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Chapter Two
Eva’s shaking my shoulder and talking too fast. “Mom, Mom, Mom. The class lists! They should be up. Wake up.”
I squeeze my eyes tighter and try to roll away from her. I roll right onto a crumpled magazine. I reach for her magazine and shove it off the bed. “Eva, why do you do this to me?”
“You have to wake up sooner or later. Might as well wake up now. The class lists are up. We’ve got to go check it out.”
“And this is why you’re waking me up?”
She climbs over me, her knobby knee banging my hip, and puts her face in front of mine, her long hair falling on my cheek. “We’ve got to find out who my teacher is and get my class supplies. It’s already Saturday. School starts in three days, and I’ve got to get organized.”
Another curious difference between us, I think, slowly opening one eye to peer at her. I hated school, and Eva loves it. She excels academically, reads and writes as if she’s fifteen instead of nine, and aces every test.
“Mom. Get. Up.” Eva impatiently rips back the covers.
The early morning air is way too chilly for that, and I yank the covers back. “What time is it?”
“Almost seven.”
Glancing past her, I see the clock next to my bed. Six twenty-three. Arrrgh. “You lie. It’s not even six-thirty.”
“You might as well get up. With school starting soon, we’ve got to get on a routine again. Get back to normal.”
Normal? Routine? Schedule? Whose kid is this?
Growling, I bury my head under my pillow. “Give me another half hour. I need a half hour. Okay?”
And Eva, my delicious little daughter, agrees and returns to wake me up at six forty-five on the dot.
I see the red numbers on the alarm clock, and so does she, but Eva just grins, happy to rob me of fifteen minutes if it means she wins.
As soon as Eva sees me up, she bounds out of the bedroom, long legs flying. I’m moving much more slowly, and I stumble toward the kitchen to start the coffee.
Leaning on the counter, newspaper spread out in front of me, I scan the headlines as the coffee brews.
“Are you going to go for a run?” Eva asks, taking the DVD of Father of the Bride off pause.
She’s watched that movie a dozen times this summer, along with her other summer faves: Runaway Bride, The Princess Bride, My Best Friend’s Wedding, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, The Wedding Planner, and let’s not forget Four Weddings and a Funeral.
As Steve Martin’s emotion-choked voice fills the room, I close my eyes. “I will run if you insist on watching this again.”
Eva temporarily mutes the sound. “But there’s nowhere else to watch it, Mom, this is our only TV.”
“Maybe you don’t need to watch it.”
“Maybe you need to run.”
Maybe I do.
Grumpily, I head to my room and change into shorts, a T-shirt, and my running shoes before strapping my iPod on one arm and my cell phone on the other.
I reappear to say good-bye to Eva. She beams at me, sinks deeper into the couch cushions. “Have a good run.”
“I’ve got my phone. Call—”
“I know. I know the number. I know the house will be locked. I know what to do.” She waves me toward the door. “Now go. The best part of the movie is coming up.”
I glance at the screen. Steve’s about to cry. This is definitely my exit cue.
Opening the door, I’m confronted by the morning fog. In summer, we often get a marine layer that blankets the city and lake with a soupy gray mist. I know it’ll burn off later, but it doesn’t make me think fun run.
“It’s icky,” I call to Eva, who knows already because she was the one who brought in the newspaper earlier.
“Then come back and watch the movie with me. It’s coming up to the best part.”
Eva knows how to get me moving. “I’ll be back in twenty-five.”
“Bye.”
Outside, I start slowly until I wake up properly. I don’t run as often as I used to. I used to run a lot in Manhattan, meeting up with Shey in Central Park. Whenever Tiana was in town, we made her run with us, too. And running was good for us, made us feel powerful. Strong. The point of exercise isn’t to make you skinny, but to armor your mind. We are fierce, tough, warrior women. We are not fragile or helpless. We do not need to lean on anyone. In fact, the world leans on us.
With my iPod on, I’m able to maintain a quick tempo, and as I run I take deep breaths to try to clear my head, help me relax.
At the corner, I pause, glance in both directions, and start to cross when suddenly a black Hummer appears from nowhere, brakes hard, and lays on the horn.
The horn jolts me, but what pisses me off is that the driver of the Hummer ran the stop sign. It didn’t even come to a full stop, just barely slowed before nearly mowing me over.
As the Hummer passes, I see the driver, a skinny blonde, on a cell phone.
I’m tempted to shout at her to be careful, but I know it won’t do any good. Skinny blondes in Hummers don’t have the best listening skills.
Instead I quicken my speed, pushing myself to go a little faster than usual to burn off my anger.
So many of the women around here seem so oblivious to real life, preoccupied as they are by perfect hair, teeth, and nails.
Must be nice to have a rich husband who takes care of all your needs.
Almost immediately, I picture Taylor in her cute tennis skirt. Taylor didn’t take the day off work to be at the pool. Being at the pool—and on the tennis court and in the gym—is Taylor’s job.
Disgusted, I turn toward home, running along 84th Street, heading toward Points Drive, when I’m passed by a man who is running, too. He’s huge, head and shoulders taller than me, and I’m not short.
As he moves in front of me, his head turns ever so slightly and his gaze briefly meets mine.
Light eyes, an intense expression. Hard jaw. A face that’s more chiseled than beautiful.
I shiver a little as he takes the lead. He’s wearing long baggy shorts and a navy long-sleeved T-shirt, yet he’s so big, so thickly muscled, I imagine he’s got to be a professional athlete. Maybe one of the Seattle Seahawks or perhaps a Mariner.
Either way, he’s definitely amazing, and as he disappears into the fog in front of me, I slow, suddenly light-headed, almost dizzy.
I slow even more and then stop running altogether. For a moment I just stand there, hands on my hips, trying to catch my breath. And my breathlessness has nothing to do with my physical conditioning.
Eventually, I start jogging again and head for home. Back at the house, everything is just as I left it, and Eva’s still on the couch, watching the end of her movie.
Our Yarrow Point house isn’t huge, but it’s got a modern floor plan with a soaring ceiling—no formal living room, just a great room with kitchen, family room, and dining room all combined—and I love it because I can see Eva no matter where I am or what I’m doing.
I kick off my running shoes, leaving them by the front door, and after stripping off my socks head into the kitchen. Without looking away from the TV, Eva asks, “Good run?”
“Yes.”
“See anybody?”
I think of the man who passed me, the man of mythic proportions. “No.” I reach into the glass-fronted cabinet for one of my thick, hand-painted pottery mugs I bought in Mexico aeons ago. “There was a lady who nearly ran me over, though.”
“Was she putting on makeup?”
“Talking on her cell.”
“Typical,” Eva drawls, and then looks at me. “So. Are you almost ready to go?”
“Go where? I just got back,” I answer, filling the mug with coffee.
“To the school.”
“It’s early. And I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”
“You can pour it in one of those travel mugs.”
“I can drink it here.”
“Mom—”
“Eva.”
I’m just saying—”
“And I’m just saying there’s eager and there’s absurd. You can be eager, but you can’t be absurd, okay?”
She makes a humphy sound and twirls the tips of her long ponytail around her fingers. “So when will we go?”
“Nine.”
“Nine?” Her voice rises an octave. “And what will I do until then?”
