Chapter 2
I live in a pre–Civil War mansion facing the Ohio River, just across from downtown Cincinnati and long ago divided into a duplex, which I’m now standing in front of, staring at the place as if I’ve never seen it before.
Or maybe it’s more like I’m afraid I’ll never see it again.
Like I think the mountains are going to swallow me up and never let me come back.
My neighbors, Bob and Nancy, are late-middle-aged former yuppies, very tidy and tailored even if a bit out of style.
Bob still turns up the collars of his golf shirts before climbing behind the wheel of his shiny red Corvette, as I’m sure he did back in the eighties, when I believe the cool guys called them polo shirts.
Nancy wears flowy, gauzy garments, large rings, and enormous sun hats.
They’re good neighbors who sent flowers and a casserole when they found out about my diagnosis, so I knocked on their door the other night and told them I’d be away for a while and made a point of apologizing in advance for the remodeling noise.
Nancy responded the following day by gifting me with a big straw sun hat to take on my trip.
As if I’d told her I was going to the beach.
But I’m grateful just the same because I’m supposed to shade my radiation area—which is pretty much my whole chest—from the sun for a while, so the ridiculously large brim will help.
And given that my scalp can be seen through my immeasurably short, currently brown hair, I suppose I should keep my head protected from sunburn, too.
Even more than the fedora, the floppy hat isn’t my usual style, but who’s gonna see me?
Right now I’m wearing a ball cap Sydney gave me, which looks far cuter on her than on me. Maybe because she has long, dark, spiraling locks that hang from the sides of the hat, making her look sporty and fun—and I don’t.
The home I share halves of with Bob and Nancy is pretty extravagant, mainly because of the location on historic Riverside Drive—classy digs for a news chick.
After moving to Cincinnati from rural Wisconsin after college, I decided to invest most of my parents’ life insurance money in the place, plus the proceeds from their hardware store.
The store was the kind of old-fashioned Main Street business that went the way of the dinosaur decades ago, and I’m pretty sure my father’s secret dream was for me to take it over.
But my parents both knew I was cut out for other things, and their early deaths only motivated me to leave my hometown a little sooner than I might have otherwise.
I like to think they’d be happy to know I have an extremely cool and desirable home—and it’s always increasing in value, too.
I love my place—the history, the view, the fact that I’m right in the middle of an urban area but have a lovely yard.
And Bob likes to mow, so that’s another Bob-and-Nancy perk.
It turns out I’m finding it a bit difficult to leave. For many reasons.
Like trusting the remodelers to do a good job when I can’t see how things are progressing, even if Kevin and Sydney are checking in.
Plus I love summer in the city! Free outdoor plays, concerts in parks, festivals, food trucks—these are all things I firmly expect not to find in the quirkily named town of Lost and Found, Kentucky.
And standing next to my car—which I’ve jammed with suitcases, my favorite pillow, and a few other personal items to keep me company—I’m struck all over again by how much I adore my house. I know I told Kevin I needed a change of scenery, but do I really?
Or maybe I just don’t want to go where I’m going. I took Kev up on the offer without really thinking it through, trying to be agreeable, trying to get on board—and admittedly liking the idea of finally getting the kitchen done—but what was I thinking?
When I hear a car door slam, I look up to find Sydney walking toward me on the brick-paved sidewalk. She came to see me off and get a key. “Sorry I’m late.” She offers up a small smile. “Jayden.” Her new beau.
“No worries,” I reply. Even if I’m a little bummed—I’d hoped we might sit on one of the park benches that face the city skyline and just chat awhile since I won’t see her for a couple of months. But it’s all right—she tends to get pretty swoony when there’s a new man in her life.
“You look sad,” she says, coming to stand next to me.
“I guess I am.” Then I confess more truth. “I feel a little ... banished or something. Sent away until it’s convenient for me to come back.”
“I don’t think Kevin meant to banish you.” She shrugs. “He just offered you a place to go—you didn’t have to take it. You make it sound very Dickensian.”
I’m starting to feel a little silly until she grabs my attention with, “You don’t have to leave—I wouldn’t blame you if you changed your mind.”
I exchange looks with her and realize two things: I already feel too committed to the trip to back out now. And I’m going to miss my fun friend. She’s the person I see the free plays and seek out the food trucks with. We have a Friday-night ice cream tradition in the summer.
Or ... well, we do when she doesn’t have a boyfriend.
She’s not the kind of woman who ditches her friends for a guy, but I’m a reasonable enough person to know you shouldn’t hold someone to a Friday-night commitment no matter what’s going on in their lives and that Friday is a prime date night, so we have an understanding that we go with the ebb and flow on that.
She’d do the same for me if I ever found anyone I wanted to date more than just casually.
With Jayden on the scene, maybe she’ll be doing plays and food trucks with him this summer and I’d just be the third wheel with the big hat trying to keep the sun off my chest.
So I simply say, “No, the wheels are already set in motion.” I hear it now, though—I do sound dark and despairing, like I have no choice.
I know I can opt out, but it just doesn’t feel that way.
Maybe I’m more fragile right now than I want to admit—maybe I’m like a flimsy willow tree allowing myself to be blown this way and that, without the will to stop it.
Okay, she’s right. Comparing myself to a willow tree—I’ve gone pure Dickens. Snap out of it, Jess. Pull yourself together.
This is Jessica Fox, WRTB 11. In my mind, I hear myself saying the words that always remind me who I am—a calm, dignified voice of reason who guides people through all the ups and downs of the world. Not the despairing whiner I resemble at the moment.
I attempt to come off as more decisive and in control as I tell her, “The workers are coming tomorrow and I really don’t want to be here for that. Kev’s right about that part anyway—it’s a great reason to go away for a while.”
“You could always switch things up and head to the beach instead,” she suggests cheerfully. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with doing your ‘me time’ with your toes in the sand and an umbrella drink in your hand.”
“Nothing except the fact that Kevin’s cottage is free, and my remodel is expensive,” I point out.
“I could afford a middle-of-the-road beach rental or a new kitchen, but not both—and the kitchen guys already have my down payment. Besides”—I stop, sigh—“given my new need for floppy hats, this probably isn’t really the summer for lounging seaside all day. ”
“Oh ...” She wrinkles her nose, clearly having forgotten that part but feeling my pain.
“I mean, sure, I could finagle a way with the right bathing suit and heavy-duty sunscreen and a beach umbrella, but I don’t want to spend all summer having to think about it constantly, you know?”
She nods. “I get it.” Something in her eyes makes me think that, for the first time, she’s realizing she’ll miss me, too.
Or maybe that’s just what I hope I’m seeing.
She came into my life at a time when I’d accepted the fact that I wasn’t a woman who had girlfriends—we hit it off when she did some PR work for the station about ten years ago.
But same as with Kevin, we don’t talk about our affection for each other—it’s a thing that simply is .
“So what are you planning to do with yourself down there? How will you pass the days?”
I’ve given this some thought. “Well, I’ll take walks—that’s a good habit I intend to continue.
And Kevin says there’s a winery nearby, so that might be a pleasant destination.
And he mentioned that the back porch was a great reading spot.
But to be honest, on hot summer days, I’m thinking more .
.. Netflix. And every other streaming service I can get my hands on.
” During chemo, I didn’t have the mental acuity to even watch a simple sitcom, and now I’ve decided it’s an activity I took for granted.
“I’m going to catch up on every show and movie I’ve missed in the last year. ”
“Sounds like a good plan,” she tells me with a smile.
I look up at my pretty house once more, then back to Syd.
“Not how I’d hoped to spend the coming months,” I say, shifting slightly back to Dickensian me, “but I simply have to face facts. This is just going to be the great lost summer. I’ll get back to real life, real living, in the fall, but for now I’ll do my time in the country until the big bosses either realize they miss me or decide my hair’s gotten long enough—whichever comes first—and then I can finally put all this behind me. ”
After which I press my house key into her palm and say goodbye.
To my friend, to my home, to my city.
As you travel south through Kentucky on I-75, the rolling hills and split-rail fences of horse country eventually give way to mountains—the Appalachians, to be exact.
The interstate gets curvier, twisting like a snake through valleys where the mountains intersect.
I’m beginning to feel farther and farther from home, even though I’ve been on the road less than three hours.