Here, Home, Hope Page 11

  “No, I wish I did. Why?”

  “Just wondered. Listen, Charlotte, I’ve got to go,” I said. I stood abruptly and walked out of the restaurant. I figured she could pick up the tab.

  AT TIMES LIKE THESE I NEEDED A WISE AND THOUGHTFUL person to talk to. Not having been to church since the boys finished preschool, I didn’t have a lot of options. It’s not that I didn’t believe I could talk to God; I do and did. It’s just that I was in the mood for dialogue and instant answers, and my experience in the God area was that revelations came more slowly. My second appointment with Dr. Weiskopf was coming up, but not soon enough.

  As I took my place in the driver’s seat, closing Doug’s door behind me, I found myself punching my mom’s number into my cell phone. I’d never asked her for relationship advice. I’d always been sure of what I wanted the moment I met Patrick. It was, to oversimplify, love at first sight with him. I think that was the way it was for my mom with my dad. But now, since their divorce, he was in the land of the unspeakable between my mom and me; too much bitterness erupted if the topic arose. But maybe she’d come through when it wasn’t about either of us. Whenever I’d needed her most, she was there.

  Maybe I just hadn’t asked enough?

  As far as I could remember, my mom hadn’t offered an opinion about anything since the boys were babies. She had opinions about baby rearing—feeding schedules, baths, and the rest—that were invaluable when David arrived without care and feeding instructions. During those first months with son number one, my mom was amazing, even if I had a nagging fear that she’d abscond with my infant because I was such an unnatural mom in comparison to her. As I’d grown into my role, she’d pulled back. Later on, she’d taught my boys how to plant seeds and grow tomato plants and squash in our backyard. Her love of gardening resulted in my own hydrangea pride. When she moved to Florida to be near my sister, I was crushed.

  “Hi. Take me off speaker phone. I can’t hear what you’re saying, and you’ll have a storm there tomorrow,” she said as soon as I uttered “hi.”

  So much for the freedom of Bluetooth and hands-free driving. I didn’t like to drive with my ear glued to the phone, so Doug and I pulled over and he became my phone booth. Oh, and now I remembered why I didn’t call during the extreme seasons. In the winter, it was a constant update on my wind chill and her balmy beach walk. Summertime: my tornado warnings and her lack of hurricanes. Mom and I talked best in spring and fall, when it was gorgeous in the heartland.

  “Hey,” I said, picking up my phone. “Better?”

  “Much. So what’s wrong? What’s going on?” Had my mother become psychic? “Something happen at camp?”

  “No, no. The boys are having a blast. It’s . . . well, me,” I said, finally. In my family, I was the funny one and Sally was the sweet one. I got my drive and strength from my dad and I credited my mom for my decorating prowess. She was the creative force in my life. But truly, and usually, she was the one asking me for advice, not the other way around.

  I found it interesting, reflecting now, how easy it had been for me to toss in the career I’d worked so hard for to become a stay-at-home mom, just like my mother had been. Had trying to live up to my dad’s version of me been an artificial propellant behind me all of my childhood and young adult years? A version that used humor to cover my exhaustive overachieving? I worked three jobs during college and always at least two during the summer. Even as I made my way up the rungs at the top public relations firm in the city, I’d had a writing career on the side. I was like the Energizer Bunny, going and going and going. Did I mask underlying unhappiness with constant motion? Was my teeth grinding replacing the frenetic energy of my earlier years?

  Or was that the real me—the me before marriage and family? Or is who I am now, with two kids and an exquisite home, the real Kelly? Could I find a peaceful and fulfilling balance with a great family life and a job? So far in my life, it’d been one or the other. All in or all out—nothing in between.

  “What is it?” my mother repeated. “How can I help, Kelly?” She sounded genuinely concerned and, I’m sure, more than a little surprised at my revelation of a weakness.

  “Remember when your friends were going through divorces and midlife crises and all of that?” I began, imagining her standing in the kitchen of her perfectly decorated home in Florida, looking out over the lake behind her house: her silver-gray hair short, her body toned and tanned from gardening and long walks on the beach.

  “Yes, well, those times in your life are hard to forget. Are you and Patrick okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re fine. It’s just that all around me marriages are breaking up; people who said they would love and honor each other forever aren’t. The boys ask me about it all the time, and now a close friend just told me she’s discovered she’s the soul mate of another close friend’s husband and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, as you know, I’m no expert in all of this just because I’m divorced. I’m so glad to be through the pain of that time. The only thing I do know is that what I have today, in my friends, is more valuable, perhaps, than any judgment one way or another that I could’ve made against them when we were in our thirties and forties. I never drew lines in the sand, even with friends who were unfaithful to their spouses. Even with friends who abandoned me when your father and I split up. You just don’t know what’s really going on in a marriage unless it’s yours. And sometimes, even then, you’re the last to know. Just look at mine. I read on Yahoo that 45 percent of fifty-year-old men and 46 percent of fifty-year-old women will eventually divorce. Only half of all couples reach their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Your father and I made it to eighteen. I’ll send you the link.”

  My mother was a fount of wisdom now that she’d discovered the Internet. It wasn’t just weather anymore.

  It seemed almost impossible to stay out of the middle of this situation, but Mom was right; I had to try. I had to be Switzerland. One year Patrick’s law firm trip was to the Swiss Alps. And one night we had eaten in a cave high up in the mountains. A huge Swiss horn called us into the cave for our meal, and folks in traditional costumes began serving our dinner. Then my claustrophobia hit and I had to run out into the mountain air. I loved the cheese fondue, though, and could move to Lucerne and just sit by the lake all day, drinking wine and eating cheese and rich, Swiss chocolate. I could braid my hair, milk cows . . .

  “Kelly, you still there?”

  “Yeah, Mom, sorry. I think you’re right. I need to just focus on myself, let my friends’ lives play out, and be there for them however I can.”

  “Exactly. So, what about you? The kids are at camp, and you’ve got your whole summer free. You’re a talented gal; you should start a business. I just read that a woman starts a business in the U.S. every sixty seconds. You’re so good at design.”

  “Funny you should say that. I just finished my first home staging job today.”

  “What is that?” Mom was clearly not hip to the trend.

  “Google it. It’s where you make a home more appealing to sell. Declutter, depersonalize, de-whatever, or rather, in this case, add furniture and paint to make it presentable.”

  “Sounds perfect. You need a slogan, or a whatchamacallit. They say right here in the story that you need an elevator pitch. Oh, and a website and business cards. This is so fun, dear. How much money can you make? Maybe I’ll be your Jacksonville consultant! There are a surprising number of homes on the market down here. Atlantic Beach and Ponte Vedra Beach. I could declutter them!”

  “Maybe so, Mom,” I said laughing. “And you’re right. I need a business plan. So far, I’ve just been relying on Charlotte for business, but I could work for any real estate agent who needs my services.”

  “Oh, you’re working with Charlotte. That’s great. Kelly Does Home Staging!”

  “That makes me sound like I’m a stripper, Mom.”

  “Okay, well I guess it could just be Kelly Johnson Home Staging. You need an Internet sit
e. Oh, and then I can Google you! You should get going on that right now.”

  I loved how she still had one of those telephones hung on the wall in her kitchen with a cord that had been stretched to an alarmingly long length due to my sister’s kids—and occasionally mine, during our visits south—playing jump rope or tug-of-war with it. She swung it herself when she was excited, and now I thought I heard a “thwump.”

  It was time to head toward home. I had a mission; I needed to launch my business. Charlotte had her thing, Kathryn had hers. Now, I’d have mine, and where they would all intersect, nobody could predict. But as long as we remained friends, and as long as I remained neutral, it would work out fine.

  “Mom, thanks so much. Oh, and please don’t mention any of this to Sally. She still talks to a lot of people in Grandville, and well, this was shared in confidence,” I said, thinking about my sister and her mouth.

  “She’ll be so proud of your business, though,” Mom protested.

  “No, not that, the part about Charlotte and the affair.”

  Oh no.

  “You didn’t tell me Charlotte was having an affair! Why, that seems so unlike her,” Mom said.

  I shoved an imaginary foot—a big hairy one, coated with dirt—into my mouth.

  “Well, that just goes to show you, nobody is immune,” Mom went on. “Who is it with? Do I know him? Jim’s such a nice boy. You and your sister were both in their wedding, right?”

  “Look, Mom, this is soooo important. Not a word about this to Sally. Not a peep. Promise?”

  “Yes, dear! My lips are sealed, except about your business. I’ll do some research online for you, too!” Mom’s, phone cord was thwumping her kitchen floor loudly in the background. “Now go get that website built, a business card designed, and send me a copy online. You know how to do that, right?”

  ASIDE FROM THE CHARLOTTE SLIP, THE CALL WITH MOM was motivating. And decisive. Once I arrived home, I called Patrick and asked him to file for my LLC license as a sole proprietor. Then, he let me “borrow” the law firm’s IT guy to help me register the name of my company—KellyJohnsonHomeStaging.com—as a URL. I then turned my attention to writing the copy points for the best home-staging website in the business. Credentials: minor in fine arts; my years with the public relations firm and countless freelance projects; interior design for private clients (myself, my mom, and a couple friends, but I would make it sound bigger than that); and a life-long resident of Grandville. That sounded pretty impressive. All of that information could go below the fold and next to my professional headshot.

  Right . . . I don’t have a professional headshot. Oreo, can you work a camera? No opposable thumbs, you say? Drats. Well, Patrick would have to take a photo of me when he came home from work.

  The top of the page would be the hydrangea, of course, and the middle? Well, I suppose the photos of my first job. Before on the left; after on the right. And the copy: Just imagine what I could do for you. This home sold in under 10 days, and your client’s can too. Let—no—allow me the privilege of working with you. Experience exquisite home staging.

  I liked it. Simple, but compelling. Heck, I’d have my home staged by me if I were moving.

  This was becoming real. I was starting my own home-based business.

  I smiled as I looked around my kitchen and took stock of my sunshiny Post-it notes, beaming their life changes at me. I quickly wrote T2C #17: Practice Yoga, and attached it to the kitchen wall in one of the few open spots. I was getting a job (T2C #14) by creating a business. I hadn’t had time to miss my Italian getaway, and I was sure I’d be successful enough to plan a vacation for the four of us soon. I’d done a remarkable job on T2C #6; in fact, I hadn’t watched an episode of Law & Order in a couple of weeks. I’d been fairly good at keeping self-deprecation to a minimum (T2C #10), and although I had stormed out on Charlotte, I had joined her for lunch and listened (T2C #5). Now that I had both rows of teeth protected, I should be well on my way to accomplishing T2C #2, the minimizing of dental visits. I grabbed note #7 and crumpled it up. A better alternative than getting paid to link exchange students with Americans would be—I wrote it down—Take home staging course and earn designation. The new T2C #7.

  I felt really good. I was on my way to finding the real me again. Maybe it wasn’t one or the other: hard-driving, full-time businesswoman versus fully devoted, stay-at-home mom. Maybe I could combine them—both parts of me.

  Patrick was golfing this afternoon and Melanie was still at Beth’s. Oreo looked at me like he really needed attention—shiny eyes, fish in mouth—so I headed upstairs to change into tennis shoes. T2C #12—cardio exercise—actually sounded appealing to me. And, as a bonus, I was losing weight. Sure, I’d had an anorexic living with me, but that wasn’t it. Well, not all of it. I was learning that losing weight wasn’t about a diet for me; it was more about taking responsibility. It’s really a whole new feeling when you realize you’re in charge of your life, your thoughts, and your actions—or inaction.

  I can no longer hold my thyroid responsible. Nope, if I continued to pack on the camp pounds, I’d only have myself to blame. Okay: yes, I had sent away for The Thyroid Solution, a book that promised weight loss without cutting calories, stress cured, hair loss reversed, anxiety halted, fatigue conquered, and depression defeated. Unfortunately, after reading the book, I discovered I am not one of the 24 million Americans who actually have the condition. It would have been a great excuse, though.

  On my way past Melanie’s room, I heard a faint telephone ring. Her cell phone was lighting up on her bed. I’d never seen her without it, omnipresent appendage that it was. When a cell phone rings, one must answer it, I justified.

  Just when I reached for it, though, whoever was calling disconnected. I noticed that Melanie had missed a screen full of texts and phone calls. Since I was here and she wasn’t, I clicked on the first missed text. I knew a cell phone was a window to the teenage soul.

  “LOL lame like ur parents,” said somebody named Tom.

  Scroll up, I thought.

  “Clueless,” Melanie had typed.

  “no worry about Johnsons?” Tom asked.

  “yeah prolly,” Melanie answered.

  “k. let me know when. 2mrow?” Tom asked

  “No Gavin’s over later,” Melanie keyed.

  “Let’s just meet 2nite?” Tom had typed.

  So, what was that all about? Tom wanted to plan something for tonight, whoever Tom was, but Gavin was coming over. So Melanie had suggested later, maybe tomorrow night. And was I a clueless Johnson?

  The previous text series was from Kathryn, checking in on her daughter. They had a great exchange, full of love and support. That made me smile. Before that was a digital dialogue with Bruce, and it was the same kind of thing: love from a dad to a daughter. Well, that was good. I had no idea Melanie was in such constant contact with her folks. It made me glad, and jealous that I wasn’t able to be with my boys. This whole unplugged thing at camp was starting to get on my nerves.

  Oreo and I heard the front door open at the same time. Rather than bark and charge down the stairs to greet Melanie, however, I quickly tossed the phone back onto her bed and dashed to my bedroom. I quietly closed the door and then took a deep breath. That was a close call.

  At least I wasn’t quite so clueless anymore.

  That evening as Patrick and I sat down for dinner, Melanie breezed through the kitchen and headed outside to the backyard. She semi-smiled on her way by. I’d given up trying to force-feed her or mention the fact we were having dinner; it seemed obvious. I guess my belief that Melanie was just an innocent, lost kid had been altered by the text messages. If she could call people who were hosting her and trying to help her, “clueless,” then what else was she saying, texting, and doing behind our backs?

  “What is it?” Patrick asked, noticing my grimace.

  “Oh, I was just thinking I need to add to my Things to Change list. Number Eighteen: Don’t be so gullible,” I answered.
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  “Oh, just ignore her. It’s going to be fine. Um, by the way, I noticed the pills in our bathroom cabinet from a doctor I’ve never heard of,” Patrick said, looking at me intently.

  Busted.

  “Why are you taking an antidepressant, Kelly? I didn’t know you were unhappy. Why haven’t you told me? I thought we had a great life?”

  “It’s hard to put into words, Patrick, but it’s not about you or us or our home. I love you and the boys, of course. I just feel like something is missing. That I’m not living all the way. I think working could really help, and I know the medicine is already making me less weepy. I was tired of feeling on the verge of crying all the time,” I said, not sure I was explaining any of my feelings quite right.

  “Dr. Weiskopf is great, incidentally. The breast center staff recommended her to me after the biopsy. I found her card again a couple of weeks ago and just decided to give her a call. Things have been so hectic, I haven’t had a quiet moment to tell you.”

  “Do you want me to come with you, to see her?” Patrick asked, being protective and forceful and there.

  “No. Not now. This is my journey, and I need to do it alone. The good news is that I’m feeling better, and I’m excited about the future. I can see it, envision it now.”

  I spent the next few days learning more about home staging. What I’d discovered was both encouraging and, well, discouraging. A woman blogger wrote that the minimum investment to get started was $20,000. She spent thousands on furniture and accessories, storage, and warehousing for at least three houses’ worth of items; she purchased art and had her own moving truck, and that was all before advertising expenses.

  I couldn’t begin to invest that much in my start-up. Given the economy and Patrick’s warning that we needed to take it easy, I couldn’t jeopardize our family’s finances with that type of cash outlay. Another woman wrote how she’d invested $10,000 her first three months in business, with $2,000 of it wasted on a worthless certification.