Our neighbors brought wine and blueberry pie.
The night before closing, I stood in our empty bedroom, looked at the maple tree we had planted after my mother died, and wondered whether we were making a terrible mistake.
I was forty-six.
I knew which floorboard creaked.
I had a dentist.
People talk about starting over as though inspirational music begins playing in the background.
Mostly, it involves packing tape.
Colorado didn’t immediately feel like freedom.
Our rental was smaller because we refused to buy before learning the area.
The moving truck arrived two days late.
During my first week, I got lost twice inside the Aurora hospital complex.
One evening, Mark was away for work, and I ate grocery-store rotisserie chicken straight from the plastic container while sitting between unopened boxes.
I called him.
“You okay?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Want me to come home?”
That helped more than any speech about fresh starts could have.
“No. Finish what you went there to do.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. But if you ever suggest moving again, I’m changing the locks.”
“Fair.”
Back in Ohio, Mark’s absence revealed itself one inconvenience at a time.
Richard’s Buick needed service.
Patricia needed transportation after dental work.
Passwords had to be located.
Prescriptions needed tracking.
Susan eventually flew in and called Mark in disbelief.
“Your father has seventy-seven passwords written on seventeen different pieces of paper.”
“Eighteen,” Mark said immediately.
Silence.
“What?”
“Check under the router.”
Another silence.
“I hate that you knew that.”
Mark laughed.
Then Susan grew serious.
“How long have you been doing all this?”
“A while.”
That had been his answer for twelve years.
A while.
Five weeks after our move, Patricia called him.
Her voice sounded softer than it had in months.
“I don’t like how we left things.”
“Neither do I.”
“I don’t want us fighting over money.”
“We aren’t.”
“I miss you.”
That got to him.
“I miss you too, Mom.”
For about ninety seconds, I thought we were witnessing the beginning of something better.
Then Patricia said, “Your father’s procedure is November twelfth. If you flew in on the tenth, you could stay through the weekend.”
Mark closed his eyes.
“Did you ask Susan?”
“She has work.”
“So do I.”
“Rebecca has the children.”
“They’re teenagers.”
“Well, your father is more comfortable with you.”
There it was again.
“Mom, I can help coordinate it,” Mark said. “But I’m not flying back every time there’s an appointment.”
