I’d fallen asleep last night on the couch with the TV on. Mom had woken me up, and I’d climbed into my bed and burrowed under the warm, soft covers. Now it was five a.m. and I was wide awake. I lay there, thinking of Christa, trying to push her out of my head. Finally, I gave up.
I grabbed a can of Diet Coke from the fridge and got the newspaper from the driveway. While drinking the Coke, I started the coffee going for Mom. I liked the smell of coffee. It made me think of my grandma.
There was a photo in the Houston Chronicle showing Christa’s husband, Steven, and their nine-year-old son, Scott, leaving her funeral in Concord. The caption said that their six-year-old daughter, Caroline, had also attended. I remembered Christa talking about her wedding, where she wore daisies in her hair and danced until dusk.
I hoped I wouldn’t always feel such sadness when I thought of her. People who lost others couldn’t live with this heavy emptiness every day; it had to get better. I still missed my grandpa, but the ache had lessened as the days went by.
It wasn’t just me Christa had affected. She’d pulled an entire nation into her heart. Probably because she was so fearless, but also because she didn’t just reach out for what she wanted; she called on each of us, wanting us to do the same.
“Coffeeee,” said Mom, coming in. “Thank you, Annie!” She poured a cup and sat beside me. “You’re up early.”
“How can you drink that black?”
Mom took a sip of the steaming cup. “Mmm. Perfect.” She grabbed some of the paper while she leaned over to see what I was reading. “Who’s that a picture of?”
I hesitated. “Christa’s husband and son.”
Mom frowned. “Don’t look at that, Annie. It’ll just make you more sad.” She pulled out the Lifestyle section.
I wondered at my mother’s ability to shut out the world and only deal with the pleasant things. Sure, Dad irritated the crap out of her, and she complained about it. But she didn’t let it affect her life, not really. This was partly how she did it: ignore the headlines, ignore the sad things.
And then I saw it. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed before.
“What?” Mom asked, staring at me.
I looked down at the ring.
Her left hand immediately closed.
“Were you going to tell me?” I asked.
“I was waiting until the time was right.”
“And you didn’t think I would notice the ring?”
“I hoped you’d be happy for me, Annie.”
“Oh, I so am,” I said sarcastically. “When’s the wedding? Am I invited?”
“I know you don’t like Donald now—”
“I don’t dislike him, Mom. I just don’t care. And you want me to embrace him like he’s my long-lost papa.”
“Annie,” she began, “do you remember when I told you there were two reasons why I wanted you to let Donald pay for your college?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I didn’t tell you the second reason. I … I just want you to feel like you’re part of a family. That you have people who will take care of you.”
“I already have a family, Mom. I have more family than most of my friends with you and Dad and all my aunts and cousins living right here in town. I don’t have a problem there.”
“But you don’t have a responsible dad—”
“I do have a dad, and it’s not Donald.”
A look of irritation crossed Mom’s face.
“Now, see, what’s that face about, Mom? Just because you hate my father—”
“Annie, I don’t hate—”
“—doesn’t mean I do. Sure, he’s irresponsible and thoughtless and just a mess, at least to you, but he’s my dad. And I like being with him. I mean, even though the car kept breaking down, he kept getting it fixed and even fixed it himself when he had to—just to get me home. And he’s fun. Sometimes it’s exciting to be around that.”
I pretended to read the paper, wishing Mom would go away. I looked up, irritated to see a smile on her face. “What’s up with you?”
“I was just thinking. When your dad and I were kids, just a little older than you …”
I put the paper down.
“… we drove down to Padre Island …”
I took a drink of my Coke. “Grandma let you?” Mom was the youngest and the only daughter, very close to her mom.
“I was a strong-minded girl.”
“But Grandma is too.”
“There was some clashing there. But it was 1965. And I had plans.” She looked wistful for a moment, younger. “So anyway, your dad and I parked on the beach in his old beat-up Mustang. We pitched a tent and went for a long walk, picking up seashells, playing in the waves. It was … perfect. And your father was so … young, so happy all the time. Fun.”
She had this dreamy look on her face. She never brought up Dad at all, except to complain about him. “Then we came back to the car.” She pressed her lips together and her eyes watered.
“What, Mom?” I asked. Was she upset?
“The tide had come in.” Mom’s eyes were lit with glee.
“So?”
“Well,” she said, “your father had parked the car right on the beach. And set up the tent at the edge of the water.”
“Oh no.”
“The tent was gone. Floating out to sea, along with our sleeping bags, our pillows, my little stuffed cat,” she said, “that I used to sleep with and brought everywhere with me.”
“Oh, Mom, you had a little stuffed cat?”
“I didn’t actually see the cat float away, but I knew it was out there in the Gulf of Mexico somewhere.”
“And the car?”
“We couldn’t drive it out. It was flooded up to almost the top of the wheels.”
“What did you do?”
“I was so freaked. I screamed, pointed at the tent. I yelled and yelled about my cat. I was so mad,” she said, shaking her head. “People on the beach were laughing. One guy was taking pictures. And your dad,” she said, a smile creeping up on her lips, “yelled, ‘I’ll find Maples!’ ”
“Maples?”
“My cat. And he ran into the waves and swam out. I thought he was going to drown. Well, of course, he didn’t find the cat. He came back out all wet, wading through the water to the car, and he opened the trunk, and came back with two cold beers in his hand. He popped the top of one and gave it to me, and said, ‘I’m sorry about Maples, babe.’ ”
I smiled.
Mom was watching me. “I don’t hate your dad, Annie.” She got up and poured another cup of coffee. Leaning against the counter, she took a sip of her coffee and looked off like she was still remembering. Then, she smiled. “But he is such,” she said in a most loving way, “an idiot.” She looked at me, her eyes a little teary. “I just got tired of being the only grown-up in the room.”
“Yeah,” I said, sad for all of us. I got up and stood by her, leaning against the counter, suddenly wanting to be near her.
She hugged me and then let me go. “It’s all right, Annie. It’ll be all right.”
“I’ll think about taking Donald’s money if I go to college,” I said. “But I’ll need to talk to Dad about it first.”
“Ah,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “That’s very brave of you. Are you sure? Because I can tell him.”
“I’m sure.” I smiled. “See, you’re not the only grown-up in the room.”