Authors: Lorena McCourtney
That was a problem. Way too many things reminded me of Mac. The color of the bathroom; that soft pink had been his idea. My denim shorts; he’d especially liked them. A whiff of garlic in spaghetti sauce even brought a twinge of nostalgia for all the garlic we’d shared.
I took Koop to the vet to have his shots updated. I helped Eric make some new wind chimes out of long bolts and shiny wheel lugs. We hung them all on a low branch near the shop, where they filled the back yard with musical tinkles. Someone gave Tasha a box of peaches and I canned them for her.
A week went by, and I didn’t hear anything from Mac. I wondered if he’d made it up to Montana okay. I wondered if the motorhome was lying in a ditch on some backcountry road. I wondered if vultures were circling overhead.
Well, if they were, they’d better watch out. Mac is self-sufficient, capable, and practical, and any circling vulture might just wind up as vulture pot pie. If vultures are edible. I didn’t know. But Mac would.
But I don’t miss Mac. I repeat that to myself before breakfast, during lunch and after dinner, and maybe, oh, seventeen other times during the day. I figure if I say it enough times, sooner or later it will be true. I was frustrated with myself. Mac and I had been separated much longer than a week at various times, and I’d never suffered any pity-party separation pangs. But it was different this time, of course. This wasn’t a meet-you-up-in-Oregon—or Arizona or Texas—type separation. This time Mac was as gone as if he’d stepped into another dimension.
Stubborn old geezer.
Meaning Mac, of course. Not
me.
Okay, time to get that furniture I needed before I moved back into the house. I couldn’t afford a houseful, so the sleeper-sofa could serve as both sofa and bed for a while yet, but I needed a recliner and curtains for the living room. An end table to replace the cardboard box by the sofa. A TV and a toaster that didn’t throw slices of bread like a pitcher trying out for the World Series.
I went back to the store where I’d bought the sofa. I looked at recliners. I sat in recliners. I reclined in recliners. Nothing felt right. I looked at curtains. Too heavy. Too light. Too blue. Not blue enough. I looked at TVs. Too big. Too little.
Lousy programs on all of them.
I returned to Madison Street without purchasing anything. I wandered the empty house feeling restless and fidgety. Everything was clean, repainted, scent-less. I wasn’t ready to take a bath in the upstairs bathroom yet, but I could walk in there without cringing. The Braxtons were safely corralled in jail, out of my life for good. I should be singing with joy instead of moping around.
I planted myself beside the upstairs bedroom window and stared out at the
blackened maple
tree. It looked dark and skeletal, as if it had been hit with some devastating curse. But Geoff had assured me it would grow back, so no disaster there. I looked down at the fire-damaged wall of the house. It would be repaired soon. No disaster there, either.
But also no joy.
So, Ms. Ivy Malone, what’s wrong here? How come you’re dragging around like a slug in a puddle of molasses?
It didn’t take a lightning-strike epiphany to answer that question. Mac was what was wrong. Specifically,
no Mac
was the problem.
But you’re home, Ivy, I reminded myself. You’re
home.
Was I? Yes, it was a house that had once been home, but, without Mac, it wasn’t a home now. And all the furniture in the world wasn’t going to make it home without him.
I instantly scoffed at that country-and-western song philosophy. Mac had never lived here. How could his not being here now keep it from being home?
It just did.
This was not good. It was even worse than seeing dead presidents in tomatoes and trees. I’m talking to myself. About missing Mac.
So what are you going to do about it?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m a sensible, independent LOL, not some lovesick, angst-driven teenager. To prove it, I went back to my bedroom at Tasha and Eric’s place and plastered a fresh tattoo on my ankle.
Well, great. In my rush to prove something . . . although I wasn’t quite sure what . . . I’d made a small misjudgment. Now I had an upside-down purple unicorn on my ankle.
And that was how I felt. As if my whole life had turned upside down. All because of Mac.
I was trying to decide if I wanted to undo the upside-down unicorn when three words thundered in my head. Yes,
thundered.
Go, Ivy, go.
I looked around. Up. Down. Sideways. I even turned a slow circle and gave my chest a questioning thump. Who, me? Go where?
You know where. Go. To Mac.
This is even more not good. Now I’m hearing voices in my head. I walked around again.
I’m home,
I reminded myself once more. This was no time to let that dreaded
s
word,
senile,
overtake me. Stop procrastinating, I told myself, and get busy picking out new furniture.
Go, Ivy, go.
I paused warily. Is that you, Lord?
Go. Now.
Okay, okay. I hear you. I suppose I could do that. I could drive up to Montana. Maybe I could talk some sense into him. But he could have stayed. Why should I have to make the first move? I’ll think about it.
Go, Ivy, go.
A sign from the Lord? No, more than a sign. These were words ringing in my head.
But I’m free of the Braxtons now, I argued. I don’t have to run and hide any more. Besides, I don’t have a motorhome now. I can’t just take off, like jumping off a cliff
—
Jump, Ivy, jump!
How come I’m the one getting all this
go
and
jump
advice? You could yell at
him
, Lord. Tell that stubborn old geezer to come back to
me
. I offered appropriate words. Go, Mac, go.
Go, Ivy, go.
You’re repeating yourself, Lord.
Go, Ivy, go.
I sighed. That’s what the Lord has to do sometimes, isn’t it? Repeat himself. Give us a gentle nudge. Maybe even a not-so-gentle shove.
Okay, okay, I’m going. But when will I be back?
No answer to that question. Just another
Go, Ivy, go.
***
Grudgingly,
remembering Tasha and Eric had said they’d tried to buy the house they were living in, I talked to them that evening. Although all the time we were talking I was thinking, I don’t have to
sell
the house. I could rent or even just loan it to them. I mean, taking off after Mac might be just a wild goose chase. Maybe I’ll want to turn around and come home.
Except it wasn’t home without Mac.
It was a short talk with Eric and Tasha, no sales pitch involved. They were delighted. Yes, they’d like to buy the house. I reminded them that the upstairs carpet had a big hole in it and the scorched siding still needed repair. They said neither mattered. Eric had been offered a full-time job working with kids at the gym. Now he could take it. Tasha was rethinking acting as a lifetime endeavor; maybe she’d go back to school and learn a computer occupation. The money they’d saved was enough for a down payment. We decided on monthly payments direct to me, so they wouldn’t have to go through a bank to finance the purchase.
With the decision made, I wanted to jump in the car and go. Maybe before I changed my mind? Maybe I
should
give myself time to change my mind. . .
Go—
Never mind, Lord.
Tasha called a title company about setting up the arrangement between us, and the soonest we could make an appointment was two days from now. At some point there would be documents to sign, but they said I could contact them later about where to send the papers. I started culling my belongings down to what I could stuff in the car. Tasha said they’d be glad to store whatever I didn’t have room to take along now.
I had to tell Magnolia and Geoff what I was doing. If I expected argument, I didn’t get it. Magnolia declared that she’d known ever since she introduced Mac and me that we belonged together. Geoff gave me a new U.S. map and we discussed the best route to Montana. I marked it in red on the map.
The red line was comforting, like a guideline for my life. Although I still had qualms and misgivings. Mac had never called. Maybe I should call him before I stepped off that cliff and left this life behind. Lord, you don’t want me recklessly burning all my bridges behind me, do you? It occurred to me that I was mixing metaphors here, stepping off cliffs and burning bridges, but if the Lord noticed he didn’t mention it. All I got were the same old words.
Go, Ivy, go.
Okay, Lord, I hear you. No need to shout.
We met with the title company and got the sale/purchase arranged. I jammed everything in the car that it would hold, leaving only a space on top for Koop’s bed. I told Tasha not to bother storing what was left of my belongings; just donate them somewhere. I was jumping off the cliff, no bungee cord of belongings to yank me back.
Chapter Twenty-Four
We planned a barbecue for my final evening on Madison Street, but, as it turned out, Tasha had to work. The psychologist sent her on one final, older-woman assignment, a visit to an upscale restaurant. A plumbing disaster sent Mike to the gym for an emergency cleanup job. Magnolia and Geoff both came down with digestive upsets from something at the buffet where they had lunch.
So here we were on our final evening on Madison Street, just Koop and me alone in my almost empty bedroom at Eric and Tasha’s house, the red-lined map spread on the bed between us. I didn’t have Mac’s son’s address, but how hard could it be to find someone in Wolf Junction, Montana? I also wondered how long it would take to get there. I couldn’t just stop in a rest area or shopping center as I usually did when traveling in the motorhome. With the car, I’d have to stay in motels along the way. Maybe
I
would be the one lost on some backcountry road, vultures circling overhead.
Another gloomy unknown loomed. How would Mac react when I finally caught up with him? If he really felt a marrying kind of love, wouldn’t he have stayed here with me?
Maybe he was dancing around his motorhome even
now, rejoicing over his narrow escape from a marriage entanglement.
Maybe I should operate on the theory of absence makes love grow fonder and wait for him to come back. Wasn’t rushing after him sending a desperate I-can’t-live-without-you message?
Well, that was a problem. Because I seemed to be doing an excellent imitation of I-can’t-live-without-you angst. Or maybe it wasn’t an imitation.
Stubborn old geezer.
But when I caught up with him I wasn’t going to tell him right off that I’d sold the house and have him feel some noble obligation to marry me. No way.
I looked out the back window, tempted not to wait until morning. Just jump in the car and take off tonight. Do it and get it over with.
I couldn’t see the purple cow out there in the yard now. The yard light had gone out yesterday, and Eric hadn’t had a chance to replace it yet. No moon or stars shone in the glimpse of cloud-covered sky between the trees. All I could see in the dark glass was my own reflection.
I stared at the dim reflection that seemed to emphasize every LOL wrinkle and gray hair, every sag in my baggy old sweatpants and t-shirt and
me
. It was nice to feel safe from murderous Braxtons, but I couldn’t seem to get past this internal wavering about following the
Go, Ivy, go
directive. This was no time of life to rush into something wild and reckless. Did you consider my age, Lord, when you said
Go
? Maybe I should wait until—
Go, Ivy, go.
Do I now hear exasperation in the words?
Okay, okay, I’m going. I yanked the drapes shut.
Rather late, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything, so I went out to the kitchen and fixed a grilled cheese sandwich in Tasha’s big old cast-iron skillet. Should I make sandwiches for tomorrow? I couldn’t just stop and fix lunch anytime. Another disadvantage of traveling without a motorhome.
I found a can of tuna and made two hefty sandwiches. I wrapped lettuce separately, added leftover potato salad, an orange, a couple of brownies and a Snickers bar, and tucked everything in the refrigerator. I decided to add some potato chips but managed to drop the package and then step on it. So then I had to get broom and dustpan out of the closet in the corner of the kitchen and clean up the mess I’d made.
It was early to go to bed, but I decided I might as well do it before I made any more messes. Although maybe I should
call Mac first? I mean, if he’d changed his mind about marriage, this was going to be one awkward meeting when I caught up with him. Right up there with one of those embarrassing dreams when you find yourself strolling through a mall wearing nothing but pearl earrings and a pair of cowboy boots.
I plopped down on the living room sofa and eyed my cell phone. Yes, calling him was definitely the sensible thing to do. His number was right there at the top of my contacts list. I poised a finger over the call button.
Go,Ivy—
Nag, nag, nag.
I plunked the phone down, with maybe a bit more force than necessary, and went back to the bedroom. I brushed my teeth and stuffed everything except clean underthings for morning into my main form of luggage, plastic sacks. At the last minute I tossed Mac’s old glove on top. I might as well give it back to him.
I heard the front door open and close. Good. I could tell Tasha or Eric goodbye tonight, pick up my phone in the living room, and leave before daybreak. Then the door opened and closed again. They must both be home now. A sudden thought unexpectedly dropped into my head, a fantastic idea for how Eric could use that mannequin’s head. I grabbed it and headed for the living room. Koop followed.
In the hallway, I heard voices. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it didn’t sound like a conversation between Eric and Tasha. I paused a couple of feet from the living room door. From this angle I could see Tasha in her old-lady disguise on the sofa. She was pulling off a sturdy shoe. A carton of leftovers from the restaurant sat on the coffee table in front of her. Then the other person moved into view. Not Eric. Then another person. Two people . . . in black ski masks!