Which drives someone like me absolutely crazy. Which is why, when I was a kid, I didn’t even bother to try to follow in her footsteps.
She’s so caught up in the familiar combination of envy and longing for her sister that she doesn’t think twice about the package that came for her. She tosses it aside with the rest of the mail and takes her medication—-the first thing she does every morning, and again every afternoon when she walks in the door.
It wasn’t until Mick was diagnosed with ADHD back in elementary school that Rowan learned that it was hereditary.
With this disability, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, the doctor told her, leading her to recognize similar symptoms in herself.
It was as if a puzzle piece she hadn’t even realized was missing had suddenly dropped into place to complete a long--frustrating jigsaw.
If only someone—-her parents, her teachers, her doctors—-had figured it out when she was Mick’s age. Now she understands why she spent so much of her childhood in trouble—-academically, behaviorally—-and why she so often felt restlessly uncomfortable in her own skin, even as an adult.
Things aren’t perfect now—-far from it—-but at least she’s more in control of her life, with better focus and the ability to quell her impulsive tendencies. Most of the time, anyway.
After swallowing the pill, she walks the dog down to the bus stop and returns with a grumbling Mick.
“Where’s all the turkey?” he asks, poking his stubbly auburn head—-exactly the same shade as her own—-into the fridge.
“I tossed it last night.”
“What? Why?”
“Because it was old, Mick. You can’t eat leftovers after a few days.”
“You didn’t toss the pie.” He pulls out the dish.
“Pie isn’t poultry. That’s still good.”
She watches her son put the whole thing into the microwave and punch the quick start button, then open the freezer.
So much for Rowan’s dessert plans. Oh well. She can’t afford to indulge, and Mick can. Half a pie smothered in Vanilla Bean H?agen--Dazs is nothing more than a light afternoon snack for a famished, lanky sixteen--year--old athlete who begins every morning with a three--mile run.
The stack of mail still sits on the granite counter in the butler’s pantry by the back door, along with her tote bag and the usual household clutter plus additional clutter accumulated over Thanksgiving: clean platters that need to go back to the dining room, a bread basket filled with cloth napkins that have to be washed, bottles of open and unopened Beaujolais . . .
She should get busy cleaning it up. She should do a lot of things. As always, now that the medication has begun to take hold again, it all seems more manageable.
After returning the platters and napkins to the built--in cabinets in the dining room, she asks Mick, “What time do you have to be at work?” Three nights a week, he’s a busboy at Marrana’s Trattoria in town.
“Five--thirty.”
“I need you to do me a favor while you’re there. Can you please get me a gift certificate for twenty--five dollars?” She pulls the cash from her wallet and hands it to him.
“Who’s it for?”
“Marlena, the library aide. I pulled her name for the Secret Santa.”
He looks at her as if she’s speaking a foreign language. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“You know . . . or maybe you don’t know. Secret Santa is something we do every year at work—-we pick names and then we have to anonymously surprise the person with a little treat every day next week—-”
“I don’t really think a gift certificate counts as a treat, Mom. How about cookies or something?”
“No, the gift certificate is for the big gift on Friday.”
“Big? You’d better do fifty bucks, then. Twenty--five seems cheap.”
“The limit is twenty--five, big spender.” She grins, shaking her head. “So, how much homework do you have?”
“Not a lot.”