9. “Landslide”

9

"LANDSLIDE"

FLEETWOOD MAC

B efore I went home, I drove by Kari's house so I could survey the damage. I saw Matt and Alex deep inside the garage, sweeping debris into enormous piles. It seemed like an impossible undertaking, but they were probably trying to stay busy and out from under their mother's eye.

The mangled, drywall-garnished Camry was backed up in the driveway, and I could see a large, jagged opening from the garage to the kitchen.

I beeped the horn as I rolled up, and the boys turned around and loped over to my car.

"I love what you've done with the place. Is this what they call an open-concept garage?"

"Hi, Aunt Paige," said a glum, unamused Matt. He took off his gloves and pulled the brim of his baseball cap down lower, then glanced back up at me. He looked morose. Humbled.

Alex couldn't even meet my eyes. "We really did it this time."

"Sounds like you did, but hopefully, this will be a learning experience for you—albeit an expensive one. And the good news is, you're leaving for college in a few weeks, so you'll be able to escape relatively soon."

Matt breathed out through pursed lips. "Yeah, our mom is super pissed."

"She can't even look at us," added Alex. "She wasn't even yelling at first. That was the worst part of all. When I crashed through the wall, the drywall slid off the windshield and my mom was staring right at me from the other side of the kitchen. You know that saying, ‘if looks could kill'? It was the scariest thing I have ever seen."

I put my Jeep in park and hung my elbows out the window, resting my chin in my hands. "Oh, I can't even imagine. Your mom's pretty intense when she's mad, and you know you're in big trouble when she's silent."

"I think she's at your house right now. When you get home, can you just let her know that we were over here cleaning up, and there were sweat and tears and a little bit of blood? Maybe a few blisters?"

"Yes, I will definitely let her know that you're over here working your fingers to the bone, cleaning up your mess. If you need anything, just come over and grab it out of my garage. But maybe don't drive over."

Matt squeezed the brim of his hat, a nervous habit he shared with his brother. "Haha, you're hilarious. At least someone is able to joke about this. On that note, I'm getting back to work before she looks over here and sees us standing around." He turned and ambled back toward the garage, picking up a rogue piece of drywall along the way.

I looked back at Alex. "Luckily, I can joke about everything that doesn't directly pertain to my own life, so that's a blessing."

He finally made eye contact with me, his contrition evident. I hoped it would last for the few weeks they had remaining until they left for school. "We'll see you later, Aunt Paige. Thanks for not yelling at us. "

"I have a feeling you'll be hearing plenty of that when your dad gets home."

"Oh, God, don't remind me. On that note, I'm going to get back to work."

As I pulled away from the curb and started a slow loop around the block, I had an epiphany.

My entire adult life had been spent in loving service to others. Learning how to operate something more advanced than a hotplate (albeit, just as well) so I could cook dinner for my new husband. Sacrificing caffeine, alcohol, and my smooth, unlined skin so I could give my unborn babies the best start in life (which, of course, required me to satisfy my only craving—frozen cheese pizza). Breastfeeding for two years each. God, how I missed my young, perky breasts. Somewhere along the way, I had gone from a 34B to a 36Long, and although Mark had always assured me he loved the body that had grown and nurtured his children, I did not .

I had driven thousands upon thousands of miles to practices, games, matches, meets, sectionals, and state competitions. I had cheered on innumerable teams until my throat was shredded. I had hosted business dinners and birthday parties and Thanksgivings and Mark's loser sister who thanked us by stealing my prized first edition copy of The Mists of Avalon . I often hoped she choked when she got to that one scene. Not to death. Just enough to maybe throw up. I watched my husband—to whom I had given my youth, my body, and my trust—walk out the door without a word of explanation. He left me to slip through the surface that had once felt solid, but with the swoosh-click of our front door closing behind him, became a gossamer net at the top of a waterfall. Down I slid, tumbled, thrashed. Not caring about the sharp rocks at the bottom until a hand reached out to save me.

Anna.

She was sixteen, at the height of the awkward, sullen teenage years that had clouded our idyllic relationship, but emotionally mature enough to know she needed help, and most importantly, where she could find it. She spent so much time with my parents for those first two weeks, but one night after they dropped her off (and of course came in to scratch and cluck around our house and load the dishwasher), Anna climbed right into my bed. She laid facing me, her legs pulled up to her chest, mirroring me, and slid her hand into mine. My tumble down the waterfall, over, and while my identity had taken a critical hit, my purpose became clear. I was going to get my kids through this in as close to one piece as I could manage, and in doing so, would heal myself. Presto-chango. So super easy.

If only.

But, I could honestly say that the kids turned out pretty solid. Despite a few bumps and bruises, Jason and Anna grew up to be very loving and very driven. There's something to be said for overcompensating.

Fast forward four years, and while I'd poured out so much of myself into my children to fill the void left behind by their father's departure from our family unit, what remained was no longer enough to hold myself together. Pieces of me floated away unseen (but not unnoticed) every day.

And all of that was fine. Good. Expected (minus the loser sister). I sacrificed it all for the people I loved, and I would do it all over again. But seeing the wreckage in Kari's garage, pieces of sheetrock everywhere, spread from the kitchen to the driveway, it opened up a little window somewhere inside of me. A breeze blew in, and on it came the whisper of a message.

"Time to find the pieces of you that were lost along the way. "

So what had seemed unlikely, improbable, impossible a mere seventy-two hours before became my answer to the bidding of my soul. It was time to find out who I was in this phase of my life, and I was hoping that my new persona included published author .

There was only one way to find out. It was time to dress for my second act.