Page 2 of All of You
There’s nothing but natural silence; the wind, leaves rustling, peepers, crickets and bird chirps. I stare out at the tree line behind the hip-deep grass and wildflower field.
Nothing.
And then, something.
Mom comes skipping out of the forest, into the field. If a person can mimic an animal, embody one, my mother is ababy deer. She frolics through the grass, broad smile, playful gate—not a care in the world. Her blonde hair floats out behind her. The sunshine creates a halo around the crown of her head. Tan arms swing blithely, her flowy, bohemian elastic-waisted skirt—because, she says if it doesn’t have an elastic waist, is it even worth wearing—billows out around her as she moves. She’s ethereal. I need to look that word up, but people call her that all the time, or hippie, or gypsy.
I don’t know what that makes them but people seem to think my mom is pretty neat. Free and wild and alive. You can see it in their eyes—the brief jealousy that she lives life on her terms. But I think they’re all idiots—it’s the parts youdon’tsee that matter in life.
Not having a home. Not having family or friends. Not knowing where your money will come from or what we will be eating that week or how to fix the damn van if it breaks down.
There’s a lot ofunglamourousparts to our lives but people only see the dream of freedom and not being tied down when they look at her. She’s infectious. Always smiling. Always funny. Upbeat with stories to tell and adventures to share. And in a way, she is all those things.
She’s also sad and lonely and broke. But those parts of her quietly exist—you have to dig deep to notice them.
And she doesn’t let anyone dig deep.
“We’re almost there, sleepyhead,” she says as she approaches. “Think we’ll stay here tonight so we can get into town in the morning and explore.” She runs her hands through my long locks on her way past me.
“Where’d you go?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Just out to explore.”
I sink into her camping chair, still tired. “Check for ticks,” I call out as she leans into the van and pulls out some food.
“Worry wart,” she calls back.
“Mom! Ticks are bad.”
“Ticks are nature.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m sure they get lost in the back of my head. “Ticks are Lyme disease and this year is supposed to be a really bad tick year.”
“They say that every year Delia.”
She hands me a sleeve of saltines. “I promise I will check myself for ticks.” She holds her pinky finger out to me. I ignore it and rip into the plastic sleeve of crackers.
“This dinner?” I ask with my mouth full.
She sinks to the ground near me, cross-legged. “Why?”
“They’re just crackers. Do we have any soup left? Something to go with them?”
“I forgot how hungry teenagers are. I think there’s still some bananas left.”
I see an opportunity for information and toss out a probe. “Were you a bottomless pit as a teen?”
She grins up through her lashes at me. “I’ve always had a healthy appetite.”
Great. Nothing. Generic.“Were you ever a teenager at all?”
Now it’s her turn to roll her eyes at me. “What a ridiculous question.” She leans forward and starts jabbing at my legs, her movements meant to mimic a robot.
“I. am. Not. Human. I am robot mom.” She says in a mechanical robot staccato. I swat her jabs away playfully but maintain my best unimpressed face.
“What’s this town like?” I ask.
Her eyes sparkle with a hint of nostalgia which strikes me asodd. We never visit the same place twice. “It has this darling little main drag, old-fashioned looking buildings with the cutest shops and cafes you’ve ever seen. Kind people, brick sidewalks, ice cream stands, and an old-fashioned movie theater with a big marquee. You will love it.”
