Chapter 30 #2
Did I ever even thank him?
“What about when the kids were young? Growing up? Mom and my uncles?” Five of them! “How did you keep the romance alive?”
She sighs. “That’s the question, isn’t it?
The great mystery of a lifetime together.
” She whistles. “You intentionally carve out the time. That’s what you do.
That’s the secret ingredient. And you fight for each other.
Like soldiers. And you remember that in a good marriage, your spouse is never the enemy.
It’s everyone out there”—she points out the window—“versus you two.”
I nod, loving that. She’s so sharp in her wisdom, lucid of mind, eloquent with her words. I despise the stroke for taking these things at the crescendo of her wonderful life. Even if it had been, indeed, so deeply wonderful.
I vow to remember her this way, exactly.
I press into my tired temples.
“Anything else I can help you with?” she offers, wiping her hands.
“I’m surprised you don’t have more questions for me,” I tease. “You’re really buying all this?”
She throws down the hand towel. “You want to know another nugget about getting old?”
“Obviously.”
“Let me tell you, granddaughter of mine. You end up seeing things you can’t believe. Trust me. And so, eventually . . .” She shrugs. “You start to believe anything’s possible. Even miracles. Even this.”
I think I know what she means.
And I don’t even know how to thank her.
“I guess I do have one more question,” I say.
She spreads her arms in an invitation.
“Have you ever wondered about your big choices?” I ask sheepishly, needing to know. “The crossroads? Other versions of yourself? Dreams that could’ve been?”
She sears me with her gaze, leaning over the counter.
“Listen.” She whacks a hand on the counter.
“I am not one to squander time. Or fantasize. Or even daydream. But darling, of course I do. Every woman—every soul—contains multitudes. But you choose your path. You trust God to direct it. Then you celebrate wins. Mourn the heartaches. And you love your people enough to let them keep dreaming. Forever.”
Her words settle over our baking mess, and I press a hand to my heart.
“Tell me something you dreamed of doing but never did.”
Her eyes twinkle, but she stays silent.
“For example,” I say. “In my other life, my other twenties, like I told you, I was an actress. And even though it didn’t work out, exploring it opened up part of me I’d forgotten—maybe even never released. I also loved teaching preschool. What else . . . might you have done?”
Who else is in there, Grandma?
I’ve only ever known her as a stay-at-home mother to six.
“I wanted to be a therapist,” she says reflectively.
“For couples or families. When your mom and uncles were young, I even went back to college for a little bit, since I’d dropped out at nineteen to marry your grandfather.
Imagine that! A stay-at-home wife, no kids, when he was off to war, no less.
I should’ve done it back then, earned my degree—but I got caught up in making our house a home.
” She pauses. “So that he would have a wonderful home to return to.”
She sighs. “I don’t regret it. But my schooling became too much to juggle in the thick of motherhood, so I quit. It was unmanageable, and we couldn’t get help at home. But I always thought I might’ve made a great therapist.”
“Grandma,” I say. “I can confirm with absolute confidence that I’ve seen plenty of therapists in my day, and you are by far the best.” I’ve been to therapy on my own, a lot—but not in a while and never with Reid. I resolve to try it together, if I ever find him again.
Her lips bend into a smile. “And you’re my favorite client. Don’t tell your mom.” She studies me, and I wonder if I look different to her. “Promise me you’ll keep dreaming.”
“Keep dreaming,” I say.
New York.
After cleaning the kitchen together, we savor our fresh cookies in the family room with vanilla-bean ice cream and reruns of I Love Lucy.
We both turn in around nine, me to the guest room and her to the primary—but I have trouble falling asleep, knowing I’ll soon wake up nine years older, on the other side of the country.
On the hunt for my life.
Antsy, I find my flip phone in my soft denim purse. Hesitantly I open it and click on the notification of a new text message. Sure enough, glowing from the screen in throwback simplicity is a text from none other than Holden Locke.
Holden: Hi, beautiful girl. What are you doing?
A big part of me wants to meddle. I concoct several genius replies:
Not you, ever. Leave me alone.
I think it’s best if we stop seeing each other.
Which leads me to wonder, how many girls exactly are you seeing right now?
Instead, I realize, this time it’s not my place. I have no way of knowing how this action might change things for Sutton here, for Sutton there, for Sutton anywhere in the storybook. Some things, I’m starting to realize, we can learn only one way.
Through.
I snap the phone shut and toss it onto the antique wood nightstand, which now lives gorgeously between my twins’ beds.
Around midnight, I’m still wired, so I wander into Grandma’s room, stand at the side of her bed.
I watch the chest of her nightgown rise and fall, rise and fall, like the tide.
She still sleeps tightly to the right of the bed, even though she’s alone.
Grandpa’s clothes remain in his side of the closet—endless khaki pants and sweater vests, smelling of Old Spice and mint.
After pulling her quilted comforter up to her chin, I lean down to kiss her cheek. Her skin is thin and silky, like the sheets.
“You did good, Grandma,” I whisper. “You did so good by us all. Thank you. I love you.”
So much.
Moments later, I’m snuggled into my covers, hands palmed in prayer around my plastic ball, anxiously counting seconds instead of sheep.