“Yeah. I thought I just sat down.”
“My European history teacher says that’s a sign you’re doing what you love, when the time flies by.” She glances around the room. “Hey, your plant is green.”
“So surprised?”
“A living houseplant hits different inside this house.” Erika pinches one of the petals.
I partially rise from my desk chair. “Are you making sure it’s real?”
“Legitimate question.” She turns around toward me with a small smile, and I’m hit by the maturity etching her features. Her shapely eyebrows frame her large eyes, which look almost violet in the lower light of the room. Her mouth, not as prominent as mine, has full lips that are naturally a warm shade of pink.
“I can still picture you as a baby grabbing at my necklace.”
“That was a long time ago, Mom. Smoothie?” She turns.
“Sure.” Spell broken, I stretch and feel for the thin gold chain at my neck. Not the same gold chain as sixteen years ago but bearing the same petite cross from my grandmother. She gave it to me when we arrived home from the hospital with Erika. The first gift I opened. With her hand covering mine, Oma spoke of resting in the truth of God’s love. I so easily agreed. Growing up, I paid only passing attention to her devout Catholicism—more of a quirky personality trait than an invitation to any real faith. Her daughter, my mother, believes only in what she can see and what she can affect, which made senseto my logical mind. I’ve worn the religious symbol off and on during my parenting years, but it’s become a habit over the last few months. Holding on to it now makes me yearn for something lost, or maybe something I’ve never truly found.
35
THE BLENDER CHEWS UP BERRIES,protein powder, and almond milk with grating sounds I’ve come to associate with Erika.
“Looks yummy.” I perch on a stool at the island and brace myself for what I’m about to tell her. “We’re all going to the Poconos for a few days.”
“I know.”
“You do?” How is this not a fight?
“Dad mentioned it. Sounds good.”
It does? I slide back to get a good look at my daughter, and my elbow wedges itself in the wrought iron back of my stool. I tip backward and then try to catch my foot around one of the bars. Right before smashing forward, I grab the edge of the granite island and wobble precariously back into place.
“You okay?” Erika raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at me.
I straighten. “Yes. Great. Glad it’s all set.” My heart sorts itself in my chest. For a moment there, I pictured busting out my two frontteeth on the island edge simply because my teen daughter agreed with a family plan.
“Are we still thinking of leaving today? It’s getting late. We have to find this place, right?”
“Excellent point.” My voice seems overly gleeful. I clear my throat. “Seen Dad?”
She pours the thick spotted slurry into two mason jars. “He was talking to some guy in the garage.”
“Oh.” I glance toward the door. A clean house, a full refrigerator, and Clint has probably already arranged to have the car fixed up. Remarkable how well it all runs without me. And I have trouble remembering to water the lily.
“What do you think?”
I start to say,I think I’ve let go more than I realized and that my husband has silently slipped on both our shoes, and I wonder if he resents me for it,when I glance up and see Erika lifting her glass toward me.
“Delicious,” I say after a quick sip.
“Pasture-raised goat whey.” Erika slumps on the island across from me.
“Wow. Protein powders were just for bodybuilders when I was growing up.”
“And you weren’t allowed potato chips or other processed foods. I’ve heard it.” She takes another sip and leaves the room.
An hour later, I’m upstairs when my phone pings with a text from Terrence.
Running between meetings. All set on the slides on my end. Expect a few thoughts from Phil this weekend. We’ve got a packed agenda with all the funds to review. Thanks for being mindful.
