Tess Thompson's Blog, page 16

A Day of Colors

The day was colors. A yellow sunrise. Blue sky and crimson leaves. A room of white-haired ladies. Emerson’s pink cheeks against a green playground.

The day was beautiful.

It made my heart ache with gratitude.

Today was a break from my usual routine of autumn. The weather was sunny instead of  rainy. I spoke at a church luncheon instead of my usual routine of exercise and writing.

And the day was sprinkled with small pleasures.

I woke early and wrote most of my word count goal before my daughters were even out of bed.

I was early to the speaking engagement, so I stopped at Starbucks. I had the exact amount of change in the bottom of my purse for a skinny cappuccino. Yes, down to the exact penny.

The speaking engagement at church was delightful – the women asked wonderful questions and I felt surrounded in love and good-wishes. The sweet woman seated next to me at lunch told me after her marriage of twenty-five years ended abruptly it opened her to new possibilities and changed her into the person she was meant to be. I felt understood.

I found the exact perfect present for my new love at the very first store I went to. I cannot wait to give it to him.

When Emerson came home from school we painted our fingernails and talked of nothing and everything.

Then, my ex-husband picked up the girls for their standard Wednesday evening with him. A year ago it still hurt each time they left. They would both cling to me longer than was normal for a hug goodbye and I would fight tears as I watched them get into his car. After they drove away I would walk upstairs and stare  into my empty hands and wonder, how did it come to this? How is this my life?

Today, I didn’t even walk them down to their dad’s waiting car. And they ran off without even a glance back, shouting, “I love you, Mom.” I called back the same, but continued sweeping the kitchen floor, sun streaming in through the kitchen window, knowing how much fun the evening will be for them – pizza and seeing their dog and catching up their dad on their antics. I felt peace and acceptance. This is my life. This is their life. It is what it is and we are all fine.

Today was a good day. Nothing remarkable or spectacular – just small moments that added up to joy.

I’ve had my share of bad, as we all have. I’ve been brought me to my knees from news unimaginable. I’ve suffered grief and loss and heartbreak so difficult I could not imagine ever feeling anything but despair. And yet, somehow I made it through to a day like today – a day of colors and hope and simple gladness that I am alive and well. Just as you have, dear reader.

So now I will go sit on my porch and soak in the lovely evening light and the brilliant blue of the sky against orange and red leaves.My new love is coming for dinner. We’re grilling steaks and there is brown rice and spinach salad and maybe a glass (or two) of Estrin Estate Cabernet. How grateful I am for these simple pleasures. They are, I have come to understand, part of the deeper meaning of life, perhaps the only meaning. To love one another and appreciate the small, simple gifts – this is all we can do. Perhaps this is all we should do.

At the end of my life, I do not know if I will remember these moments of color like I do the dark ones. Perhaps all the good blends in together and we think only, I was happy a lot. I had a good life, a beautiful life. I loved a lot. And I was loved back. How I hope for this.

I wish for you a day tomorrow like I had today, where more is beautiful than difficult. If it is, perhaps stop, just once or twice, and take it all in –the colors and the nuances and the small moments of joy and beauty and love. Hold them in your hands for as long as you can. Memorize them in your heart for the next day that rains.

 

The Grand Conspiracy of Silence

This is supposed to be a blog that inspires.

Well, today, I just don’t have it in me. Today, I’m feeling distinctly uninspired.

Today I’m feeling like a worn-out, beat up mom.

It’s been a long week. So long, in fact, that I can’t really remember Monday or Tuesday, except for a moment after school when Ella told me she liked my hair better when it was longer and straighter.

Yesterday was Wednesday. It remains fresh in my mind.

Wednesday the girls climb in the back of my van. I ask them the same question I do each day.

“How was your day?”

Emerson almost always answers the same. “Good. How was yours?”

Ella’s answer varies greatly depending on the day.

“It was great,” says Ella, on Wednesday.

“What was so great?”

“I don’t know. It just was.”

I stifle a sigh. She had a great day, I think. This is good, even if I don’t know why.

Thursday. Same van. Same girls. Same mother. Even the weather’s the same.

But today before I can get my question out, Emerson complains that I’m one of the last parents in the pick up line. There’s no hello, nothing pleasant from either of them.

Ella’s face is sullen. She flops into her seat.

I decide to keep my question to myself.

“What are we doing tonight?” asks Ella.

“Well, there’s the game. You know, the Seahawks play Arizona,” I say, ever hopeful they might want to watch with me. Watching football alone isn’t the same as watching a movie alone. I don’t know why exactly, but it makes me feel like a loser.

And no such luck. My eldest rolls her eyes. Emerson stays quiet. When we arrive home, the girls get out of the van and Ella, apparently mad about something – perhaps that I want to watch football tonight, perhaps about something that happened at school – who knows –shoves Emerson aside so she can get into the house first. I sit in the car for a moment, trying to muster up the energy to deal with whatever attitude awaits.

I never know on any given day what my pre-teen daughter is going to act like, be like, feel like. I know it’s only going to get worse from here.

And I’m alone. I have no partner to complain to, no one to roll my eyes at over the heads of my children. There are no moments of respite. I’m either working or taking care of them or cleaning house or doing laundry or a hundred other tasks I can’t think of at the moment. Sometimes the thought of what to make for dinner and then actually making it feels so overwhelming I want to sit on the couch and cry. Before you judge me lazy, this is after nagging about homework, and getting snacks and throwing one more load of laundry in the washer and calling about a dentist appointment and stressing about how I’m going to stretch the remainder of the money in my bank account through the rest of the month. Of course I don’t sit on the couch in a puddle of self-pity. I make dinner because that’s what mothers do. We’re tough. But let’s be honest. This is a hard gig – a thankless gig a lot of the time.

I know later, when they’ve gone off to lives of their own, I’ll miss them and wish they were here for dinner. But right now, I’m tired. Right now I don’t know how I’m going to get through the next ten years.

Sometimes I think there’s a grand conspiracy of silence about how hard motherhood is. We talk a lot of the joys – and there are many – I just can’t remember them right this minute because one of them is not speaking to me behind the closed door of her bedroom and the other is crying because her spelling homework is too hard.

That said, I don’t know a woman in my circle that wouldn’t give their life for their children. The minute they came into this world we were first their mother, and the woman we once were, second. Motherhood is isolating and nerve-wracking and numbing and bewildering.

It’s also the greatest love we’ll ever know. We all know that.

After a particularly hard mommy day, the mother of one of my best friend’s had this advice: “Watch her while she’s sleeping. It will get you through another day.”

I will remember that tonight. And perhaps tomorrow I’ll have something inspiring to report. For now, I think I’ll sneak in the shower I put off while chasing words so that when my children came home I could focus solely on them. The path to Hell is paved…never mind – you know the rest.

Stay strong, my sisters in motherhood – perhaps slip in after your darlings are asleep tonight and watch them for a long moment. Maybe even take a photo on your phone just in case you need it after school tomorrow.

What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail…

How has going after your dream impacted your children?

I was asked to speak to this question in front of a group of mothers at my church. While preparing my thoughts, I decided to ask my children if they had an opinion on the matter. Emerson sighed and asked what was for dinner. Ella said it bothers her how many kids gush about how much their mothers love my books.

So much for any adorable quotes from either of them I could share with the group. This is a tough crowd I hang with.

Regardless, I had a splendid time telling some of my story to a wonderful collection of women. After my talk, we broke into small groups to discuss a few questions I’d prepared. I thought it might be fun to share them with you too, dear reader.

I’d love to hear from you with some of your answers.

What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?

What are the three most important ‘lessons’ you want your children to learn through your actions?

Have there been times in your life when you’ve asked God (or the universe) to take a dream, a problem, or a burden and truly let go, believing that He/She/Universe would provide? What happened when you did so?

How have you balanced your own needs with those of your children?

Has your perception of yourself changed since you’ve had children?  Do you feel like a different person or simply expanded?

 

He “saw” me.

“Mr. Orton died today. He was 90.”

I read this news on my Facebook feed from a high school friend, Erik Van Der Woolf. Erik is a writer like me. He writes screenplays – suspenseful, frightening stories so good they keep me awake, frightened by normal noises of the night.

We’re from a forgotten little town no one’s ever heard. We’re the town you’ve driven through but don’t remember doing so. You would never stop unless you needed gas or a bite to eat on your journey someplace else. In the bigger towns of southern Oregon no one thought much of us, or our little town. Just a bunch of hicks and hippies. But we knew differently. We knew we mattered because our parents and teachers told us so. We knew because of what they did, day in and day out to make us believe we were important, and talented and loved.

Our community, nestled in a valley of southern Oregon, produced all kinds of successful adults: writers, teachers, doctors, biologists, pilots, ranchers, business owners and every other profession you can think of. Partly we’re where we are today because of our parents, and some of us (unfortunately, I can think of more than one of my high school friends who fall into this category) in spite of them.

And, then, there are the teachers.

Mr. Orton first told Erik to read Stephen King. Did it influence Erik to write what he writes? Did it make him feel like someone “saw” him? Did it matter that someone noticed how bright and curious he was? We can only guess how much.

We all have “the” teacher who inspired us, who “got” us, who fought for us, and challenged us. For many of my childhood friends it was Mr. Orton. I never had him and it sounds like I missed out, for clearly he was beloved, given the outpouring of love on Facebook yesterday and today.

But for me, it was Jack Dwyer, my 7th and 8th grade English/History teacher. Today is his birthday.

He taught me more in the two years I sat in his classroom than I learned from any of the other teachers and subsequent college professors I ever had. He taught me how to diagram a sentence, that to understand the present we must look at the past, to look at data, or history, or literature and form an opinion of my own, not worrying if it was right, or popular or agreed upon by the masses. He taught me the intangibles, too: leave the earth better than when you arrived, love hard, forgive easily, do something you’re passionate about, laugh as much as you can, weep for your neighbor and extend your hand.

He taught me to work harder than I think I can.

He taught me how to read like a writer, searching always for the deeper textures and meanings. This has been the lesson of my life, for it opened the path to my dreams.

He “saw” me. He noticed my gifts and showed them to me. He told my parents at teacher conferences about the unique qualities that made me special. I remember every single compliment he ever gave me. When I have moments of doubt, I recall them. I gather them in my hands for courage.

I see him in my imagination, younger then than I am today, standing at the chalkboard gesturing with both hands, his passion for his subjects and us so big it filled the room and spilled out the open windows. His insight and humanity and, quite simply, his extraordinary talent at teaching acne spotted, smart mouthed, tender, embarrassed, confused middle-school adolescents brought an ache to my chest and made me want to cry from the utter beauty of it (hidden, of course, from my classmates for fear of revealing the true geek I am). Now, all these later, it brings tears to my eyes. I don’t have to hide them now. It’s good to be 44 and not 13.

I can only imagine what Mr. Dwyer thinks of me now – writing romance novels for my supper – after the way I devoured a Nadine Gordimer short story. But, alas, he knows, too, the ways of this world. He understands I have two little girls to feed and clothe and keep safe. I know he knows.

So, to Jack Dwyer, happy birthday. Your presence on this earth has mattered.

And to Mr. Orton, on behalf of Erik and the others, rest in peace. I imagine our maker has already welcomed you in with these words, “Well done.”

 

 

Riverstar Release

Riverstar, book 3 in The River Valley Collection, is now available on Kobo, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iTunes.  To celebrate the release, I’m participating in a blog tour over the next month with Tasty Book Tours.  Stop by the gracious hosts below to hear what they have to say about the River Valley Collection…enter for a chance to win a $10 e-gift card for Amazon or Barnes and Noble!

Aug 26th-28th Escaping Reality One Book at a Time

Aug 29th- 3 Partners in Shopping

Aug 30th- Emerald Musings

Sept 2nd-4th Craves the Angst

Sept 5th- Literal Hotties Naughty Book Reviews

Sept 6th- Toots Book Reviews

Sept 9th- Paws and Print

Sept 10th- Once Upon a Book and Emraz the Spark

Sept 11th-13th  A Passion for Romance

Sept 13th- Toots Book Reviews

Sept 16th- My Written Romance

Sept 17th- A Tasty Read Book Review

Sept 19th- Guardian’s Hangout

Sept 20th- Toots Book Reviews

About Riverstar

After ending a dysfunctional affair with a powerful movie producer, feisty Hollywood makeup artist Bella Webber finds herself back in the quaint Oregon town of River Valley, the location of a famous director’s latest film. Despite trying to distract herself with work, Bella is unnerved by the proximity of Benjamin Fleck – a man she fell instantly in love with during a chance encounter at her brother’s home. Unfortunately, he sees her as nothing more than a heartbreak waiting to happen.

When an actress is found murdered after she’s seen leaving the restaurant Riversong with Ben, he is accused of the crime and arrested. Convinced of his innocence, the River Valley friends band together to find the real killer, and Bella must face her biggest fear to ensure the truth is revealed.

I Know You Know

I open my eyes on a Monday morning, the late August sun bright in my bedroom. Emerson is next to me, still asleep. She’s dressed in her silky leopard print pajamas, sleeping on her side instead of on her back like she usually does. Her angelic face is peaceful in slumber and she’s as beautiful as anything I’ve ever seen. I watch her for a moment, a painful lump in the middle of my chest, wondering of what she dreams.

In ten days she starts second grade. I cannot tell you where the minutes, days and years disappeared to, like morning mist on a autumn day in the Pacific Northwest – here one minute and gone the next. I tried to hold onto every moment. Truly, I did. But it travelled along anyway. I know you know.

Yet, still, I wish this moment could go on forever. But it cannot. I know you know.

Tomorrow my fourth novel, Riverstar, will be available for purchase (Booktrope Editions). This writing life has been a soul-giving journey, a twisting, curving country road nestled on a mountainside, with unexpected joys and successes and moments of sheer terror and doubt. Just like motherhood.

Unlike before the release of my first book, or even the second, I am strangely calm. I know I’ve done the best work I could. I wrote from my heart. I wrote for you, dear reader.

I can say the same about my girls. As they embark off to their new school year next week, I release them once again in this constant exercise of letting go that is motherhood. Yes, I release them into this joyous and terrifying life, into their life, strangely calm, knowing I’ve done my best.

They are my heart. And I give them to the world.

It is all I know to do. I know you know.

 

 

 

Up Close and Personal – Interview with Krista Kedrick

Talking books and writing today with Krista Kedrick! What a great interviewer she is.

Tess Thompson Interview with Krista Kedrick

Summer Peaches

It’s just an ordinary day in early August – not much to do, nowhere in particular to be. Summer. The day is warm, the sun high in a clear sky. Country music blares into the van. The mountains are all around us. In my rearview mirror are two blond heads and two sets of blue eyes. The back of the van is packed with bags of groceries, the cost of which caused my chest to tighten when I handed my debit card to the Safeway clerk.

I see a roadside stand on highway 202. Peaches. $1.00.

We stop and cross the highway holding hands. As we approach, the scent of ripe peaches tickles our noses. Our mouths water in anticipation. A teenage boy with a languid way of speaking and eyes the color of the sky above explains he has white or yellow peaches. Which would we like to try?

“Both?” asks Emerson, holding out her hands and flashing him a shy smile.

My girls have cheeks like peaches sprinkled with nutmeg, I think, watching them in the covert way we mothers do.

The boy gives us a sample of each. His nails have dirt under them. I imagine unseen callouses in the palms of his hands and on his feet from years of outdoor work.

The pieces of peach are sweet and soft. We murmur our delight.

“Can we get a bag of each?” asks Ella.

I nod, yes, cringing a little at the cost. But it’s peaches, I think. And my girls love them. They should have everything good summer has to offer. Always.

“Where are you guys from?” I ask the boy, reaching for the cash in my shorts pocket.

He replies, “Yakima. We’ll be back with corn and watermelon in a couple of weeks.”

“We have to remember that, Mom,” says Ella on the way back to the van, her brows wrinkling in worry. She knows my propensity for forgetfulness.

“We should write it down,” says Emerson.

“Get in the car,” I say, setting the peaches next to Ella’s feet.

When we get home I put the peaches in my blue bowl. I run my thumb over the soft fuzz of the fruit. I put my nose close and breathe in the smell of summer. Standing back for a moment, I let myself enjoy the pure beauty of crimson fruit next to the deep blue of the bowl. My mother would capture this in a watercolor, I think, giving it an almost dreamy quality with her subtle brush strokes. My friend Clare would photograph it at just the right angle so the composition became art instead of just a bowl of peaches. Mary Oliver would write a poem about it, comparing peaches to childhood or the softness in each of us or some other such connection. I sigh with the pleasure of nature’s simple gifts, of the way they can inspire and transform the ordinary into the extraordinary.

Then, I remember a story told to me years ago by another mother, when Ella was still a baby. This woman loved peaches. She eagerly anticipated peach season every year and bought bag after bag during the lazy weeks of summer. She lined them up on her counter, watching them ripen. When they were ready and not before – this ripening should not be rushed – she and her daughter savored each one like others might fine wine or chocolate. One morning there was only one left. She knew by the smell of it and the slight give when she pressed into the skin that it was the perfect ripeness. Perhaps the best peach of the season? Or the best peach ever? Was it possible? Oh, how good the peaches had been all season, she thought. But this one! This was the peach of the summer. Her mouth watered. Should she eat it now or save it for lunch? And then she thought of her teenage daughter sleeping the lazy, indolent sleep of adolescence upstairs. How she would enjoy it when she came down for breakfast. Of course, she must have it. Of course. The woman smiled and set the peach back on the counter, filling with pleasure that she could give this small, sweet thing to her daughter.

She found a sticky note and placed it next to summer’s bounty.

“I saved the best one for you.”

Now, I turn away from the blue bowl and the crimson peaches and reach for my stack of cookbooks. Peach cobbler? Pea pie? What would my girls like best, I wonder?

I saved the best one for you. Always. Of course.

Deleted scene from upcoming Riverstar

Just like in the movies, scenes are sometimes cut from the final version of a novel. There are various reasons for doing so, most of which are all boring writer explanations no one cares about but other writers so I’ll spare you that. You’re welcome.

However, sometimes the cut scenes are still fondly thought of by their writer even though we cut them after it’s gently suggested by our trusted editor that it, “doesn’t move the plot forward.” And although we acknowledge it’s true, we still yearn to share them with our readers.

For example, in the case of the cut scene below, as I was deleting it from the manuscript I thought -

But it tells you so much about Bella Webber. And then there’s Valerie, based on a compilation of the several (cough, yes, it’s true) therapists I visited over the years. And I sent it to my friend Stephanie (a real life therapist) and she said it was pitch-perfect and I replied back well, I had enough sessions over the years to know a little about the subject...

And, so on and so forth. You get the idea.

So, anyway, I thought I’d share this one with you just for fun. And as a way to say thank you to all my Facebook fan page ‘likers’ and loyal followers on twitter. It’s just a little sneak peak into Riverstar, coming August 25th!

Happy reading. Big hugs.

**

Bella’s therapist, Valerie Cooper, had an office in Santa Monica in a high-rent office building overlooking the ocean. For what she charged an hour and how crazy most of the population of Los Angeles seemed, Bella figured she could afford it. Valerie’s office was on the top floor, triangular in shape with two chairs and a couch. Bella always chose the chair facing away from the window because it looked directly below to the street. On the table next to her was a miniature zen garden with white sand and a rake the size of a fork.

Bella sat in her usual spot, glancing into the Zen garden. She looked up at Valerie, startled. Someone had drawn the same symbol painted in her hallway into the sand. “This is the Chinese symbol for courage, isn’t it?”

“It is. My client before you is Chinese.” Valerie crossed her legs, holding a steaming cup of tea in both hands. She wore a green and blue wrap dress, flattering to her slim figure and age appropriate for someone in their late-forties. Everything about Valerie was in symmetry, blond hair cut in a long, sleek bob, her fingernails trimmed neatly and painted pink. “Why?”

“Someone painted it in the hallway outside my apartment but they painted over it right away. I kind of missed it when it was gone.”

“Do you feel there’s significance in this?” Valerie wore almost no make-up, just foundation, blush and mascara. Bella would use the “River Valley” collection on her, adding more green the color of the river to her eyelids so her hazel eyes would pop and a light brown liner on the upper and lower lash line. And she needed more blush, a pale pink rose spread over the apple of her cheeks. All of this would take five years off her face.

“Which part?” asked Bella. “That it was there in the first place or that I missed it when it was gone?”

“No, that it’s here as well as on your wall.”

Bella shook her head. “Just a coincidence, that’s all.”

“When you learn a new word you see it everywhere.” This was said as a statement. Valerie blew on her tea. Steam rose about her face. She tucked the left side of her bob behind her ear.

“Sure.”

Valerie, her light eyes unblinking, gazed at her in silence for a moment. This was something she did, Bella knew from experience, to encourage her to offer up further information. Bella fiddled with the zipper on her sweater. Valerie sipped her tea; the woman was comfortable with silences.

“It’s my birthday today.”

“I know. How does that feel?”

She shrugged. “Like I’m a loser.” There was the lack of love, the inability to seize an opportunity despite the support from Drake and Gennie. She said as much to Valerie who remained unflinchingly focused on her face.

“Do you feel ready to start the business?”

“No, and I don’t know why except I lack this.” She pointed at the Zen garden. “I’ve been dreaming about it for ten years and yet, here I am.”

“Where are you?”

“Stuck.” There was a long silence. Bella crossed her legs and uncrossed them a second later. She picked up the tiny rake from the garden and ran the prongs over the back of her hand. “Mabel and Frank are selling the diner.”

“Does this bother you?” The corners of Valerie’s mouth twitched. “Besides losing the blueberry pancakes?”

“I feel angry about it. Why do they have to leave?” She tapped the rake into the palm of her hand and then traced her lifeline with the outermost prong. “Don’t get me wrong, I get that’s weird.” She hesitated, thinking through how to describe what it was exactly that bothered her.

“Does the familiar feeling of abandonment come up for you?”

“Yeah. They’re leaving. Just like everyone does.”

“Is that true?”

Bella ignored the question. “I had the dream again. Twice now since I’ve been back from Oregon.” She felt small suddenly in the wide chair. And tired. How good it would feel to curl up on the couch and forget this work of therapy, this work of life.

Valerie nodded, her face revealing no emotion. “Was it the same as always?”

“Pretty much.” She put the rake back in the sand, resisting the urge to ruin the Chinese symbol of courage with a barbaric X or zigzag. She unzipped her sweater and slipped it from her shoulders, letting it bunch around her waist. “Only this time it was Ben holding me over the edge of the building.”

“And the faces down below?”

“No one I knew this time.” Sometimes it was her mother or Drake or Gennie, recently Annie and Alder.

“You feel vulnerable after Ben rejected you. This seems obvious.”

“Yeah, right.”

Valerie set down her cup of tea, leaning forward slightly. “What does this tell you?”

“I don’t know.” She sighed, feeling like a rebellious schoolgirl. “Can’t you just tell me the answer?”

“You already know the answer.”

“No, I really don’t.”

“In the dream, when your father threatens to drop you, what do you feel?”

“Same as when he did it for real. Terrified. And then I wake up.”

“So just as in real life, the dream stops when the memory of that day stops.”

“That’s right.”

“Bella, I’m going on instinct here and could be incorrect, but I feel there’s something important in remembering what happens after you’re pulled to safely. Do you want to try and remember?”

“How?”

Valerie gestured towards the couch, smiling. “This might sound cliché, but I think you should lie down and close your eyes. I’ll talk you into a relaxed state.”

Bella stifled her immediate inclination to make a sarcastic comment. She did as Valerie asked, shoving off her tennis shoes in case there was sand stuck in the ridges.

Valerie’s voice was low and soothing as she instructed her to relax her body, starting with her toes and working up. This was the kind of relaxation exercises Gennie did before shooting a scene, Bella thought. After they’d reached to the top her head, Valerie said, “Now, go back to that day. Remember the moment when he had you over the side of the building.”

There was the smell of her father, body odor and stale booze and old cigarette smoke. His eyes were wild and unfocused, with small red stripes. He sat with his feet dangling over the edge and held her by the waist with both hands. She knew not to kick or wriggle because it might send them both over. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.” She screamed, turning her head to see her mother standing with her hands clasped together. Her mouth was moving but Bella couldn’t hear what she said, only her father’s voice, rough in her ear.

“Don’t come any closer, Alice, or I drop her.”

The crowd below gathered in clumps. Bella knew there were five stories to the sidewalk. Five sets of stairs to their apartment when the elevator was broken, which was often. The rain was a drizzle. She heard the sound of a siren. It sounded far away. Would the firemen come like in Drake’s book he kept by his bed? Would they have a tall enough ladder? And then suddenly, they were yanked back, toppling together, Bella landing on top of him in a backwards embrace. Her mother came then, gathering her up in her arms, crying into Bella’s hair. She squeezed her eyes shut. Would he come and push them both over? “Run, Mommy, run.” Was this a whisper or a silent scream? She heard heavy footsteps on the roof, coming towards them. Peeping over her mother’s shoulder, she saw two men in blue uniforms. Policemen. They had guns pointed towards the floor. She shifted her gaze. Drake was on their father, straddling him, pummeling him with the heel of his hand. One of the cops yanked him up and still Drake struggled, his arms and legs flailing. “Let me go. I’m not done,” he shouted.

Now, in the safety of this benign office in a climate that remained 72 degrees Fahrenheit into perpetuity, she sat straight up and looked at Valerie. “It was Drake who pulled us back.”

Valerie moved forward in her chair. The notebook fell from her lap to the floor. “Your brother?

“Yes. I always figured it was the police or something. But it was Drake.” Bella went on, almost breathless. “I was worthless, disposable, like a piece of trash someone tossed out the window of a car. He hated me. Me, not Drake or my mother. Me.”

“Bella, it had nothing to do with you. He was a drug-addict going through the beginning stages of detox. He was out of his mind.”

Bella let the tears come, wiping them absently, the pain so deep inside it could not be expressed with sound and the hot tears leaked and slid down her flaming cheeks. She let the hurt be there, let it consume her. “I loved him, you know. Would clamp onto his leg when he tried to walk out the door. It took both Drake and my mother to pull me from him. Why did I love a man incapable of loving me back?”

“Because that’s what little girls do, Bella. They love their daddy’s no matter how much or little they deserve that love.”

“But it was Drake.” She held the tissue box close, like a child might do with a stuffed animal. “It was Drake who pulled us to safety. He wasn’t even ten years old and he pulled a large man and a child to the middle of rooftop.”

“And what does that tell you?”

She began to cry again, pulling more tissue from the box. “That there’s a man who always loved me even when he was too young to know how. Even then, he did. And he’s taken care of me ever since.” Drake had rushed him. Only ten years old and he’d taken him out. Drake was the brave one, the bold one – a man of few words but always one of action, demonstration. Not like her: weak and frightened all the time.

“And he believes in you, Bella, or he wouldn’t offer up a small fortune for your business idea.”

“Yeah, he believes in me. If I could just believe in myself.” The hot tears continued. She wiped her eyes and nose with the tissues the impassive Valerie handed her.

When she looked up, Valerie’s eyes were soft, sympathetic. “Do you think this relationship you set up with Graham was like the one with your father?”

“How so?”

“Always holding onto his leg as he was headed out the door?”

Bella stared at her. “But why would I do that? I hated it when my father left. I hated it when Graham left.”

“Because we often duplicate the relationships we had with our parents without being aware of it. We gravitate towards what we know. Unfortunately, that’s what we’re comfortable with.”

And her mother? She’d left too. Everyone leaves.

“What else, Bella?” Valerie’s eyes were intense on her now but her voice gentle.

“My mother left. Everyone leaves.”

“Drake hasn’t left. Gennie hasn’t left.”

Go north.

“I’m going to take the job in Oregon. Gennie needs me. She hasn’t left.”

Valerie’s eyebrows rose and fell. She picked up her notebook from the floor. “All right.”

“This was good work today, Bella. Do you understand why?”

“I think so.”

“Good. This was a major breakthrough for you.” She pointed at the clock. “Let’s continue this next session but for now, time’s up.” She rose to her feet, smoothing her wrap dress over slender hips. “And happy birthday, Bella. Welcome to the rest of your life.”

 

The Lingering

At my mother’s house in July, I sit with my mother and aunt sorting through old family photographs. As they label photos with names and dates, I start in on a stack of letters from my grandfather to my grandmother, circa 1952. He’s stationed in Alaska with the Navy from what I can discern, which is somewhat difficult because he doesn’t date any of the letters except as, “Monday, Tuesday,” and so forth. There is nothing remarkable in the letters, really, just details about paychecks, the weather, his crewmates. Despite this, my grandfather always closes with how much he loves her and misses her their children.

As I read through the letters and look at photos of physical lives long since over, I wonder, what was it all for? What did their lives mean? What were they doing here? What am I doing here? The cynic might say life is nothing but an inevitable trudge toward death. And yet, even if that is true, moment-to-moment I do not worry about the end because I’m too busy in the thick details of my life – the grocery list, coupons clipped for Costco, detangling Emerson’s hair, summer peaches, and counting down the days until the last season of Breaking Bad. All of it is meaningless, really, to anyone but me. None of it will matter to my daughters’ children or their children because they will be leading their own lives with their own details and concerns and small joys. I will be nothing more than a faded photograph by then.

The question comes again – what’s it all for? What are we doing here in this transitory life?

I do not know for sure, of course. I’m doing my best to live a life that fulfills some sort of higher purpose but it is probably in vain. I may meet my maker at the end and he or she may say, “Really? That’s what you spent so many hours doing? Writing about love?”

And I will have no choice but to defend myself.

Love is all there is and all there ever will be, I might whisper, trying to be brave. It is the only thing to fight for, the only thing that really matters. Love weaves between all the ordinary and makes us all extraordinary. Love, although invisible, intangible, impossible even to put into words, matters. How we loved one another while on the earth matters.

This afternoon in my mailbox is package from Clare Barboza. She’s both a dear friend and a talented professional photographer. One of her ‘art’ photos inspired the cover for Riverbend. I eagerly open the package, hoping it will be photographs from the weekend we all spent on Whidbey Island at the beginning of June to celebrate Clare and Joe’s ten year wedding anniversary. I’m not disappointed. It’s a photo of my friends and me on the lawn.

It is a beautiful moment in time, this photograph. There was wine and the sun on the lawn and laughter. Just then none of us were thinking of the details that bring us to our knees – bills, divorces, work crises, difficulties with our children. No, in that moment it was only a certain slant of sunlight and the taste of deep red wine and one another. It was love.

Someday when my grandchildren are sorting though photos, they might ask one another, “Who are these people with Grandma Tess?” Perhaps one of my girls will remember and perhaps not. But wherever I am, I will know. I will remember.

These are some of the friends who loved me though one of the darkest years of my life. They listened on a cold November evening of my oldest daughter’s troubles in school. They invited me to Christmas dinner and let me sleep in their guest room so I did not have to wake up alone the first holiday my children were with their dad and not me. They assured me on a cold day in February that I was talented and good and lovable.

On the day of the photograph, they made me laugh.

These are my people.

And the love we felt the exact moment the photo was taken? Surely it remains even after we’re gone, lingering for those still left so this hard world might be bearable? Surely it is in the sound of rustling leaves, or drops of rain glistening on blades of grass, or in the purity of a child’s laugh? Surely it lingers? Because where else would it go?

I imagine after the boxes are sorted and labeled, my grandchildren will go back to the details of their lives, making their own memories, creating loves of their own, perhaps noticing a certain slant of light on a summer lawn. As they should, of course. Because we don’t know why or when or how our physical presence in the world will end. We have only now. We have only this very moment with all the messy, worrisome, funny, joyous details. This is it.

And because this is true, we know we must love sweet, love hard, love without restraint. Love is all there is and all there ever will be. It is all that remains.