Mrs. Perfect

The dull panic in the back of my brain becomes a constant roar. How in God’s name will we be out of here by the end of the weekend? How will I have the house empty (or empty of “us”) before escrow closes?

The next morning I get up an hour earlier than usual and pack until the girls need to get up.

Fortunately, on Wednesday, Z Design empties out by noon, and Marta tells us all good-bye for the weekend. Everyone’s rushing off for their holiday weekend. Mel’s flying out to Dallas. Allie’s meeting her boyfriend’s family in Gig Harbor for the first time. Robert and his partner are going to Santa Barbara to be with Robert’s partner’s family.

Marta, however, is home. She’s cooking Thanksgiving for her family. Apparently, Luke wanted her and Eva to go home with him for their first real Thanksgiving together, but Marta was too worried about her parents.

“It’s probably Mom’s last Thanksgiving at home,” she tells me as she walks me out of the office and down the drive. At my car, she says good-bye and continues on to the mailboxes to check for today’s mail.

It’s just a couple of blocks to my house, and as I drive, leaves swirl and blow. I glance at my watch—Nathan will be home in seven hours—and then at the sky. It’s mostly gray, but here and there I see glimpses of blue.

I want the clouds to blow out. I want clear, dry skies for the next few days. I want Nathan to arrive and wrap his arms around me and hug me and never let go.

It seems like forever since he touched me. Forever since he loved me. I can’t even remember the last time we did make love.

Did I like it? Was it good? How did it feel to be close to him then?

As I enter the house, I find Annika already set to leave, even though I’m home hours earlier than I expected. “Mr. Young called,” she says, handing me a notepad with the phone messages. “And if it’s okay, maybe I could go now before the traffic is really bad?”

While I write her a check for the last two weeks of work and add in a $200 bonus as a thank-you gift for her eighteen months of help, the girls crowd around Annika with good-bye hugs. Tori’s in tears as Annika slips out the door.

“I don’t want her to go,” Tori cries, racing for the door. “I don’t want Annika to leave.”

I catch Tori in my arms and swing her up onto my hip. “A new family needs Annika,” I say, kissing her cheek, her nose, her neck. “You’re a big girl, and you don’t need Annika as much.”

“Yes, I do. I need Annika. And I’m not a big girl. I’m still your baby—”

“Yes, you are a baby,” Brooke sighs, walking by.

“I’m not!” Tori shrieks, wriggling out of my arms.

“You are, too,” Brooke calls back as she walks out of the room and up the stairs, “because you still wet your bed!”

“Girls, enough,” I plead wearily as I climb the stairs, picking up scattered coats, sweaters, shoes, and socks as I go.

I’m at the top of the stairs when the phone rings. Dropping the girls’ clothes in the hall outside Jemma’s room, I head for my bedroom for the phone on the nightstand.

It’s Nathan on the line. “Hey,” I say, pulling the elastic out of my hair and shaking my ponytail loose. “Shouldn’t you be boarding about now?”

“There’s no plane to board.”

“What do you mean?”

“O’Hare’s in lockdown. It’s so cold and the ice is so bad they’ve canceled everything. Planes aren’t getting in or out.”

“But you’re flying into Minneapolis—”

“Our plane is trapped in Chicago.”

I sit on the edge of our bed, our big king-size bed that will fit in our room at the rental house only if we dismantle the headboard and footboard and use just the metal bed frame. I chew relentlessly on my thumb’s knuckle.

“I’ll call you if things change,” he says, sounding even worse than I feel. “But right now it’s unlikely.”

Nathan’s not coming home. I should have known. I should have expected this. I should have learned by now not to get my hopes up anymore.

“Taylor?”

I pull my knuckle away from my mouth. “Yes?” My voice is husky. I’m close to tears.

“I wanted to be there.” He sounds like hell, his voice strained. “I wanted to get you all moved. I wanted to see the girls.”

I swallow the disappointment. It’s so thick that I can feel it choking me. “Let me know what happens.”

“I will. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Chapter Twenty

It’s a hard night. A long night. Nathan phones me every three or four hours with updates, his last being midnight my time to say there would be no way he could get here tomorrow. His best hope would be a Friday night arrival. If then.

He’s not the only one stranded, and Chicago isn’t the only airport hit. Most of the Northeast is frozen shut, and I can imagine the thousands of families frantic and disappointed that their Thanksgiving plans are ruined.

I don’t cry after hanging up at midnight, but my insides are heavy, my heart like a lead weight.

I’m getting good at disappointment. I’m getting good at not having my way.

It doesn’t mean it’s easy, and I can’t imagine it’ll ever feel nice, but what is, is, and I’m going to make the best of it. I’m going to count my blessings. Even if it kills me.

I wake early on my own. No alarm clocks needed. After changing from pajamas into sweats, I make coffee and start boxing up the family room, trying not to notice that it’s still pitch black out and the house is nearly as dark and cold. After taping two boxes closed, I turn on a few more lights and take a big gulp of coffee.

I’m okay. I’m okay. I can do this.

I can move the girls. I can take care of us. I can manage just fine.

But my eyes burn and I’m so unbearably sad that I use my sleeve to wipe at my eyes. No tears. No crying. No pity parties allowed. I’m a woman, not a child. What’s the big deal about moving us myself?

With a hard mental kick, I return to the wall of built-ins that line the family room. Books and photos and knickknacks everywhere. I have to use the smallest-size U-Haul boxes for the books since they’re heavy, but I pack them carefully and stack the filled boxes in a tower along one wall.

At seven-thirty, Brooke races downstairs in her pajamas covered with little red-haired girls playing soccer. “Is Daddy here?”

I fold down the cardboard top, tape it tightly closed. “No. The storm’s too bad. There aren’t any planes flying out.”

Brooke throws herself on the couch and grabs a pillow to her chest. “But he said he’d be here. He said he was coming home.”

“He can’t help the storm. Weather is out of our control.”

“He promised.”

I sit back on my heels and rest the massive roll of sealing tape on my thigh. “I’m upset, too.”

She kicks the pillow at her feet. “I’m not upset, I’m mad. Dad is supposed to be with us.” She kicks the pillow again. “I hate that he’s in Omaha. I hate that we’re moving. I hate that you’re working. I hate that Annika’s going to take care of someone else’s kids now. I hate everything. I even hate Thanksgiving.”

“Me too.” I reach for another box and fold it into shape. “I agree. To everything.”

Brooke stops kicking. She lies still for a minute before sitting up. Carefully she wipes a tangled strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

I stop taping the bottoms of boxes and look at her, see her, this middle daughter with her long hair and her fierce, competitive spirit. She’s my fighter. Dear God, don’t ever let me break that fighting spirit.

“No.” I smile at her, and my eyes have that itchy, burning feeling again. “I’m glad you tell me what you think. I’d hate it if you thought you couldn’t.”

“Even if I’m mad at you and Daddy?”

So that’s where all these hates come from. She’s struggling just as much as Nathan and I are struggl

ing. “Especially if you’re mad at me and Daddy. We’re your parents. We’re a family. If you can’t tell Daddy and me how you feel, who can you tell?”

She smiles then, and the shadows lift from her expression, and it’s as if the sun has come out. “Love you, Momma.”

“I love you, too, Brooke Young.”

I’ve just returned from the garage with an armful of flat boxes and more packing paper when the doorbell rings. My heart leaps and I think, Nathan. But then I glance at my watch and realize it’s impossible. It’s eight-fifteen in the morning, and at two a.m. his time he was still stuck at the Omaha airport. There’s no way he could be here now.

Running my fingers through my hair, I head for the door, unlocking the dead bolts even as I slide a thumb beneath my eyes, trying to catch any mascara smudges. Opening the door, I freeze.

Mom.

Mom and Ray.

I can’t speak. I can’t move. I just stand in the doorway and stare at her. It’s been years since I’ve seen her. A decade or more. At least.