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“We’ll take the ambulance and the small engine,” I say as I give them the location, and we head back out into the night.
Maxi
My day started out with a two-hour phone call with my sister, Lynn. She and her husband have been fighting, and she is considering taking the kids and moving in with our aunt Rhonda.
Lynn’s husband, Jim, is a nice guy. He is good to her and good to his kids. Lynn’s major complaints about him are that he is bad with money and he likes to spend his evenings and weekends playing video games. Granted, a grown man with a video game addiction would annoy the hell out of me, but I don’t think it’s grounds for splitting up a family.
Jim and Lynn met when she was still in high school, and they got pregnant with my niece, Cara, a month before they graduated. The following October, they were married in a small ceremony, funded by my mother. A year and a half after Cara was born, she had my nephew. My mother was a grandmother before she turned forty, and my sister was tied down with two kids and a husband before she turned twenty-one.
We had two very different plans due to what we endured as children.
I grew up, determined never to get married. Lynn grew up, wanting so badly to get married and build the happy family for herself that we never had.
Both choices are extreme trauma responses, and neither is healthy, yet here we are.
“Sis, I know you think the grass is greener in another yard. But trust me, it’s not. Nothing you have told me justifies a divorce. He doesn’t beat you or the kids, and he isn’t having an affair. He doesn’t drink or do drugs. He’s just boring. Boring can be fixed. Boring can be overcome,” I tell her.
“What about the money thing? He has overdrawn our bank account twice in the last few months. He checks the balance at the ATM machine and thinks that the sum it shows is what we have. He doesn’t take into account that we have bills drafting out of that account. So, he bounces our house payment because he wants a Big Mac instead of the lunch I packed for him,” she complains.
“The problem is that he went straight from his momma’s house to yours. He never had to live on his own and figure out how to handle finances. I’m sure he isn’t purposely overdrawing your account. He’ll learn.”
She sighs, and I can feel her frustration across the line.
“Look, sis. I know you’re gorgeous. I know you go out with your friends, and men pay you all kinds of attention. You think that finding someone new will be a piece of cake, but trust me, you’ll be a lot less attractive to those men in the light of day when you come with two children and an ex-husband to deal with. Look at our cousin Melonie. She and Shane divorced when Laura was four and Jamie was two. Laura is in college now, and Mel is still a struggling single mother. You need to think long and hard before you throw away what you have,” I advise.
“Ugh, you know I don’t call you for logical advice, right? You’re my sister. I expect you to be appropriately outraged at my mistreatment and console and coddle me.”
“Sorry, but that bullshit sympathy died with Momma,” I say, breaking the truth to her.
“God, I miss her,” she whispers.
“Me too.”
“And I realize you’re right. I’m just tired of having the same old fights, you know?” she says.
“I know. Just talk to him and try to come to a compromise,” I say.
“I’ll try,” she says, and it’s the best I can hope for.
Once we are off the phone, I decide to change into my bikini and head to the Rocky Pass pool and get some vitamin D before work. Since I rent a cabin from the Tuttles, I have access to all the amenities at the campground.
I pull my hair up into a topknot, slather on fifteen SPF lotion, grab my beach towel and cover-up, and slide on my flip-flops. I skip the truck and walk to the pool.
It’s a beautiful day in the valley. The sun is bright, but the breeze and mild temperature make it a perfect afternoon to spend outside.
I have my earbuds in and am happily baking in the afternoon sun when I feel a weight hit the end of my lounge chair.
I open one eye and peek at the intruder.
Erin stares back at me. “Do I hear Alanis Morissette?” she asks.
“Yep. I’m an angst-filled nineties kid,” I say.
“Jagged Little Pillis a masterpiece,” she states.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Nope. I just thought I’d come hang out with you on my lunch break.”
