“Right, yes. Trudy. That was pretty much it.”
“Huh. Well, I don’t know what to say. I’m sure she’ll show herself at some point.” I stifle a yawn. “Sorry. I’m still a little dopey.”
Asami jumps up the way Max does when I tell him dinner’s ready.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I should go. Thanks for hearing me out.” I can tell she’s a bit bummed by this setback in her investigation.
She pulls on her coat and starts toward the door.
“Can I get you anything before I go?”
“No, I’m fine, but thank you. And don’t worry, Asami. There’s probably a really simple explanation for this whole thing.”
Asami gives me the firm nod that I now associate only with her and leaves me to my painkillers.
*
The aftermath of my bathroom hijinks brings forth some good news and some bad news. The bad news was that Dr. Sintay says I definitely should not go on our spring break family ski trip out west. The good news? I’m staying home alone for a week. Well, not completely alone. Nina will move in with me, and Chyna will take my place on the slopes.
I know I should be more upset about this, but I can’t seem to muster the sadness. I love the place we always go—a little hidden gem in Utah called Solitude that totally lives up to its name. I swear there has never been a lift line even if we are skiing the busiest week of the year. It’s populated mostly by locals who want to avoid the craziness of Park City, and I absolutely love going there … usually.
But since the accident, all I can think of is the sheer felicity of time to myself. What, oh what, will I do to fill the days that are usually taken up with errands and housecleaning and laundry and Max and Ron and their various time-sucking wants and needs? Don’t for one minute think I don’t absolutely adore my life as a wife and mom. But even the best lives need a vacation and, let’s face it, renting a house with your family at a ski resort is not a vacation. It’s basically moving your life from one location to another. Unless someone else is making the beds, doing the laundry, and cooking, it’s just the same old life with the added inconvenience of not knowing where anything is in the kitchen.
My convalescence is going more slowly than I thought it would, so I am completely useless when it comes to packing Ron and Max for the trip. Max is only capable of loading up the toys he wants, and Ron hasn’t packed a bag since the day he said “I do.” It’s nothing short of torture for me to sit in bed while he ransacks the storage bins and throws things willy-nilly into suitcases.
“Sweetie, you may want to have Max try on some of his ski clothes before you pack them.”
Since this is about the thirtieth time I have butted into his business, Ron is done with me. He pauses on his way out the door.
“I love you, but if you say one more thing to me about packing, I’m going to hide your pain meds.”
I don’t tell him I switched to Aleve two days ago because the painkillers were interfering with my wine drinking. I stay mute for the rest of the morning, knowing full well that Max’s toothbrush and toothpaste will never make it into the suitcase.
And now I sit on my super-comfy couch with six days stretching out in front of me like a red carpet of possibilities. Scrumptious smells are coming from my kitchen, where Nina is cooking dinner, and a fine glass of wine is within reach. If it weren’t for the constant ache down there, life would be pretty perfect.
I grab my laptop from the side table and open it up. There is a joke email from Peetsa with the subject line “15 Ways to Make Everything Awkward,” the usual spate of crap from the Gap, Zappos, Pottery Barn, and Weight Watchers, and a note from my mother.
* * *
To: JDixon
From: KHoward
Date: 3/26
Subject: How are you feeling?
Honey,
How are you feeling? Better, I hope. I would call, but ever since I woke you up in the middle of the day I’m worried I’ll do it again and I know how you need your sleep. But please call me whenever you want, oh but not for the next few days. Dad and I are heading out of town to our post–St. Patrick’s Day drying-out retreat. Half of our congregation is still loaded.
Feel better, sweetheart.
Love,
Your Mother
* * *
I’m just about to close my computer when an email pops up from Miss Ward.
* * *
To: JDixon
From: PWard
Date: 3/26
Subject: Spring break
Hello, Jenny,
Haven’t seen you in a while and then someone told me about your accident. Hope you are feeling better.
On April 12, we will be taking a class trip to the Elbow Chocolate factory. I think the children will enjoy seeing how chocolate bunnies are made.
I will need 3 mothers to go with us. Can you and Asami send out a note?
Thanks,
Peggy
* * *
Well, this is pretty odd, considering we had our Easter celebration just before the break. But mine is not to reason why. The clown car that is the inner workings of Miss Ward’s mind will remain an enigma to me. Oh, and by the way, I’ll be skipping that field trip, thank you very much. Putting me in a chocolate factory is like putting an alcoholic in a whiskey distillery. I have a serious addiction and the only way I can keep it in check is complete abstinence. There were some dark (chocolate) days when I first returned from Europe and realized full-on what my life was going to be like (a) living with my parents and two small daughters and (b) working at a crappy job. Things looked pretty bleak, so I turned to my one constant source of sunshine … chocolate. I got quite a taste for the good stuff while I was chasing bands overseas. Ever have a Milka Bar? INXS used to insist on having them in the green room at their concerts. My mouth waters just thinking about it. I am not exaggerating when I say I ate that sweet devil for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day for about six months. I couldn’t stop, nor did I want to. Chocolate made me happy—fat and happy, and then just fat. I remember vividly the day I took Vivs and Laura for their flu shots. I asked the nurse to give me one, too. She looked me up and down and said, “Let me ask the doctor. I’m not sure it’s okay in your condition. How far along are you?”
That was it. I went home, threw out a good ten pounds of Milka Bars a friend and fellow band stalker had sent me, and have almost never touched chocolate again. I think that’s one of the reasons I hate Halloween—all that chocolate coming into my house unprotected and available.
I need to email the class immediately to start trolling for volunteers.
* * *
To: Miss Ward’s Class
From: JDixon
Date: 3/26
Subject: Chocolate, anyone?
Hello, classmates!