All There Is

Kathleen BSL Lawrence

Description

Jackie Christopher, a devoted mother and wife, lives a quiet, suburban life. She has a comfortable home, good friends and all the Pinot Noir she can drink. It is enough... on most days. But her domestic tranquility is shattered when she attends her 15-year college reunion and is reacquainted with Charlie Wade, her first true love. Jackie has often secretly wondered how her life might have turned out differently if tragedy had not intervened.

In seeing Charlie again, it is as though Jackie leaps across time and is intensely alive again for the first time in years. But at what cost? Jackie is torn between her commitment to her family and Charlie. As Jackie struggles to make peace with her life, the Sixth Sense-like plot twist reveals how the seemingly disjointed pieces of her past are connected to the present if only she looks deeply enough.
Written with humor and grace, you will laugh with Jackie and you will cry with her too. All There Is is that good a story.

Sujets

• Literary
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456600419
• Langue: English

Extrait

All There Is
by
Kathleen Lawrence
 
Copyright 2011 Kathleen Lawrence,
All rights reserved.
 
 
Published for the Internet by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0041-9
 
 
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
 
 


 
for Frank
 


 
Many waters cannot quench love,
neither can the floods drown it.
 
Song of Solomon 8:7
 
 
One
It came in the mail today. A white envelope among the credit card teasers and Shop Wise circulars. I know what it is without having to rip it open and read the contents. Carol, my dear college friend, told me they’d been mailed and I could expect mine ‘any day’. I cradle the stack of mail in the crook of my arm and bring it into the house. I set it on the kitchen table, the one envelope on top, face up. I stare at my printed name - Jacqueline Meyers Christopher - on the address label. It is strange to see my maiden name linked to my married name, as though I never surrendered my identity for my husband’s. Carol will be calling soon, to see if I’m coming, as I promised her I would. I am someone who keeps her word.
It is only one night, I reason, the aggregate of four to six hours. It has taken me longer to clean my house. Surely, I can get through it, especially with a glass or two of Pinot noir. Fifteen years is a long time, a lifetime, an eternity. And I have gotten on with my life, I remind myself. I am married to a good man, Ted Christopher, and I have two beautiful children whom I am convinced are the most delightful creatures in the world. It is enough, on most days.
And yet I still wonder what my life would have been like with Charlie. I’ll catch my mind wandering off sometimes, while I am rinsing the shampoo from my hair or waiting in the checkout line at Holiday Market. I would never admit this to anyone. Not even Carol. There are some things we never tell a soul.
I reach for the envelope and notice my fingers tremble slightly. Must be the extra cup of coffee I had earlier this morning. I tear it open and unfold the printed invitation. I read it. My
fifteen-year college reunion will be held on the night of August 30, 2008 at the Grand Oaks Hotel. Cocktails will be available at six pm and dinner will be served at eight. It is not far from my home in Fellows Creek, twenty minutes tops, in good traffic.
Fellows Creek is a sleepy little wisp of a town, tucked between Detroit to the east and Ann Arbor to the south. If you hold out your right hand, palm facing up, it is about an inch due west from the base of your thumb. About twenty years ago, Fellows Creek was vast farmland, corn fields extending in every direction. But now it is the textbook definition of urban sprawl. Subdivisions keep cropping up, each one boasting more square footage and better amenities than the last. I live in a quiet neighborhood, mostly colonials, but a few cape cods and ranches are tucked in too. The developer likely wanted to break up the rooflines. I have great neighbors, the kind that give you tomatoes off their own vines and snow blow the driveway when Ted is traveling on business. And the public schools are rated well-above average, real estate agents love to point this out when listing a property in our zip code. Taxes are reasonable and crime is low, unless you count the pranksters who decided to go on a little caper this summer, dumping lawn chairs in swimming pools and knocking over birdbaths. Despite its homogeneousness, there are worse places to raise a family.
I glance at the calendar. The reunion falls on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, probably to accommodate classmates traveling from out of state. We have nothing scheduled on that evening. No neighborhood barbeque, no last hoorah to end the summer. And so I have no excuse to not attend.
Will Charlie be there? Of course that is the question that will nag at me in the upcoming month, though I will pretend I don’t care one way or the other. Carol will know who’s attending. She always knows these things and will gladly share with me the status of Charlie’s RSVP. She will know if he is bringing his wife. At least I will be prepared. I inhale deeply, willing the oxygen to clear my head. What do I do? I would love to see Carol and the others. To see those old familiar faces from a time when possibilities seemed endless, our lives stretching out in front of us like a wild mountain meadow. I could go… and surprise myself, have a wonderful time. Or I could stay home with Ted and the boys. We could make a run to BlockBuster, rent a family- friendly movie and order take-out. The House of Woo usually runs a two-for-one special, if you place your order before six o’clock.
It’s ironic really. There are probably many classmates agonizing over this same decision but for very different reasons: the women because they have gained too much weight and the men because they have lost too much hair. But the women can still diet and the men could always try Rogaine. The reunion is over a month away. There is still time, except for me. My time ran out a long time ago and whether the reunion was held today or next year would make little difference.
 
August 30, 2008. The night of my fifteen- year college reunion. I decided to attend. Carol called the day after I received the invitation and was most persuasive, reminding me of that promise I made when I missed the ten-year. She also told me that Charlie would be coming and lowered her voice to just above a whisper to add that he is not bringing his wife, though she does not have the goods on why he is flying solo. I feel a ripple of jealously knowing that he is married, but also a beat of relief that there will be no gorgeous blond clinging to his arm, inviting the inevitable comparison. Ted is coming with me and he is the perfect companion at social events, mingling with ease among people he does not know and refilling my wine glass when needed. Ted is solicitous when there is an audience, though in fairness to him, I doubt he realizes the difference between his public behavior and his private habits.
 
I am summoned from my daydream when my five year old son, Noah, bounces into the kitchen wearing a completely filthy soccer jersey.
“You can’t wear that. It has grass stains all over it.” I tell him. Noah is a genetic marvel, his features are in complete harmony. He has china blue eyes and a perfectly shaped nose. Noah was beautiful from the moment he was born. His disposition is an entirely different matter.
“But I have a soccer game today.”
“Yes, but I need to wash it first.”
He stomps his foot like a bull ready to charge. Since I don’t have a red cape, I relent and let him wear it for now. Maybe I can coax him out of it later, wash it, and hopefully it’ll be ready by game time.
“What are we having for breakfast?” Noah asks.
“Scrambled eggs, bacon and toast.” I place a helping of eggs in front of him.
“Yuck!!! I hate scrambled eggs.”
“Noah, just try them. They have lots of protein which will help make you grow big and strong.”
“They look like poop!” I rub my temples. I have no parental backup this morning. Ted is golfing until later this afternoon.
“Noah, we don’t talk that way at the table. Just one small bite.” I plead.
“No! I hate eggs. You can’t make me eat them.” He hurls his plate onto the kitchen floor. The plate shatters, sending clumps of scrambled eggs to suction themselves to the wood floor. This will not be easy to clean up.
I want to hurl Noah across the floor. “Go to your room for a time-out.” My patience is waning. I have been awake less than an hour.
At least tonight, no one will throw his dinner on the floor. Tonight, someone else will cook for me. Tonight, someone else will wash the dishes. And tonight, I will see Charlie again for the first time in over fifteen years.
 
Two
As soon as Ted gets home from golfing, I escape my family and make a run to Nordstrom’s. I wasn’t going to buy anything new for the reunion, but I’ve been through my closet a hundred times, trying on different dresses I have previously worn to weddings or Christmas parties and my options are either too tight or too dated or both. Still I dread the harsh reality of the fitting room so I have prolonged this purchase off until the late possible minute. And I hate the idea of spending a fortune on a dress I will wear once, even if Charlie is there to see me in it. Maybe I can find something on the clearance rack.
On my way out the door, Zachary, my eight year old son, asks where I am going. Zachary is a rare child - smart, athletic, and funny in equal measure. He delights in speaking with a British accent, imitating his beloved characters from Harry Potter. He makes friends easily and our phone rings constantly for him, though sometimes he prefers keeping his own company.
“I’m going shopping for a new dress.”
“For the ‘union?” he asks.
“Yes, for the RE-union.”
“Will it be long like your marrying dress?”
“Probably not that fancy.” I kiss him on the cheek.
 
At Nordstrom’s, I am in the fitting room trying on the usual fare of sequined and lace dresses. The dress I am trying on now looked promising on the mannequin, but when I tug in on over my hips, I realize that it bulges at the tummy, leaving my cellulite with no where to hide. And I could do without the reality of the three- way mirror, even my butt looks flabby from this angle. This is far too much reality for me. I try on simple black sheathe, black is supposed to be slimming, right? But under these glaring fluorescent lights, I look anemic. A bead of perspiration trickles down my spine. So much for ambient lighting, you could perform a triple bypass under this wattage. And to think that Ted assumes I am having fun.
The saleslady, fearing her commission is i