Chapter Two
Anthony
She has to be from Iowa, doesn’t she? Of all the civilized places in the world my mom could have come from, she was born and raised in Iowa.
I wedge my best shoes into a corner of my largest suitcase, careful not to bend the soles. What’s even in Iowa besides corn and pigs? My lip curls at the thought, and I toss an extra canister of my favorite Axe body spray into the fray of all that needs to be neatly packed.
How long will I be gone? How will I represent my clients from the God-forsaken fields of the Midwest?
I still my rampaging thoughts when my phone rings. It’s Gregory McDuff. My boss. The man about to hand me a promotion that would make me his equal, his partner. The man willing to change the name of his business to “McDuff and Lucio.” The man who can make the dream I have doggedly pursued for ten long years—reality.
“Hey, Greg.”
His warm voice spills over the line, wishing me safe travels, yada yada. I don’t need well wishes. I need reassurance that my years of work haven’t been in vain.
“I gave the Donnelson case to Ralph.”
The words are a death knell to my heart. Greg as good as promised me the promotion to senior lawyer if I did my best work for the Donnelsons. Wealthy investors, they’re being sued by a disgruntled former employee. They pay well, and they expect the best. I was ready to give them that.
Oh, Mom. I can’t ignore her for this. Not when I’ve ignored her for everything else in life. I’ll never forgive myself if—my throat thickens, and I pause to clear it. If she doesn’t recover, and I wasn’t there.
Promotion or no promotion, I’m flying to Iowa at six in the morning tomorrow. I’ve spent most of the day communicating with clients and pushing back court dates, requesting other junior lawyers to represent in court while I’m gone, and in general wreaking havoc in my professional life.
That Charlotte Alden sure turned my life upside down with her phone call yesterday. It feels like it was days ago already. Better her than Aunt Doris, though. I’ll have to deal with my mom’s older sister soon enough. As in, tomorrow.
I grit my teeth and speak into the phone, “I really wanted that case, but I understand. They need representation now. Clearly I’m unavailable for that level of work when I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
In Iowa.
I want to whine and pound my head against the wall.
Greg’s voice pulls me from my pity party. “I consider these extenuating circumstances, Anthony. Don’t despair about your promotion yet. We have other cases in our future.”
Yes, but I need that promotion now. I’m not getting any younger, and it’s time to settle down. But not before I secure my future.
“Thanks for understanding,” I force the words from my mouth the same way I used to choke down oatmeal as a kid. “I’ll keep in close contact.”
“Please do. Take care of yourself, son.” The word burns a hole straight through me. I miss my dad. Greg is old enough to be my dad. But he’s not. My mom is my only living immediate family member. I have to do this for her. No matter the cost.
The next morning I find myself in Atlanta’s sprawling airport at five in the morning. It’s packed already, and the security line is crawling. My flight leaves at 6:15.
I jiggle my leg impatiently. A woman ahead of me in line bounces a baby on her hip. The baby promptly releases a mouthful of white curdled substance on the woman’s shoulder. I gag, cover my mouth, and look away.
Please, oh please, don’t let them be on my flight.
I don’t believe in jinxing. But when the same woman and baby sit down beside me in the gate area, I get a sinking feeling—and a sour whiff.
Ugh. How do parents do it?
I fake a cough and dig up a Kleenex to cover my nose, keeping it there longer than anyone needs in order to blow a nose. When first-class boarding is announced, I shoot out of my seat and powerwalk toward the gate attendant. I’m second in line, leaving barfy baby and mom behind.
Whew. In the clear.
I sink into my roomy, cushy seat and close my eyes. Maybe I’ll get a little shut-eye on this flight. Of course there wasn’t a direct to Des Moines available on such short notice. I get to take a detour to Minneapolis before I catch my final leg to the fine capital of Iowa.
Yay, me.
My nose twitches at an unfortunately familiar scent, and my eyelids launch open.
No. It can’t be. But it is.
I want to cry as barfy baby and his mom take the first-class seat across from me. Instead, it’s barfy baby who lets out a cry—and continues to cry for the duration of the flight. By the time we land in Minneapolis two hours and forty minutes later—I counted each minute, so I know this is accurate—any initial compassion for the frazzled mother has been firmly trampled by my raging headache. How is the tiny tot still alive after releasing so much liquid in tear form?
I don’t even realize I’m glaring at the infant when I stand and retrieve my carry-on until the young woman hunches her shoulders, avoiding eye contact. “I’m so sorry.”
I open my mouth to say it’s fine. It wasn’t fine. It was a nightmare.
But I’m not a monster. Not always, at least. “Better luck next time,” I grunt and scoot down the aisle before I have to look into her teary eyes again.
Crying women and their crying children aren’t my forte. Maybe I need to rethink the whole settling down idea.
I grab my third coffee of the day from a barista at Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport, then sit down with a breakfast sandwich. I don’t usually eat something this heavy for breakfast, but after the vocals on that flight, I need sustenance.
The flight to Des Moines is blessedly short and quiet. A brief period of turbulence, but I’ll take that any day over cranky children.
We touch down in Des Moines, and I make my way to baggage claim, then follow signs to the car rental area. I hesitate when asked how long I’ll need the car. I say three weeks. I can return the car earlier if my mom recovers quickly—or doesn’t recover.
I push the thought away. “If I need it longer, can I call and extend my contract?”
The woman is kind and friendly. I appreciate that she doesn’t seem bothered by all of my questions. I’m used to a more brusque way in Atlanta.
My large suitcase makes the back of the latest model Ford Mustang I’ve chosen sink down when I heave it into the trunk. I drive a classy Mercedes at home, but I figure if I’m stuck in farm country, I might as well have a fun ride.
I slide behind the wheel and adjust the seat and mirrors. My parents’ DNA stiffed me in the height department. I’ve let my whip-smart brain compensate for what I lack in inches. But still. It’d be nice not to look over or up at half of the women in the law office. Especially when they wear towering high heels. Sometimes I feel like a bug about to be squashed by feminine footwear. Thus far, I’ve managed to live unscathed. Death by stilettos is not my choice of a way to go.
I plug my mom’s address into the GPS, knowing it by heart. 6815 Rodeo Road, Red Rock Place, Iowa. Yeehaw.
Des Moines is a sizeable city, and I find myself stuck in traffic outside the airport, though on a much lesser scale than what I deal with on my daily commute in Atlanta. I’m comfortable here. I feel okay. But when the state highway quickly leads me south out of the city, and buildings become less frequent with greater and larger stretches of land—and fields—and crops—in between, I start to have heart palpitations.
Why couldn’t my mom have stayed in Atlanta when Dad passed?
I follow the road for never-ending miles until I’m surrounded on either side by nothing but flat fields, whatever is planted in the soil a vibrant green rippling in the gusty wind that keeps trying to tear my car from the pavement. The leaves of the plants shine as they wave, and the fields look like they are rolling, almost like a green, growing ocean.
I pass a barn, and a smell assaults my nose through the vents, overpowering all other senses. I gag again and decide my stomach is a weakling. If I don’t man up in these parts, I’m not going to survive.
At long last—really, it’s only thirty miles later—I see a cluster of buildings on the horizon.
Civilizatiooooon! I am overly excited at the prospect of seeing other humankind. I’ve seen enough plants and cows for a lifetime on this journey already. The last town was at least ten miles behind me, and it wasn’t much to speak of. I know from my mother’s newsy letters that Red Rock Place is more than a blip on the map. How much more, I’m about to find out.
The only people I’ve seen in between the small towns along the route were the ones who passed me on the other side of the road. Even an overalls-clad, hat-wearing farmer on a tractor putzing along at approximately fifteen miles per hour. Is it legal to drive those on the roads here? Madness. And yet, every single person who has seen me on the road lifted a hand from the steering wheel in greeting. Weird.
The first thing I see as I tap the brakes when I pass the town limits sign for Red Rock Place is a large warehouse on the right. One side sports large, painted letters: Ringgold Tractor Parts Manufacturing.
There you have it. Red Rock Place is an industrial hub. I slap my knee along with a chortle. Boy. I crack myself up. Shoulda’ been a comedian. Sounds less stressful than law.
I pass a church and a cemetery, then a store of sorts on the left. Hy-Vee. Sounds like a contagious virus.
A blinking red light alerts me to a stop, and I take advantage of the wait to pop the address of my mom’s care center into the GPS. I’ve decided to see her first before I settle in with Aunt Doris. The GPS prompts me to take a left at the intersection. I pass a cluster of businesses. Humane society. Thrift store. Another church.
These people must take religion to the next level.
A right turn has me driving in an unknown direction on Circus Street, the illustrious location of my mother’s nursing home. I’m so disoriented at this point, I’m not sure if I’m driving north or south, east or west as I creep past more small-town businesses.
A sigh of relief travels through me as I pull into the small parking lot in front of a single-level brick building with a wheel-chair accessible walkway leading to the front door. I check in at the desk, and everyone I encounter is over-the-top friendly.
“Oh, Camila is just a doll,” a scrubs-wearing lady sings as she leads me down the hallways. My feet come to a silent, sudden halt at the foot of the rolling medical bed inside the room the nurse indicates. The occupant is my mom. I saw her six months ago at Christmas. But this is a shell of the woman I know.
“Mom.” My voice is hoarse as it cracks my lips open. She doesn’t blink. Can she blink? But her eyes move ever-so-slowly until they make contact with mine. My heart beats within me, heavy. Hard. Hurting.
Why haven’t I visited before?
“Mom,” I repeat, moving to the side of the bed and picking up her limp hand. I almost jump out of my skin when a gentle squeeze presses against my fingers. My gaze jerks back to her face. Nothing has changed. No movement to her lips to indicate a smile of recognition. And yet, I see it in her eyes.
Camila Lucio always smiled with her eyes. That’s what Dad told me. That’s why he fell in love, he said.
I don’t stay long. I can’t handle the emotions slugging me in the chest. I can’t breathe in this place. With a promise to return once I settle in, I escape the care center. Once the door closes behind me with its offending smells, I take a gasping breath of fresh air
Big mistake. I’ve forgotten I’m in Iowa. The smells outside are far worse than the ones inside the elder care home. What is that smell? I want to pinch my nose with my fingers like some big-city sissy. Instead, I push my shoulders back, stride to my sleek rental, and climb inside.
Aunt Doris, here I come.
I cross another state route with signs for Lake Red Rock and pass clusters of houses. My GPS doesn’t advise me to stop until I reach the very last house before the road disappears into the Iowa countryside.
Figures Aunt Doris owns the last house in town.
I haven’t popped the trunk before I hear her scratchy voice from the wraparound porch that graces the front of the small blue two-story house.
“Well, if my eyes don’t deceive me, I do believe the prodigal has come home.”
I ignore her until I have both bags in hand and am trudging wearily toward the house. Is this really where I’ll be staying for the duration of my visit to Iowa?
“First of all, Aunt Doris, I’m not a prodigal. Second, Iowa was never my home. And third, is that really the best greeting you have for the nephew you haven’t seen in fifteen years?”
I’m not expecting her frail arms to snap out and wrap around me like octopus tentacles, nor am I ready for her thin, twig-like figure to feel like a rod of steel against me. She’s stronger than she looks.
“Welcome home, Anthony.” She gives a squeeze tight enough to make all the air whoosh from my lungs. I thought the smells of this place might be the death of me. Looks like it’ll be my aunt. “Come inside, ungrateful wretch. I have food for you.”
Yep. It’ll be Aunt Doris. She chatters the whole time she slops things onto my plate. I don’t know what any of it is, but it smells edible, and I am hungry. I eat it all without asking questions. She’s still talking when I finish and politely wash my plate.
“Are you sure you have room for me here?” I ask when she pauses for a breath. “Surely there’s a hotel in Red Rock Place where I can stay and be out of your hair.”
“Out of my hair!” Speaking of hair, hers is almost standing straight up, and her cheeks are tinged red with anger. “Boy, you’ve hardly stepped foot in my house, and you’re already looking to leave?” A large serving spoon is waving wildly in her grip, and I hold out my hands in a beseeching motion.
“Never mind, never mind. This is a lovely home. I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable here. You have internet, right?”
Her face scrunches up. “Interwhat?” She pushes glasses up her nose that were in dire danger of falling off her face. “Oh, the interstate? What do you need that for? I mean, sure, we have Interstate 80, but it’s clear over there to the north. Where you trying to go, leave the state already?”
Lord…have mercy. I’m not the praying type. Oh, I’ve tried. Tried and failed and given up. But desperate times and all that. My prayer is a desperate measure just now.
“I’m not going anywhere. Simply looking for internet for my computer. So I can work my cases remotely.”
“Oh, that.” She waves my words away. “Why didn’t you say so? But you won’t find that internice or whatever it is here.”
My stomach sinks. The headache that’s been simmering for the past few hours explodes behind my temples. Internet is vital for my work. “I don’t suppose there’s an internet café in town?”
She blinks at me blankly. “No idea what that might be. But our neighbor Lottie has that Wi-Fi stuff. Does that work just as well?”
I want to throw my head against the peeling wallpaper on the wall. Great. Another elderly woman to deal with. Exactly what I need. How am I going to last three weeks in this town?
I unpack in the small guest bedroom Aunt Doris shows me on the second level, check in with Greg, then go back to the care home. My mom is asleep, and I sit at her bedside for as long as I can stand. I thought she would have improved more by now. If her recovery will only take three weeks, shouldn’t she be moving more? Trying to talk? Eating?
What if she doesn’t recover? What then? How can I go back to life in Atlanta if my mom isn’t able to live on her own in Iowa? What if my stay here gets prolonged?
I need to work. It’s the only thing that will distract me from all these worries clawing their way up my throat, straight from my racing heart. At Aunt Doris’s house, I throw my Mustang into park and make a straight line into the next yard. Please, whoever this Lottie is, let her be more reasonable and less talkative than my aunt. All I need is a Wi-Fi password. Done and gone.
I approach the neighboring house and stop. A woman is perched on the top of a tall folding ladder. Not an elderly woman. A petite woman who looks a few years younger than me with choppy strawberry blond hair. She’s reaching above her head, hand in the gutter.
“And…gotcha!” She lifts a fistful of soggy leaves like a prized medal. Releasing them into the air, she turns in victory—as the wet leaves land on my face with a splat.