Stretching my arms over my head, I give my eyes a break from the manuscript I’ve been working on all day. Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Closer to three hours.
I love being an editor. I set my own hours. I choose my own projects. I get to be part of the creative process behind the scenes. It’s literally my dream job.
But so help me, if this client does not learn how to use an Oxford comma, I am liable to tattoo it on her forehead.
The front door clicks shut as I’m rolling my head around to stretch my neck.
“Hey Julie!” I call out.
Her head pops in the doorway. “Are you still working?” she asks, her straight black hair swinging like a curtain over her shoulder. It’s ridiculous how much she resembles her father. Tall and lanky. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark complexion. People used to always question if I was her biological mother because I’m so fair compared to her. Once they see us sitting side by side reading, the questions go away. Then we’re like mirror images of each other.
“Just getting ready to finish up for the day.” I relax my stretches and lean back in my chair. “How was school?”
She doesn’t respond. I know that look, though. It hasn’t been an easy transition for her.
“It’s fine.” She plops herself down in the extra chair.
“Make any new friends today?” She shakes her head, avoiding eye contact with me as she picks her nails. “Are the kids really that bad?”
She finally glimpses up at me, revealing the crinkle in her brow. “No, it’s not that.”
When we moved here, I wasn’t expecting her to have such a hard time. She’s never had a hard time making friends before. It’s obvious by her expression I was mistaken.
“It’s just… these kids have all grown up together, ya know? They started school together in kindergarten. It’s different than where we lived, when new people came in and out all the time. I’m the first new kid they’ve had in how many years?”
“I don’t know. How many years?” I ask, trying to lighten up the mood.
“I haven’t actually asked, Mom.” I know by her eye roll my playfulness isn’t helping the situation, so I give up and stick with validating.
“It’ll get better,” I tell her.
“I know. It’s just… I’m kind of glad to be able to start over where no one knows me. No one knows my story. I’m not the daughter of the most hated man in town anymore. But part of me, wishes I could go back.”
“Have you heard from Jamie yet?”
She shrugs half-heartedly, which is discouraging. She and Jamie were inseparable for the last couple of years. They weren’t quite boyfriend and girlfriend, but they were more than friends. It’s complicated in the world of high school freshmen. But I’m still surprised by her answer.
“I think he’s moved on. I guess with me not there every day, he’s forgotten about me.”
My heart breaks for her and once again, my mom guilt kicks in.
I have never doubted moving here was right for all of us. It got Oli into a great program at All Hands Farm. We were away from the judgmental stares of people who still blame me for my ex-husband’s illegal activities. It even gave Julie a fresh start to be someone besides “the daughter of that retched thief.” She knows it, and I know it. And while it was the right move for us, it doesn’t mean it’s an easy transition.
After such a hard conversation, I don’t want to switch topics on her, but I don’t have much choice.
“We got another letter today.”
Julie groans and leans her head back, draping her arm over her eyes. “Why doesn’t he just give up already?”
“Because he’s your father, and he’s never going to give up.”
She snaps her head up. “He was a terrible father before he was arrested. Now, what? He has nothing better to do with all his downtime?”
“Julie,” I warn.
“I know, I know. He’s still the only dad I’ll ever have.” She rolls her eyes again as she says it, in a move every teenager across America has perfected at some point. This time, I choose to ignore it.
“Right. Don’t burn that bridge.”
“Mom, I’m not the one who is burning anything. Dad is the one who made it a priority to work instead of coming to any of our activities or being home for dinner. It’s been what, six years since Dad moved out of the house so you could get divorced? Do you know I have no memory of him sitting down and having dinner with us? And not just after he was arrested. Ever.”
My gut twists at her words. Nobody wants to hear their child has no memories of their father making them a priority. Even if it’s painfully obvious what a scumbag he is now.
“The only times I remember him with us was when we went on family trips. And even then, his face was stuck in his phone the whole time.”
“I know, honey. I know. But he wants an answer, and I need to give it to him.”
She sighs deeply and sits back in her chair again. “And you need me to decide if I’m going to go visit him in prison before presenting any of it to Oli.”
I try to smile but my lips don’t cooperate. “If you’re not going to go, I’m not going to open that can of worms with him. It throws him into too much turmoil,” I remind her. “But if you are going to go, I can’t keep him from visiting too.”
“That’s a lot of pressure to put on me, Mom.”
“I know. And I don’t mean to. I’m not trying to pressure you. It’s just what our lives are.”
She doesn’t begrudge me. I know that. She’s just had to grow up faster than most kids.
“You don’t have to decide now. And you can reserve the right to change your mind. Always. If you want to say no for now, that’s fine. And if you change your mind, let me know. Just don’t change your mind if you decide to go, because you know Oli wouldn’t handle that well.”
She pretends not to be paying attention to me, instead staring at her fingernails again when she weakly says, “I know.”
I hate this. I hate that her life continues to be in upheaval all the time. It doesn’t matter where we move or how settled we get, there will always be a sense of chaos. Always be a sense of being unsettled. I know it’s part of having a special needs child, one who will never not be in your care, but how do I provide enough attention to my “normal” child while taking care of the one who will always need me more? It’s a mom guilt battle I fight every day.
Still, I do what I can and while we have this moment, I try to take advantage of it.
“What else happened at school today? Anything exciting?”
“Well, there is one thing.” A small smile graces her lips as I nod my head in encouragement. “Since we just moved here, the swim coach is going to let me try out for the team.”
I clap my hands together and hold them against my chest. “Oh honey, that’s wonderful!”
“I might not make it, though. You know I’m not that fast, and this is a college town. Everyone’s chasing a scholarship around here.” Despite her reservations, her face is beaming with the new possibilities that have opened up for her.
“You know I don’t care about that. I’m proud of you for going out for the team. Do you want me to see if there’s a pool around here you can use to practice for a few days?”
Opening my computer, I begin searching gyms in the area that have pool facilities.
“I probably should,” she starts. “I need a little practice with my flip turn, and I need to make sure I don’t disqualify myself on my breast stroke entry.”
As my fingers click over the keyboard, I narrow down a few gyms within a couple miles of our house. “Do you have a lot of homework tonight? Oli won’t be home for another hour or so. Maybe we can head over to one of them and check it out real fast—”
I barely finish my sentence when my phone starts ringing. It’s a number I don’t recognize, but it’s local. That can only mean one thing.
Oli’s having a meltdown.
Looking up at Julie, she shakes her head, visibly deflated because she knows too. “It’s okay. We can go later.”
As she stands up and walks away, I call out, “I’m sorry, Julie. I’ll find you a practice gym tomorrow while you’re at school.”
She doesn’t respond, but I know she hears me. She’s hurt that she has to be accommodating to her brother again. The problem isn’t that we’ve had to delay setting up practice times. It’s that we always delay setting things up for her, and there’s no way to fix it. When the choice is between one child who is possibly in a dangerous situation and one that needs to go swimming, there’s only one option.
Mom guilt in full force again, I pick up the phone before it goes to voicemail. “Hello?”
Bracing myself for what’s coming, I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers.
“Mrs. Declan?” a female voice says on the other end.
“Speaking.”
“This is Mrs. Johnson, one of Oli’s teachers. We need you to come to the farm.”