Jennifer Archer - Off Her Rocker

On My Perfectly Imperfect Life

“A highly emotional story about sisters learning to see each other and the past through adult eyes…4.5 stars.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“My Perfectly Imperfect Life is a deeply emotional family drama…. There is a lot of humor in this tale…add[ing] to a wonderful, affecting character study.”

—The Reader’s Guild

On The Me I Used To Be

“All the characters are vividly brought to life as they struggle to balance past and present.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“A poignant novel that explores the issues and emotions associated with family, adoption, and love. Archer has a talent for developing interesting, ‘real’ characters.”

—“Curled Up with a Good Book” at www.curledup.com

On Sandwiched

“Archer captures the voices and vulnerabilities of her characters with precision.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Jennifer Archer’s a smart writer.”

—Michelle Buonfiglio, NBC11.com Entertainment

As a frequent speaker at writing workshops, women’s events and creative writing classes, award-winning author Jennifer Archer enjoys inspiring others to set goals and pursue their dreams. She is the mother of two grown sons and currently resides in Texas with her high school sweetheart and their neurotic Brittany spaniel. Jennifer enjoys hearing from her readers through her Web site, www.jenniferarcher.net.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

A new generation of mothers has been in the news recently. Labeled “helicopter moms,” they hover over their children long after the kids are grown.

In the past four years, I’ve left both my “babies” more than eleven hundred miles away from home at college and, upon reading about these parents, I worried that I might fit the mold. As I researched the topic further, I learned that most true “helicopter moms,” if there are such beings, are much more obsessive than I am. Still, I recognized a hint of their overprotectiveness in myself.

The news stories were pushed to the back of my mind until a summer day when my husband and I decided to extend a stay at our mountain cabin longer than we’d planned. We drove into a tiny nearby town to do laundry, but almost every business on the main drag either had a closed sign on the door or boards nailed over the windows. I’d hate to get stuck in a town like this, I thought. And then, What if a helicopter mom as spoiled as her children became stranded here? That question gave birth to the Logan family. They all had a lot to learn, about themselves and about each other. They did so with frustration and confusion, tears and laughter. I fell in love with them, despite their faults. Or maybe because of them. I hope you will, too.

Happy reading!

Jennifer Archer

For loving mothers who hover too close

to their children too long.

And for the children who love them back, in spite of it.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

“Push, Dana. Push!”

Holding my breath, I bear down with all the energy left in me. This kid is stubborn compared to Taylor Jane. After only an hour of labor, she popped into the world four years ago like a kernel of kettle corn. Tiny, pale and sweet, butter-yellow hair and an airy disposition.

Not this one, no. Eight hours, forty-three minutes and counting.

“That’s it, honey.” Carl squeezes my hand.

A shift, a loud grunting moan, sudden relief, exhaustion. The breath rushes out of me, my muscles go limp, my head drops to the pillow.

At the end of the table, from between my upraised knees, I hear Dr. Lattimer say, “Good girl, Dana.” Then, a squeaky, furious cry sounds and he adds, “It’s a boy!”

“A boy…” Carl’s eyes fill with tears as he leans down to kiss me. “We have a son. I love you, honey.”

I decide to forgive him for his behavior in the labor room earlier. The photo he had the nurse take of us together between contractions. The two times I caught him smiling at some program on the television in the corner, instead of suffering with me. His cheery encouragement while I panted like an old dog on a hot day, my attention fixed on my Lamaze focal point, the eyes of the child in the famous painting across from my bed. Mother and Child. In it, the mother hugs her toddler, her face turned into his neck, while the child’s arms hang loose, and he stares into the distance beyond her.

Carl moves aside, and I catch my first glimpse of our little boy. Bald and squealing, purplish red from the top of his misshapen head to the tips of each of his tiny long toes.

Sounds diminish. The room blurs around him, the people in it. I’m blind and deaf to anything except my baby, consumed with a fierce love for him, with adoration of every detail about him, perfect and otherwise. The cord may be cut, but we’re still connected. Now, more than ever.

“He’s beautiful,” I murmur. I think how abundant, wondrous and smooth I want his life to be. His and Taylor’s. I would do anything, sacrifice everything, to protect them, to make them both happy.

“He looks like Uncle Harold,” Carl says.

“Uncle Harold’s a skinny, wrinkled-up old man.”

“I know.”

We both laugh through our tears.

“Have you decided on a name?” the nurse asks.

“Troy Bennett.” I lick the salty sweat from my lips. “After my father.”

“Troy Bennett Logan.” Carl’s voice oozes pride. “Future president of Logan Advertising.”

“That’s a strong, proud name,” the nurse says. “I like it. Is he your first?”

“Second,” Carl answers, his voice raised slightly to be heard above Troy’s cries. “We have a four-year-old daughter.”

The nurse smiles, spreading wrinkled wings at the corners of her kind, knowing eyes. “Enjoy every second you have with them. Tomorrow you’ll wake up, your daughter will be getting married, and this one will be off to college.”

Tomorrow? I don’t believe her. The years stretch ahead like a long sunny road I’ve never traveled. Block after block of surprises and adventure, of firsts: first steps, first teeth, first day of school, first date.

I can’t see the place where my children are grown; it’s too far in the distance. A million miles away.

Tomorrow

aka Eighteen Years Later

Troy, Carl and I stand outside of a red-roofed brick dormitory backed by rugged mountains.

“It won’t be the same at home without you.” I squeeze Troy tighter, my tears dampening the sleeve of his White Stripes T-shirt. He squeezes me back, but doesn’t say anything.

Carl clears his throat, and I blink across at him. He stands behind Troy, smiling, but his eyes are misty as he slides on his sunglasses. “We need to get the car back to the rental place if we’re going to make our flight.”

Troy and I step apart. The cord is cut, but we’re still connected. “I love you.” I take his hands in mine.

“I love you, too, Mom.” Pink splotches bloom on his cheeks. His tender, anxious expression tells me that, despite his excitement, he’s feeling some of what I feel: pride and love, but sadness, uncertainty and a little fear, too. The moment is bittersweet. This is what the past eighteen years have all been about. Raising him to be independent, brave and capable. But the thought of not seeing him every day, not hearing his voice…