“Mom.” I drop my head in disbelief and lower my voice, not wanting to join her in this forever-ago memory that I have locked away. “You’re getting your stories mixed up.”
“I know some of my friends find a southern drawl to be provincial, but I find it to be quite attractive. I like how it sounds when he calls you Cal-lee. Cal-lee. Don’t you?”
“I do.” Of all the deep memories my mother has waded into, this is a new one for her. For us.
“Do you think Porter’s family would like to join us for a casual dinner when they get into New York for the wedding? Something simple, I promise. We’ll do it at the apartment.” I know it’s easier to play along with my mother’s train of thought rather than correct her, but this is a gut-wrenching mix-up to relive.
“Sure, Mom.” I roll my head right and left, tension growing, heart clenching, forcing me to rub my chest aggressively with my fist.
“Or if you’d rather go to D’Angelo’s for Italian, I can call ahead and give them our credit card so there’s no fuss over the bill. Our town, our treat. I’m so looking forward to meeting them. What a shame it never happened at Princeton. You two so in love with your books and with each other,” she says, looking wistfully at the gnarled maple tree once more.
I find myself agreeing with Mom, even in the confusion of her memories, that at twenty-two, I thought all I needed to keep me happy until the end of time was books and Porter.
“What are their names again?” My mom taps the arm of her chair with her finger, trying to coax the recollection forward.
“Delsie and Olden.” I give her the answer to move the conversation toward over.
“Oh, yes. Well, I sure hope Delsie and Olden know what a catch you are for their son.”
Chapter Thirteen
Present
I’ve opened and closed the sturdy lid of the orange box I brought home from Jock and Jill a handful of times over the past week but have yet to remove the shoes. I have three more days to return them for a full refund; otherwise, I will end up with store credit for a shop I am unlikely to patronize again.
I forgot to buy an appropriate pair of sweat-wicking socks to go with my new sneakers, so I’m making do with a mismatched footie and ankle crew situation. I’m wearing my triangle tankini swim top from several years ago because it’s too small, making it the most constrictive sports bra–like device I own. The sun is on its way down, so I know Mrs. Pitts and her collection of dachshunds have had their final walk of the day and most of my neighbors have brought in their garbage bins from the curbside.
Last night, from the comfort of my living room with my boxed new sneakers in my lap, I pulled out my phone to seek advice on how to start running. It seemed easy enough—just put your shoes on and go—but if there are whole stores dedicated to running paraphernalia, and that Chap guy has his own video channel on the topic, then there must be more to it than my walking-only mind knows.
Reddit:How do I start running?
Nicole89:It’s easy, put one foot in front of the other.
Of course it’s that easy for a woman possibly born the year I graduated high school.
FearlessRunr:Start with five easy miles and work up from there.
Next.
RonRuns:Best thing to do is run right into my arms if you like long walks on the beach and baby talk as foreplay.
Yuck.
Truthwillsetyoufree66:Stop making excuses just put on your shoes and go you lazy ass.
Well, that’s kinda harsh.
Momonthemove:Five minutes. To begin, all you have to do is run for five minutes.
Five minutes. All I have to do is run for five minutes, and then I can come back home. No paying for a class. No mirrors. No one hurling insults at me, masked as drill-sergeant motivation. I can do anything for five minutes, right?
Tonight, sneakers on, I stand and hop up and down on my toes a few times like I watched the guy in the suit do in the running store. I feel a little arthritis in my left big toe, and my stomach jiggles, but my sciatica doesn’t flare, which is lucky. I do have to pee, though.
Pulling up my tights after flushing, my finger catches my estrogen patch, and it peels off. I place it back next to my belly button, but it slips into the crotch of my leggings. I don’t think I’ll implode from nose-diving hormones before I can slap on a new one, so I’ll fish the old patch out later.
Walking by the kitchen sink on my way to the back door, I stop for one more sip of water. I’m pretty sure I didn’t drink enough in the heat of the summer day, and I don’t want dry mouth on my run.Ick.I didn’t clean the sink very well from making cookies to deliver to the attendants at Mercy, my weekly bribe to keep them from smotheringmy mother in her sleep, so I’ll quickly give it a wipe down. Drying my hands, I pause. Did I drink too much water and have to pee again?
Checking myself out in the mirror before I leave, a new thought occurs to me:Am I too old to wear a high ponytail?I take out the rubber band and gather my long chestnut hair into a statelier low pony. Now I look like my Aunt Fran. I pull my hair back up high and notice that it’s time to make an appointment to remind my roots what color they used to be. Is that an age spot on my chin or peanut butter remnants from lunch?
