Off Her Rocker

“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.”

The vacuum quiets. I prop my elbow on my hip and pull the phone away from my ear to distance myself from Taylor’s whine.

“But you make me feel like I should buy what you want.”

Even with the phone extended, my daughter’s haughty voice comes through loud and clear.

Myra walks in, looks at me, raises a brow and heads for the sink.

“You hate the stuff I like,” Taylor continues. “You put out a vibe that either I have to go along with you or I get nothing.”

“Taylor Jane Logan! When was the last time I denied you anything? Hmmm?”

Not realizing I’m watching her, Myra rolls her eyes, then picks up a sponge and turns on the faucet.

A blush heats my face as I press the phone tighter to my ear and lower my voice. “You’re imagining things, Taylor. But if you feel that way, then you’re perfectly free to pay for everything yourself.”

A laugh sputters out of Myra. She glances at me, sobers, coughs.

“Yeah, right, Mom. Pay for it with what?”

“I guess redecorating isn’t such a good idea, after all.”

“So now you won’t pay?” Tears fill her voice. “Fine. I’ll just get a prescription for Paxil, then. This dump is so depressing I can barely drag myself out of bed in the mornings.”

I close my eyes. “You couldn’t drag yourself out of bed in the mornings when you lived here, and this house is certainly no dump.” Tapping my foot, I ask, “Have you talked to anyone at WT about their graduate program?”

“Not yet.”

“They aren’t going to come to you and beg you to apply, Taylor.”

“Very funny, Mom. I know I’m not as smart as Troy. You don’t have to keep reminding me.”

“I’ve never said that! Anyway, Troy’s scholarship was for basketball, not academics.”

“Oh, yeah. Just another thing he’s got going for him that I don’t. Athletic ability.”

“Taylor…quit feeling sorry for yourself. Get out of bed and do something.” With a start, I realize I should take my own advice. This morning, Myra rang the doorbell at eight-thirty and woke me. Yesterday, I slept until ten.

“So you won’t call Elaine?”

I count to five. “You call her, Taylor.”

“And you’ll pay for her time?”

“I’ll pay for three hours.”

“Three hours? That’s not long enough to decide on anything. How about six?”

“I said three.”

“Five, then.”

“Four,” I say.

“Okay.”

Proud of myself for not letting Taylor have her way, I send Myra a smug smile. She shakes her head, squirts Soft Scrub onto the stainless steel sink, and it occurs to me that I really didn’t stand my ground. Taylor managed to weasel an extra hour out of me. Once again, I’ve been manipulated by the master.

“What about the stuff we pick out?” Taylor asks.

Because I know my own weaknesses, I turn my back to Myra, disgusted with myself. Why do I always give in? “Get prices and give me a total. Then I’ll decide.”

“Okay.” Taylor sniffs but doesn’t argue, and I think to myself, She knows I’ll pay, whatever the price. She knows I’m a pushover when it comes to her and Troy. Everyone sees right through me. Even my housekeeper.

After hanging up, I consider calling my mother to ask if she wants to have lunch with me; that’s when I know just how desperate I am.

I need a walk. Fresh air to clear my mind, to give me perspective and revive my energy and enthusiasm. To help me figure out what I’m supposed to do for the rest of my life.

CHAPTER 4

Fifteen minutes later, I stand on the curb across the street from the high school my children attended. Classes are in full swing. Vehicles pack the student parking lot. A black Chevy Tahoe pulls into the visitor’s section, followed by a white minivan. Marliss Crocker and Vicky Avery. I remember it’s Tuesday and check my watch. After ten. They’re late for the first PTA board meeting of the year. I know the schedule by heart. Last year and the year before, I chaired the fundraising committee. Since my kids started school, I have served in every position at least twice, including president.

Atop a pole at the school’s entrance, the American and Texas flags billow and pop in the breeze as Marliss and Vicky climb from their vehicles. The greetings they call out to one another, their laughter, drift to me. They meet and start toward the building, side by side.

I feel thirteen again, as if I’ve arrived at my best friend’s house and discovered she’s having a party, and I wasn’t invited. Marliss is president this year. Vicky took over my position. I nibble my thumbnail cuticle. Marliss couldn’t organize a kindergarten homeroom party, and everyone in town knows Vicky’s careless spending habits bankrupted her husband last year. When those two were elected, I almost choked. They’ll squander all the money I worked so hard to raise for the school; I just know it.

Before they enter the front doors, Marliss glances back toward the lot. I scurry behind a car parked at the curb where I’m standing. Too late. She sees me and waves, then turns and says something to Vicky. Pausing to squint my direction, Vicky waves, too. Despite the distance separating us, I see the shock and pity in their expressions as they exchange a glance, then disappear into the building with their heads together.

I kick a tire. Why would they feel sorry for me? Squaring my shoulders, I straighten my wrinkled, coffee-stained T-shirt. So what if I look like I just climbed out of bed? I deserve a leisurely morning now and then, don’t I? I raised my children. I served my time as a volunteer. I’m retired. No shame in that. They’re just jealous that they aren’t free to do whatever they want to do.

Pushing tangled hair from my face, I step off the curb and jog across the street. Maybe I’ll take up running. Buy some of those cute little shorts and spandex tops with built-in bras and sail by here every morning looking toned and lithe and smug while they’re dropping off their freshmen and nibbling a doughnut, sipping their four-dollar five-hundred-calorie lattes with hazelnut syrup and wishing they’d worn elastic-waist pants instead of jeans.

When I reach the corner, a sharp pain stabs into my side and I have to stop to catch my breath. In the past two decades, the extent of my exercise program has been chasing kids, a daily leisurely walk and an occasional Kathy Smith fat-burning video. And the latter only if I had a special occasion coming up, such as a wedding or a class reunion, and I wanted to squeeze into something slinky and impress somebody. The truth is, I’ve been guilty of frequent doughnut and latte breakfasts myself. It’s no wonder that, right now, my throat aches, my shins and calves hurt, and I feel as if I might puke.

Clutching my stomach, I cut across the parking lot, then lean against the building next to a bush, panting. A flash of color on the other side of the window catches my eye. I peek in.

Even though they sit with their backs to me, I recognize all but a couple of the ten or so women inside. My former fellow PTA moms. Why are they meeting in the cafeteria? We always met in the auditorium. Leave it to Marliss to make waves.

I scan the group. Polly, my best friend, sits front row and center tapping a pencil against her chin, her curly dark hair still damp from her shower. Alice Mays sits beside her, still trying to look sixteen. She wears a too-tight spaghetti-strapped tank she probably borrowed from her daughter, short-shorts, tall-wedged sandals and her trademark ankle bracelet that spells her name in tiny silver letters; I see it because she has one leg crossed over the other and she swings her calf back and forth. In the back row, Sherry Pembry is nodding off. Marliss stands in front of the group, facing me, animated as she talks.

The pain beneath my rib cage subsides until only an aching emptiness remains. How did I get here? Forty-six years old, outside my kids’ former high school spying on the women I used to lead. Replaced. Displaced. Dethroned. An outsider looking in at a kingdom I once ruled.

My calf cramps. Cursing quietly, I reach down to rub it and stumble. To steady myself, I press a hand to the window and, when I glance up, Marliss catches sight of me. Our eyes meet. My heart jumps. I step out of sight behind the bush. Leaning back against the building’s cool brick wall, I close my eyes and concentrate on trying not to cry from humiliation.

A minute later, I hear the bush rustle, and open my eyes again. Polly stands in front of me.

“What are you doing, Dana?”

“Would you believe training for a marathon?”

She frowns.

“How about that I’ve hired on to wash these windows?”

Her brows arch.

“I didn’t think so.” I sniff and nibble my lip. “What are y’all talking about in there?”

“Ways to raise money for new lockers.”

I stand straighter. “Volunteer to find sponsors and I’ll do it for you. You know I’m good at that. The best.”

“Dana…” A sympathetic, concerned expression replaces Polly’s frown. “I’ve already volunteered to head up the back-to-school bake sale.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Why would you want to do that? Don’t you know how lucky you are to be through with all this?” She motions toward the building. “When my time comes, I’m going to enjoy doing nothing for a while.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Doing nothing gets old really fast, believe me.”

“But at lunch the other day you said—”

“I lied. I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. I’ve cried every single day Troy has been gone. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m completely and utterly pathetic.” I burst into tears.

Polly hugs me. “Do something just for you, for a change. You’ve earned the right.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Start a business. Get a job. Really run a marathon.” She steps back. “Give yourself some time. It’s only natural you’d be having a tough few weeks. You devoted yourself to those kids. Every day will get better, you’ll see. You’ll figure out what to do.”

My lower lip quivers. “I miss all this.”

“You’re only remembering the good stuff. You’re forgetting the aggravation.”

“Being a mother is the only thing I know how to do.”

“That’s not true.” She looks astounded that I would think such a thing. “You have a lot of talents.”

“Name one.”

Polly blinks rapidly. “You—” A short, sharp laugh, then she says, “You’re being silly.”

“You can’t think of anything.” I squint at her.

“Of course I can. But I need to get back to the meeting right now.” She takes my arm and tugs. “Go home. Make a list of all the things you’ve always wanted to do but didn’t have time for, then pick one.”

I wipe my eyes with the back of one hand.

“I’ll call you tonight,” Polly yells as she walks away.

For a full minute, I remain behind the bush, my arms at my sides, my gaze on my new Cole Haan sneakers. She couldn’t think of anything. My best friend could not come up with one single thing I’m good at.

On the walk home, I detour to the elementary school both Taylor and Troy attended. Small children are at recess. Settling on a nearby park bench, I listen to their squeals, their laughter. Watch them run and skip and climb on the playground equipment.