Jennifer Archer - Off Her Rocker

Until this morning, he has never hung up on me.

I’ve been reading a book about the college experience. I bought it when Taylor left home for SMU. Apparently, depression is common among freshmen in the early weeks of the first semester, though Taylor never seemed to experience it.

I wander into the kitchen, pour coffee, sip. The day looms ahead, a void of empty hours to fill. Last week I planted pansies in the flower beds, caught up on the laundry from our trip, sorted through the mail and had a manicure, pedicure and massage. Day before yesterday, I removed the left-behind posters from Troy’s bedroom walls, put away trophies and trinkets, dug pennies and quarters and dimes from the carpet, pulled crumpled napkins and homework papers from beneath the bed. Yesterday, I bought a new spread and window valances in dark green—Troy’s favorite color. I chose wall hangings and paintings and throw pillows, careful to keep everything masculine for when he’s home for the holidays and summers.

At least six times over the past two weeks, I’ve had lunch with friends. But they all still have children at home, and they’re busy with the start of the fall semester—school volunteer work and sports booster club meetings. Mad dashes to Wal-Mart for poster board and colored pencils. Hungry teenagers to feed in the late afternoons and early evenings. I couldn’t find anyone free to meet me later today.

And I don’t have one thing to do.

In the next room, the vacuum cleaner whirs. Myra, my once-a-week housekeeper is hard at work. I walk into the living room and tap her shoulder. She startles and twists around, then turns off the vacuum. “You scared the crap out of me,” Myra barks. She is a woman with a gruff manner and little to say. For some reason, she always seems irritated, even on the few occasions when she laughs. But she can make a toilet bowl twinkle like a diamond; when she finishes scrubbing one, you almost feel guilty using it.

Myra tightens the rubber band securing her limp, shoulder-length gray hair into a loose ponytail.

I blink at her. “Why don’t you take a break and have a cup of coffee with me?”

She blinks back and frowns. “Coffee?” Her bushy brows pull together in the center. In the six years she has worked for me, I have never asked her this question before. Oh, we chat about the weather or at least grunt, Hello, how’re you doin, at one another when she’s cleaning and our paths cross, but we aren’t chummy. “I don’t need a break.” She sounds wary. As if she suspects an ulterior motive behind my invitation. As if she fears I might say I found dust bunnies hopping on the coffee table last week after she left, and I have to fire her. “I’ve only been here thirty minutes,” she informs me.

“Oh.” We stare at one another for five or so seconds before she hits the switch on the vacuum and it whirs to life again.

Depression. The book didn’t mention that parents of college freshmen are prone to the malady, too. Mothers, at least. Carl doesn’t seem at all affected. He is back in high gear, working ten hours a day, often twelve. Sometimes I wonder if Carl would ever mention Troy if I didn’t bring him up first. Or Taylor, for that matter.

Taylor.

I return to the kitchen, pick up the phone and punch in her number.

“Hello!” she croaks.

“Did I wake you?”

“Mom.” She yawns. “Is the sun even up? What time is it?”

“After nine. Are you job hunting today?”

Another yawn. “I don’t know. Maybe. I haven’t lined anything up.”

She needs a lecture, but I’m too relieved to give it. Mooney works the day shift on Tuesdays. I know I’m being selfish, but if she isn’t job hunting, she can keep me company. “I’ve been thinking that you could use some things to spruce up your apartment. You know, to make it your own. A home instead of a bachelor pad.”

“You’re buying?” Suddenly, her voice sounds cheerleader-perky.

“Didn’t Mooney get paid Friday?” She still owes me for the groceries from two weeks ago. Neither she nor her new husband showed up with a check to reimburse me on his prior payday.

“Yeah, Mom, but we do have bills to pay, you know. And he needs a new amplifier for the band. They have a gig coming up and—”

“Sure, why not?” I interrupt. “The shopping spree’s on me.” Anything to get me out of this house.

“You think Elaine might be able to go?”

Elaine is a decorator who has helped me off and on through the years. She possesses the creative eye that I don’t. Still, garage apartments are not her forte. Maybe she will take pity on Taylor when I explain the situation. “I’ll give her a call and see,” I say. I’m feeling better already. Nothing is more fun than shopping with Elaine. And I could stand some easygoing time with my daughter. She hasn’t had a second for anyone but Mooney since the day they met. “When do you want me to pick you up?”

A pause, then Taylor says, “Do you have to go with us?”

Flustered, I stammer, “Well, yes. I, um, thought I would. Why?”

“It’s just…” A dramatic sigh. “We have completely different taste, Mom, and you always try to influence me.”

“Since when?”

“My condo at school? Remember? It ended up looking like your house.”

“That’s not true.” How is it she always puts me on the defensive? “I might have made a few suggestions, but nobody twisted your arm, Taylor. I never forced you to let me buy anything for you that I liked and you didn’t.”

The vacuum quiets. I prop my elbow on my hip and pull the phone away from my ear to distance myself from Taylor’s whine.

“But you make me feel like I should buy what you want.”

Even with the phone extended, my daughter’s haughty voice comes through loud and clear.

Myra walks in, looks at me, raises a brow and heads for the sink.

“You hate the stuff I like,” Taylor continues. “You put out a vibe that either I have to go along with you or I get nothing.”

“Taylor Jane Logan! When was the last time I denied you anything? Hmmm?”

Not realizing I’m watching her, Myra rolls her eyes, then picks up a sponge and turns on the faucet.

A blush heats my face as I press the phone tighter to my ear and lower my voice. “You’re imagining things, Taylor. But if you feel that way, then you’re perfectly free to pay for everything yourself.”

A laugh sputters out of Myra. She glances at me, sobers, coughs.

“Yeah, right, Mom. Pay for it with what?”

“I guess redecorating isn’t such a good idea, after all.”

“So now you won’t pay?” Tears fill her voice. “Fine. I’ll just get a prescription for Paxil, then. This dump is so depressing I can barely drag myself out of bed in the mornings.”

I close my eyes. “You couldn’t drag yourself out of bed in the mornings when you lived here, and this house is certainly no dump.” Tapping my foot, I ask, “Have you talked to anyone at WT about their graduate program?”

“Not yet.”

“They aren’t going to come to you and beg you to apply, Taylor.”

“Very funny, Mom. I know I’m not as smart as Troy. You don’t have to keep reminding me.”

“I’ve never said that! Anyway, Troy’s scholarship was for basketball, not academics.”

“Oh, yeah. Just another thing he’s got going for him that I don’t. Athletic ability.”

“Taylor…quit feeling sorry for yourself. Get out of bed and do something.” With a start, I realize I should take my own advice. This morning, Myra rang the doorbell at eight-thirty and woke me. Yesterday, I slept until ten.

“So you won’t call Elaine?”

I count to five. “You call her, Taylor.”

“And you’ll pay for her time?”

“I’ll pay for three hours.”