Off Her Rocker. Jennifer Archer
looks like Uncle Harold,” Carl says.
“Uncle Harold’s a skinny, wrinkled-up old man.”
“I know.”
We both laugh through our tears.
“Have you decided on a name?” the nurse asks.
“Troy Bennett.” I lick the salty sweat from my lips. “After my father.”
“Troy Bennett Logan.” Carl’s voice oozes pride. “Future president of Logan Advertising.”
“That’s a strong, proud name,” the nurse says. “I like it. Is he your first?”
“Second,” Carl answers, his voice raised slightly to be heard above Troy’s cries. “We have a four-year-old daughter.”
The nurse smiles, spreading wrinkled wings at the corners of her kind, knowing eyes. “Enjoy every second you have with them. Tomorrow you’ll wake up, your daughter will be getting married, and this one will be off to college.”
Tomorrow? I don’t believe her. The years stretch ahead like a long sunny road I’ve never traveled. Block after block of surprises and adventure, of firsts: first steps, first teeth, first day of school, first date.
I can’t see the place where my children are grown; it’s too far in the distance. A million miles away.
CHAPTER 1
Tomorrow
aka Eighteen Years Later
Troy, Carl and I stand outside of a red-roofed brick dormitory backed by rugged mountains.
“It won’t be the same at home without you.” I squeeze Troy tighter, my tears dampening the sleeve of his White Stripes T-shirt. He squeezes me back, but doesn’t say anything.
Carl clears his throat, and I blink across at him. He stands behind Troy, smiling, but his eyes are misty as he slides on his sunglasses. “We need to get the car back to the rental place if we’re going to make our flight.”
Troy and I step apart. The cord is cut, but we’re still connected. “I love you.” I take his hands in mine.
“I love you, too, Mom.” Pink splotches bloom on his cheeks. His tender, anxious expression tells me that, despite his excitement, he’s feeling some of what I feel: pride and love, but sadness, uncertainty and a little fear, too. The moment is bittersweet. This is what the past eighteen years have all been about. Raising him to be independent, brave and capable. But the thought of not seeing him every day, not hearing his voice…
Two snickering young men approach, headed for the dorm’s white-columned entrance. Their glances cut our direction, and Troy’s blush deepens. Dipping his chin, he releases my hands.
I wait until the boys pass by, then, with a final quick hug, I back away. “We’re proud of you, sweetie.”
Carl embraces Troy for only a second, then gently punches his shoulder. “We’ll call you when we’re home.”
Troy nods, his gaze shifting to the dorm, down to his feet, then back to us. He pops his knuckles. All signs that he’s nervous, excited and antsy. How many times have I watched him act the same on the sidelines of a basketball court before the coach sent him into the game?
“Remember why you’re here,” Carl adds, attempting sternness but sounding sentimental, instead. “Your studies come first. Even before basketball. Keep your priorities straight.”
“I will.” Troy’s Adam’s apple shifts.
“You have big shoes to fill some day at Logan Advertising.” Carl glances down at his size elevens, then winks. “I’m counting on you to send me off to retirement in about ten years.”
Clearing his throat, Troy blinks down at his size tens.
“If you need anything—” my voice falters “—we’re only a phone call away.”
Carl checks his watch, then takes my hand. “Bye, son.”
Panic seizes me. There’s so much more to say, but not enough time. One weekend here wasn’t long enough. Eighteen years wasn’t long enough. I look at Carl and silently plead one more minute. As if I can cram into sixty seconds everything I forgot to teach our son, to explain and impress upon him during his lifetime.
“You should have plenty of money in your account,” I tell Troy. “And I put extra on your student card.” The words rush out of me. “You understand how to use the card in the laundry machines, don’t you? And how to do the laundry?”
“Yes, Mom. You went over it a million times.” Embarrassment and exasperation strain his quick laugh.
“Ask your resident adviser if you have any questions. He’s there to help. And get involved in dorm activities. It’s a good way to meet people and make friends.”
Troy sends his father a desperate look.
“Dana, come on.” Carl tugs my arm. “We’ll be late.”
Ignoring him, I say, “Remember what we talked about. You’ll meet all kinds of people here, Troy. Good ones, but kids you’ll want to avoid, too. Be careful.”
“Jeez, Mom.” He cringes slightly and eyes a group of girls who walk by carrying boxes.
“Goodbye, sweetie.” I have to squeeze the words from my throat.
Turning, I follow Carl down the sidewalk. One step. Two. Three. Four. Deep breaths. In…out…in…out. Bringing Troy into the world was less painful than sending him off on his own to explore it. The cord may be cut, but we’re still connected. At least I am; when I look over my shoulder, Troy isn’t watching us leave, as I’d expected. His head is turned toward the dorm.
I flash back to the painting on the wall of the hospital labor room eighteen years ago. The mother clinging to her child, the boy detached, looking off into the distance.
“Don’t forget to call AAA if you have any car trouble,” I yell. “They’ll even change a flat tire or come out if you lock your keys inside.”
Troy turns squinting eyes on me, his shoulders slumped, his arms at his sides.
“He can change his own damn tire,” Carl mutters and tugs me again.
“Your allergy medicine’s in the first-aid kit I packed for you,” I add as Troy starts for the dorm.
“Dana.” Carl walks faster.
A sob builds in my chest as I watch the back of my baby’s shiny dark head, his tall, lanky frame, merge into a throng of University of Colorado freshmen hauling boxes and trunks, beanbag chairs, mini-refrigerators and stereo equipment. In my mind, he’s three years old again, lost in a crowd, and I can’t get to him. It’s almost more than I can do to look away. “I can’t stand to leave him.”
Carl digs keys from his pocket and gives me a sympathetic smile. “We’ve known for almost a year he’d be going to school here.”
I swipe at my eyes with a shaky hand.
We walk the rest of the way in silence. When we finally reach the car, Carl heads for the driver’s side door, and I head for mine.
I sink into my seat. “I feel like we’re abandoning him in a strange place with a bunch of strangers.”
“He’s not a little boy anymore—he grew up. It happens to everybody if they’re lucky.”
“He may look grown, but he’s still a kid.” We buckle up. “He doesn’t know how to take care of himself. He isn’t ready.” My nose starts running as we pull out. “He’s only done two loads of laundry in his entire life, and both of those were last week. The second time, I still had to give him directions. What if he doesn’t remember?”
“He’ll