Finding Cadence

By Joanne Huspek

Cadence Reed's world is shaken to dissonance after her husband, Carter, dies on an icy Michigan highway - along with his pregnant young girlfriend. His death reveals devastating secrets of a hidden life, leaving Cadie and her college-aged son with shaky finances. With her son, she begins a cross-country journey, one that not only ticks off miles, but self-examination. It's not just Carter's parallel life and indiscretions Cadie must wade through - in beating herself up over his choices, she discovers the compass guiding her own life is severely skewed due to secrets of her own. Thanks to old friends and new, Cadie finds a new rhythm for the rest of her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483523675

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inspiration

Part One

Moderato

Butterflies and Hurricanes

Chapter One

I was deaf, dumb, and blind.

A savvy woman with razor instincts might have foreseen the cataclysmic squall converging on the horizon. What’s the adage? All good things must pass? Life was more than all good; hell, it was fabulous. A life lived in oblivious comfort, my needs and wants satisfied before I could address them. It simply couldn’t have lasted forever. What intuition I once possessed had been kneaded into saccharine suburban complacency, not by harsh words or violence or financial deprivation, but by an embarrassment of riches. Problems brewed around us, storms menaced from a distance; messy predicaments didn’t happen to us.

February 10, a night blotted with blinding snow, after weeks of a warm, weird winter of granite skies and steady rain. TV meteorologists giddy for action predicted disaster with glee: Blizzard conditions. Travel not advised. I’d muted the volume; it’s Michigan, for Pete’s sake. In winter, snow is a given.

Carter, consistently late, would be later still because of the storm. A fine pinot, first a glass, then more, kept me company. Hours of waiting on my husband turned my annoyance to vexation. Outside, my wind chime collection banged hard against the garage wall, the once soothing metallic tinkles replaced with dissonant clatter. I remember thinking; if Jackson were here, he could name the pitches of each steel and copper rod, contralto A flats clanging against high C sharps. Behind the discordant score, the wind’s relentless, anguished caterwaul vying for attention.

Jolted awake by a thud, I heard heavy boots traverse the snowy deck, purposeful, deliberate, unlike Carter’s energetic stride. Weak sabers of brilliance cut beams through the night. I should have been nervous or fearful, yet I wasn’t, the hour too late for casual callers or neighborly visits. Only those with malice in mind would venture out in this weather – or messengers bearing grave news.

Two figures peered into the French door glass, their movement interrupting the porch light. Men in dark uniforms armed with flashlights and cold steel, the glint of gunmetal a contrast to the mantle of enormous snowflakes settling on broad shoulders. Gloved knuckles tapped on the window pane, a strident rap. My visitors were not burglars; I sighed, relieved.

I stumbled toward the door and opened it. Snow swirled into the house. I shivered, instinctively pushed the door to frame, and leaned in, my breath a steamy plume. May I help you?

One officer removed his hat, flashed a badge. We tried your front door. I noticed the light on back here. Is this the home of Carter Cavanaugh Reed? The baritone voice resonated, fringed with serious gravel. He brushed new snow from his brow.

It is. I’m Cadence Reed. I frowned. It was late – or early, it was snowing, it was cold. Alone in the house – where was Carter? "I’m Mrs. Carter Reed. May I help you?"

Michigan State Police. Ma’am, may we come in?

I perused his eyes for content, his steady façade craggy and placid amidst gale-force winds. I shrugged, lethargy clouded my thinking. Sure. It seemed the courteous, civic-minded thing to do. I pulled the door open; the officers crossed the threshold as snowflakes danced around us. I secured the latch and motioned them inside.

The older one chose the sofa, while I took a chair. Ma’am, I’m Sergeant Washington and this is Trooper Fulton.

Fulton, standing sentry at the door, tipped his hat toward me and nodded.

Sergeant Washington cleared his throat. We’re from the State Patrol station in Oak Park. Mrs. Reed, we have news. It’s bad. He hesitated. For a moment my eyes locked on his, before I absorbed his face. Skin so black it appeared an odd shade of aubergine; his hair, salt and peppered, the short curls trimmed close; brown eyes, like pools of deep, molten chocolate. Arrestingly attractive, yet his voice projected authority. Ma’am, I regret to inform you Mr. Reed was involved in a traffic incident yesterday afternoon.

Excuse me? Angered, I might have sprung to my feet in surprise, rummaged the coffee table for my keys, searched for my coat. I might have remained a stoic statue with hands folded stiffly in my lap.

Ma’am, it’s more than a fender bender. Sergeant Washington glanced at his partner. My gaze followed. The peachy fuzz on Fulton’s cheek belied his youth; he couldn’t have been much older than my son, Jackson. Fulton squirmed, exposing a rookie’s discomfort in his baby face. His eyes broke from mine, their focus drifted to his feet as he pounded them together. Melting snow slid from the hilly summit of his patent leather boots, thin ribbon rivers pooling onto the carpet. Sergeant Washington spoke once more, this time with deliberation. Unfortunately, Mr. Reed…was a fatality in an accident near Brighton…

The words struck me and bounced off, swallowed by an uneasy silence. My anger evaporated, replaced with alarm and confusion. I don’t understand. Where is Carter?

A voice soft yet manly, compassionate; a warm hand on my forearm, a sympathetic caress. Ma’am, have you relatives here? Are friends nearby? Someone should be with you…

I pulled my arm away, instinctively triggered the Reed attitude. You’re mistaken. My husband is an excellent driver. You have the wrong Carter Reed.

The officers exchanged knowing glances. I was so naïve. Sergeant Washington’s words fractured the stillness in staccato measures. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Reed. You have our sincerest sympathies. We’re sure. Your husband did not survive. The sibilance of language punctured the still room; so, sorry, sincerest, sympathies, sure, survive.

Shit.

I leapt to my feet. No.

We’ll stay with you; help you call your friends and relatives.

I heard a response grotesque and squeaky – a voice foreign, not my own, but departing my lips. There’re no relatives here. I thought, Cadie, collect yourself. Remember your status. We are Reeds. I withstood a hurricane of ping-ponging thoughts, futilely grasped for sanity. My son…he’s a college student. He’s in San Francisco. My sister lives in Colorado… My knees weakened and wobbled. They withered under the weight of my body, the density of tragedy. One trooper may have grabbed me, hooked me under the arms. He may have delivered me to a chair, or perhaps I crumpled to a heap on the floor.

Mr. Reed’s family?

Deceased. I willed my heart to stop, but damn it if the thing kept beating. I’d ignored its strident articulation before, when life had been stupidly carefree. Now a hard drumming rang in my ears, bongo hollow, deep, back to hollow. My friend, Maggie…Marguerite… My best friend’s last name, a woman I’d known forever, slipped into the ether. Mere hours before we’d spent a carefree afternoon shopping for Jackson’s upcoming birthday. The fog lifted briefly. Maggie Thompson. My eyes fell to the cell phone on the coffee table. One officer picked it up and scrolled through the address book. Strong arms in wet navy wool lifted me up, or perhaps they put me down.

**

Afterward, what had been my nirvana blurred into nightmare.

Time stalled, lost meaning. Trembling, I found a place on the couch, wrapped tight in a quilt, while Sergeant Washington filled the void with small talk. Your friend should be here soon. I told her to take it easy. No need to rush.

I blinked, expecting tears. I couldn’t excrete a drop.

Rural Livingston County is a long way out on a night like this.

Carter’s late appointment glared with reckless irresponsibility. Client, I whispered.

Mr. Reed’s in business? he asked.

I nodded. Reed Insurance Agency. How pointless to add the largest in the Detroit Metro area. With expertise in commercial lines and personal attention for all your insurance needs. Lines intoned by an iconic, retired Channel 7 news anchor, queue canned music, the resultant commercial being the hottest radio spot WJR ever had the pleasure of hosting for five years in a row. Who would give a flying flip now?

Your son’s in San Francisco? What’s he studying? I concentrated on Sergeant Washington’s dulcet voice, gentle, benevolent. I imagined his grandchildren at his knees, their faces upturned, longing to hear him speak, to be calmed by his soothing intonation.

Piano. At the San Francisco Conservatory.

Impressive. He must be good.

I nodded a mechanical agreement. Officer Fulton located the bar sink and returned with a glass of water. He offered; I waved it away. I rocked in place and bit my lip; ran my fingers through my hair to tame my bed head. I pulled hard, believing the nightmare might end if I couldn’t feel the tugging or my fingernail scratches, but my scalp smarted; this was real. I looked to the empty wine glass before catching a figure on the TV. The power off, the screen now blackened, that dumbfounded caricature reflected in the glass—that was me.

I hadn’t noticed Maggie’s arrival. I awoke from my bewilderment long enough to observe the troopers leaving and Maggie locking the door.

Mag… Parched, my constricted throat yielded frail whispers.

Sh… I’m here now. Let’s get you to bed. You’ll need your rest, poor thing. Maggie, so petite, even with her hair teased high, pulled me to my feet. She piloted me toward the stairs. Here we go.

Maggie guided me onto the bed and pulled off my khakis, peeled a sweater drenched with sweat from my body. Revived momentarily, I found Carter’s fine cotton nightshirt caressing my shoulders, the fabric soft and buttery, his musk rising from the threads. Maggie hummed as she flipped my clothing right side out, a cheery Ode to Joy, oddly out of place. Light gleamed from the closet; metal hangers jangled across the rod, water splashed in the sink, doors creaked open and slammed shut. Moments later, she reappeared. She foraged through a drawer, found a bottle, and released two blue pills.

Here, Maggie said, as she pushed a glass of water into view. Take these. I insist.

I peered into her hand – Carter’s Valium. My husband, the insomniac, once needed them.

He wouldn’t anymore.

I swallowed them without thinking.

**

The pills should have induced a coma; my result fell far from therapeutic.

Maggie pushed me against the pillows, drew the bedding in a neat crease beneath my chin, and tucked me in like a toddler. She dimmed the light to an eerie glow of minimum wattage and silently moved through the room. She found a chair and waited for my unconsciousness to take hold.

Although we’d been friends for years, Maggie had never tended to me like this. We were professional women of impeccable appearance; we exuded confidence. Like butterflies, we’d emerge to the public in our best wings, flawlessly groomed. While she had introduced me to day spas, regular makeovers, and personal shoppers, she’d never seen me naked and vulnerable. In our strata of society, the bar stood higher.

A congested snort indicated her slumber. Outside, the blustery storm faded, the chimes silenced, and the night stilled. Irritated with my insomnia, I pointed my toes down and folded my arms across my chest. Eyes closed, my fingers clasped to my chest, I imagined Carter forty miles away, similarly posed in an icy morgue drawer. My breathing slowed to tenuous suspension, although sleep proved elusive. Sleep would have been nice; death might have been better.

Random musings nudged, kept me awake. I hadn’t spoken to Carter since the night before. While Maggie and I had spent the day engaged in retail therapy, I played phone tag with my husband all afternoon. I’d thought nothing of the missed calls. I should have been more attentive. I could have warned him of impending disaster, begged him to stay close. Had I been diligent, Carter might not have died. Before I could argue the point, a fog of chemicals settled in and I drifted away.

**

Daylight. I blinked into consciousness, momentarily disoriented. William Morris chintz drapes, Stickley chiffonier, flannel sheets, a cocoon of down—reminders of the safety of my bedroom. My eyes settled to the ancient oak tree in the backyard, westward trunk and limbs plastered with a heavy blanket of pristine snow. Jaundiced light from the hallway leaked into the bedroom. Dishes crashed in the kitchen. Out of instinct, my right hand reached for Carter. Instead of rumpled bedding, I found sheets stretched taut, the pillows chilled and fluffy. We’d spent most of our married nights together, yet I hadn’t noticed the endlessness of his side of the bed.

The memory of the night before played like a dopey hangover of a stranger’s psychotic bender. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted up the stairs. Coffee; Carter had been the aficionado. Surely he puttered in the kitchen, manning his fancy Italian espresso machine while he chose from a mind-boggling selection of exotic beans. Last night had been a dream. I perched on my elbows and called out. Carter?

Maggie appeared at the doorway bearing a tray. If she had heard me, she acted like she hadn’t. If my face had fallen, hers maintained its cheer. Despite the late night, she presented a vision of perfection, her short, blond hair perfectly coiffed, makeup and manicure impeccable, clothing as crisp as off the rack. "Cay-dee, she sang out. I tempered my disappointment. How are we? Today calls for a double shot, don’t you agree?" She placed the tray on the dresser and handed me a cup.

I inhaled the creamy sweetness of Irish coffee. "It wasn’t a bad dream. It’s real." I sighed.

Dear heart, I’m so sorry. Dewy moisture fringed meticulously mascaraed eyes.

My heart skipped. I can’t believe…

"I know; what a tragedy. He’s not yet fifty. Who would think an accident could take out a man so young and vital? You mustn’t worry though. Carter likely left you nicely fixed, why the man hadn’t hit his prime yet. What with a success of the agency and the Reed fortune…"

I scowled and cut her off. "Honestly, Maggie, the money? Now? It’s the least of my worries."

Of course, she soothed. Your wound is too fresh to think of logistics and financials now. But you will. What a relief for you. Marrying a Reed has its benefits. Don’t fret; I’ll help you navigate widowhood should you need my guidance.

Dear Lord. I bolted to a seated position and fumbled to place the cup on the nightstand. Jackson. I hadn’t called my son.

Dear, don’t worry. I rang him.

You did? When?

Right before you dozed off. His number is in your cell. Good thing I’m efficient, I booked his flight before hanging up. Jackson arrives this afternoon and he’ll return to San Francisco Sunday morning.

How did he sound? Upset? Horrified, yet how glad I was to have been relieved of the ghoulish chore.

Maggie replaced cup to saucer and blotted her lips with a napkin. Dear, I couldn’t tell. He’s far more concerned for you than he is for himself. He wanted to speak with you directly, but I told him you needed your rest. He’s on his way, that’s what’s important. Her thin, elegant hands gestured, her eyes rolled. Misfortune and drama energized her. "He simply had to be told post haste. You couldn’t have called, not in your state. You do remember the sleeping pills?"

I nodded. The sleep had been restless, troubled. I dozed. It took the edge off.

Maggie patted my hand. There, there, sweet Cadence. By the way, I also called Melody. She’s looking for a flight out, difficult since Colorado was hit with snow, too. She’ll call when she gets her ticket. I’ll collect them both when they arrive.

My baby sister. With separate lives a half a country away, no wonder we had grown apart. I longed to reconnect, but not like this. My body shook, overwhelmed with loss and confusion.

Maggie grimaced. Have I overstepped? Their numbers were in your cell.

I interjected, "Heaven’s no; we’re friends. I should have… But the shock… Tears I couldn’t restrain flowed. Don’t mind me. I’m grateful, of course."

Maggie crossed the room and sat on the bed. She wrapped an arm around me and pressed herself into my side, brushed a strand of my hair away. Her flawless exterior underpinned the determination beneath. Like Carter, she couldn’t afford to fall apart, and never did. It’s why I loved her. Trying times are ahead. If you need me, I’m here. If you’d rather not…

I took her hand. Of course, I need you. You’ve been through it.

The circumstances weren’t the same, although yes, I’ve survived a similar trial. Maggie’s husband Chuck had passed away several years before. While his passing had been expected, due to a bad heart and failing liver, Maggie had struggled, even with the comfort of a lush checkbook in her back pocket.

I can’t see how I’ll make it. My head throbbed, thinking of the road ahead.

She gracefully grabbed Kleenex from the nightstand, and dabbed at misty eyes. You’re in shock and the end isn’t in sight. Yet. You’ll survive. I know you will.

Oh, no. The office. My mind raced. I had to inform Carter’s employees. While I made occasional appearances at the Reed Agency, my role rarely transcended the decorative. The business was Carter’s baby.

I could break the news for you.

As Carter’s widow, I believed I’d assume the business responsibilities. No, I’ll phone Latisha when I get my bearings. She’ll inform the others. They’ll probably close a few days…

Don’t worry, we’ll power through. Maggie squeezed my arm. She rose to her feet, her hand lingering on mine, and paused, her lips pressed together. Dear, do you know why Carter was in Livingston County?

Sure. He had a meeting with a new client. A nurseryman, I think. I struggled to recall our last conversation. Don’t wait dinner tomorrow, he’d said, I’m meeting with a Christmas tree farmer interested in a commercial line.

Isn’t it out of the way for him?

You know Carter. His territory isn’t limited to metro Detroit.

Odd, isn’t it? Driving so far away during a blizzard?

I frowned. Carter’s Type A personality meant he delighted in the hunt. He could be boyish, aggressive, but not reckless. What are you implying?

Maggie smiled sweetly. I’m not, but you need a head’s up on the details.

What details? Carter was gone, the specifics were meaningless. Yet Maggie’s verbal ballet piqued my interest. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember much of last night.

Maggie dropped my hand, slipped into the chair, and leaned forward. That nice Sergeant Washington filled me in. You don’t remember? He and I spoke in the dining room while that other nice policeman stayed with you. She paused. My dear, you must be prepared. Fog before the white-out, a thirty-car pileup, a half dozen jack-knifed semis. Four deaths, twenty injuries. The freeway’s been closed for hours. This accident made national news. Maggie’s eyes locked onto mine. "How can I to say this without saying it? My dear, Carter wasn’t alone. There was a passenger, a woman. Maggie paused. She didn’t make it either."

What? Who was it? The client? I imagined lawsuits, bad publicity, scandal, obstacles I was ill-equipped to muddle through alone.

Maggie pressed her lips together, her brow knit as she weighed her words. "I’ve no idea if the woman was a client. The police didn’t seem to know, or they weren’t telling me. They indicated she was quite young, in her early twenties. As you can imagine, it took forever to sort out the debris in the blizzard. Take one accident and multiply by twenty times. What a mess. Her eyes gauged my reaction. Carter’s Lexus is totaled. He and his passenger were thrown from the car. No seatbelts, can you believe? An insurance man should have better sense… The pileup was colossal; I’ve seen the newscasts. Once they’ve finished the investigation, you’ll have the police report, but don’t be surprised. Due to the size of the accident, getting it might take weeks. You’ll need that and the death certificate for the life insurance, the car insurance. By the way, they gave me the woman’s name. I’ve never heard it before. Bailey Parker." Maggie scanned my face for feedback.

Bailey?

So you do know her?

She… works for Carter, I stammered. A lump rose from my chest and lodged into my throat, but my expression remained blank and emotionless, shock hidden beneath the veneer.

Bailey is an employee? What on earth was she doing with Carter in the middle of nowhere? In the middle of the night? In a blizzard?

I reflexively launched into damage control. I’m not sure. She arranged the meeting with the tree farmer. She’s studying for her license, maybe that’s why.

Before she could comment, the landline phone rang; Maggie jumped to her feet to answer it.

Maggie wasn’t alone in trying to make sense of the puzzle pieces before her. I had plenty of questions of my own. They were the kind of queries only a dead man could answer.

Chapter Two

That morning I called Latisha Evans, Reed Agency office manager, Carter’s key employee. I assumed the gruesome duty to inform them. Before dialing, I rehearsed various scripts through my head, but the call proved easier than I’d thought. The telephone can be a shield, impersonal, antiseptic. I didn’t have to see her face, or worry about my own. I don’t remember if I cried. My voice might have broken or it could have droned monotone. Latisha, Carter passed away. That’s all it took.

I’m so sorry. A marked hesitation, an intake of breath, a whisper. You know about Bailey?

Bailey? I echoed.

Her father called this morning. The crash – it’s on the news. Good God, Cadie.

God had little to do with this.

It’s a terrible disaster, I replied. The poor girl. Could you email me her parents’ address, please? I should send my sympathies.

Sure. I planned to head to the office later to clear messages. Once I dig the car out. A woman warrior, Latisha lived for work.

You don’t have to. The snow… I couldn’t survive another accident.

Don’t worry; I’ll be careful. Call if you need me, okay?

I hung up and stumbled to the bathroom, my actions robotic. Water ran until the bathroom steamed. The fogged mirror obscured the reflection of my sorrow, a sadness even a hot shower couldn’t dissolve. I sat under the spray until it rained sleety bullets. Dripping wet and cold, my towel wrapped around me, I searched my closet. I rejected mourning black; I craved comfort, so I chose gray wool pants and a soft, pink cashmere sweater. Blow-drying my hair seemed pointless, so I tied it in a ponytail. I skipped makeup. Layers of foundation couldn’t disguise the pasty gray circles under my eyes.

As I descended the stairs, I heard Maggie on her cell. Chuck’s portfolio meant she didn’t need to work, but she’d found her calling in real estate, specializing in the tony suburbs of Bloomfield Hills and Birmingham. She loved houses like I did; for her, it was the hunt and the sale while my satisfaction came from restoration. Her clientele mirrored Carter’s – auto execs, basketball players, and rap artists.

I cleared my throat. Maggie peered over her reading glasses, pulled the receiver away, and covered it. That nice trooper said you’ll have to identify the body. We’ll jet over to the morgue after we collect Jackson from the airport. Her blunt words struck hard, like corpse ID was another blasé item on her to-do list, just after airport limousine service and before a stop at the grocery store. I paled. She added, By the way, John Sloane called me. Says you should call him.

I silently groaned at the prospect of dealing with our attorney. Oh? I asked, carefully camouflaging my dislike of Carter’s best friend.

Legalities, I imagine. Or a courtesy call. Dear, I’ll be a few minutes. Why don’t you pick out a suit for Carter?

Excuse me? Carter had no need for clothing now.

For the funeral home. The service? Pick out a fabulous suit, something intrinsically Carter. She dismissed me with a wave of her hand and returned to her call.

I retreated to the bedroom and fidgeted at the thought of the effort ahead. Carter’s prescription bottle beckoned from the nightstand; I swallowed a Valium and blinked hard. I faced the closet, grabbed the handle, forced myself to turn the knob and pushed. Unlike my disaster of a closet, his was as orderly as the menswear department at Nordstrom, with suits arranged by color and weight, followed by crisp white shirts, and rows of fine silk ties. I fingered several until I came to a black silk suit jacket and lifted the sleeve. Once Carter’s favorite, he cut a dashing figure in it. As I drew the fabric to my cheek, I caught a whiff of his cologne. Tears flooded my eyes. I chose the suit and a bright red tie and placed the items on the bed for the trip to the funeral home.

**

That afternoon, we headed to the airport to pick up Jackson. My heart filled with both dread and longing; I hadn’t seen my son in two years. His last visit had been winter break during his freshman year at the Conservatory. After that winter, he wouldn’t come home – the excuse, his life in San Francisco – a rigorous schedule of school, part-time jobs, and competitions. I guessed a disagreement with his father might be the true reason – the two butted heads constantly – or perhaps he was angry with me. Neither father nor son would discuss it, leaving me in the middle, hurt and sad.

My heart fluttered when I spied Jackson pacing the sidewalk in the arrival area. I waved and sprang from the car before Maggie could shift into park.

Jackson!

Mom! He threw his bag to the pavement and grabbed me by my arms. My past, my future, and the present were reflected in his eyes.

Jackson had never been one to hug me. This time he did, good and hard.

A biting wind almost knocked us down. Let’s get out of this weather, I said, and we hurried into the car.

How was your trip, Jacks? Maggie asked into her rearview mirror as she steered her Mercedes from the curb.

Long. Thanks for the non-stop. I’d have been lost if there were connecting flights.

No problem, young man. I’m glad to help.

Jackson yawned. I’ve been up since six o’clock yesterday morning.

No chance for rest?

School all day and a late practice. You called as I got to the house. I couldn’t sleep on the plane. He paused as Maggie navigated a freeway entrance ramp. Last night seems like a hundred years ago.

Maggie inflated the sagging moment with an enthusiastic chirp. Have you eaten? Would you like to stop somewhere?

Later. My stomach isn’t over the airport hot dog I had before I left.

Good Lord, Jackson, you didn’t? Let me know if you want real food. I’m here to serve.

No thanks. He rubbed his hands together. I’d forgotten how cold it gets here. And the snow.

I’m surprised the freeways are passable. The counties north and west were hit hardest. The way the weathermen prognosticated, you’d have thought it might take weeks to recover.

I don’t miss it, for sure.

I loathed the chitchat yet I couldn’t complain. I turned to scrutinize Jackson, his dress in the uniform of a messy teenager – a threadbare Central Michigan University sweatshirt and faded jeans. He shivered in a jacket too thin for a Midwest winter. His dark hair had overgrown, cut in uneven sheaves projecting in careless angles all over his head. Jackson’s once soft round face appeared stubbly with facial hair, his chin and nose angular and mature. I noticed he caught Maggie’s attention with his lively dark eyes.

The Reed eyes – so like his father’s.

**

Nice job. When did this happen? Jackson tossed his backpack on the bed and surveyed the room; I trailed behind. The narrow twin trundle he’d slept in as a child had been replaced with a queen-sized four-post brass bed. The room sported new color, a bright royal blue. Neat, silk shantung drapes a shade lighter decorated the windows. I’d cut, applied, and stained the crown molding myself, to match the architecture on the main floor. Home remodeling and renovations put my artistic sensibilities to practical use.

A framed canvas hung over the bed, a once-forgotten landscape of the Rockies I’d painted during my freshman year in college. Homesick, my mind had conjured the lay of the Front Range. I’d majored in business, yet I couldn’t stop doodling, sketching pines and rock formations, horses and rattlesnakes, butterflies and columbines and the mountains. How I’d missed the mountains! I’d unearthed my forgotten paintings as I packed Jackson’s things in the attic – an archeological excavation while storing my son’s recent past. It’s so nice, I barely recognize it. Are you sure this is our house? The room appeared immaculate, clean, magazine perfect.

I shrugged. With heavy shoulders, I leaned against the doorway. "It’s our house. I remodeled your room last Christmas after you didn’t come home. I thought maybe if the room were different, more mature, you’d want to return. I urged a smile to the surface, although tired and cranky; I didn’t want to talk. My voice, stretched and strained, reflected it. It didn’t make any difference, did it? All my hard work and money wasted. Your father always said…" My rueful words tailed off and evaporated. Carter often belittled my remodeling efforts, until he saw the results. Afterward, praise would flow freely.

Jackson ignored my reference to Carter. Are you kidding? If I’d have known you were buying a queen bed… He tested the mattress with a few strenuous bounces. I smiled at his boyishness.

"You weren’t ready before. I didn’t want to encourage interest…in, you know, girls."

Jackson’s eyes flashed. Mom, you’re nuts. What girls? My interest in the opposite sex was limited to Playboy magazines and the Internet.

See? You didn’t need a bigger bed.

Maybe not, but it would’ve been nice to have the extra space to spread out in. I would’ve had room for a few more magazines.

I reached to ruffle his thick, dark hair and turned away while blinking back tears. I hadn’t realized how I missed his humor and edginess; I’d expertly concealed that loss. You haven’t changed much in two years, Jacks. I’m glad.

Jackson grabbed my arm and forced me to face him. Mom, are you okay? I know you can’t be. I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk. Maggie’s been yakking all afternoon. When does she breathe? He looked at me. "How are you? Really?"

Don’t mind Maggie. She’s my best friend and I – we – need her. When his gaze intensified, I donned my best happy face. "See? I’m fine. Really." Although I tried my damnedest, the result felt half-hearted.

Sure, you are. You can’t fool me. Jackson shrugged, unzipped his bag, and unceremoniously dumped the contents on the bed. Music books were mixed with his jeans and sweatshirts; headphone wires tangled with his cell phone and none of the clothing folded. The rumpled mess had no doubt been packed the same way. An overwhelming urge rose to fold and straighten. I longed to arrange his life into a perfect tidy package, to fix it all. Instead, I shoved my hands into my sweater pockets. Jackson opened an empty drawer and lobbed his clothing in one at a time; each shot a graceful arc, his hastily rolled shirts and tangled socks doubling as basketballs.

What makes you so smart now? I challenged. Keep it light. College?

He remained on task and responded without facing me. "You can’t be fine. You never call me Jacks."

So true; I always referred to him by his given name. Everyone else called him Jacks. He had shortened it in middle school; his attempt to sound less stuffy, to blend in. The other kids had regular names, why couldn’t he? Jackson Cavanaugh Reed – it seemed a Grosse Pointe contrivance. Carter and I had been so proud.

Pride had come harder for Jackson. Please don’t tell me the story about being named after Civil War heroes and Jackson, Michigan, he’d begged one day after his father had waxed poetic on the Reed pedigree.

I had whispered, out of Carter’s earshot. "You can’t deny your great-great-grandfather, General Cavanaugh, who later became Lieutenant Governor Cavanaugh. You can’t ignore history. And Jackson. It’s where you were born."

I smiled at his earnest pout. But it’s corny.

The name suits you. Better than Chevy I thought – thanks to Carter’s vintage Malibu, we’d made it to the hospital with minutes to spare.

Our past exchanges had been convivial. During his high school years, Jackson and I were close, conspiratorial. I’d been his ally; I reveled in his dream of a musical future. We had no secrets. He needed me then.

He could never know how much I needed him. He could crush me with casual disdain and simple neglect. I walked to the window and adjusted the curtain. Below, a city plow pushed the night’s snowfall back into the driveway; I groaned. Carter loved yard maintenance; he delighted in running the snow blower and for some reason, liked to shovel by hand. Eight inches had fallen, the same snow that had taken Carter. I blinked back tears. Jackson couldn’t see me falling apart. "Things aren’t normal now, are they? It’s twenty-four short hours and everything has changed."

"I don’t want to sound insensitive, but I’m sure everything will be fine. In fact, I’m positive things will be perfect. Dad was a genius, remember? You’ll be taken care of." Jackson’s words stung like an unexpected slap; I blamed jet lag. From behind, his jagged stance reminded me of my father, rigid and cold, the harsh inflection another contribution from a flawed gene pool.

It’s so much more, Jackson. It’s the little things. I choked. Someday you’ll understand.

You’ll live.

How can I? I’m lost without him. I depend on him. It’s not just the income. I need him here, around the house. Who’ll shovel the snow?

Jackson swung toward me and exploded. "Do you know how ridiculous you sound? Come on! If snow needs to be shoveled, do it yourself. If you don’t want to do it, hire someone. Like, duh! What’s the matter with you? I’d expected him to be depressed, in a bad mood. I hadn’t predicted the testiness. What do you mean, you depend on him? You were always independent, planning your projects and renovations, doing your own thing. You’re the one who pushed me. Remember what you said? Stand on your own. Plan your life out. Follow your dreams. You’ve never been Dad’s right-hand girl or his shadow. When the hell did that happen?" His eyes burned through a cloak of sadness.

I reeled, distressed and silent. In another time, motherly retorts would have shot out; not now. I’d been knocked off-balance by my son, the stranger. My heart listed, my eyes pooled, yet I stood erect, valiantly shoring my façade.

Noting my panic rising beneath the surface, Jackson’s face softened and his shoulders relaxed. He ran his fingers through his hair and pushed me toward the door, his voice low. Can I have a minute? I need to make a phone call.

The brass latch clicked into the strike plate; with my nose to his door, I shivered in the chilly hallway.

**

I wandered from room to room, listless and gloomy, my head full of arguments. I am a smart, sensible woman. I’m proud of my strength and my standing as a competent and capable partner. Why couldn’t Jackson see it? After an hour of brooding, I decided to make amends. When he hadn’t appeared, I searched for him.

Jackson? Where are you?

I found Maggie at the backdoor, her arms crossed. Her right eyebrow pointed toward the garage.