Life Without You (4 page)

Another one of those bucket-list items involved flirty panties, something I’d enjoyed buying
once upon a time
but had stopped wearing after I got married. Finally having someone to see my flirty panties should have been a win, but the man I’d married had been less than appreciative, shooting down my confidence and making me feel as though this small luxury was completely ludicrous and extremely frivolous. Which made
Buy Flirty Panties
shoot straight to the top of my newly constructed bucket list.

For anyone looking at my list, it would have seemed simple and mundane. They would likely raise an eyebrow at the normal-looking activities—those like
Eat Somewhere Unsafe
and
Eat Cake
might seem somewhat odd—but for me, a woman whose world was so ruled by the dictates of anxiety, these were things that took tremendous amounts of courage to complete. My food and restaurant choices had become driven by fear, confining me to only a limited number of meal options and places that felt safe to eat. It was part of dangerous self-denial that was a coping mechanism for the lack of control I had felt so strongly during a very vulnerable time in my life. Food was controllable—the rest of the world was not. These were steps to my own victory…

1. Buy Flirty Panties

2. Take a Trip

3. Eat Somewhere Unsafe

4. Get a Makeover: New clothes? Haircut? Make-up, etc.

5. Break from Routine

6. Reconnect with Family

7. Eat Cake

8. Go on a Date

9. Learn to Dance

10. Take a Long Shot

My eyes wandered to the clock at the top corner of my computer screen.

Time to get back to work. After all, I had a trip to finish preparing for.

Bags to pack and a bucket list to conquer.

And according to the calendar on my desk, not many days to do any of it in.

I decided to ignore the silence of my unanswered text to Bette and tried to shift my focus to the article I was currently tackling. “Mid-Year Makeover: How to Shake Things Up and Make the Most of the Next Six Months.”

I arched an eyebrow, as I did every time I caught a glimpse of the uninspired title.

Who came up with these things?

I couldn’t help but wonder, as no one with any ounce of imagination would dream up such a lackluster title. It was blah and a bit cliché, in my opinion, for a women’s magazine; but it was one more article to pay the bills.

One more article that would put my name out there.

One more article to add to my portfolio.

Who knows
, I thought optimistically as my fingers found their rhythm on the keyboard,
maybe I’ll learn something interesting
.

After all, who couldn’t use advice on how to reinvent the rest of their year?

Or, really, the rest of their lives?

I
certainly could.

Maybe this trip would help me do that.

Chapter Four

I could feel a full-on pout coming.

Sure, maybe it was unreasonable to expect nylon boots to last more than a decade without looking like crap; but when you’re living the high life on a freelance writer’s budget, you tend to hope for miracles everywhere you can find them. And this was one place that I was hoping to find miracles. After all, I needed some boots to wear in Hampton. The weather was starting to turn a little bit crisp, since summer seemed to be outward bound, and I was sorely lacking good fall shoes aside from my ten-year-old Doc Marten Mary Janes. I raised an eyebrow.

Sensing a theme here. It seemed that many items in my closet were actually old enough to be at the upper echelons of elementary school. Maybe not something to brag about. Especially not to Bette, who already thought I was a perfect candidate for
Extreme Cheapskates
. I was beginning to worry that I might come home one night to be accosted outside my apartment by a TLC film crew dead set on capturing a reel of my very mundane, very budgeted life as a writer, which involved trying to squeeze blood out of every penny I could find.

But I digress.

I stood at my closet in sad—and getting increasingly sadder—contemplation of the contents within. If I was going to start packing for a month away, I needed to face reality and figure out what was actually wearable in there. At first glance, it looked pretty good, but a more thorough investigation revealed a copious number of tops, dresses, and skirts that I wasn’t comfortable with anymore.

Not in my current state, anyway. With my naturally slight build, I’d never had a weight problem; but even my once-slim frame had been greatly reduced by small anxieties that had built up over time and become almost overwhelming. I found relief only when I channeled them all into one focus: food and my ability to control it. True, the weight loss had been unintentional, even subtle at first. But now it was undeniable. Startling, if I was being perfectly honest. My clothes hung limply on me, my light brown hair—the curls once so bouncy—was thin and dry, my once full cheeks left hollow. The only things that seemed not to have changed were my eyes. Those, at least, were still a shade of almost aqua blue that constantly caught people’s attention.
This
, I thought, seeing my reflection in the mirror mounted on my closet door,
this is why I try to hide
.
This is why…
I shook my head against the encroaching feelings of defeat, of anger at myself, of frustration at my own weaknesses. Now was not the time for this. Now was the time to get out of my own way, to pack my bags and try to find a new future.

I shifted my focus back to the numerous articles of clothing hanging so neatly in my closet and shook my head again. This was really getting me nowhere. What I needed—besides a total life makeover—was a wardrobe overhaul, a bigger budget, and some time with my sister. For some reason, staring into my closet was making me miss her like mad. I took a peek at my watch.

Half past noon.

Hmmmm. Probably not the ideal time to call her, since it was likely that she was elbow deep in lunchtime with the kids. After sandwich crumbs and applesauce smears were wiped up, she would have to get them down for naps, and then she’d have a little time to talk. I squinted up at the ceiling, mentally calculating. That put me at about an hour from now.

One. Whole. Hour.

Unfortunately for me, the prospect of an hour seemed almost endless, and I needed to talk to someone.

I reached into the back pocket of my jeans for my phone and scrolled through to the speed dial button for my mother. Hopefully she would answer.

After an almost interminable few seconds of having to listen to it ring on the other end of the line, she finally picked up, sounding out of breath but perky.

Definitely a good sign, I thought, instantly feeling my mood lift a little.

“Hi, Mama,” I said.

“Oh, hi, Dellie, baby. How are you?” she asked.

“Fine.” I shrugged, even though I knew she couldn’t actually see it. “Just trying to figure out what to take. Not getting anywhere,” I sighed.

“No? Even with all of that stuff in your closet?” she marveled. I could just picture her, mouth agape, blue eyes wide with incredulity. As my mother and former cohabiter of anyplace I’d called home for most of my life, she had reason to be so amazed. She’d seen the size of my wardrobe while I was living with her and my dad before I was so unhappily wed, and she had helped me move from said house of mirth into my current apartment. Which most likely meant she also assumed that I still wore all of it.

Or, at least,
most
of it.

In all reality, though, I was wearing a steady rotation of about ten outfits, thrown on without thought beyond the fact that they were functional. My jeans were old enough to babysit for my shoes, and my one bra was almost old enough for pre-school.

If it wasn’t so sad, it might have been funny.

“Most of the stuff in my closet is destined for the consignment shop,” I said, wrinkling my nose.

“Why? You’ve got so many cute clothes.” Quite a reasonable observation. And very true, indeed. They were cute, and I really liked most of them. But most of the pieces felt like they belonged on someone else, with a different life. Someone who went out with friends and had spur-of-the-moment lunch dates. Someone who didn’t look just as hollowed out as she felt on the inside most of the time. Someone I missed.

I sighed, hoping she hadn’t heard it.

“Are you okay, honey? Are you sleeping okay?” she asked, concern creeping into her voice. “Are you eating okay?”

I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips. No matter that I was now in my thirties or that we saw one another on a pretty regular basis, she was definitely still my mama. And I had to admit, there was a certain degree of comfort in that knowledge.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, a blanket answer to all three questions. It might not be the absolute God’s honest truth, but it was what came out. Much as I really wanted to lay everything out there right now, I didn’t want to worry her, either.

“I know you probably think I’m being nosy, but I’m your mother, and I only want the best for you. I want to see you happy, and healthy, and have everything good in life.”

I smiled. “I know, Mama, I know. I’ll get there. Things are just a little stressed right now.”

“I know that—which is why I’m glad you’re going to take this trip. I really think it’ll do you some good.” I heard a smile creeping into her voice. “And you can do a little bit of spying on your grandfather for me.”

“You bet. I’ll have daily updates for you, if you want,” I replied.

She laughed. It was a beautiful sound—one I couldn’t bear to think about never hearing again. How do you deal with the loss of your mother? I wondered silently.

“Mama?” I ventured. “I know you’re worried about me, and you’re worried about Grandpa…but how are you? How are
you
feeling these days? I know it’s been a few weeks since we had some time together, and I feel like I’m being a horrible daughter,” I said, adding one more item to my own guilt list. “Are
you
doing okay?”

There was a deafening silence on the other end.

“Mama?” I asked again.

“Mmm?”

“I love you.” My voice was thick with emotion.

“I love you back, baby. So much,” she whispered.

“So, so much,” I echoed.

“Now go pack,” she said, clearly having decided to regain her grip on her composure. “You only have three days until you leave.”

I rolled my eyes, letting my gaze fall on the itinerary I’d printed out. As if I could forget. Three days to pack. Three days to wrap my head around this whole thing. Only three days. I felt my gut tighten.

“Three days,” I repeated flatly.

“Suck it up, Buttercup,” Mama said, sounding gleeful.

“And put on my Big Girl Panties?”

“You got it. Just make sure they’re presentable.”

Chapter Five

“Ooh, can I go, too?” My sister was surprisingly excited over the thought of underwear shopping—especially for a pregnant woman. Maybe she was thinking ahead and looking forward to being able to see her toes…and other parts of herself when she looked down again. Or perhaps there was some kind of Panty Fever sweeping Pensacola and the rest of the Florida panhandle that I didn’t know about; but the last time I checked, we were hardly the lingerie capital of the world. People here were generally more focused on fishing lures and tackle boxes than fishnet stockings and bustiers.

“When are you going?” Charlie asked, breaking into my thoughts.

“Seriously? You want to go underwear shopping with me?”

“It’s not just underwear shopping, Dellie, remember? It’s part of your bucket list,” she said, reminding me of my new project. I’d told her about it in a text, and now I was wondering if maybe that had been a mistake. “We have to find you something really pretty. The sparklier, the better. No Granny Panties for you,” she declared.

“Why does it matter what they look like? No one’s going to see them, anyway,” I replied, feeling myself waver a bit.

“It matters because
you
see them,” Charlie said.

“So?”

“So that still matters. No one else sees them, true. But
you
’ll know they’re there. Think of them like a superhero cape.”

“Since when did I become Wonder Woman?” I snorted.

“Who says you can’t be?”

“What do
your
panties look like?” I asked, my curiosity suddenly piqued.

Charlie sighed wistfully from her end of the line.

“You don’t want to know,” she moaned. “I miss pretty panties. And pretty bras. I’d kill for a new bra.”

“Really?”

“Are you kidding? I haven’t had a new bra since the
last
time I was pregnant, and now I’m in this nursing bra that’s barely holding its own. I’ve got saggy boobies, so nothing looks like it fits right.”

I shook my head. “Charlie, you’re crazy,” I said. “I just don’t see it. You’ve got three kids and you look more put-together than I do. And I don’t even have the saggy booby thing going on. I’ve got the
no
booby thing, remember?”

“Believe it. This is the same nursing bra I used on the last go round, so it’s looking pretty sad.”

I smiled. “Well, your underwear might be sad, but I seriously doubt that Mike is,” I said wickedly.

“O-delle!”
she scolded, sounding slightly scandalized. I could almost hear the blush in her voice. But there was also the slightest tinge of delight.

“It’s true, and you know it, Charlotte. Don’t try to be all sweet and innocent preacher’s wife with me.” I laughed. “I know better than that. I don’t care what the sorry state of your underwear might be, Mike can’t keep his hands off you. And why not? He’s a man of God, and you and I both know that God is a huge fan of sex. Remember that sermon Mike preached on Song of Solomon? Some racy stuff right there,” I sniggered oh-so-maturely. It seemed so easy to be silly when we were talking about something else other than me. “Plus, I happen to know for a fact that eighty percent of the women in your congregation would trade places with you in a heartbeat, and the other twenty percent are playing for the other team and just haven’t ’fessed up to it yet.”