Snow Angels (19 page)

When Randy didn’t come home on Monday I went through his things. Most of his boating and fishing equipment was gone, but that wasn’t unusual. What I hadn’t expected was that Randy took most of his clothes, toiletries, even towels. He didn’t plan on coming back for a while.

Even though I knew that his cell wouldn’t have reception if he was down by a river, I left him a message.

“Randy, I’m sorry about all this. Please come home. We can work it out.”

But really. Was he forcing me to make a decision between him and my mother? There was no way I could walk away from my mother, so in a way, it gave him all the power.

I waited for his call. And I ate a gallon of ice cream. All week I waited while I watched reruns of
Friends
and
CSI
with my mother, who never looked away from the television although I could tell she wasn’t following the storylines.

Of course, when it rains it pours and my daytime help informed me that she’d finally found a job and she gave her two weeks’ notice. I had accumulated vacation, so I called off of work and decided to drive into Asheville.

Black Knob is a small community about forty-five minutes from Asheville. I went into town on occasion for a music festival or to eat in a Mexican restaurant since we didn’t have one. It had occurred to me that there would be other elder-care facilities in Asheville, but I had rejected that notion earlier because of the hour and a half round-trip through the mountains. I just didn’t want my mother that far away from me because it would limit my ability to visit her.

But desperate times made me search out options and Asheville was the only other place I could look. While there were at least a half dozen elder-care places in town, I found one on the Internet that called itself an adult day care, a concept I didn’t know much about. On further reading, it seemed that it was like a day care for kids where they play games and have activities and snacks. It sounded intriguing since there was an open-door policy and no commitment or contracts to sign. I liked the idea of a drop-in as needed situation and called to make an appointment.

Asheville is a terraced city that wraps the side of a mountain. On approach it looks industrial until you get downtown and see the Art Deco architecture and the galleries and coffee shops. There seems always to be a group of hippies with dreadlocks and droopy handwoven bags playing guitars on the streets, patchouli wafting around them. Asheville attracts tourists, particularly in the fall when people come for the change of seasons where the mountains are a crazy quilt of colors. Asheville autumns are astounding.

I drove past the giant obelisk downtown and turned right to thread my way past a section of restaurants and wine shops toward the hospital. Beside the hospital I found Asheville’s Adult Day Care and pulled into the parking lot. I had talked lightly of where we were headed on our drive and my mother seemed okay with the concept. Always agreeable, I sometimes worried she would never tell me if she were unhappy or mistreated.

“They play bingo and cards and watch movies and other things, Mom. You might like it.”

I could tell she was a little apprehensive when we arrived, but she willingly followed me inside. Asheville Adult Day Care was painted strong blues and greens and was in no way childish, which was what I had expected. The walls were lined with serene photographs of local waterfalls and vistas that the residents might recognize. My mother was immediately enamored of a white Persian cat sunning on a windowsill.

I was a little disturbed to find that a number of the day care customers were wheelchair-bound young people, not the older folks I had expected. When the director saw my expression she said, “We have a number of multiple sclerosis and brain injury clients. They’re really lovely people. Let’s see if your mother is interested in playing bingo.”

Much to my surprise Mother took a place at a table next to a white-haired woman with an abundance of costume jewelry and they began to talk as if they were old friends. Someone passed her a bingo card. She gathered a handful of bingo chips, then her smile found me and she made a little waving motion that meant for me to go on about my business for the day. Her new friend pointed, directing attention to the bingo caller.

The director laid a warm hand on my arm and said, “Just leave her here for a couple of hours. Go out and have lunch. Take a little time for yourself. She’ll be fine and if not, I’ll call your mobile and we’ll decide what to do from there.”

I thought I’d be anxious to leave my mother, but the truth was that I was flooded with relief. As I walked out to the car I felt a lift to my heart. Just this smallest amount of help was so appreciated.

I slid behind the wheel, but didn’t turn the key. I watched my mother inside the giant bay window, oblivious to my gaze. I was glad to clear my mind, if only for a few hours.

I drove farther down the road toward the entrance to Biltmore. When I was a girl I’d taken a number of school trips to this grand castle and I was always awed that anyone could live such an opulent life. I could recall many statistics about this crown jewel of Asheville. The largest and single most visited tourist attraction for hundreds of miles, Biltmore House had been a country home of the Vanderbilts at the turn of the last century. Still in the family, the 250-room French Renaissance château included an eight thousand acre estate with a winery, sculpture gardens, and a magnificent hothouse. I could vividly remember the fireplaces large enough to stand in upright and the bowling alley in the basement.

One day I would tour Biltmore again, but this was not the day. I sighed as I drove past the grand estate’s entrance and turned into Biltmore Village, an upscale shopping area, also built by the Vanderbilts as support for the estate and to generate the local economy. What had once been furriers and coopers and bakeries were now women’s clothing stores, art galleries, and restaurants. I parked in front of the Country Corner Café and went inside. I was seated on a glassed-in patio at a large window where I could watch shoppers who seemed already to be hoarding treasures for the holidays even though the trees were still a fierce green with the end of summer.

People strolled with shopping bags dangling from the crooks of their arms. Unlike downtown, where the crowd could be more eclectic and scruffy, this group was groomed, perhaps retired with the time and money to enjoy themselves. What would it be like to be one of those women who were taken care of? Those women of diamond rings and BMWs.

I ordered a glass of white wine and studied the menu which offered everything from country caviar (apparently made with black-eyed peas) and gazpacho to cheese soufflé and blackened tuna steak salad. I opted for the tuna and sat back to watch the shoppers. A table of people in the corner laughed loudly and their happiness bounced off the glass ceiling and rained down on me. I smiled and looked their way and one of the men at the table caught my gaze and returned my smile. I felt my face warm and I quickly turned away. I suddenly remembered my clothes, jeans and a loose red sweater. My hair was pulled back into a messy bun. I was
sans
jewelry except for my wedding ring. I certainly hadn’t thought I’d be eating in such a swanky restaurant when I had dressed for the day. I felt all wrong and it took the rest of my meal and a second glass of wine before I shook the feeling of being out of place.

Outside again, I breathed a little better. I decided to walk off my meal with a stroll around the village. After all, this was the first real time I’d had to myself for months. I had forgotten how much I liked Asheville. Randy never wanted to come into town, never cared about going to the museum or the Bele Chere Festival. As I ducked in and out of shops I noticed a number of HELP WANTED signs on doors. I certainly wasn’t dressed nicely enough to ask for a job application at one of the women’s clothing stores, nor would I have had the clothing to work there anyway. But then I saw the Christmas shop, Season’s Greetings. The shop was housed in a cottage; twinkle lights entwined the railings on its white front porch. More lights winked from every window. Holiday music called from some unseen place under the eaves.

The
HELP WANTED
sign wasn’t large, but I noticed it on the entrance door peeking from behind a massive wreath. On impulse I went in thinking that my red sweater might seem appropriate here. I pushed open the door and jingle bells rang out, making me think of Santa’s sleigh. A bored teenager behind the cash register showed no interest in helping anyone. I walked around the store feeling slightly claustrophobic. There was barely a pathway carved between the massive Christmas trees that dominated every room. Most rooms had a fireplace with mantels decorated with candles and garland. Whole walls were given over to ornament displays. The scent of evergreen became cloying after a while, but I didn’t mind. I loved the Christmas store.

Around every corner was something that brought the tug of a warm familiar feeling. Ornaments and things that I loved as a child. A ballerina I had wanted to be. A gingerbread man who was always her savior. The rocking horse they used to ride away. I loved that rocking horse. I touched the small animal’s face and remembered my mother and gifts piled up four-feet high around the Christmas tree.

I approached the bored teenager. “Excuse me?” I said. “I see on the door that you’re looking for help. What type of position is available?”

“I dunno,” the girl said. “Let me get the manager.”

A short, pleasantly round woman with a mass of teased hair and makeup to rival a televangelist’s wife came from behind a curtain. “Hi. I’m CeCe. Can I help you?” she asked. Her red jingle bell earrings bobbed when she spoke.

“I saw your sign and well…I was just wondering what type of help you are looking for. Anything on weekends?”

“We need an assistant manager. That’s some weekend work, but we’d need that person around a lot during the week too. You know Christmas is almost upon us.” The way she said it, you knew she was happy in her work.

“Well, I can’t during the week. I have a job. I was just…I don’t know…drawn to your shop.”

“I know. Isn’t it wonderful? Christmas every day.” Her smile was genuine. “Here. Just take an application.” She reached behind the counter and came out with one. “Go on. Take it. You never know.”

I took the application and thanked her. Before I left I bought the tiny wooden rocking horse with a wreath around his neck. The smell of evergreen swirled from the cute shopping bag on my way to pick up my mother.

Inside the facility I spied her in a corner with her newfound friend. They were both heads down, working a puzzle.

“Hey, Ms. Duncan,” the director greeted me.

“Michelle, please.”

“Well, Michelle, your mother seems to have had a wonderful day.”

“I was surprised you didn’t call.”

“Oh, no. She’s been happy all day. She did have a few moments when her mind drifted some, but she came right back and everything was fine.”

“Thank you so much. She looks great.”

“Why don’t you go on over and speak with her?”

My mother was happy to see me, but she seemed a little disappointed when I asked her to gather her sweater and purse.

In the car, she waved to her friend, who raised a hand in reply.

“You seem like you like it,” I said as I drove out of the parking lot.

“It’s fine, sweetheart. Much better than I thought it would be.” She paused and looked out the window as we passed through town. “Although, the cupcakes were a little dry.”

I smiled. My mother was back.

I found the Interstate and we left Asheville behind.

Shadows fall early in the mountains and a cloak of calm descends on the valleys in early evening. My road to home was nearly dark as I turned into my drive.

“Would you be interested in going back?”

She took the longest time to answer and I worried that she hadn’t really enjoyed herself.

“Mom? Did you hear me?”

“What? I’m sorry. Did you ask me something?”

“I asked if you enjoyed it enough that you’d be willing to go back again.”

“Of course,” she said and sighed. “It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

I pulled up my sloping drive and parked. I helped my mother from the car and we entered through the porch door. I tried to avoid coming in through the garage now with Randy gone. The garage was his domain and it somehow seemed wrong for me to intrude.

Inside she brushed off my attempts to help.

“My mind may be going, but my legs still work just fine,” she said and headed upstairs.

At least she still has a sense of humor
, I thought.

In the kitchen, I flung my purse on the counter and opened the refrigerator. I found the orange juice carton and was reaching into a cabinet for a glass when I saw the note on the table. I could tell it was Randy’s scratchy handwriting before I even picked it up.

I sank into a chair. My hand trembled as I reread the note. “Haven’t been in love for a long time”? What did he mean? How long had he felt that way and why hadn’t he said anything? Didn’t he know that people worked out their problems? They went to marriage counseling and talked to their preacher. Nobody just walked out on a marriage without some sort of warning, without trying to fix things.

My parents had had their problems. I heard more than one heated discussion in our house over the years, but they always seemed to work things out. There had been the overly quiet dinners and the days we didn’t do things as a family because of a spat, but everything eventually turned out okay.

I was going to be divorced.

I flung open the door to the garage and there I saw all of Randy’s stuff growing like chunky moss from the unfinished walls. He’d hammered nails into the joists to hang tools and fishing rods and camping equipment. Weed-whackers, gas cans, coolers, and tools were jam-packed along the walls. I grabbed a handful of the first thing I could reach and ripped. A tent came tumbling down onto the floor. Pinions pinged against the concrete and scattered. I crunched my foot through the fragile wall of an ice bucket. I pushed the button to open the garage and cranked the riding mower. It sputtered to life and I backed it out and up to the trailer on his johnboat. That stupid boat had taken my spot in the garage long enough. I was going to clean house—to pile all his stuff in the front yard and set it on fire with gas like I’d seen a woman do in a movie. I hooked the johnboat up to the yard tractor and put her in gear, but the mower lurched and stalled. I tried again and again, but I couldn’t get the damn thing to cooperate. The battery made a feeble whir, but the engine refused to turn over.

“Damn it!” I screamed. “Damn it! Damn it!” I kicked at the metal wheel wells until a pain shot up my leg.

That’s when I laid my head over on the steering wheel and cried. Plump tears popped onto the dusty gearshift between my legs. Most of my tears fell on the big N and the irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d been in neutral for a long time. Safe. Expected. That’s what I was like. A neutral kind of person. Maybe that’s what had finally run Randy off. Maybe I bored him. Maybe he had found somebody else who wasn’t quite so boring.

I had snot running, so I climbed off the mower and headed into the house. Inside I dug in my purse for the tissues I always kept in a side pocket. As I raised the crinkled tissue to my nose I noticed another bit of paper peeking from an outside pocket. I pulled the paper out. It was the job application from Season’s Greetings. I grabbed a pen from my kitchen desk and sat down. I hadn’t filled out a job application since I graduated college fifteen years before, but something told me that this was going to be a new start for me. I couldn’t very well keep my regular job if I had to take care of my mother all the time. If she didn’t get into a nursing home soon, I was going to be in a pickle with nobody to help me. Maybe this was what I had needed—a good kick in the butt to get me going down a different path.

I spent the next hour carefully filling out the job application and when I finished I realized that my penmanship was beautiful and my qualifications exceeded the job description that had been attached. It was a full-time position with pay equal to what I was making at the mulch company. If they hired me, I could drop Mom off in the morning at adult day care and pick her up in the afternoon. Season’s Greetings could fix some of my immediate problems. It was a plan.

I called Randy’s cell phone number and in a calm voice I left this message:

Relief rushed over me when I pushed the mobile button that ended my connection with Randy.