Coming Home To You. Liesel Schmidt
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What I didn’t hear was any kind of response from my mother.
“Mom?” I said again, more urgently.
“Would you hate me if I told you that I agree?” she asked finally. “Actually, it’s something I’ve been thinking for a while now, but I never knew quite how to say it.”
“What?” This was not the response I was expecting at all. I was expecting something more along the lines of, Oh, no, honey. Kate’s absolutely wrong. There’s no reason for you to move.
“Wait a minute. You agree with her?” I heard the shrillness in my voice.
Mom hesitated again, but when she finally spoke, her voice was firm.
Decisive.
“Yes, I do. I think that being in that apartment isn’t good for you because it reminds you so much of Paul. I’m not saying you need to forget about him, so please don’t feel that way. But you need to remember something: you and Paul were never married. You still have a chance to have that kind of happiness with someone else, to start a life with someone. I know how much you and Paul loved each other, but you have to open yourself up to the possibility that there will be someone else. You can find that kind of love, or even better, again. Your book isn’t finished yet.”
The blades of grass under me melted into a dark green blur as tears pooled in my eyes and dropped onto my jeans, making dark spots as they landed.
How do mothers always know where your weak spots lie? It was a concern I hadn’t spoken aloud; but one that was constantly there, just under the surface. Almost like a low-grade headache.
I was only twenty-four, but I felt as though I’d had my one chance at true happiness ripped from me. As if I was never going to move beyond this, and I would be alone forever. That no one was going to want me.
The individual drops on my jeans had enlarged into puddles as I sat there crying silently, the sounds of the people around me and the noise of the waterfall competing with all the thoughts racing in my head. So many thoughts that I couldn’t control, so many emotions that I couldn’t explain. So many fears that I didn’t want to voice because I was afraid that expressing them might make them a reality.
“Zoë? Honey? Are you still there?”
I nodded.
“Sweetie?” she asked again.
“Uh-huh,” I managed. It came out more like a squeak than an actual word, but it was acknowledgement enough that she knew I was still on the line.
“Are you okay?” Her concern translated over the line as clearly as though she was in front of me.
“Not really, Mom,” I closed my eyes and breathed. “Mama, how do you know I’m not finished?” The tears that before had just been passive became violent, choking ones.
“Finished? Zoë, baby. You are far from finished. You’ve just started,” she replied, her hushed voice telling me that she was crying by now, too.
“But how do you know?”
“I just know,” she said firmly. “You have so much life ahead of you, my beautiful baby girl. Remember that.”
The sure sound of her voice gave me a flutter of hope, even though she was so many miles away.
“Are you coming down for a visit anytime soon?” I asked hopefully.
“I’d like to, Zoë,” she said. “I’m trying to convince your father to take a week off from work so that we can come see you, and see Kate before she leaves.” The pointed tone in her voice hinted that my father was near enough to hear her end of the conversation.
“She’d like that,” I replied. “And so would I. I miss you.”
It was a frequent refrain, and it was true. My mother and I had always had a close relationship, but she and my dad had had to move to Birmingham—a full state away in Alabama—for his work with the University there. It was a position he’d applied for without ever expecting to actually get; but in a happy fluke, the instructor who’d originally been granted the job in their Air Force ROTC program had decided he would rather open his own food truck serving gourmet sandwiches made with doughnuts in place of bread.
The man was doing a booming business.
Meanwhile, my father had found his happy place, guiding his students along as they began their bright futures in the military life.
“I miss you, too.”
“Tell Dad I say hi,” I sighed.
“I will,” she said, pausing long enough for me to hear mumbling in the background.
“He says hi back, and to remind you that you’re his favorite daughter.”
I had to laugh at that one.
“That’s because I’m his only daughter,” I giggled.
“It’s still true.”
“Well. Tell him I’m glad, and that he’s my favorite father,” I replied.
“Will do. Bye, baby,” my mom said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. So much.”
My coffee was ready before I reached the counter.
“Should I give Neil a call?” Ray asked as he handed me my cup.
I nodded, giving him a questioning look.
His normally broad grin was replaced by a look of sympathy and concern.
As if he knew.
“Kate’s been in here every day since movie night,” he said in explanation.
“Ah. And I’m guessing she told you everything,” I said, dropping my eyes.
“Yes, she did. And I’m sorry.” There was a knowing in his voice that made me raise my eyes to meet his. It was hard to see, but somewhere behind all that carefree humor was the remnant of a pain that had shaped his life as much as my pain was shaping mine.
We stood there, silently communicating our own individual wounds without ever uttering a word. It’s strange how pain can level the field, can bring shared ground to people who might otherwise have nothing in common.
Ray nodded, breaking the spell. “I’ll give him a call tomorrow,” he said.
“Thanks, Ray.”
“No problem,” he smiled, snapping the mask back in place. “And as repayment for the favor,” he said, his eyes shifting from side to side and leaning forward as though he was about to whisper a secret, “you can tell Kate she needs to take me up on my offer for dinner.”
I smiled back at him.
Here he was, an unexpected answer to a prayer I never thought to pray.
The apartment seemed small now, suffocating somehow. I stood in the doorway, trying to look at my surroundings with new eyes, with the eyes of someone who was starting over. I saw the past everywhere, and it seemed inescapable. It was in the painting in the front hall that Paul had given me for Valentine’s Day last year, in the set of knives that he’d helped me pick out when I’d gotten my apartment. It was on every wall that we’d primed and re-painted together, infused into every room.
I couldn’t start over and still be here.
I sat on my couch, surrounded by suitcases and banker’s boxes full of the things I was going to rely on for the next few months. Everything else would stay here to be packed, piece by piece, and put in storage. Eventually, it would be moved to a new home. A new home where I hoped to feel different.
Better.