The Queen of Sleepy Eye (32 page)

I came in third after the brunette and the dog trainer. I won a $50 savings bond that would mature about the time I earned my graduate degree.

Stop-and-Chomp, here I come.

I sat on the steps reading
Emma
, waiting for Mom to turn the corner toward home after her day's work. The light seemed cleaner, more direct and playful the closer the days moved toward fall. The moon, now waning, hung in the sky most of the day as if something momentous were about to happen. Anticipating such an event left me weary of life. My goal for the day was another nap. I set my book aside to return to the kitchen where I covered the chicken I'd prepared with foil and slid it into the warm oven.

I lay on the couch and pulled an afghan over me. The sound of cardboard boxes being kicked and sliding across the kitchen floor woke me. Mom clicked on the amber lamp. “Amy, your dinner smells wonderful. Are you hungry?”

“You're just getting home?”

“I had plans to make.”

I joined her in the kitchen to whisper, “Mrs. Clancy's here. She's preparing for some kind of audit. She's really cranky.”

“I'm glad she's here. I need to talk to her.” Mom practically
marched down the hall toward Mrs. Clancy's office. Where did she get the energy? She tapped on the door and walked in. The door clicked shut. Soon the muffled sounds of Mrs. Clancy shouting at Mom and Mom retorting came from the room. I was about to join them to apologize and pull Mom from the wreckage, but Mom stepped into the hall smiling. She stopped and reached for the doorknob. “I'm glad we see eye to eye, Georgia. We'll be out by noon tomorrow. Good-bye and good luck.”

“Good riddance!” Mrs. Clancy said. “And close that door. I've got work to—”

Mom pulled the door shut.

I left the milk jug on the counter to follow Mom into her bedroom.

“Grab some boxes,” she said. “We don't have much time to pack our things.”

“What's this about? Why are we leaving? How are we leaving? And where are we going?”

“If you'd stop asking me so many questions, I'd be happy to tell you.” She smiled broadly, like the last time she'd beaten me at Scrabble. “If you want to be in Santa Barbara for the first day of classes, Charles says we need to leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I sat on a kitchen chair. “Wait a minute. How will we get there?”

“Charles will take us.”

“In his Pinto?”

“There should be plenty of room.”

“But Charles has to work. Who will do his job?”

“Why do you think Mrs. Clancy is so upset?” Mom pressed a box into my hands. “This is for your books.” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Wait! We should start in the kitchen.”

Mom scooped the contents of a utensil drawer. “Is this our can opener?”

“No, ours has a green handle.” I opened the towel drawer. “How are we affording this?”

Mom's face was a lake on a breezeless afternoon. “I sold the Pontiac.” She tossed tins of spices into the box. “Don't drop your jaw like that,
fofa.
You look simple.”

“It's just that I never dreamed …”

“Yes, I know. But it had to be done. Charles offered to pay for everything, but it didn't seem right, somehow.”

“And Charles? I thought you were just friends.”

“Yes, well, I did too. I mean, would you ever imagine Chuck—”

“Chuck?”

“It suits him, don't you think? Anyway, you and I both know he's not my type. At least, that's what I thought. I don't know how he did it, but he won me over. I'm crazy in love with him, and we haven't even … well, Chuck is quite serious about his faith, which is a good thing. He's taught me so much. I never knew God counted the hairs on my head. Why didn't you tell me?”

“Are you going to marry him?”

Mom rested her hands on the edge of a box. “We've discussed it. He wants to find a job first and get you up and running at school. Maybe next year.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe sooner, if things go well. What do you think?”

“Charles … Chuck is great. He's perfect for you.”

“There's something you're not saying.”

I covered my face with my hands. “I'm two days late.”

“Two days?” She pulled me into an embrace. “That's nothing. It could be the excitement of the pageant.
Fofa,
you can't be … no, it's
emotion. Before we get to Las Vegas your period will come. Amy, no, you are definitely not pregnant.”

“Maybe we should wait. There's no sense going to California—”

“We're going.”

“But what if …”

Mom tightened her grip on me. “Then we'll have a new member of the family to love. We'll get through it. We always do.”

“Westmont won't let me attend classes.”

“There are other schools.”

“But I've always dreamed …”

“If I can love a pudgy, bald guy, you can dream a new dream, a better dream for yourself. But until we know what we're dealing with, I say we proceed with the original plan with one minor addition—Chuck the woman slayer.”

* * *

THE PINTO'S HOOD tilted upward from being loaded to its ceiling. Chuck slammed the hatch closed. “I guess that's it.” He offered an arm to Mom and the other to me. “Shall we, ladies? Church is about to begin.”

“Leoti is saving us seats,” I said.

Leoti waved us into our places. “I'm so excited. I can hardly breathe,” she said.

A painter's tarp covered the new windows. The windows were the last thing on earth I wanted to see. Every time I thought of them, a squall of emotion pitched me into the depths. According to the bulletin, the windows would be dedicated after the offering. That gave me time to consider my options, like excusing myself to go to the restroom or fainting as the tarp was removed. But I knew I'd stay beside Leoti. Her friendship meant that much to me.

I stood for the call to worship, and with a comfort that comes from familiarity and consistency, I remained standing for the hymn.

Mom leaned over. “Not exactly Motown, is it?”

Pastor Ted delivered a sermon from the eleventh chapter of Luke, something about the Lord's Prayer. Honestly, I didn't hear much of what he said. The thought of leaving Cordial thrilled and saddened me.
What's with that?
This kind of dissonance shouldn't have surprised me. Wondering if a baby grew within me had kept my thoughts bubbling like a stew on the stove. My recurring nightmare had me waddling to class about twenty months pregnant. When I squeezed through the door, my classmates gasped and the professor stomped his foot and shooed me back out the door. I shook my head to clear the dream from my head in time to sing the “Gloria Patri” and recite the Lord's Prayer. Never had the congregation uttered the words with more conviction. I should have listened to the sermon.

Pastor Ted stood at the pulpit. “Before our closing hymn, I want to thank the anonymous donor who commissioned the replacement windows and the attendee of Spruce Street Church who assisted the artist with the actual repair of the windows. The congregation thanks you.”

The congregation clapped politely. Leoti took my hand and squeezed it. A deacon dimmed the lights.

Pastor Ted said, “God's second creation was light. For those of us with only rudimentary understanding of physics and the attributes of light, we may not fully understand the gift God has given us. Light provides warmth and energy for plants to grow. Light allows us to see joy in a child's face when he or she first steps onto a lush lawn or the pain of friends who have suffered a great loss. Our tasks are easier by the light of day. We don't get lost as long as we can see where we're going. Truly, light is a wonderful gift.

“But hear this, friends. Light also brings us color. Imagine if you will the world without color. Words like
dull
,
bland
, and
depressing
come to mind. What would spring be like without the first tender shoots of green breaking the earth and the explosion of color crocuses and daffodils provide? On the other hand, perhaps fewer speeding tickets would be issued for a lack of red sports cars, and wives would no longer have to question their husbands' taste in clothing. Would avoiding a fashion
faux pas
be worth living in a black-and-white world? Our God and Maker says no.

“As Deacon Gartley lowers the tarp from the windows, prepare to receive this amazing gift of color from our good Father.”

A collective sigh of appreciation and then thunderous applause erupted from the congregation. The purity of the colors startled me. They were the colors of Cordial—the green of the orchards, the gold of drying hay fields, and the life-rich brown of earth, all at their loveliest during a rosy sunset. Most surprising of all, the light didn't magnify my sin as expected but overwhelmed it. Again, gratitude pushed me to tears. Enjoying God's grace was sloppy business.

* * *

FEATHER AND HER family stood in front of Clancy and Sons when we stepped out of church. Feather embraced me. I settled my cheek on her fuzzy little head, content to smell hay and chicken feed and that hint of rosemary that lingered in her hair.

She stepped back but held my hands with a strong grip. “I haven't had one seizure, not one—not even a petit mal,” she said. “All of my tests were normal. I don't need the medicine. Jesus healed me.”

I looked to Butter.

“She's right. The doctor repeated the EEG, only this time he made us stay up with her all night before the test. Evidently, a fatigued
brain gives a more reliable reading, but the test was absolutely normal. Of course, the doctor was careful to explain that a normal EEG is possible for epilepsy patients, but he can't explain why she's asymptomatic. He wants to take a wait-and-see approach.”

“As for me,” Straw said, “I've waited and seen enough. My little girl is free of epilepsy.” I only recognized Straw because he held each twin by the hand. He had shaved his hair close to his head. The scissor nicks had scabbed over, but most transforming of all was a clean-shaven face. “And I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

“I didn't heal her,” I said, which made the whole family squirm, so I changed the subject. “You shaved?”

“I start at the mine tomorrow,” he said, looking at Butter. “All that hair would be awfully tough to keep clean.”

Feather gripped me about the waist again. “You have to promise to visit. California is so far away.”

I whispered in her ear. “You were the very best part of my summer. I'll never forget you, not ever.”

Inside the Pinto I sat in the backseat, pressed to the door by a pile of bedding. Watching Feather skip to keep up with Straw started me crying for the umpteenth time that day.

“Let's go,” Mom said. “We're burning daylight.”

Thirty-six miles to Sleepy Eye

I close the book and snap off the light at 1:15 a.m. I have no idea what happened in the story I was reading, but I'm finally too tired to both dread and anticipate meeting my father. The vacancy sign bleeds red light around the curtains, so I turn my back on the window. Soon after my head sinks into the pillow, a nonsensical vignette plays out in my mind, assuring me that sleep is only breaths away. I dream of losing the orientation students at Knott's Berry Farm when a stampede of footsteps in the room upstairs startles me awake. The travelers drop their baggage, as heavy as bowling balls, repeatedly. I sit up to scowl at the ceiling.

How much luggage do you own?

Children shout to claim a bed, and soon their giggles accompany creaking bed springs. A young girl, from the pitch of her scream, protests not having her own trampoline. “Stop jumping on the beds,” yells the mother, and with acid on her tongue says, “I told you we should've stopped in Sioux Falls! You never listen to me, and now the pool is closed.”

No more Sleepy Time motels for me.

I reach for the phone to call the front desk, but I remember traveling with Stephanie, Micole, and Graham to attend a family wedding—on Sam's side—in Jumbo, Oklahoma. After being in the car for ten hours, the neatly made beds of the motel room beckoned to the kids like a playground. About an hour later, we were cordially invited to find other lodging for the night. Traveling with small children is torturous.

My upstairs neighbors power up the television and turn the volume to high. An infomercial for the Miracle Broom blares through the ceiling, which reminds me of the Snickers bar I have in my suitcase. It's funny how the mind works when it craves sleep. The rhythmic creaking continues, but under the influence of chocolate and peanuts, I resign myself to sleep deprivation.

Licking the chocolate off my fingers, I run through the list of questions I want to ask Carl—my
father
—like, Why didn't you marry my mother? Did you look for us? Do I have stepbrothers or sisters? Do you suffer from any hereditary diseases? Am I good enough to be your daughter? Can I have a hug?

Enough!

I expect Mom to knock on my door at any second. Her snores, however torturous, would nonetheless muffle the noise from upstairs. I click on the lamp and reach for the remote. No need to turn the volume up. The frenetic announcer is clearly understandable through
the ceiling. Besides, I stare without seeing the Miracle Broom draw
oohs
and
ahhs
from the studio audience. I fall back on my pillow. The room flashes with color from the television screen. In turn, I worry that Carl is on vacation, or won't answer the door, or died last week. Most disturbing, however, is this question: What if he doesn't like me? I hug the Gideon Bible to my chest.

I am my beloved's, and his desire is for me.

“My bridegroom, my Savior, you are all I need.” At least, that's what I want to be true.

And then there's Mom. I fear she will scold Carl, demand he play his fatherly role, be a grandfather to my children. Or worse, she'll flirt with him. I dig through my suitcase for
Pride and Prejudice
. The triviality of sisters marrying rightly and the ponderous cadence of the story lull me to sleep around three.

* * *

MOM STEPS BACK from the vanity mirror, turning to admire her profile from the left and the right. She pats her stomach. It's as flat as a griddle. Mine is rising dough—puckery, pliant, and dimpled.

“Do I look as old as I feel?” she asks and taps the flesh under her eyes. “I slept like a baby. Where did these bags come from?”

“You slept like a baby?” Except for a softness around her jaw and eyes, Mom is ageless. She's mistaken for my children's mother regularly, which she delights in reporting back to me. “You look fantastic, and you know it.”

She runs her hand through her hair, giving the crown a tousle. “I'm ready, I think, unless this blouse is too young for me. I bought it at the Gap. Is it too clingy?” She holds a green blouse with ruffled collar and cuffs up to her chest. “This blouse is a bit too matronly, but the color is better, and the slacks have the nicest sheen. Very fallish.
What do you think?” She drops the blouse on the bed. “Wait! Don't say anything until you see this.” She holds a bejeweled jacket with a pair of jeans. “This is the real me, right? Give me a minute. I'll change in a wink.”

“We have lots of time,” I say. “It's not like he's expecting us.” I take the jacket from her to hang in the closet. “We need to talk before we do anything.”

She pushes her nightgown and a towel onto the floor and sits in a chair upholstered with John Deere fabric. “Did you drink all your coffee?” she asks. “I could use another cup.”

“This won't take long.”

Mom checks her hair in the mirror and tugs at a curl. “I think there's a coffee pot in the lobby.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, Amy, what is it?”

“I'd like to return the car to Carl by myself.”

“What? Why? You're afraid I'll embarrass you, aren't you?”

A little.
“No, of course not. I'm concerned that Carl will feel overwhelmed if both of us show up on his doorstep. I don't want to intimidate him, and I know you don't either. This is something I should do.”

“You
are
afraid I'll embarrass you.”

A bubble of anger pops in my gut. I fight to keep my voice even. “This isn't about you. I'm the one with the most to win or lose from this meeting. Please, give me the keys. I want to go.” I have a strong urge to stomp my foot.

Mom crosses her arms and narrows her eyes to slits. “Haven't I been a good mother to you? Didn't I provide for you and look after your best interests? And don't forget, I drove you across a whole continent to fulfill your dream.”

So, in her eyes, this is about her. “You've been a fabulous mother. I don't know how you did it alone.” But I won't lie. “Sometimes you got distracted, but I always felt loved. Now I want to be the woman you raised me to be.”

Mom sits with her chin resting on her chest for a long time. I fight the usual urge to acquiesce. Finally, her head pops up, and she removes the tiara's velvet box from the dresser drawer. The velvet is balding.

I press my hands over my beating heart.

“Is it your job to return the tiara too?” she asks, holding the box out to me.

Good question.
“Couldn't you mail it?”

“That's cowardly.”

“I'm sure the pageant people have replaced the tiara by now. The last time I saw it, the thing was getting ratty. Rhinestones had fallen out. Tines from the combs were broken.”

She hugs the box to her chest. “I had it repaired, thank you very much.” She sits on the edge of the bed. “I need a clean conscious more than you know. It's my job to return the tiara to its rightful owners. If I don't return it this visit, I'll come again, later, on my own, without you.”

I sit beside her. “I need you to understand why it's important that I go alone.”

“You don't owe me any explanations,” she says with a sigh and lowers her eyes.

“Of course I do. You're my mother. I won't leave you sulking in a motel room.”

“I'm not sulking.”

She stands to lean against the vanity sink. I wrap my arms around her and talk to her reflection in the mirror. “It's incredibly brave of
you to bring the Pontiac and the tiara back to Sleepy Eye. You're an amazing woman, so resilient. And your ministry to single moms makes me so proud of you. Stephanie and I never would have made it without your help. I wouldn't have gone to school, or earned my degree, or met Sam. You are a rock and I love you.”

A tear rolls down Mom's face.

For years, my disappointment with God centered on the apostle Paul's assertion that we are new creatures in Christ. For far too long I thought this meant a personality change. It doesn't. Mom is still impetuous and fun-loving and more than a bit self-involved, even though she mentors single moms and shares God's love to anyone, anywhere. Her exuberance is a boon for God's kingdom. She's indulged in his unbridled love, something I envy at times. That doesn't mean I don't fight the urge to change her on a daily basis. Her frequent travels help tremendously. My ability to love her unconditionally skyrockets when she's traipsing through cobbled villages or sandy beaches on foreign continents. The older Mom gets, the bigger her personality becomes. Whoever says people mellow with age doesn't know Mom.

Truthfully, I haven't changed that much either. I still overanalyze everything, balk at unplanned activities, and—although I know this is wrong, wrong, wrong—I tend to categorize people, places, and things into black or white. When something defies categorization, I get a migraine. Grace is an intellectual surety that hasn't quite sprouted in my heart. This will be me until I take my last breath in this world and run splish-splashing across the River Jordan into the next.

I kiss Mom's cheek. “What was I thinking? I can't go to Sleepy Eye without you.”

She smiles like a kid given a week-long pass to Disney World. My heart nearly breaks.