Chapter Eighteen
Addie
Sun Beam pushes her glasses onto the bridge of her nose, then swivels to face me. “It looks like there’s dirt on my face, but they’re ashes. It’s supposed to be a cross. Can you tell?”
The streaked marks resemble a hieroglyph of a running child, arms outstretched into the wind.
“They do look like a cross and remind me it’s Lent. You also wore them on Ash Wednesday, almost three weeks back.” Four days prior to Valentine’s Day. I was still with David. A different woman. “Is it your church’s tradition to wear them through the season?”
“No. I’m the only one who wore them today. Our fireplace is filled with soot, so I got the idea.”
“When I was a girl, every Ash Wednesday my minister rubbed the sign above my brows, too. Babcia would quote from Genesis as she admired my forehead. ‘For you were made from dust, and to dust you shall return.’” I touch the girl’s forehead, smiling at the memory.
Sun Beam and her mother are helping me finish up my traditional Lenten project: Polish Easter Eggs, a savory chopped egg mixture stuffed into dyed and decorated eggshells. They will be a special throughout the season.
The bulk of lunch rush has subsided, and the counter has emptied of customers. We sit on stools while Quiche stands at the prep table, her back to us, scooping hard-cooked egg out of an eggshell. There’s a teachers’ workshop this afternoon at Sun Beam’s school, so the students were dismissed after lunch. The girl’s presence at my side satisfies a maternal craving, a completion, and I inhale her presence as if my life depended on it.
I return to my task, stuffing and flattening the egg mixture into a rose-hued shell, before passing it to Sun Beam. She sprinkles panko over the top and then, with the back of a spoon, presses the crumbs into the egg mixture. They’ll be fried in butter just before serving.
I hand another egg to the girl. Recipes are much more than instruction manuals. They’re stories, rich with history, connecting the dots between the past and present. This traditional recipe, as lovely as a daisy chain, has been handed down from my great-grandmother to Babcia to me, and now to Sun Beam. It conjures recollections of happy times. I remember hunting Easter eggs at Babcia and Dziadek’s Ann Arbor home. Memories of white dresses, ribbons, and beautiful baskets filled with decorated eggs, chocolate rabbits, and marzipan flood my subconscious.
“What’s the green stuff?” Sun Beam asks, pointing at the egg mixture, lifting me from my reverie.
“I added dill and chives to my grandmother’s recipe. But she wouldn’t mind. She said while she was growing up in Poland, every home was doing something different with their eggs. Sometimes we’d stir Polish ham into the mixture.”
“I’m glad you kept ours vegetarian.” She wears a solemn frown on her face.
“Did you give anything up for Lent?” I ask, skirting her favorite topic next to climate change: animal rights.
“Instead of giving up, I’m giving back. For starters, I made a Valentine’s Day card for Angus. Mama said he was lonely, so we took it to his house. I drew a picture of Hero and Bon Temps holding hands—I mean paws.” She giggles between her fingers. “They looked like they were in love.”
Giving a start, I flash a look of surprise to Quiche. “You never told me you went to his home.”
Quiche turns to face me, wiping her hands down her apron. “I don’t tell you every little detail of my comings and goings. Just like you don’t tell me yours.” She gives me a long, appraising look. “But we’ve talked about him in meetings, so I took it upon myself to pay him a visit.”
“Well, that was certainly gracious of you.” I take a deep breath, blinking quickly. “What was his reaction?”
“What do you think his reaction would be? A woman and child at his front door wearing smiles on their faces—he smiled back and welcomed us in. It was no big deal. We all had a nice little visit.”
“Did you talk about the diner? You must have talked about the diner. You work here.”
She sighs in exasperation, as she does when her daughter is being particularly obtuse.
“Of course he knows I work here. And not everything revolves around the diner, either. We mostly spoke of his grandson, Gary. He’s been released and is back home. He was at a job interview during our visit.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say, thankful Angus is no longer alone.
“We also talked about fried chicken,” Sun Beam remarks, arranging the finished eggs in tidy little rows. “How much he loves it.”
Quiche winces. “You know this black people loving fried chicken thing rubs me wrong. It’s like us and watermelon.” She picks up a jar of Jessie’s hot sauce. “Or the assumption that blacks douse every morsel of food with hot sauce. I hate racial stereotypes even more than I hate hot sauce.”
I pick up a finished egg and place it into the cup of my hand carefully so as not to damage it. The shell is so fragile.
I look up, catching her eyes. “Racial stereotypes can certainly be destructive. But food? I suppose it depends on the context of conversation. If the food is referenced with the intention of embarrassing a culture or race, it’s cruel and can’t be tolerated.” I shift in my seat. “But do you know who likes fried chicken and watermelon, Quiche? Everybody. At least in this country.”
Quiche gives me her usual not sure if I’ve got you figured out look, but a smile plays about the corners of her mouth. The woman’s a tough sell.
“Well,” she continues, “I told him ours was the best on the planet and suggested that he stop by and taste for himself.”
“And his reaction?” I hunch into the counter and tip my head.
“He shrugged. Nothing more, nothing less.”
She turns to her daughter. “Tell Addie the other ways you’re giving back during Lent. ’Cause I need to get back to work.” Quiche hustles to the prep sink and turns on the water, as if to wave off any further interrogation.
Sun Beam fidgets with excitement. “Granny and I are saving energy. We removed a light bulb from the lamp on the side table in the den. We’re running wash only when the machine is stuffed, and then we hang the clothes on the line to dry. We’re giving back to the environment.”
“You’re also giving back to my wallet,” Quiche comments, glancing over her shoulder.
“The weather’s cooperating with line drying,” I remark. “Last week it’s freezing and now it’s in the sixties. In Michigan, blink your eyes and the weather has changed.”
I’ve welcomed tepid temperatures in winters past, but not this one. I’m feeling so alone and fragile without David in my life that any excuse to bundle up in another layer of comfort would be fine with me.
“Braydon says if the weather stays nice, he’ll bring Bon Temps with him to work on Sunday,” Sun Beam says, sprinkling crumbs over another egg. “He promised to dress her up with bunny ears.” She puts down the panko and catches my eye. “Maybe Sam can make some rabbit ears for Hero. With that creamy coat of fur, he’ll look just like a jackrabbit.”
I smile at the thought. Sundays are the perfect opportunity to let the dogs visit with customers before we put them outside. The Health Department’s unlikely to be making their rounds.
“Let’s all wear bunny ears,” I say to her, brushing her ponytail off her shoulder. “I have the rabbity eyes to match.”
She scrutinizes my face, before nodding in agreement. “It looks like you just got mugged.”
Ouch. That stings. From the mouth of a child, so I’m sure I look a mess. This morning, while brushing my teeth, I noticed half-moon shadows under my eyes. But I don’t bother to hide them with makeup. Ever since my breakup with David, I haven’t worn mascara or even lipstick. I like that my eyes and mouth bleed into the backdrop of my face. I wear blankness as a mask.
Quiche unties her apron and retrieves her purse from the shelf beneath the counter. “Time to get going, honey,” she says to her daughter. “You need to get your homework done. After supper we’re heading back to church.” She turns to me. “Sun Beam and I are organizing an Easter pageant for the preschoolers. The little ones are so precious when they’re all gussied up. We’re meeting with the parents to go over each kid’s role in the skit.”
“You know, Quiche,” I say, lighting my fingertips on her arm, “wouldn’t you think folks would be hungry after church let out? I don’t get it. No one from the neighborhood sets foot in this place. If we were giving the food away, I’d wager they’d still never walk through the door. Why do you think that is?”
She rummages through her purse and retrieves a tube of lipstick, then a compact, which she opens. “You need to know something about black folks, at least in this community. We’re skeptical about what your people are trying to sell us. Verdict’s out on gentrification. No one wants to take the long con.” She cocks a brow, regarding herself in the mirror. “We’ve been down that road before.”
She pats her nose with a powder puff. “First it’s you ladies and the diner. Next thing you know comes the invasion of the pierced lips and purple hairs, buying up places like Danny’s barbershop. A place where five dollars once got you a haircut would only now buy a cup of coffee.” She paints a slash of pale-pink color over her lips. “And following that would be the sushi train, folks lounging round La Grande on yoga mats.” With a sharp thwack, she closes her compact. “My friends think you people are like exotic pets—it’s hard to guess your next habitat and what you’ll want to feed on.”
I chuckle as she smacks her lips together and returns her makeup to the bag.
“You’re pretty funny, Quiche. Perhaps you should try your hand at stand-up.”
She levels me with her eyes. “In all seriousness, there’s something for everyone on our menu. With those discount cards I gave everyone at church, our prices are in line with the waffle chains. That’s where my group flocks after service. Our breakfasts are tastier, and we’re right across the street. The chains are a drive away.” She looks at the ceiling, thumbing her fingers on the counter, and then grabs her purse.
“Danita and I’ve been encouraging them to stop by. I’ve been friendly with the Tabernacle community since I was a girl. They’re interested in every other aspect of my life, but they don’t seem to care about my work. They may be keeping their distance, but I know they’re checking the place out. Once, after hours, I spied a couple of friends wandering around the building. But I can’t drag them in by their hair.” She tips her head toward Sun Beam. “And frankly, I’ve got more pressing concerns on my plate.”
I shrug as Sun Beam slides off the stool and retrieves her sweater, which has fallen to the floor. As she slides her arms through the sleeves, I bend to give her a hug. She scampers out of the diner with her mother, crossing paths with Jessie, who’s making a delivery.
I wrap the eggs in saran and place them in the reach-in. Jessie lumbers toward the counter, a case of hot sauce pressed into her hip. We’ll be closing soon and most of the customers have left, except for a couple of two-tops near the front entry. After writing Jessie’s check, I lean into her, resting my forearms on the Formica, and peer into her eyes.
“Honest to God, Jess. I never would have believed it, but your smudging ceremony’s been effective. Before you got here, I checked Twitter for the thousandth time this week. The troll hasn’t resurfaced.”
“A thousand times? Girl, you need to give that phone of yours a rest. All of you people wandering around, heads down, random beeps and bleeps coming out of your persons. You look like digital zombies. Whatever happened to eye-to-eye conversation?”
I pat my pocket, my cell phone removed from her suspicious gaze. “Aren’t we speaking eye to eye right now? The troll could be spinning his threads in some other corner of the web, but—at least to my knowledge—silence reigns.”
Blessed silence, the pause button pressed on life. It seems as if the world has been spinning so fast, it’s all I can do to hold on.
“What about my ragman?” Jessie asks, the apricot glint in her eyes dimming.
“He’s vanished, as well.”
I regard Jessie in admiration. Not only have those two left us alone, but that van hasn’t parked across the street in over a week. Jessie’s our Odysseus, and she vanquished our nemesis with her burning sage. To hell with fate. Maybe she can help me conjure up some remedy to make David return.
Jessie’s voice, thick with fatigue, interrupts my thoughts. “Mind if I get some water?”
“Whatever you want, Jess.”
I chew on a hangnail. It’s been fifteen hours and fifteen days since David left. Mom has insisted I double up sessions with my therapist; she’s footing the bill for weekly, instead of biweekly, sessions. Yesterday, however, Dr. Lerner’s probing questions angered me. I don’t appreciate where she was going, where she tried to take my head. We discussed David until I was blue in the face: Why would he think I’d find those scratch cards amusing? Why did I find it necessary to play the vamp? Why did I do that thing I do, even when ill? It was as if I were being interrogated for a crime.
Jessie returns to my side, with a glass of water for each of us.
“Jessie. I’ve been thinking. I studied mythology back in college, and the ancients would explain you as a conduit to the gods. A contemporary goddess.”
She looks at me, a thoughtful gleam lighting her eyes. And then she nods, as if appreciating the fact that I, at last, am acknowledging her gifts.
“I have mastered special tools of the trade. I can summon certain powers with my spell work.” Her eyes cloud over and her nostrils flare. “But only if there’s evil in the air.”
“Plato wrote that love is a serious mental disease,” I venture. “Think about the expressions sick with love, and dying for love. They’re universal. Love causes so much pain and makes you feel that something vile is eating out your guts.”
She scrutinizes me, her mouth tight. “I don’t care what those ancients said, Addie. Those philosophers and gods of yours need a reality check. Love, in all of its forms, is the most blessed power in the universe. Love isn’t evil. It doesn’t carry a weapon or raise its fist. Love is pure. And I refuse to go messing with purity.”
“Well, maybe you can take an indirect route.” I push a box knife into the case of hot sauce and slide it down the seam. “Summon the powers of Aphrodite, the goddess of love.”
Removing a bottle of hot sauce from the case, my words accelerate. “Ask her to cast a spell on David. Tell her to make him realize he can’t live without me.”
I place the condiment on a table and rotate the fiery sauce so that the wings on the label are now parallel to the saltshaker and pepper grinder.
“No. Forget Aphrodite,” I say, tightening the top of a jar of mustard. “Her deal with Paris precipitated the Trojan War. She’s one tough cookie. You might catch her in a pissy mood. Summon Hera—the goddess of marriage. And while you’re at it”—my voice raises another notch—“send out for Eileithyia, the goddess of childbirth.”
By now I’m breathless, arranging condiments on empty tables in a full-blown rant. An elderly man at a nearby two-top glances up at me before sprinkling salt over his eggs. He peers at me again before clutching the shaker in his fist as if he’s worried I might snatch it from his hand.
“Hold on, Addie, hold on.” Jessie grabs my hand and leads me to an island of empty tables toward the back of the floor. “Your eyes are glassy, and you’re acting manic. You’re riding a black cloud on a tempest thundering inside of you. You need to get off. Stop. Breathe.”
Inhaling through my nostrils, I feel the twitching of tics fretting my nerves. On the exhale, they begin to settle.
“The only one who can help you is you. No goddess, no therapist, no boyfriend, just you. Summon up Addie.” Jessie’s eyes rise to meet Babcia’s. “Summon up your granny, too. You’ve always spoken of her strength. Mixed up inside of you, she’s stronger than ever. That’s no hocus-pocus, no goddess worship, no woo-woo talking nonsense. I’m talking science, Addie. DNA.”
I stare at Jessie as if she’s just read a passage from an ancient oracle, and I throw my arms around her shoulders. “Babcia. Yes, I’ll think of Babcia. Thank you for that bit of wisdom.”
She rolls her eyes to mask her embarrassment at my boisterous display of emotion. Pink works up her neck as I release my grasp.
“You want to control your world, Addie. You want to control your man.” She touches my arm and lowers her voice to a gentler octave. “But the world’s too big. And your need to control his actions and love is swallowing you.”
It’s impossible to meet her gaze—she’s reading too much in my eyes—so I walk to the counter. After removing the remaining hot sauces from the case, I begin to polish them and line them up into three precise rows. Jessie follows.
“You can’t control other people. You can control only yourself. Your own emotions. And your reactions to those emotions.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “You’ve got more power than you realize. More power than all of those goddesses combined. No matter what life dishes out, only you can control decisions that will govern your path. Only you get to decide to be happy or sad with your choices.”
She crooks her head to the side and cranes her face toward mine. One of her dreadlocks dangles about my hand, tickling it. I fold the cloth, place it on the counter, and turn to meet her gaze.
“So, what?” I ask, tears burning my eyes. “What am I supposed to do?”
“When you’re alone, summon your strength and unleash your wisdom. Alone time is precious. Don’t be afraid of it. Treasure the gift of silence when there’s no one around to tell you who you are or what you should be.” She runs her hand down my back, stroking me as one might soothe a runaway dog who’d found its way home. “Find your safe place and rest.”
She folds the check and slips it into the back pocket of her overalls. “Now I’ve gotta get going. But you call me if you want to talk.” She leaves, and for a few moments, the pain I’ve been feeling subsides.
Sylvia emerges from the kitchen, carrying her sponge cake on a pedestal. I reach for my cell phone and snap a picture of her now-signature confection. It’s on a regular rotation, alongside the Heartbreakers. I tweet:
Come and get it! #sylviasspongecake #welcomehome
God forbid I forget to tweet, Facebook, Instagram, and share.
I look out the window: gray on gray, not a glimmer of sunlight, as far as the eye can see. My misery returns as if a veil were lowered across my face. I put the empty box behind the counter, slide onto a stool, and place my face into my palms.
I glance down at my kitchen clogs. Dried egg albumen is streaked across the leather. It’s been there a couple of weeks. I’m not taking care of myself; I’m just not me. So who am I? What does all this mean? Braydon walks to my side and hands me a shot of potlikker. It’s the only sustenance I can keep down without wanting to barf. Yet I wish people would quit treating me as if I were an invalid.
I look up at him. “Do you remember when I first met you? When you were a part of that volunteer group who helped us ready the diner for opening day?” I down the warm brew, appreciating the palliative effect on my spirit.
“How could I forget?” He removes his hand and folds his arms across his chest, a dreamy look cast about his face. “I enjoy cleaning. It’s gratifying to see what brute strength can do with filth. The rewards are immediate, visible in a swipe.”
“Then you must have been in a state of ecstasy back then. The place was a disaster zone.”
Chaos. This place was chaos. I look about the room. Lella’s wiping down tables, most of them empty after a busy lunch. And then I nod at the remaining customers chatting among one another, smiling between bites. We did get to a better place. Chaos is the perfect weapon to instigate order. That’s something to think about.
“Remember that electrician who screwed up the wiring?” Braydon says, interrupting my thoughts. “I can’t believe the guy was licensed.”
“I forgot about him. Man. I was so incensed. You won me over when you fixed that mess. How long ago was that?” I ask.
“A little over a year, I think. Sometime back mid-February. Seems impossible.” Looking around the room, eyes dancing, he slides his phone into the back pocket of his pants. “What a transformation.”
“In no small measure thanks to you. I wish I’d been up to organizing some sort of anniversary celebration.”
“Maybe next year we can throw out some freebies—offer discounts,” he suggests. “Something to let the customers know how much we’ve appreciated their patronage.”
An anniversary event would have been a topic I would have hashed out, and then executed, with David. He’s so clever with business promotions and strategies. A plunging sensation tumbles from the hole in my heart to the pit of my stomach. I can’t stand another minute not having that man in my life. Why can’t I get over him? I look down at my ragged nails, my fingers woven so tightly together the knuckles are white.
Why can’t I get over myself?
Sam joins me at the table. “Is this a good time to discuss the menu change?”
I look at her. “Menu change?”
“We spoke about it last week. The transition from winter fare to spring? Remember? We’d planned to update the menu next month.” She scrutinizes me, concern in her eyes. “Spring lamb will be available, and we were going to brainstorm some lightened-up soups and salads. You said you’d order cold-crop seeds. On Friday, Uriah is bringing his class in to plant the seeds in cell packs.”
Oh. Now I remember. The conversation slipped my mind. I forgot to place the order, so now we’ll be behind schedule. Once again, here I sit, mouth agape.
She pats my hand. “No worries. I’ll pick up some packs at a gardening center.”
“They won’t have what we were talking about—those off-the-grid heirlooms.”
I run my fingers through my hair and then tie it in a knot at the nape of my neck. “There’s an organic seed shop in Ann Arbor. I told you about their chicory—the one with the lime-green leaves streaked with burgundy? It makes a stunning plate. I was going to place an order this afternoon,” I say, lying to cover up my ditzy behavior.
She touches my hand softly, but her smile’s tight.
“Great. Have them overnight the seeds.”
She’s been solicitous to me of late. Holding back. What’s up with that? I miss the old Sam, her spice and spunk. I’ll bet she’s afraid I’ll go postal again. She has good reason to be distant. These days, I barely trust myself.
With a jolt, I grab my phone, now ringing. Always hopeful it’s David, I’m embarrassed how quickly I retrieved it. I look at the screen.
“No name,” I say, as Sam eyes me curiously. “But it’s a Grosse Pointe number.”
“Maybe it’s your mom.”
“No. Her ring tone’s a hooting owl.”
Sam giggles as I answer, pressing the phone to my ear. But when I hear the nasal voice, I’m sorry I answered.
“Addie. It’s Graham. Don’t hang up. You’ll want to hear this.”
I remain silent, using every ounce of restraint not to press the red button.
“I found it, Addie. I found it.” His breathing sounds ragged, as if he’s been running.
My heart quickens. “The rosary?”
Sam straightens in her chair, eyes wide, head leaning toward me.
“I thought it was in the safe. Well, your mom told you the story.” He speaks quickly, his words tumbling over one another. “I thought for sure it was there. I felt like such a shit when it wasn’t. Anyway, I was looking for some comics I had as a kid and found the necklace. It was hidden behind a mound of old shoes.”
Is he bullshitting me again? The tone of his voice, almost celebratory in its enthusiasm, suggests otherwise.
“It’s in my hand, Addie. I’m holding it in my hand. I called you the second I found it.”
“Describe it to me.”
“I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t blame you. Why trust me? But it’s beautiful, Addie. So beautiful. It’s a long necklace made of silver links interspersed with pale purple beads. It looks as if each is hand cut, and they’re different shades of violet. A cross is affixed to a strand, depicting a crucified Christ.”
That’s it. Babcia’s rosary. Joy washes through me, which quickly turns to anxiety. He’s tainting the necklace with his stinking, thieving hands. I want it back. Now. With David gone, I have no means of transportation. I’ll take an Uber.
“I take it you’re at your parents’ house. I’ll come get it.”
“Addie. The least I can do is bring it to you. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I’ve caused you so much suffering. I’ll hop in my car this instant.”
I hold the phone. Silent. Not allowing myself to breathe.
“I promise.” He hangs up the phone.
Sam stares at me, a look of incredulity on her face. “He found Babcia’s rosary?”
“Yes. The prick had it hidden in the back of his closet. He was so doped up at the time he must have forgotten where he stashed it.”
“Look at it this way. At least he didn’t sell it. Score one for the inmate. If you can hold on a couple of hours, I’ll have Uriah drive you there.”
“No. Graham said he’d bring it here.”
“Man. I can’t wait to meet this dude. I’ll never forget how messed up you were when you were dating him.” She studies my face, then drops her eyes to the table as if to say, See, Addie? See what you do? You’re messed up again over David.
It dawns on me: I’m a chameleon. I take on the aura of the man I’m attracted to and then turn myself into another person. Someone I think they’d desire. Someone they’d love. But with David, when I showed my real colors, revealed what I wanted from him and this life, he bolted. At least I was speaking my truth. The outside in, at last, turned inside out. But are the consequences worth it?
“He should be here in twenty minutes or so.” I push away from the table and stand. “That will give me enough time to place the seed order.” I bolt toward the office. “I’ll also call Mom. She’ll be so happy to hear some good news from me for a change.”
I order the seeds, requesting an overnight delivery. Then, I call my mother. The happy words are just out of my mouth when I hear the creak and groan of Sam unbolting the entrance door.
“Mom, he’s here. Gotta go. I’ll call you back the second he leaves.”
I check my phone. He made it here in fifteen minutes—record time. I step out of my office, then hurry through the swinging doors and into the prep area. He’s standing in the doorway, facing Sam. She’s talking to him, hands on her hips, and I can see her dimples from here. I know this expression well. She finds him attractive.
Graham turns, the familiar pink rectangular box in his hand. I weave around the counter, and oddly enough, we meet beneath Babcia’s photograph. He hands me the box, which I open. Gasping, my eyes fill with tears. I pick up the crucifix, which lies on the same cotton pads where I’d left it, and lift it to her picture. Graham’s eyes trail my hand.
“That’s her, right? Your grandmother?”
I let out a long sigh. A sigh I’ve been holding inside my chest for ten years, since the day I couldn’t find the necklace. I nod my head and motion to a chair, offering him a seat. Sam walks to my side and lifts up the beadwork, examining it. We join Graham at the table.
“It’s been so long,” she says, her voice cracking, sniffing back tears. “We were eighteen when she gave us our presents. She gave me her cameo earrings.” She looks at me, pinching her earlobes. “Mom keeps them safe at the farm.”
Graham’s head hangs low and he shakes it, biting his lower lip. Then, he looks up, catching my eye.
“When the rosary wasn’t in their safe, I panicked. I knew you’d think I was scum, that I’d been lying to you all along.” He licks his lips. “My first instinct was to go out and score—to get high so I could detonate the slimeball who stole his girlfriend’s family heirloom.”
His visage has changed—sincerity is mapped across his face. His eyes are clear, and he’s put on a solid twenty pounds since I saw him last year. Graham Palmer, once again, is a handsome man. And I get where he’s coming from. I, too, am an addict. I will stop at nothing to score love.
Sam touches my wrist and catches my eye, shaking her head in wonder. “It’s crazy it was returned to you during Lent, the season that meant so much to Babcia.”
I fiddle with the beadwork, glancing up at her portrait, and my heart swells with love for my grandmother. Since she died, it’s a feeling that intensifies with the passing of every year. She’s gone from this earth, but she’s with me. Love can’t be forced, caged, or simplified. Love is eternal. Amorphous, pliable, and fluid.
I place my head in my hands, exhausted, muffling a lone, wretched sob. I’m such a list-making, organization freak, always placing lofty expectations on myself and all the people in my world. I’ll be married and raising kids by 36! I’ll transform Welcome Home into an egalitarian mecca! I’ll blaze the way to revive Detroit!
Each morning after I awaken from a fitful sleep, I see a woman looking back at me in the mirror with such sadness in her eyes. Where’s Addie on the list? I’ve built a foundation of expectations that no one can live up to. Especially myself. I stare at the rosary in my hand. Let it go, Addie. Let it go. Don’t resist the tides of fate.
I take a deep breath, drop my hands, and stare out the window, out into the sky, which is the color of a stone. Graham’s eyes wander across my face, curious.
“Are you OK? You look”—he bites his lower lip—“well, tired. Different.”
I nod, furiously, and then return my gaze to the rosary, recalling Jessie’s words: Find your safe place and rest.