucy spills the news that she attended a meeting of the newly formed Sweet Reads Writing Society. Color me tickled! And there’s more.
“And what did old sourpuss Lou Grant have to say about that piece you were writing? The one about the bike deputy?” I ask while circling the shining white-tiled main aisle of Macy’s for what may be the third time.
Lucy lowers her voice to a rumble and snarls, “‘You buried the lede, Montgomery!’”
“Ha! I don’t even know what that means.”
While she explains, my mind scrambles for an example—something, anything, that recently took me outside my comfort zone.
I’m compelled to match her glowing report with something of my own.
Not in a competitive way, but in a mother-daughter bonding way.
All I can come up with is the fact that I finally ordered new pajamas.
“Send us a copy?” I say.
“You guys can just read it online next week.”
“Oh, Dad and I would still like our own copy.” Goodness! Who feeds our kids the bum steer that their parents’ emotional investment in their highs and lows somehow ends the moment they become legal adults?
“Anyway, I don’t know exactly what God is up to, but it feels like I’m being shoved rather violently out of my comfort zone. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but today was a good day.”
“Well, he has certainly provided you with a long and necessary season of rest and recovery, sweetie. There’s no shame in that.”
“Safe to say, he’s decided I’m done resting. I think he’s leading me out. Oh, hey, by the way, about the lieutenant . . .”
My ears perk.
“This is going to sound random, but by any chance do you remember my seventh-grade spelling bee?”
“Of course. I still have your trophy somewhere.”
“You don’t!”
“Oh, I definitely do.”
“Anyway, small world. Lieutenant Hayes was my competition. I mean, he’s not a boy now, of course. I mean, he went to Judson Middle School, and—”
“Get. Out! I know exactly who he is, honey. I was friends with his mom, Dora. In fact, for a while we kept in touch after they moved. Sweet woman. Shame I lost track of her.”
“I can tell you she lives somewhere near Charity Falls now.”
“Seriously? I would adore a chance to reconnect sometime.”
A question percolates, but I hate to risk the easy rapport we’re enjoying. Unfortunately, my mouth has a mind of its own. “Think you’ll go back to the writing group?”
“We’ll see.”
After a moment, I gently say, “May I ask what’s holding you back?”
“Well, for one thing, I need to work on my why.”
“You mean like, why go?”
“No, like why do I even want to write this book? Ian challenged us to get specific about who we’re writing to and why.”
“Ahh. This Ian fellow makes a good point.” It also seems within the realm of possibility that he and Lucy could be compatible.
Stop right there, mama bear. This is a listening moment.
Unless of course, Lucy asks for advice. “Well,” I say, opening my mouth to tell my daughter how happy it would make me to see her socializing more often but then remembering that this is not about me.
Instead, I choose my next words carefully.
“I’m proud of you for getting out more.”
“It’s not my fault that I like staying home, Mom. I’m an inside kitty.” Lucy’s tone is lighthearted, so I smile through the phone. “Anyway, what about you, Mom? Did your pink notebook ever turn up?”
Yes, hmm, what about me? Somehow, while aimlessly strolling this department store, I landed in front of the Sunglass Hut kiosk.
Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind owning a larger pair of shades if it means I could mosey through my errands more often without being recognized. Or dodge my daughter’s question.
Or my very recent life choices.
Just for a day or ten, wouldn’t it be neato to be incognito?
Hey, that’s pretty clever wordplay. And you know who would appreciate it? Lucy.
I open my mouth to share it with her. But no. I need to resist this tendency I have to fritter away opportunities for meaningful introspection the moment they stop being fun. Surprisingly, what comes out instead is a truth bomb I’ve been needing to own.
“No. It’s gone, and I’m back at square one,” I say, slipping on a pair of oversized square tortoiseshell frames. Which does nothing to ease the sting.
Instead, confronted by my reflection in the dinky mirror provided, I’m gobsmacked by a revelation.
I slip off the glasses, search the deeply creased eyes looking back at me. “You know, honey, y’all might just be onto something.”
Because what I see there is a burnout. A woman who couldn’t even tell you on which side of the earth the sun comes up.
I see a shaft of golden wheat, sown by the Master Gardener and destined for the glorious harvest in the great by-and-by, being choked out by the enemy’s weeds here in the messy meanwhile.
I see a woman who is, at best, on autopilot. At worst, a performing monkey.
A woman who has lost her first love.
“How so?” Lucy asks. “And did you seriously just y’all me?”
The chuckle I offer is half-hearted. Because clearly my whole heart needs serious attention.
“I think, Lucy . . . I think maybe I need to figure out my why and my who, as well.” Out of the mouths of babes, as they say.
What they don’t tell you is that there will come a day when it’s your own flesh and blood, cultivated by God from infancy to womanhood, circling back to drop a divine word on you.
A warm electrical current pulses through me. Then I feel as if I’m wrapped in a consoling hug. And the beginnings of a confident assurance that has nothing to do with these adorable sunglasses.
Ready or not, this is a holy awakening.
I’m ready.
Won’t Roger be proud?
“Hey, honey, what do you say we commit to pray for each other?”
Lucy’s voice drops an octave and turns thick. “It would be my honor to pray for you, Mama.”
“And if you need permission, here it is. Buy yourself a new bra.”
She laughs a little.
“Need me to order—”
“Mom, no. I got it.” She laughs again. Then she says, “Love you.”
Ending the call feels like a physical parting.
Oh, Father God in heaven, I bet you find us amusing. Two lost sheep, each praying the other finds their way.
I stare absently at the dark glasses in my hand.
Oh, Lucy. You poor girl. Your mom is a lot.
I carefully replace the glasses. Wander in search of the down escalator. Next stop, children’s clothing. After that, who knows?
A cloud of fragrance slows my steps. Notes of gardenia make Mother’s presence tangible. What words would she have for me?
“Here for a glow-up?” The feminine voice coming from above and behind me borders on angelic.
I have to tilt my head to meet the eyes of the lithe young redhead attached to the voice.
Backlit and breathtaking in a sleeveless suit in the soft salmon color of my mother’s favorite dahlia bush, which by the way fits her like a dream, is a woman with arms sculpted by Rodin. She smiles at me hopefully.
“Beg your pardon?”
“I’m sorry, I just assumed . . . we’re offering a special on this treatment.” Kendra (her name tag reveals) gestures to a gold-framed poster. “It’s our most popular serum.”
Do I look like I need more glow? For a sliver of a moment I very much want what this woman possesses. Preferably before I fly out for the conference in Baltimore. I’ve never had a beauty treatment in my life. And yet . . .
Lucy’s making progress learning to say yes.
It’s time I practice saying no.
“Oh, bless you, Kendra. Another time, perhaps.”
The kind of glow-up I’m in need of will have to begin on the inside.