Liesel Schmidt - Life Without You

After an almost interminable few seconds of having to listen to it ring on the other end of the line, she finally picked up, sounding out of breath but perky.

Definitely a good sign, I thought, instantly feeling my mood lift a little.

“Hi, Mama,” I said.

“Oh, hi, Dellie, baby. How are you?” she asked.

“Fine.” I shrugged, even though I knew she couldn’t actually see it. “Just trying to figure out what to take. Not getting anywhere,” I sighed.

“No? Even with all of that stuff in your closet?” she marveled. I could just picture her, mouth agape, blue eyes wide with incredulity. As my mother and former cohabiter of anyplace I’d called home for most of my life, she had reason to be so amazed. She’d seen the size of my wardrobe while I was living with her and my dad before I was so unhappily wed, and she had helped me move from said house of mirth into my current apartment. Which most likely meant she also assumed that I still wore all of it.

Or, at least, most of it.

In all reality, though, I was wearing a steady rotation of about ten outfits, thrown on without thought beyond the fact that they were functional. My jeans were old enough to babysit for my shoes, and my one bra was almost old enough for pre-school.

If it wasn’t so sad, it might have been funny.

“Most of the stuff in my closet is destined for the consignment shop,” I said, wrinkling my nose.

“Why? You’ve got so many cute clothes.” Quite a reasonable observation. And very true, indeed. They were cute, and I really liked most of them. But most of the pieces felt like they belonged on someone else, with a different life. Someone who went out with friends and had spur-of-the-moment lunch dates. Someone who didn’t look just as hollowed out as she felt on the inside most of the time. Someone I missed.

I sighed, hoping she hadn’t heard it.

“Are you okay, honey? Are you sleeping okay?” she asked, concern creeping into her voice. “Are you eating okay?”

I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips. No matter that I was now in my thirties or that we saw one another on a pretty regular basis, she was definitely still my mama. And I had to admit, there was a certain degree of comfort in that knowledge.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, a blanket answer to all three questions. It might not be the absolute God’s honest truth, but it was what came out. Much as I really wanted to lay everything out there right now, I didn’t want to worry her, either.

“I know you probably think I’m being nosy, but I’m your mother, and I only want the best for you. I want to see you happy, and healthy, and have everything good in life.”

I smiled. “I know, Mama, I know. I’ll get there. Things are just a little stressed right now.”

“I know that—which is why I’m glad you’re going to take this trip. I really think it’ll do you some good.” I heard a smile creeping into her voice. “And you can do a little bit of spying on your grandfather for me.”

“You bet. I’ll have daily updates for you, if you want,” I replied.

She laughed. It was a beautiful sound—one I couldn’t bear to think about never hearing again. How do you deal with the loss of your mother? I wondered silently.

“Mama?” I ventured. “I know you’re worried about me, and you’re worried about Grandpa…but how are you? How are you feeling these days? I know it’s been a few weeks since we had some time together, and I feel like I’m being a horrible daughter,” I said, adding one more item to my own guilt list. “Are you doing okay?”

There was a deafening silence on the other end.

“Mama?” I asked again.

“Mmm?”

“I love you.” My voice was thick with emotion.

“I love you back, baby. So much,” she whispered.

“So, so much,” I echoed.

“Now go pack,” she said, clearly having decided to regain her grip on her composure. “You only have three days until you leave.”

I rolled my eyes, letting my gaze fall on the itinerary I’d printed out. As if I could forget. Three days to pack. Three days to wrap my head around this whole thing. Only three days. I felt my gut tighten.

“Three days,” I repeated flatly.

“Suck it up, Buttercup,” Mama said, sounding gleeful.

“And put on my Big Girl Panties?”

“You got it. Just make sure they’re presentable.”

Chapter Five

“Ooh, can I go, too?” My sister was surprisingly excited over the thought of underwear shopping—especially for a pregnant woman. Maybe she was thinking ahead and looking forward to being able to see her toes…and other parts of herself when she looked down again. Or perhaps there was some kind of Panty Fever sweeping Pensacola and the rest of the Florida panhandle that I didn’t know about; but the last time I checked, we were hardly the lingerie capital of the world. People here were generally more focused on fishing lures and tackle boxes than fishnet stockings and bustiers.

“When are you going?” Charlie asked, breaking into my thoughts.

“Seriously? You want to go underwear shopping with me?”

“It’s not just underwear shopping, Dellie, remember? It’s part of your bucket list,” she said, reminding me of my new project. I’d told her about it in a text, and now I was wondering if maybe that had been a mistake. “We have to find you something really pretty. The sparklier, the better. No Granny Panties for you,” she declared.

“Why does it matter what they look like? No one’s going to see them, anyway,” I replied, feeling myself waver a bit.

“It matters because you see them,” Charlie said.

“So?”

“So that still matters. No one else sees them, true. But you ’ll know they’re there. Think of them like a superhero cape.”

“Since when did I become Wonder Woman?” I snorted.

“Who says you can’t be?”

“What do your panties look like?” I asked, my curiosity suddenly piqued.

Charlie sighed wistfully from her end of the line.

“You don’t want to know,” she moaned. “I miss pretty panties. And pretty bras. I’d kill for a new bra.”

“Really?”

“Are you kidding? I haven’t had a new bra since the last time I was pregnant, and now I’m in this nursing bra that’s barely holding its own. I’ve got saggy boobies, so nothing looks like it fits right.”

I shook my head. “Charlie, you’re crazy,” I said. “I just don’t see it. You’ve got three kids and you look more put-together than I do. And I don’t even have the saggy booby thing going on. I’ve got the no booby thing, remember?”

“Believe it. This is the same nursing bra I used on the last go round, so it’s looking pretty sad.”

I smiled. “Well, your underwear might be sad, but I seriously doubt that Mike is,” I said wickedly.

“O-delle!” she scolded, sounding slightly scandalized. I could almost hear the blush in her voice. But there was also the slightest tinge of delight.

“It’s true, and you know it, Charlotte. Don’t try to be all sweet and innocent preacher’s wife with me.” I laughed. “I know better than that. I don’t care what the sorry state of your underwear might be, Mike can’t keep his hands off you. And why not? He’s a man of God, and you and I both know that God is a huge fan of sex. Remember that sermon Mike preached on Song of Solomon? Some racy stuff right there,” I sniggered oh-so-maturely. It seemed so easy to be silly when we were talking about something else other than me. “Plus, I happen to know for a fact that eighty percent of the women in your congregation would trade places with you in a heartbeat, and the other twenty percent are playing for the other team and just haven’t ’fessed up to it yet.”