Inhaling a deep breath through my nose, I recognize the smell of those organic cleaning products I order online, fresh paint—which probably offsets the organic cleaners, but I’ll get over it—and faintly of cardboard boxes. It smells like home.
Never, in my wildest dreams, did I think I was going to move to Flinton, Texas. I’ve resisted for years, mostly because the entire process sounded daunting. But life changes. Circumstances change. Now here I am, standing in my new house, everything already moved in, thanks to my brother, Jack, and his new girlfriend, Joie.
I’d never admit it to Jack because he worries enough as it is, but I feel a sense of peace I haven’t had in a really long time. The last several years have been rough.
When the kids were still little, I filed for divorce from my ex-husband after I found out he was stealing money from our son’s medical account. A few weeks later, the feds showed up at our door to arrest him. Over the next few months, he was tried and convicted of misuse of funds at his job where he was in line to be the next chief financial officer. Something about skimming funds off the top of people’s accounts. I didn’t really understand all of it, being that there were pages upon pages of mathematical data as proof. Basically, it boiled down to a whole lot of theft. Luckily for the company, it was caught before Neil could take over as CFO and do more damage.
Unluckily for me, however, part of the investigation looked into all of our tax returns. Turns out, he was falsifying those as well.
At first, fingers were pointed at me too, which was incredibly stressful. Very quickly they realized I had no idea this was going on behind my back. It wasn’t that I didn’t pay attention; I’m just not a numbers girl. I’m a word girl. Upper level math makes no sense to me, taxes practically making me itch, and he had a master’s degree in business and accounting. I never thought twice about him taking on that task during our ten-year marriage. Until he was arrested, that is.
Because of his crimes, everything was confiscated—our home, all the bank accounts, his 401K. Everything. Fortunately for me, my parents left a sizeable inheritance when they died a few years before the whole fiasco started. It legally couldn’t be touched in the seize, and that’s the only reason the kids and I were able to start fresh without worrying where we would live.
I’m not happy about how I got the money. I would give it all back for my parents to be here with us, but I am grateful they had a good financial planner who knew exactly what to do when they died.
I still need to work to make ends meet. There are still utilities and medications and other life necessities, but at least I was able to pay for our home outright. That takes a lot of the pressure off. And having a special needs teenager, it’s not like I can get a regular eight-to-five job. He has to be supervised at all times, and at seventeen years old, no daycare in the world will take him in.
Oliver is a great kid, don’t get me wrong. He’s kind and loving and funny. But there were issues when he was born. His umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck twice, forcing an emergency C-section. After we brought him home, everything seemed normal. He was a happy baby, and I loved being a mom. We trudged through the toddler years like everyone else and believed our sweet boy had come through his traumatic birth unscathed. But at about six years old, things started to change. He stopped maturing emotionally and became more defiant. Things stopped “clicking” for him, when they continued to click for the other kids.
We’ve done multiple batteries of tests, all of which have been inconclusive, with the exception of confirmation he suffered a certain level of brain damage, likely linked back to oxygen deprivation at birth.
All that being said, every day is a struggle when your child has the emotional maturity of an eight-year-old, with the impulse control to match, while living in the body of a hormonal seventeen-year-old. It can get rough. That’s one of the reasons I’m glad we’re finally in Flinton near family.
Julie, on the other hand, my fifteen-year-old daughter, is a stereotypical teenager in every sense of the word. Well, maybe not totally stereotypical. She has a special needs brother and a dad in prison. She’s not normal at all.
But what she is, is relatively easy. Compliant. Mild-mannered. She doesn’t like going to parties. She has a very small social circle, just a couple close friends. She loves trying new activities and being involved, but she doesn’t strive to be the best at them, just enjoys the participation and knowing lots of things about lots of things. It’s one of the characteristics I love about her. She has a thirst for knowledge.
I know I shouldn’t rely on how steady she is because she’s my child and I’m the mother, but with all the other chaos that goes on around us, it’s nice having a low maintenance child. We can sit in the same room together and just be, without worrying about the other one having some sort of outburst.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t consider myself her friend at this stage in our lives. I’m her mother. My job is to guide her, even when she hates me for it. But in a situation like ours, I imagine it’s more of a unique kind of bond than in homes with greater stability. We rely on each other differently than most. It’s either going to help us get through the tumultuous years, or I’ll never see her again after she leaves for college. It remains to be seen which direction she goes. Especially now that we’ve moved.
We haven’t had the opportunity to rest much lately. Between packing up our lives in Kansas, driving a moving truck down here while towing my car, which was an adventure in and of itself, and getting everyone enrolled in school, it’s been a whirlwind. At this point, at least, everyone seems to be adjusting well.
In fact, while both kids are at school and things are calm, I better check in with my client.
Sitting at my new desk in the open dining-room-turned-office, I grab my cell and get comfortable. I’ve always dreamed of having a home office with custom bookshelves around the room, and this area was perfect. Because it’s technically a formal dining room, I can see right into the living areas and keep an eye on things while I work. As soon as I claimed it for my office, I had bookshelves installed. Every time I sit in my chair and see the finished product, it makes me smile. As a freelance book editor, sometimes my clients will send me the finished product in paperback form, all pretty and usually signed. They finally, finally have a place to be displayed proudly, and it gives me a sense of accomplishment whenever I look up. I need that. It reminds me my hard work is worth it.
I always wanted to work in a publishing house, and I did for a while when I first got married. But once Oli’s issues began to surface, there was no way for me to work. It’s impossible to hold down a job when you have to be on-call and available to go to your child’s school on a moment’s notice if he’s having a meltdown. It happens more frequently than any job would accommodate for. Not to mention summer break when there is no reprieve at all.
Thankfully, that was around the time the self-publishing world took off and many of my financial issues were solved. Or at least helped. I got a few jobs with indie authors who didn’t want to spend years trying to get a publishing deal. They did it themselves, and I helped. Slowly but surely, I built a good reputation and gained new clients. And here I am, several years later, with a fairly successful business and clients who book several months out.
My first client, Aggie, known to the world as Adeline Snow, was one of the first indie authors to hit the New York Times Best Seller list. She was almost immediately picked up by a publisher and technically doesn’t need me to do most of her editing anymore. But she’s a perfectionist and wants each manuscript to be as clean as possible before sending to her official editor. Enter me. A super beta, a content editor, her biggest supporter. However you want to spin it, I’m still part of her team and get to work on her books first.
Plus, we’ve had a relationship for so long, we’ve become friends.
It only takes a couple of rings before she picks up the phone. “How did you know I was suffering from a horrific case of writer’s block? Do you have super powers?”
I chuckle under my breath. “Are you at the bookstore?”
“How did you know that?”
“Are you staring at a cardboard cut-out of Spencer?”
“No, really, are you stalking me? Where are you? You’re hiding behind one of the bookshelves, aren’t you?”
This time I laugh out loud. “What if I told you I was standing right behind Spencer’s cardboard body, staring at you though the holes in his eyes?”
“I’d tell you that was the creepiest thing you’ve ever said, and I may have to end this friendship.”
I gasp. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“No, I wouldn’t dare. But I really hope you’re not here because that would be weird, and I refuse to be involved if you get arrested for loitering.”
“Well, you can relax, my friend. I am not stalking you. I’m sitting in my new office chair in my new office in my new house.” I swivel the chair, punctuating my point, even though she can’t see it.
“Oooh! That sounds amazing! Did you get all your books unpacked?” I knew that was coming. Getting the bookshelf set up is every author’s priority in a move.
“Sadly, I think I may not have enough shelving. I might need to get another custom one made.”
“Those are the single greatest words you have ever said to me.”
“I knew you’d appreciate it.” And I do. She might be a best-selling author, but she’s a reader first and foremost.
“Seriously. I think I may have just had a Big O right in this bookstore.”
Now the red flags go up. “You are making inappropriate comments in public. Exactly how bad is this block? If you drop the F-bomb, I’m flying out there to put you on a 5150-Hold at the local psych ward.”
“Please don’t,” she groans. “I hear Courtney Love might be back in there, and she frightens me. I don’t want to be her bitch.”
My eyes widen. “Oh my. This is bad.”
“I don’t know what to do, Greer. I’m really stuck this time.”
Shifting out of friend mode and into work mode, I put on my encourager cap. “First of all, it’s a psych ward, not a prison. No one will make you their bitch.”
“You’ve never been there. You don’t know that for sure.”
“Second,” I interrupt, ignoring her theatrics, “you say that every time, Adeline, and you’re never actually stuck. You only need a little bit of motivation.”
“Which is why I’m here. I’m getting my motivation.”
“Why don’t you buy your own cardboard cut-out of Spencer for your house?”
“Because that would be creepy.”
I quirk an eyebrow she can’t see. “No creepier than sitting in a public store staring at it from across the room.”
What sounds like a thump, vibrates through the speaker. I assume it’s her head hitting the table in defeat. “I don’t know what to do, Greer.”
“Well, let’s sort this out,” I say as I spin my favorite gel pen around my fingers. Which reminds me, I need to find the nearest office supply store. Pens, Post-it Notes, corkboards—they’re my weakness. It’s the one thing I miss about working in an actual office. It was like Christmas every time there was a delivery. “What do you have so far?”
“He’s a surfer.”
“Ooooh, surfing this time. I like it. You haven’t done that one yet. What else?”
“That’s it. It’s all I have. He’s a surfer.”
The pen freezes in my hand. “Adeline.”
“Yes,” she says sheepishly.
“Honey, you do know you’re supposed to have thirty thousand words to me in the next month.”
“I know.” Another thud. “I’ve never been blocked this badly before. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m looking at my muse—right at him. Oh crap. I just got caught looking at my muse.”
A laugh bursts out of me.
“This isn’t funny. I can’t seem to get any inspiration, and I certainly can’t do it when I keep getting caught trying to find it.”
“Maybe you need to find a new muse.”
The sound of a shrill gasp crosses the line. “You take that back,” she whispers harshly, making me laugh.
“Okay, okay, fine,” I respond, still chuckling. “Spencer is your muse. He will always be your muse. Why not take it a step further?”
She gasps again. “I can’t write about what he actually does!”
This is what I love about Adeline Snow. She’s quirky, odd, and a bit socially awkward. Known for creating heroes who are extreme sports gurus, she has cornered the market of Sports Romance. Yet, she refuses to touch skateboarding simply because she never wants anyone to find out all her books are inspired by Spencer Garrison, professional skateboarder, unknown muse and author of a new autobiography, which is why his cardboard form is sitting in a book store.
I don’t know how she does it. How she makes different stories about different sports all because of one guy. It’s a talent. Spencer is a super hero in her eyes, and she can make him be anything she wants him to be.
Hopefully, their paths will never cross. I’m not sure she’d ever recover if she found out he’s actually human.
“Well, what about making the heroine a single mom?” I toss out, beginning our back and forth brainstorming.
“Ugh. It’s been done.”
“What if she’s older?”
“Like a cougar story?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“I’m just not feeling it.”
“How about a secret baby?”
“Wait.” I can practically hear the gears turning in her head. “Like he left town to pursue his dream of being a pro surfer, and on his way across country, he has a one-night stand and doesn’t know he has a child until she finally tracks him down?”
“Oh, Adeline that sounds great.”
“Eh. Too cliché.”
I smack my hand to my forehead. “You really are blocked.”
“I am, Greer. I so am,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Maybe I need to go on this promotional tour and meet some people to inspire me. You know how much wandering around new cities and taking pictures helps open up my brain to creativity.”
“That’ll probably help.”
We chat for a few more minutes about her work-not-actually-in-progress as well as a few more administrative things before I hear the front door open. Julie walks around the corner and waves at me, knowing better than to interrupt a phone call while her brother isn’t home. Uninterrupted time is a commodity around here.
“Hey, Adi, I need to let you go. Kids are getting out of school, and I need to get into mom mode. They’ve only been in school for a week so we’re trying to get this new routine down.”
Poor Adeline. She knows my home life situation and is always accommodating. She doesn’t know how much it makes things easier on me, but really does.
“All right, well, wish me luck.” I know she really means it.
“Good luck. But, Adi, you’ve got this. I know you do.”
“Thanks. And hey, Greer?” She stops me right before I hang up.
“Yeah?”
“You got this too. This move is the best thing for you.”
My whole body relaxes at her words.
“Thanks, Adeline. I think we’re finally where we’re supposed to be.”
And I do. Something in my gut is telling me this is it. This is the last place I’m going to live, and I’m perfectly okay with that.
We get off the phone right as the bus pulls up. Time to take over afternoon duties. That means switching from career woman mode into mom mode. Not that Adeline and I are all that professional when she’s in a mood like today’s. Still, the kids come first.
Opening the door, Oli ambles up the walkway and into the house.
“Hey, buddy. How was school?”
“Good,” he says vaguely. Oli has a hard time coming up with intricate answers to questions. There’s no asking how his day was and getting an explanation of an assignment he didn’t like or a funny conversation. His standard answers are either “good” or “bad,” which still isn’t all that accurate. But I’ll take this one to mean nothing overly upsetting happened. It’s a small win, but I’ll take it.
Unsurprisingly, he heads straight for the pantry. Oli may have his own issues, but his appetite is right on track for a seventeen-year-old boy.
“What was good about it?” I try to pull more information out of him. It’s good practice for his social skills.
“Nothing.”
Okay. It wasn’t as good as I’d hoped, but I’m actually not surprised. We do this conversation song and dance almost every day. Then we argue over peanut butter, like we’re about to again. I brace myself and hope he’s in a good enough mood that we can practice some sandwich-making skills this afternoon.
“Oli, that’s too much peanut butter. Remember we talked about how to spread it across the bread?” I ask gently, trying to sound encouraging and not nagging.
He grabs a jar of honey and begins squeezing it on the other slice of bread, completely ignoring me.
“And that’s too much honey.”
I snatch it out of his hands so he’ll stop making a pool of liquid sugar, and he yells, “Hey! I was using that!”
“Oliver,” I say sternly, “you are ignoring me. You need to spread the peanut butter and not use that much honey. That much sugar isn’t good for you.”
“Yes, it is,” he says, smashing the two pieces of bread together and taking a giant bite. I’m almost positive he didn’t get a hint of protein in that morsel since the peanut butter is still a lump in the center of the sandwich.
“No, it’s not. And I’m not going to argue with you about it. If you won’t use the right portions, you won’t be allowed to make your own sandwiches.”
He rolls his eyes, another normal teenage thing to do. “Why do I have to learn that anyway? That’s stupid.”
“It’s part of being an adult. Knowing how to eat good portion sizes will help keep you healthy.”
“I don’t want to be healthy.”
Our conversation is beginning to spiral, and I know if I don’t change topics, it could be leading to a meltdown. So, I close the jar and the bread bag and hope to transition to something less volatile.
Who knew Jiffy could cause so much drama?
“Are you excited to work at the farm tomorrow?”
“No.”
His answer surprises me. It’s all he’s been talking about all week. His new school offers a co-op opportunity for the special education kids where they go out to a local farm and work. It’s a great opportunity, and we were lucky to get him in. Not everyone is accepted into the program. I hope this attitude doesn’t transcend over to tomorrow. I’d hate for it to ruin his first day.
“How come?”
He takes a giant bite of his food before answering, “I don’t like riding the bus.”
Putting the food back in my new giant pantry, which may be my favorite part of the house, I purse my lips at him. “Since when? You love riding the bus.”
“Huh uh,” he argues. “I don’t like when the other kids sneeze.”
I lean my forearms against the counter, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. “People sneeze all the time. Why does it bother you now?”
“Cause this girl sits behind me, and she sneezes and gets germs all on the back of my head.”
A lightbulb goes off in my brain. Oli isn’t usually obsessed with germs, but I can see why he would be grossed out by someone sneezing on him. I would be too.
“Have you told your bus driver about it?”
“No. Can I have my tablet?” The subject change is immediate, but not exactly surprising.
“You know you can’t have it until seven o’clock.”
Hands clenched together, he stomps his foot on the floor and yells. “That’s not fair! It’s my tablet, not yours!”
Aaaaannnnnd, here we go.
“It is fair. The rule is you have to do your chores first, and at seven, we’ll talk about how much tablet time you’ve earned.”
Pressing his lips in a hard line, he squeezes his eyes shut and brings his fists to his forehead. If I wasn’t used to it, the mood change would be jarring. It’s almost sad that, because this is our normal now, it doesn’t faze me.
Finally, after taking a few seconds to try and calm down, Oli tries a different tactic. “Mom, I had a hard day. I’m tired. I want my tablet time now.”
“No, Oliver, don’t ask me again.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Julie walk in the room just as Oli gets more enraged. He bellows out in frustration, making Julie turn on her heel and head to her room. I hate that she doesn’t even flinch when these outbursts happen. And I hate that I have to go talk to our new neighbors and let them know they don’t need to call the cops.
No domestic violence here. Just a boy stuck in a man’s body and all the frustrations that go with it.
“I hate you!” he screams at me. “You’re the worst mom ever!”
I blow out a breath as he stomps off, grateful when his bedroom door slams shut. At least he didn’t break anything on his way out of the room this time.
Deep breath in.
It still smells like cleaning products and paint and cardboard boxes. It’s the smell of a new beginning to our lives. I’ll take all the baby steps I can get.