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But I also couldn't handle the embarrassment of someone seeing me reading books with those types of titles.
I grabbed the one I was reading anyway, stuffing it into my bag for possible private reading at the retreat. I figured there would be scheduled group activities followed by periods where we could mingle if we wanted to, or possibly do other sorts of unplanned group activities. I, however, would opt to spend that time alone, recharging. These people knew me, they would understand without getting offended. It was the reason I had decided to go instead of create some made-up excuse for why I had to stay in Navesink Bank, everyone knowing I was lying, but too kind to call me on it.
"It will be good for you, honey," my mother had told me when I'd first gotten the invite, a little last-minute on a Friday night when we were set to leave on Monday. I guess that was why I hadn't heard anyone talking about it at work.
Fee wasn't exactly an absent-minded boss, but she was often spontaneous, so she probably threw it all together as a surprise.
And it left me very little time to freak out and talk myself out of it.
I'd done some of the freaking out, of course. It was my nature, after all, when faced with uncertain circumstances. So I did my usual routine of calling my mom, talking it out, listening to her calm, reassuring voice, then feeling brave enough to shoot Fee a text telling her I would be there.
Once the text was out, there was no turning back. So I spent my weekend researching weather patterns for this time of year in Washington state, then packing accordingly, putting self-waterers into my plants, even though I asked my mom to drop in to check them. I had a particularly problematic Fiddle Leaf Fig that I was worried about, and had put too much work into to let die over the five-day trip. I cooked what was left of the perishables, freezing what I couldn't eat. Growing up with a single mom on a tight budget, I learned not to waste anything. And then I'd watched video after video online about traveling by plane. I'd done it once or twice as a kid, back when we used to travel to visit my grandparents, but back then, I'd had none of the anxiety that came with when to arrive, how to get through security, what to expect.
I liked being prepared. Overly so, if at all possible.
But it was bright and early Monday morning, the sun nothing but a wish and a promise on the horizon, and my mom was waiting for me down in her car, being nice enough to drop me at the airport just so I could avoid having to get a car to drive me on top of everything else.
That was one of the things I appreciated most about my mom. She would push me in some ways, like encouraging me to take this trip—but also ease the transition—like she was doing by driving me.
I grabbed one extra book-a romance, but not one of the ones with the half-naked men or embracing couples on the cover, shoving it into my carry-on, then grabbing my suitcases, and heading down.
My mother had always been lovely. There was no other word that seemed to adequately describe her. She wasn't stunning or stop-you-in-your-tracks beautiful, but there had always been something about her warm brown eyes, her generous mouth prone to smiling, about the honey highlights in her brown hair, in the subtle curves of her thin body. She looked, dressed, and acted as the sweet, caring, loving kindergarten teacher that she was.
Today, she was dressed in a floor-skirting off-white linen skirt with a subtle pattern of birds in a golden brown color that matched her roomy sweater she wore up top.
I didn't get much of my mother's loveliness, her open, animated nature, or her fashion sense. Clearly. Since I was wearing wide-leg black pants and a graphic tee under an oversize white cardigan.
"Dressing in layers was smart," she told me as she helped me get my luggage in the trunk of her hatchback. "You can never tell if you are going to be too hot or too cold on a flight."
Though, to be fair, I was always cold. As was she. It was one of the few traits I had inherited from her.
"You ready?" she asked, slamming the trunk.
"Yes. No. I don't know."
"Hey, but you're doing it. That's the important thing. I think this is the perfect kind of vacation for you. Calm, quiet, with only people you are close with around. It's going to be great. I'm kind of envious. If you like it, maybe we can go back for a vacation together someday. Though, let's face it, neither of us are all that outdoorsy, so if it entails cutting our own firewood or something like that, I think we can find somewhere else just as cozy."
