Off Her Rocker. Jennifer Archer
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yo—”
“Good morning, sweetie,” I say, interrupting Carl when Troy utters a groggy H’lo at the other end of the line.
“Rise and shine!”
Troy groans.
Carl shakes his head and mutters something under his breath.
“Are you getting up?” I say into the phone.
“Yeah,” Troy answers in a hoarse whisper.
“Are you sure? Or do I need to call again in five minutes?”
I hear rustling, then he says, “No, I’m up.”
“Okay, sweetie. Have a good day.” After I break the connection and put down the phone, I turn to find Carl squinting at me. “What?” I ask.
He reaches for the paper and begins scanning the Help Wanted ads. “So…what kind of job are you thinking about?”
CHAPTER 6
Five Weeks Later
“Dana?” A knock sounds at my bedroom door. Tugging the blanket more tightly around my shoulders, I continue to stare out the window into the backyard, and rock.
It’s windy and unseasonably cool. In the wee hours of this morning, when I couldn’t sleep, the Weather Channel predicted an early winter nationwide. That might explain the squirrel’s frantic behavior. The one who lives in the oak tree. I’ve named her Tizzy, and she’s late this morning. She hasn’t made an appearance.
I say the squirrel is a she. For the past few days, Tizzy has run frantically up and down the tree trunk gathering grass and twigs, scraps of paper that have blown into the yard, then taken them back to the nest she’s building, tucked away up high in the crook between two branches. On occasion, one of her babies ventures partway down the trunk and the dog next door, whose head is, more often than not, poked through a hole in our fence, goes into a barking frenzy. Then Tizzy appears out of nowhere, putting herself between her tiny offspring and the dog, chattering and darting back and forth at the base of the tree until her baby goes back where he belongs.
Another knock sounds. The door squeaks open. “Dana? It’s Polly. Can I come in?”
I turn and see her curly dark head poking into the room. “Sure.” I return my attention to the window as Polly crosses to stand beside the rocking chair I’m in.
“When you didn’t answer the door, I called information for Carl,” she says. “He gave me the combination to your garage-door opener and told me to come in. You’d better call and let him know you’re okay.”
I don’t tell her that I’d be lying; I’m not okay. I don’t know what I am, but okay isn’t on the list of possibilities.
“Are you going to call him?”
“When he doesn’t hear from you in the next few minutes that I’m hurt or dead, he’ll assume I’m okay, put me right out of his mind, and get back to work.”
I hear the musical beeps from her cell phone as she punches in numbers. While she murmurs quietly to my husband, I continue rocking.
“Why haven’t you answered any of my calls these past couple of weeks?” Polly asks when she’s finished talking to Carl.
“I didn’t know you’d called.”
“I must’ve left at least twenty messages.”
“I haven’t checked them, and Carl never does.” That’s my job. Menial. Easy. Right up my alley.
“Carl’s worried about you, honey. I am, too.”
“Join the club. Mother thinks I’m off my rocker. That’s what she told me last night.” I laugh a little. “She’s wrong about that. I’ve spent the past three…” I frown. “Or maybe it’s been four days… Anyway, I’ve sat right here in this rocking chair for quite some time, and I don’t plan to get off of it anytime soon.”
Except maybe to go to Tuesday night bridge at Lynette’s, though even that has begun to lose its luster. Still, Lynette and her friends provide the only good laugh I get these days. And I don’t even indulge in the leafy green appetizer. The stoned bridge ladies have been discussing a road trip sometime in the near future and tossing around possible destinations. They’re looking for somewhere they haven’t already visited a dozen times, which is difficult since travel is high on their list of pastimes. They want a place they can spend their husbands’ money on jewelry and clothing, great food and massages. They asked me to join them, but I’m not sure I can muster the energy.
Outside, Tizzy’s baby runs down the tree trunk, all the way to the ground. He darts across the yard alone. A first since I’ve been keeping tabs on the tree. The baby squirrel disappears, and Tizzy scampers down from the nest seconds later, pausing midway, her head jerking left and right, up and down. She chatters and chatters, calling him back.
“Have you ever paid attention to what goes on in your yard?” I ask Polly, my gaze on the frenzied squirrel. “Whole lives are being lived out there. Dramas. Celebrations. Births. Deaths.”
Polly kneels beside me and touches my arm. “You need to get out of this house.”
“Why?”
Still no baby squirrel. Tizzy descends to the base of the tree trunk.
“Did you make that list, like I told you to? The one of all the things you’ve always wanted to do but didn’t have time for?”
“Yes.” I flick a wrist toward my dresser. “I think it’s still over there.”
Polly stands and crosses the room. A second later she says, “This paper is blank, Dana.”
“I couldn’t think of anything.”
“I don’t believe that. Surely you have things you want to do. Besides having a family, I had other big dreams when I was young. Then I got busy and pushed them aside. It must be the same for you.”
I shrug.
“What were your dreams before you had your kids?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Dana—”
“It doesn’t matter.” For the first time since she entered the bedroom, I cease rocking and face her. “Whatever they were, they’re gone now, and even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t know how to begin to accomplish them. All I’m good at is being a mother. That’s it. Period.”
“Being a mother is no small thing.”
“But it’s not marketable, and I don’t have any other skills. Not anymore.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I tried to find a job.”
She nods. “And?”
“Do you know what businesses are willing to hire a middle-aged woman with a twenty-four-year-old philosophy degree and no work experience? None. Not even the kind that require their employees to ask, ‘Would you like fries with that?’ They think I’m overqualified, and I’ll be bored. As if I’m not already.”
“You didn’t find anything?”
“Nothing. Nada. Zilch.”
“You could go to work for Carl.”
“No way. I’ve been working for Carl for more than two decades here at the house. Besides, he gives me money. I don’t have to earn it.”
She sends me a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry. Maybe it’s just bad timing. Closer to Christmas, I bet you could find work in a boutique or something like that.”
“It’s mid-October. What do I do until then?”
Polly crosses her arms. “I don’t know.