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“I’ll apply for the program at WT instead.”
“Isn’t it too late?”
“I’ll apply for the spring semester.”
I glance at Carl. “Do we know anyone at WT I could call?”
Taylor lifts her chin. “I don’t need you to get me in.” She sounds offended.
“Do you know someone?” I ask her.
She glares at me, and I immediately regret my implication. But she knows as well as anyone that her grades are subpar.
I try to find a positive side to all this. If, by some miracle, she does get in at WT, at least she’ll be closer to home. West Texas A&M is twenty minutes away from Amarillo, as opposed to the two hours it takes to drive to Lubbock.
“Please don’t spend any more of the money in that account on extravagances,” I say to her. “It’s for tuition and books. Things like that.”
“Okay. I won’t.”
“Just so you’re not tempted,” Carl says, “I’ll call the bank tomorrow and have you taken off the account.”
“Dad-dy. Don’t you trust me?”
The question elicits a wry chuckle from Carl. “Where do the two of you plan to set up house?”
“In Mooney’s aunt’s garage apartment.”
“That place he lives now?” My stomach drops. I went there with Taylor once when we were shopping and she found Mooney’s cell phone in her purse. He needed it, so we dropped by. The sight of that apartment made me wonder what on earth Mooney had done to brainwash my daughter. Before meeting him, she wouldn’t have stepped foot in such a place. Peeling paint. A dangling shutter. A swamp cooler in the window. A thorny, weedy patch of yard. The inside was worse. Stained, threadbare carpet. Musty, stale beer scent. Dark stuffy rooms—three of them; a living room/kitchen combo, one bedroom and a tiny bath. Completely depressing. I can’t imagine Taylor happy there.
“The two of you should move in with us,” I blurt in desperation. “We have plenty of space. Too much for two people.”
“Dana.” Carl groans, and Taylor looks as if she’s been slapped.
I know what’s going through his mind. He can’t stand being in the same room with Mooney for more than a couple of hours. How would he manage to share a house with the boy for who knows how long? But I know Taylor. As soon as her love-induced, or lust-induced, stupor wears off, that garage apartment will horrify her. She likes pretty things: flowers, hardwood floors, landscaped backyard pools. Comfortable things: thick carpets, modern appliances, central heat and air.
She pushes the gas pedal harder. The needle jumps to eighty. “Relax, Daddy. We wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you. Besides, I like the apartment.” She never could lie convincingly. Her marital status may have changed, but that hasn’t.
As Taylor turns on screeching tires into our neighborhood, I stare out the window. Goodbye, red roses…mistletoe…red velvet cake…string quartet. Goodbye, my reason for getting out of bed in the morning for the next few months. “Why, Taylor?” I ask quietly. “I was planning such a beautiful wedding for—”
“That’s why, Mom.” She whips into our driveway. “You were planning. I knew that’s what would happen. No matter how hard I’d try to stand my ground, you’d turn it into your wedding, not mine.”
“Young lady…” Carl says, but his voice trails off and he doesn’t finish the sentence.
“It’s true,” Taylor huffs. “She doesn’t think I can do anything right without her input. Even plan my own wedding. It would’ve ended up being all about what she wanted, not Mooney and me.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I’m too stunned, too hurt, to speak. Carl remains silent, and I can’t help wondering if he agrees with her.
Taylor hits the button on the garage opener hooked over the visor. The door glides up. She pulls inside. As she helps us carry our bags into the house, nobody speaks.
Carl scratches his head. “I need a shower.” He kisses Taylor’s cheek. “Are you happy, punkin?”
She blinks her big blue eyes at him and smiles. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Well, then…” Carl sighs and hugs her. “Congratulations, baby.” He doesn’t sound any more excited than he looks, but Taylor either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
She beams. “Thank you, Daddy.”
Pulling his suitcase behind him, he leaves us alone in the living room.
I kick off my shoes and collapse on the couch. Taylor slouches beside me, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry, Mom. I was a little hard on you in the car. I know you’re disappointed about the wedding.”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie.” Ignoring my aching bruised feelings, I smile at her.
“I know you and Daddy don’t like Mooney.”
“It’s just—he’s not—” I hesitate. “Daddy and I wanted you to have—”
She narrows her eyes. Her nostrils flare.
“I need to get to know Mooney better, sweetie, that’s all. I’m sure he’s a wonderful person.” At least I hope he is. Somewhere beneath all the hair and rock-jock attitude.
“He is.” Taylor’s eyes dare me to doubt that.
I take her hand. “The truth is, I’m a little worried about how the two of you will get by and—” Her fingers tense; I give up. “I guess I should be thinking about a wedding gift. Is there anything in particular you want?”
“I’ve been talking to Mooney about that.” She pops upright beside me. “We would absolutely love to go to Hawaii for our real honeymoon.”
I lift my brows and start to tell her no. No way in hell. Not a chance. She didn’t consult with us before she spent her college money on a rushed elopement. She deprived her parents of watching their only daughter wed. Deprived me of the experience of planning a wedding with her. It will take some time and several glasses of wine to get over all that.
But I’m no stronger than Carl. One look, and her excited eyes get to me, like always. How can I disappoint her? Making her happy makes me happy. And when she’s sad, I’m sadder. True, I think she made a mistake marrying Mooney, but my parents thought the same thing about me when I married Carl. In time, they grew to love him and, though right now I can’t imagine it, I’m hopeful we’ll learn to love Mooney, too.
“I’ll talk to your dad.” I pat her hand.
She throws her arms around me. “Thank you, Mom! You and Daddy are the best. I love, love, love you.”
The magic words. Taylor learned their power at an early age. “I love you, too.”
Once upon a time, she was as guileless, innocent and easy to deal with as she looks. Eager to please and easy to please. A breath of fresh air. All it took was a sunny day or a smile and a kiss to make her happy.
Then she turned two.
Taylor sits back. “I’d better get home to my husband. My husband! Can you believe it? I’m Mrs. Mooney Maloney!”
“No, sweetie, I can’t.” I don’t want to. On the plane, I was so absorbed with thoughts of planning a wedding, I didn’t pay serious enough attention to Carl’s misgivings about the marriage. How will my high-dollar, directionless daughter and that even less-directed boy ever be able to provide for themselves in the manner Taylor expects?
Looking at her now in her hundred-and-eighty-five-dollar jeans, primping her hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-month hairstyle with professionally manicured fingernails, I almost feel sorry for Mooney. Almost. How did that aimless young man manipulate my beautiful daughter into marrying him? What kind of underhanded stunt did he pull?
My heart drops as I’m hit square on by a dreadful possibility. “Taylor…you’re not…?” Swallowing, I stare at her, sick inside.
“What?” She frowns, then widens her eyes, covers her mouth with one hand and laughs. “Mo-om! Pregnant? Ohmygod! No! Not yet.”
Not yet.
Taylor stands. “Oh, Mom, by the way, could I borrow a little money? We really need groceries. Mooney gets his check on Fridays. We’ll pay you back then.”
Weary, I blink at her. I’ve made her life too easy. Troy’s, too. I’m afraid they don’t know how to fend for themselves, and it’s my fault.
Pushing to my feet, I say, “Sure, Taylor. Let me find my checkbook. How much do you need?”
CHAPTER 3
On the fifth ring, Troy answers his cell phone. “Hey.”
Relief. The sound of his voice springs tears to my eyes. I blink them back. “Hi, sweetie. How are you?”
“Good, Mom.”
“What are you doing?”
“Walking to class.”
I glance at the clock. Ten minutes to nine. Shifting my attention out the bedroom window, I stare into the backyard at the oak tree he used to climb. Over the years, it has been responsible for many of his skinned knees. And I was always close by to make them better. “Oh, that’s right,” I say. “You have class in a few minutes, don’t you? I keep forgetting the time difference.” When he doesn’t say anything, I blurt, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” I hear a muffled sound, laughter, then he says, “I have to go.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You sound tired. Why didn’t you call me back last night?”
“Because we talked yesterday morning.”
“I just wanted to hear about your day.” I nibble my lower lip.
“I need to go, Mom. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay. I miss—” A click sounds. Feeling like a snubbed little girl, I punch off the phone, lay it down.
For the next ten minutes, I stare at the oak tree’s gently swaying branches and worry about Troy. It’s been more than two weeks since we left him in Colorado. I’ve talked to him every day. Sometimes twice. Each time I call, he sounds more distracted and has less to say. I tell myself a voice from home will boost his spirits, let him know we’re thinking about him, make him feel less alone.
Until this morning, he has never hung up on me.
I’ve been reading a book about the college experience. I bought it when Taylor left home for SMU. Apparently, depression is common among freshmen in the early weeks of the first semester, though Taylor never seemed to experience it.
I wander into the kitchen, pour coffee, sip. The day looms ahead, a void of empty hours to fill. Last week I planted pansies in the flower beds, caught up on the laundry from our trip, sorted through the mail and had a manicure, pedicure and massage. Day before yesterday, I removed the left-behind posters from Troy’s bedroom walls, put away trophies and trinkets, dug pennies and quarters and dimes from the carpet, pulled crumpled napkins and homework papers from beneath the bed. Yesterday, I bought a new spread and window valances in dark green—Troy’s favorite color. I chose wall hangings and paintings and throw pillows, careful to keep everything masculine for when he’s home for the holidays and summers.
At least six times over the past two weeks, I’ve had lunch with friends. But they all still have children at home, and they’re busy with the start of the fall semester—school volunteer work and sports booster club meetings. Mad dashes to Wal-Mart for poster board and colored pencils. Hungry teenagers to feed in the late afternoons and early evenings. I couldn’t find anyone free to meet me later today.
And I don’t have one thing to do.
In the next room, the vacuum cleaner whirs. Myra, my once-a-week housekeeper is hard at work. I walk into the living room and tap her shoulder. She startles and twists around, then turns off the vacuum. “You scared the crap out of me,” Myra barks. She is a woman with a gruff manner and little to say. For some reason, she always seems irritated, even on the few occasions when she laughs. But she can make a toilet bowl twinkle like a diamond; when she finishes scrubbing one, you almost feel guilty using it.
Myra tightens the rubber band securing her limp, shoulder-length gray hair into a loose ponytail.
I blink at her. “Why don’t you take a break and have a cup of coffee with me?”
She blinks back and frowns. “Coffee?” Her bushy brows pull together in the center. In the six years she has worked for me, I have never asked her this question before. Oh, we chat about the weather or at least grunt, Hello, how’re you doin, at one another when she’s cleaning and our paths cross, but we aren’t chummy. “I don’t need a break.” She sounds wary. As if she suspects an ulterior motive behind my invitation. As if she fears I might say I found dust bunnies hopping on the coffee table last week after she left, and I have to fire her. “I’ve only been here thirty minutes,” she informs me.
“Oh.” We stare at one another for five or so seconds before she hits the switch on the vacuum and it whirs to life again.
Depression. The book didn’t mention that parents of college freshmen are prone to the malady, too. Mothers, at least. Carl doesn’t seem at all affected. He is back in high gear, working ten hours a day, often twelve. Sometimes I wonder if Carl would ever mention Troy if I didn’t bring him up first. Or Taylor, for that matter.
Taylor.
I return to the kitchen, pick up the phone and punch in her number.
“Hello!” she croaks.
“Did I wake you?”
“Mom.” She yawns. “Is the sun even up? What time is it?”
“After nine. Are you job hunting today?”
Another yawn. “I don’t know. Maybe. I haven’t lined anything up.”
She needs a lecture, but I’m too relieved to give it. Mooney works the day shift on Tuesdays. I know I’m being selfish, but if she isn’t job hunting, she can keep me company. “I’ve been thinking that you could use some things to spruce up your apartment. You know, to make it your own. A home instead of a bachelor pad.”
“You’re buying?” Suddenly, her voice sounds cheerleader-perky.
“Didn’t Mooney get paid Friday?” She still owes me for the groceries from two weeks ago. Neither she nor her new husband showed up with a check to reimburse me on his prior payday.
“Yeah, Mom, but we do have bills to pay, you know. And he needs a new amplifier for the band. They have a gig coming up and—”
“Sure, why not?” I interrupt. “The shopping spree’s on me.” Anything to get me out of this house.
“You think Elaine might be able to go?”
Elaine is a decorator who has helped me off and on through the years. She possesses the creative eye that I don’t. Still, garage apartments are not her forte. Maybe she will take pity on Taylor when I explain the situation. “I’ll give her a call and see,” I say. I’m feeling better already. Nothing is more fun than shopping with Elaine. And I could stand some easygoing time with my daughter. She hasn’t had a second for anyone but Mooney since the day they met. “When do you want me to pick you up?”
A pause, then Taylor says, “Do you have to go with us?”
Flustered, I stammer, “Well, yes. I, um, thought I would. Why?”
“It’s just…” A dramatic sigh. “We have completely different taste, Mom, and you always try to influence me.”
“Since when?”
“My condo at school? Remember? It ended up looking like your house.”
“That’s not true.” How is it she always puts me on the defensive? “I might have made a few suggestions, but nobody twisted your arm, Taylor. I never forced you to let me buy anything for you that I liked and you didn’t.”
