Searching for Tomorrow (Tomorrows) (7 page)

Tripp took my hand, led me into the house and over to the couch. As he sat, he gently tugged my arm until I landed on his lap. He could tell by the way my eyes widened and my jaw dropped that his beha
vior shocked me, and he gave a small smile at the expression on my face. While Tripp had always been demonstrative with his affection, this was a bit more forward than even I was accustomed to experiencing, especially in front of my parents.

Mom and
Dad both took a place on the loveseat, concern evident on their faces. After staring into each other’s eyes for a moment, Mom gave a small nod and Dad turned to face us. I had always envied the way they could speak to each other with no words. “Tripp, son, talk to us. Let us know what is going on in your head.”

“Pop, I just keep going over and over what we saw this morning. I can’t get the images of the planes hitting the buildings, the people jumping from a hundred stories up
, out of my mind. I can’t imagine what kind of hatred must be behind this. I feel helpless, lost. I want to do something. No, I need to do something. When I dropped Wrynn and Liam off here, I went to Smyrna to see Papa and Nana. Papa and I sat on the porch and had a long talk. I’ve never talked much about my dad because I’ve always felt guilty that I don’t miss him as much as I should. He died when I was almost seven. Then, Mom sold the house and we moved here. Nana and Papa weren’t always here, and I missed them so much. Too many things were changing too fast for my little brain to keep up. When I met y’all, you grabbed me up and made me your own. You gave me a reason to not miss everything as much.”

I turned my face into his neck. I could smell the
tension-filled sweat rolling off his body in waves, could feel the anxiety knotting his muscles. Tripp tightened his arms around me and placed several small kisses on my head. He took a deep breath, and continued. “When Mother moved us here to Highlands, I was so confused. I was a sad, lost little boy whose dad was dead and whose own mother couldn’t stand to be around him.”

An anguished gasp came from the loveseat. When I looked over, tears were streaming down my sweet mother’s face. She rose from her seat, came to the sofa, and sank to her knees. Reaching up, she grasped Tripp’s face between both of her hands. After placing a gentle kiss on Tripp’s forehead, she said in a gentle, quiet voice, “No mother could ever NOT love you, baby. You’re the sweetest, most sincere, loving young man, and any mother would be proud of you. She just doesn’t know how to show it with all the bitterness in her heart. I hope you know that I am so very proud of you, and I love you as if you were my own son.
”

A choked cough sounded behind us.
We all looked up to see Liam standing in the doorway, his face red, and tears filling his eyes. It looked as if he had overheard the whole conversation. “Tripp, you are my brother. Don’t ever think you’re not part of this family. Don’t ever think your parents don’t love you. We and Papa and Nana have always tried to be the best family that you could have.” As Liam walked to the couch and placed his hand on Tripp’s shoulder, he finished with a simple, “I love you, brother.”

By the time
Liam finished speaking, Dad had joined us at the couch. Drawing the four of us into the comforting cradle of his arms, he looked Tripp in the eyes and said, “Tell us, son. Just spit it out. We can’t take the wait. What did you and Papa talk about?”

“Well
, Pop, you know that Papa was in the Army. He saw action in Korea. He still has shrapnel in his thigh and chest. I’m sure you’ve seen the scars. He loves showing them off. He’s so proud of his service to our country, and you know that I am proud of him, too. My dad would’ve joined when he graduated high school, but he blew his knee out playing football his senior year. He was the first Tidwell since before World War I to not serve his country, and he regretted that until the day he died. Until today, I can honestly say I hadn’t given it much thought, but after talking with Papa, I’m going to look into joining the Army, ask questions, and hopefully get some answers. I don’t want to live with the same regret my father did.”

Fear crawled in without my knowing, and it grabbed me by the heart.
The Army? Tripp would be gone. My lungs squeezed all the air out and I struggled to take in another breath. How would I survive with a part of my heart missing? Could I live with never knowing when he’s leaving, how long he’ll be gone, or if he’s ever coming back? If he was going to do this, I knew that I would have to learn to live with the ‘what-ifs’, and to try to prepare myself for anything.

I decide to take a little time to shower and make myself presentable for the Queen Mother, wasting more time to mull this over. I seriously do not want to do this. I would give almost anything to get out of it, but if my reaching out to her helps Liam, then I will most assuredly do it. Unfortunately, Mother Tidwell knows this little fact, too.

As I head to my closet, I can’t help but think back to the days when Tripp would leave little surprises for me in there. Sometimes
, I would find my favorite Hershey’s Kisses or Reese’s Cups, sometimes a book, and once a sterling silver brush that he used to gently remove the tangles from my hair before bed every night when he was home. It never failed that when he returned home on leave that gifts both big and small would find their way to my side of the shelves.

At times, I catch myself skimming the shelves to s
ee if anything new has suddenly appeared for me. After a moment of searching, the reality that is now my life comes crashing back to slap me in the face. Maggie
is
my last gift from Tripp, unless I can somehow make myself open the box that sits on the shelf high above the neatly folded stacks of Tripp’s jeans and t-shirts. I just don’t know at what point I will be strong enough to see just what he had at base to remind him of the girls and me.

I always promise myself that I will
be resilient enough to deal with all of his stuff tomorrow. I keep searching for that tomorrow, and it never seems to come, so each day I just keep trudging along.

I shake off the thoughts of Tripp and return to the matter of what to wear when I go to see his mother. Even though I am as casual and down to earth as a person can get, I know that if I make my appearance at her royal court dressed in my normal jeans, tee and cowboy boots, then I will not only have to bear her looks of criticism, but will also have to hear her words of contempt.
And God forbid I wear flip-flops and cut-offs. That right there is cause for a flogging.

I am
so grateful to see the majority of my clothes not only clean, but also folded or hanging in my closet. When my friends Jennifer and Wendy heard through the town grapevine that I was pulling as many double shifts as Charlie would give me, they decided it was time for an intervention. They came over on my day off and helped me get caught up on all my housework, laundry, and the latest gossip. They even invited the girls and me to go camping Memorial Day weekend. Every inch of my house is sparkling clean. Every dirty piece of laundry is washed, dried, folded, and put in its place. Now, fifteen slow cooker meals wait in the freezer for those days when I know I won’t have time to cook. I try to remember to thank God for my blessings every day, and you can sure bet that those two ladies are on my list.

After choosing a simple khaki skirt, white sleeveless sweater
, and hemp espadrilles, I quickly shower and blow-dry my hair. While examining my face in the bathroom mirror, I decide that a little concealer and foundation will only help, and might possibly camouflage the exhaustion that shows on every line of my face, not to mention, the matched set of baggage under my eyes. While I dot my face with the concealer, I struggle to remember the last time I had a good night’s sleep, but I am fairly certain that was back before Tripp left, so it’s been quite a while.

I made the decision
earlier to make the most of this beautiful day, so I called Jenn and Wendy. After I torture myself with Mother Tidwell, I am meeting the girls at Buck’s for coffee and scones. After that, we are going to hit the Memorial Day sales at Jolene’s and AnnaWear. I am hoping to score at least three new pairs of shorts, since the ones in my closet seem to be a little bigger than they were last year. Our last stop will be Cyrano’s, our local bookstore. I love to see what new releases will be stocked because the owners love to support local and regional authors. I am always finding new reading material for those times that I want to feel an actual paper book in my hands. I am actually really looking forward to spending some happy time with my girlfriends.

Having given things a lot of thought this morning, I decide to just show up at Mother Tidwell’s house and pray that the element of surprise works in my favor. If she knows ahead of time that I am coming, she will have the chance to either make other plans, or gather more instruments of torture to use against me.

My thoughts keep whirling around in my head.
You’ve got this. She’s just a bitter, angry old woman. She’s probably lonely, too. Of course, you’d be lonely if you were as mean and hateful as she is. Wrynn, straighten up. Find something good. There has to be something. Think.
So much for encouragement. I still don’t know what to say when I face her.

It has always been my personal goal to find at least one good thing in every person I meet. In all the years
that I’ve known Mother Tidwell, I have struggled to find even one. When Annie was born, she showed up at the hospital and was like a bull in a china store. Things got so bad at one point that my mom refused to come see me until Tripp brought me home. Since Mother Tidwell wouldn’t dare step foot in an Army hovel, I didn’t have to worry about her after that. I don’t know about every woman, but when
this girl
has a baby, she wants her mama. She wants someone who will nurture and comfort, not criticize and cause tension. Unfortunately, the same thing happened when Bekah was born. I am thankful that, with the circumstances surrounding Maggie’s birth, my father stepped in and said something. His firm stance created a permanent rift between my parents and Tripp’s mother, not that their relationship was all chocolate and roses to begin with. More than once, Mother Tidwell
spoke
and Daddy lost a client. She has that much power around here. She is the puppet master and the business people are her marionettes.

At times, I feel like David facing Goliath. All I have to fight with
is one small stone and a slingshot. Unlike David, my shot never seems to hit the target. I always imagine a kill shot, only to be hit by the recoil of the stone myself. At times, I wonder why I even try to fight back. Surely, if I just laid my slingshot down and forgot about fighting then life would become easier all around. Somehow, though, surrender seems so much harder to grasp. If I could know for certain that my family wouldn’t pay the price, then I would gladly lay it all down because, quite frankly, I am tired of all the fighting.

So, what do I do? I straighten my spine, push back my shoulders, and hold my head up high.
Grabbing my purse, I head out the door, imagining that just this once the battle will end in my favor.

I make my way through the downtown traffic, wondering just where this day will end, and wishing that I could somehow avoid this confrontation, but also knowing that it really needs to happen. As I pass the Old Edwards Inn, I can’t help but notice the beautiful flower boxes that line the patio of Madison’s Restaurant. The beautiful red, white, and blue petunias
spill out over the walkway. The menu board is out on the sidewalk advertising the daily lunch specials and the holiday weekend hours. The signs of life in my little town are only a hint of what is to come this tourist season.

Memorial Day acts as a call for the locals to stop and remember those from our community who serve, have served, and most especially have died in service to our great country.
While my family has always remembered and honored these brave men and women, my girls and I are still adjusting to our own unwanted but newfound celebrity status. Not a month goes by that some kindhearted soul doesn’t stop us and pay for our supper if we happen to be eating out, or a sweet neighbor delivers yet another chicken or potato casserole.

Don’t get me wrong
, these sentiments are more than appreciated, but sometimes, we would like to mourn our loss in private. If nothing else, Memorial Day will bring everything right back to the surface, not that it is ever far from our thoughts.

This is the main reason that I asked to be scheduled to work on Monday. Tourists don’t have a clue what is happ
ening or has happened in my life. Seriously, I am over the parades, banners, and the speeches. I work as much as I can, trying to keep myself in an exhausted frame of mind. If I’m too tired to think, then I’m too tired to remember. If I’m too tired to remember, then I am too tired to imagine the way things were
before
.

My life is divided with a very certain line between yesterday and tomorrow. Yesterday is where I want to be, where my mind tries to exist, where I can be whole again. Tomorrow is the place where life takes over and I make new memories to replace the old ones. Tomorrow is the place where the holes in my hea
rt begin to mend themselves, and I allow myself to start over again and move forward with my life.

Today is the bridge between the two,
that period of time when the supposed healing begins. For me, it is when I have to force myself to let my babies out of my sight. It is when I worry that someone I love isn’t going to come back home. It is when it takes every fiber of my being to get out of bed to do normal things like shower, eat, attend the occasional parent-teacher conference, and worship with my family at church on Sunday. I beg for more hours at work, not for the paycheck, but for the escape from reality. Today is also the time when I grit my teeth and lock my jaws against all the well-meaning but sickeningly sweet platitudes. The words seem to be vomited from the mouths of little old ladies, nosey old biddies, and supposedly caring friends who have
NO IDEA
just how much I wish that ‘this too shall pass’, ‘life will go on’, ‘it will get better’, and my all-time favorite, ‘your time for mourning has passed’ would finally come true.

If I sound bitter, there is a reason. I
am
bitter. My yesterdays are what others dream of having. Tripp and I were the best of friends before we even thought about love. I’ve had the fairy tale life, where
like
turns into
love
, and
love
becomes
happily ever after
, only my forever love ended much too soon. My one plus one should equal five, not four. If I still had my yesterdays, I wouldn’t be on my way to visit the one person who lives to make my life miserable. If ever there were a person who derives extreme pleasure and joy from others’ problems and weaknesses, Mother Tidwell is definitely that person.

I reach the gated community on the outskirts of town and stop at the guard shack, hoping that
she’s not had me banned from entering the development. When I roll down the window, I can’t help but notice the tiny lavender flowers blooming on the hedge of rosemary, and the fragrance scenting the air. The creeping phlox completes the picture of tranquility with its rainbow of colors that draws the eyes.

Mr. Jasper makes his way from the guard shack, walking ever so slowly with his shuffled gait. I swear that man is as old as God’s dog. For years, he was the custodian at the public school I attended, but when he slipped on the wet floor one evening and broke his hip, his doctor strongly recommended he leave the school because of the strenuous nature of his job. Thankfully, when Highlands Estates began developing around ten years ago, Mr. Jasper was able to find a job in the guard shack.

The smile that greets me shows only pleasure, so I breathe deeply, trying to relieve some of the tension that has settled into my shoulders. “Mr. J, how are you doing on this beautiful May day?”

“Is 'at Wrynn, mah wee songbird?
Lassie, yer a richt fine secht fur these auld eyes. How’s life treating ye?”

I don’t know if Mr. Jasper ever lived in Scotland, but his thick Scottish brogue is and always has been music to my ears. To see him in a kilt while playing
“Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes is not something that a soul is likely to forget.

“Well, Mr. J.,
you’re a right fine sight, too! I guess I can’t complain. As you’ve always said, what good would it do me?”

The lines around his eyes show that he loves to smile. His face is rarely seen without one gracing it. “
Richt ye are, lassie. Richt ye are. Here te slay yer dragons t’day?” He gives me a big wink and a cheeky grin, and I feel my own lips curve up in answer. “I’ve not seen ‘er leaving, so ye should fin ‘er either at home or at th’ clubhoose.”

Well, I guess that answers my question about being banned from entering. “Thanks
, Mr. Jasper. I’ll check back with you on my way out and you can put salve on any burns I might get during the battle.”