An Extra Mile Read online

  If she ever got wind of anyone calling her granddaughter, Madeleine, names, they would have one angry grandmother to deal with. An angry daddy too. Her son Jeremy wouldn’t put up with any bullying nonsense, that was for sure. And besides, with all the anti-bullying policies and procedures in place, kids didn’t get away with as much as they used to. At least, they weren’t supposed to be able to get away with it. She’d heard enough bullying accusations against Brian to know that teachers and students and administrators were pretty vigilant about that.

  She wrapped herself in her red plus-sized kimono robe and shuffled down the hallway. “You up, Brian?” she called to a closed bedroom door. She hadn’t heard his alarm go off. Bailey, Brian’s dog, stood on his hind legs and pawed at the wood. “Down, Bailey.” She nudged him with her slipper. “Get down. Brian?” Still no answer. She cracked the door open, the stench of sweat and day-old pizza engulfing her. How many times did she have to tell the boys not to leave food lying around? Bailey bolted inside. “You awake?” She stooped to pick up a pair of gym socks and glowered at his bed, where his Green Bay Packers comforter lay in a rumpled heap.

  “Where’s your brother?” she asked fifteen-year-old Kevin, who, red hair awry, was plodding toward the bathroom the two boys shared.

  “Dunno.”

  Bailey wove in and out of her feet as she descended the stairs to the family room—no Brian—and to the kitchen—no Brian. “Brian?” she called down to the basement. No answer. She flipped on the light switch and walked down far enough to verify that he wasn’t asleep on the couch or playing video games.

  Her youngest had been in his room when she went to bed. She’d heard his music—his latest moody grunge or metal band that supplied the soundtrack for his obstinate defiance of her authority—and she had almost pounded on the door to tell him to turn it down. But weeks ago, at her counselor Dawn’s suggestion, she had decided to choose her battles with him more carefully. So far that strategy hadn’t paid off. At. All.

  Kevin trudged into the kitchen and reached for a box of Lucky Charms, which he poured into his mouth straight from the plastic liner.

  “Hey! How about a bowl?” Mara opened a cupboard and set one down on the counter. He filled it without commenting and ate the dry cereal with his fingers, picking out the marshmallow pieces first. She decided not to insist on a spoon. “Run down to the basement and check if he’s down there somewhere, will you, Kevin?” Maybe Brian hadn’t heard her calling for him. Or maybe he was ignoring her.

  “I’m eating.”

  Pick your battles, Dawn’s voice instructed.

  Fine.

  She was halfway down the basement stairs when Brian, wearing boxers and a rumpled T-shirt, emerged from the laundry room. “What are you doing? Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

  The split second of panic on his face morphed into his usual expression of scorn. Without replying, he tried to brush past her on the stairs.

  “Whoa!” She thrust out her arm and, before he could resist her, sniffed his hair, a swift maneuver she had learned years ago during Jeremy’s adolescent experimentation with marijuana.

  His nostrils flared. “What are you doing, you freak?”

  “Nothing. Just wondering where you were, that’s all.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” He snarled something else under his breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, Whatever.” Bounding up the stairs, he shouted in anger when Bailey tripped him at the top.

  “You’re the one who wanted a dog,” Mara muttered. She snapped her fingers and summoned Bailey. In the months since her soon-to-be-ex-husband, Tom, had bought Brian the dog in order to spite her, Mara had become quite attached to the little guy. She rubbed his face in her hands and patted him on the rear end before he raced off.

  Hearing a door slam upstairs, she headed to the laundry room to see if anything was amiss. Years ago, when Jeremy was a little older than Kevin, she had found all sorts of contraband in the laundry room. She had survived Jeremy’s rebellion, she reminded herself as she rummaged through a trash can. He had grown up to be a loyal, loving, and affectionate son, husband, and father. Maybe there was hope for Brian. If he didn’t become even more like his dad.

  The trash can was filled with nothing but lint and wadded up tissues. No cigarette butts and no baggies with suspicious substances. Brian had never done a load of laundry, had never even put away his own clean clothes. So what was he doing down here? She kicked at a pile of dirty clothes on the concrete floor, not sure what she was looking for until, Bingo. She found it. Buried beneath multiple pairs of jeans, boxers, and sweatshirts was a fitted twin sheet crumpled into a ball. He had been trying to conceal his embarrassment.

  And she had been quick to assume he was up to no good.

  No way she could talk with him about it. Tom was the one who had handled the puberty conversations with the boys, and she sure wasn’t going to text Tom and ask him to reassure Brian that there wasn’t something wrong with him. She tossed the sheet and some towels into the washer and started a load. She would put clean sheets on his bed while he was at school, and he would know that she knew. Rather than him being grateful that she didn’t mention it, he would probably be even more resentful toward her for finding out and fixing it. Because he didn’t want to need her, Dawn had once explained. What he wanted was to go live with his dad in Cleveland.

  Tom wouldn’t have it. He had made it clear through their attorney negotiations that what he wanted were visiting privileges without day-to-day responsibilities. At least, that’s the way Mara saw it. He insisted that primary physical custody be granted to her for both boys, no matter what Brian begged for. Tom would drive in and see the boys every other weekend, get every other spring break and alternate major holidays, take them on expensive vacations during his allotted summer weeks, and preserve his role as their fun, spoiling hero. The drudgery, the conflict, the day-to-day stress of single parenting two teenage boys—that would continue to be hers.

  A week ago Tom had submitted a proposed financial settlement that to Mara’s astonishment enabled her and the boys to stay in the house until Brian graduated from high school, at which point the house would be sold and the profit split. After crunching the numbers, her attorney advised her to take it. It was a good offer, he said, with equitable monthly child support for the boys. They would be well provided for. By accepting the deal, she could stay out of court and be free to move on once their mandatory six-month waiting period expired in June.

  She ought to be elated. Grateful. She ought to feel relieved. And she did. But she couldn’t help feeling like Tom had played her. He would make sure both boys knew that his “generosity” had enabled their lives to continue with the least possible amount of disruption. Hero dad. That was the script. And if Mara didn’t follow it, the boys would resent her.

  She didn’t want to feel indebted to Tom. Maybe what she wanted was a fresh start, a clean break. Maybe subconsciously she’d hoped that his settlement proposal would reveal him to be the bullying oppressor she had endured for the past fifteen years. Instead, he was coming off as magnanimous. Even with a gift that ought to have set her free from some financial stress, he had managed to retain control. She wasn’t naïve. Anything that appeared to benefit her and the boys would actually be benefiting him first. He probably wanted to protect his investment, hold on to the house long enough for the market to fully recover so that in four years he would get more money for it.

  In all likelihood, the proposal was also a manipulative attempt to keep her from prying into his personal affairs, including whatever agreement and relationship he had with the pregnant girlfriend Kevin had told her about. Maybe his attorney had recommended generosity as a way to cover an “indiscretion.” His company might not look favorably upon him getting a woman pregnant and then divorcing his wife. If, in fact, it was his kid. She didn’t know that for sure, and she wasn’t going to ask Kevin to find out.

  Let it go, she commanded herself. Let
it all go. The bitterness. The desire for revenge. She had turned it all over to God the night the Sensible Shoes Club met at Meg’s house to pray with the story of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. But Mara was daily reminded that she needed to keep letting go, especially when her buttons got pushed.

  She picked through the rest of the dirty laundry pile, separating out all the dark colors. The agreement, at least, bought her some time to get on her feet. Maybe someday her part-time job at Crossroads House shelter would become a full-time job with benefits. Miss Jada had told her the board was open to that possibility. What an answer to prayer that would be! She loved coordinating meals and overseeing hospitality for the homeless and displaced guests who came in search of a safe place to land, just like she had done almost thirty years ago with the then-toddler Jeremy.

  Brian was slouched at the kitchen counter, eyes riveted on his cereal bowl, when Mara lumbered up the stairs. Rather than calling attention to their silent transaction, she picked up her cell phone and checked for messages: one from Abby, saying she wouldn’t need her to take care of Madeleine that morning; one from Hannah, confirming their Sensible Shoes Club meeting that evening at Charissa’s house; and one from Tom (who had been instructed that he needed to communicate any change of plans directly to her, not to the boys), informing her that he would pick them up an hour later than usual. “Dad will pick you up at seven,” she said, “and I’ll be gone. I’ve got my group tonight.”

  Neither one of them acknowledged the news. She replied with “Happy to come another time” to Abby, “Looking forward to it” to Hannah, and “Okay” to Tom. Then she packed the boys’ lunches in silence. Where was the line between picking the important battles and enabling them to take advantage of her? She would have to have another conversation with Dawn about that.

  I am the one Jesus loves, she mentally declared to her reflection in the microwave as she spread mustard onto white bread. Come to think of it, she had totally neglected that spiritual practice the past couple of weeks. All the time she spent plucking whiskers in front of the magnifying mirror, and it still hadn’t become a regular habit to declare God’s love for her to herself. She was so focused on removing the offending hairs that she lost sight of the larger opportunity to see herself as God saw her. Beloved. Favored. Chosen.

  As Hannah would say, That’ll preach.

  She would have to remember to share that image of the mirror with the group. They hadn’t been together since Hannah’s wedding, and they had a lot to catch up on.

  Mara wiped her nose against her sleeve and slid Kevin’s ham and cheese sandwich into a plastic bag. She could still see Meg sitting at the back corner table near an exit door at their first retreat session at New Hope, the hives of anxiety rising to her chin as she tried to decide whether to stay for the sacred journey or bolt. The growth and transformation Meg had experienced was remarkable, and in many ways, she was the kind and compassionate bond that had knit them all together. Though Hannah and Charissa hadn’t said it aloud, Mara wondered if the thought had crossed their minds too: she wasn’t sure how the Sensible Shoes Club would survive without Meg Crane.

  “Did you make me ham and cheese?” Kevin asked.

  That was the drill. Every day she made him ham and cheese on white bread with mustard on only one side. “Yep.”

  “I’m kinda tired of ham and cheese.”

  She inflated her cheeks and blew the air out slowly. “Then tell you what,” she said, fighting the temptation to toss the sandwich into the trash, “how about if you make your own lunch? Both of you. I think I’ll take the day off. And Brian?” He was actually making eye contact with her. “You’ll need to take your dog for a walk.”

  Charissa

  What was it about pregnant women, Charissa Sinclair wondered as she stood in line at the Kingsbury Public Library, that caused even strangers to lose all sense of propriety and violate personal boundaries? The next person who reached out to touch her belly would be slapped. Or maybe she would reach out and rub theirs like a genie lamp.

  “When are you due?” the latest offender asked.

  To prevent any further infringement, Charissa positioned her gardening books against her burgeoning abdomen. “July.”

  “You look really good. You’ve got an advantage, being tall. I was ginormous. And then my doctor told me that I had—”

  Here we go. Charissa fought the temptation to interrupt and tell her she wasn’t interested in her pregnancy complications or labor horror stories. If she was subjected to one more personal narrative or narrative about a friend of a friend or a second cousin once removed who ended up in some kind of childbirth emergency, she was going to scream. Or throw something.

  “Next?” The library assistant summoned the woman to the counter, cutting her off just as she was getting to the good part. Charissa watched her deflate.

  “Well, good luck to you,” she said over her shoulder, with a final appraising stare.

  Charissa gave her a close-lipped smile.

  Pregnancy was hard enough without strangers compounding the stress. There were women who exulted in being pregnant—Charissa was assaulted ad nauseam by their posts and photos on Facebook chronicling their “journeys”—but she wasn’t one of them. She had finally begun to accept that reality without heaping guilt on herself. “You know I love our Bethany,” she said to John when she got home, “but part of me wants to say, ‘Wake me up when it’s over.’”

  “I know,” he said. “How many babies would be born if men had to be pregnant?”

  “None. You guys are wimps.” She set her books down on the console table and hung up the key to Meg’s car, which Becca had loaned to her. No point in it just sitting in the driveway while I’m in London, Becca had said while they were changing into their bridesmaids’ gowns for Hannah’s wedding. Charissa needed to send her an email, see how she was coping with everything.

  “Jeremy and I are going to get something to eat and then head to Home Depot while you have your group,” John said. “He wants to show me what he’s thinking for the bathroom remodel.”

  “Just keep in mind your wife is pregnant, okay? And we’ve only got one toilet.”

  “I know. It’s just some cosmetic updates. Nothing major.”

  “And budget, remember?” She glanced out the front window at the sound of Jeremy’s loud muffler. “We’re on a budget, John.”

  “I know. He knows that, he’s good about that. Look what he’s already saved us! We’re running way under.”

  John was right about that. Mara’s son had been a godsend. In the five weeks since they closed on the house, Jeremy had restored hardwood floors, reinvigorated kitchen cabinets, and helped them paint the interior, including the soft seashell pink walls of the room that would be their daughter’s. Jeremy often voiced how grateful he was for the work. With his own new baby and reduced hours at the construction company, he and Abby were strapped for cash. He was hoping work would pick up again in the spring, counting on it. In the meantime, he was making himself available for all kinds of handyman projects.

  John opened the front door to greet his new friend. “C’mon in!”

  Jeremy wiped his work boots on the welcome mat and grasped John’s extended hand, his shy smile revealing the gap between his front teeth. Mara had once confided to Charissa that she regretted never having the money to pay for braces for him. He used to get teased because of his teeth, Mara said. Kids can be so cruel, can’t they?

  Yes. They could. Though she hated to admit it, Charissa had once been one of them. Lately she had become quicker to recognize her critical and judgmental impulses, hard as it was to be honest about them. Progress, not perfection. That was her new motto, far easier most days to declare than to live.

  She greeted Jeremy and then said, “Is Abby off tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s she doing, being back at work? How’s Madeleine?”

  “Good. Both good, thanks.” He cracked his knuckles and turned toward John. �
�You ready to go?”

  “Gimme just a sec.” John jogged down the hallway to their bedroom.

  Charissa pressed on the small of her back. She didn’t yet know Jeremy and Abby well enough to initiate any prying conversations about money or stress. “Your mom’s coming over tonight. We’ve got our Sensible Shoes group.”

  “Yeah, she told me. She always looks forward to that.”

  “Yes, it’s always a good time together. For prayer and reflection, that is. I mean, it’s not a ‘good time’ like most people think of when they hear the words ‘good time.’”

  He chuckled. “No, I guess you’re right about that. These days, ‘good time’ for us means getting a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

  “I’m sure that will be the same for us in a few months.” Charissa wasn’t looking forward to that part. When she didn’t get her six to eight hours, she became a thunderhead of irritability. There was a reason why sleep deprivation was a common method of torture.

  Jeremy pointed with his chin toward the gardening books. “Gonna do some landscaping?”

  “No, not so much landscaping; it’s all pretty well laid out already. But I’m noticing lots of green things starting to poke up in the flower beds, and I don’t have a clue what any of them are.” She wondered how many of the plants Meg and Jim had tended when they lived in the house twenty years ago. She had planned on asking Meg about the flowers come spring and summer, but—

  “Abby’s always dreamed of having a flower garden,” Jeremy said. “She does these pots of flowers for the patio at the apartment—real pretty—but I don’t know what any of it is. Red and pink and white. That’s all I know about flowers.”

  “I’m not much better than that. John’s mom is a master gardener, and I’m hoping she’ll be able to identify what’s in the beds and give me some tips when they come down to visit.”

  “What about Mom?” John asked as he returned with his wallet and phone.

  “I was saying she’s got a green thumb.”