Dear Carolina (30 page)

“The baby sleeping or somethin'?”

The baby. You. I shouldn't a' worried about what my momma would think. But I were real shaky all the same. Worse, Momma thought it was all right to leave a baby at home by herself.

“Then where is she?”

I bit my lip real hard, trying not to cry. “She's with her parents.”

Momma crossed her arms. “What do you mean, her parents?”

“Carolina got adopted.” I didn't want to cry in front a' Momma, but I couldn't help it. It was true. I had give you away. “I just couldn't do it all by myself. It was the right thing.”

I thought Momma would scream and cuss and get all crazy.
But she shocked the pickled okra out of me, her chin quivering and her eyes puddling. Under that gin-soaked skin, a heart was beatin' after all. She put her head in her hands and said, “If I'd a' been there, if I coulda helped, we might coulda been a family.”

I felt that sadness creeping in again, the one that makes your body weigh a million pounds, the one that keeps you from getting outta bed. It coulda been different. Momma, if she'd been sober, and she'd a' helped me out and wrapped you up tight, maybe we coulda got through. Maybe I wouldn't have felt like drinking again so hard. Maybe I coulda done it.

But then Momma, she said, “All of us.”

I squinted real hard. “All a' who?”

“You, me, Carolina, and Ricky.”

“Momma,” I said, “Ricky's always been a no-good son of a bitch. You cain't be family no more once somebody's tried to kill you.”

All she said was, “Ricky wants you back.”

It were like one of them digital billboards had switched. All my being grown and a woman and smart went out and a silly girl come back. That silly girl I'd been when I agreed to movin' in with him, when I didn't ignore how sorry he was, when I didn't worry 'bout having a baby with him.

But then I thought a' Buddy, my stomach flipping right over. And it weren't just because he was so handsome. He was sweet and good and kind and strong. He was the kind of man that don't just walk away when things get tough. I shook my head at Momma. She might've tried her whole life to keep it from happening, but looking into them dark circles under her eyes, I got to realizin' it: I deserved better.

ENOUGH PROBLEMS

When you spend your days surrounded by wallpaper books and fabric swatches like I do, creativity-boosting music flooding the room, it's easy to get lost in a daydream. Sometimes in those spurts I feel like giving everything away, quitting my job, and finding a moment of peace with my husband and my children. I can picture myself in the midst of an open field, sitting and reflecting, or hiking by a beautiful mountain stream. I dream of something simpler, free from the burdens and restrictions, the travel and stress, the frivolity of so many of the things that make this life what it is.

I think it's normal to daydream about a different life, but it seemed like those fantasies of spending my days surrounded by my children, not missing a single moment, were happening more and more often, making me wonder if that really was what I wanted.

Of course, I'd be lying if I didn't say that I felt more confident walking into an important meeting in a killer Manolo pump. And, while sometimes I hate Scott for that, I mostly love him for
teaching me that while things don't define me, sometimes they can make me feel taller, wiser, and more confident.

I could only imagine what he and Clive must have been feeling standing underneath an arch of flowers pledging their lives to each other in matching, custom Armani tuxes. I've always cried at weddings, but I think now that I've been through two myself the tears flow harder. For one, they are a reminder of the first man I pledged to love forever who went on before me. For two, they make me realize how incredibly blessed I am to have finally ended up with the boy who made me feel like I could do and be anyone, even my crazy, dichotomous, mind-changing-every-two-seconds self. I realized as I laid my head on my husband's wide shoulder, wiping my eyes, that, while it wasn't realistic to give away all my worldly possessions and spend my life sitting in a field of hay, it was realistic to pare down as much as possible.

I'd already decided to sell the store, and, while I firmly believe that volunteering is a nice thing to do, it's not necessary to be in charge of every organization in town. I promised myself I would write several resignation letters when I got home. Every hour I was away was another hour of my children's lives that I was missing out on.

For me, happiness has always been about a mix of things, not just one, and this was perhaps the hardest time I had ever had finding a balance, listening to my heart and blocking out the outside forces. But I think being able to carve your own path is a part of growing up. It's being able to say to the world, “My family comes first,” without needing to apologize for it.

In the midst of Clive's handwritten vows, Graham leaned over and whispered, “I was embarrassed to tell you before, but this is my first . . .” He paused. “This is my first wedding where it isn't a man and a woman.”

I smiled. “Why'd you say it like that?”

He shrugged. “I hate the term
gay wedding
. With the over-the-top flowers, gourmet food, and party music, aren't they all a little gay?”

I put my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Scott turned his head at that exact moment, which set me off all over again, and I got tickled. Once that happens, there's no turning back. I removed a hanky from the clutch Scott had picked for me for the occasion and tried to pass off my shoulders, heaving with laughter, as sobs of happiness for the gorgeous moment where my two friends were pronounced married.

Scott winked at me on his way down the aisle, and I stood to clap with the thirty or so other family members who were there to witness one of the most important days of my friend's life. “They are so fantastic,” I said to Graham. “You should see how hard a time they're having getting a baby.”

“They'd be killer parents.”

I raised my eyebrow. “Maybe don't put that line in your letter of recommendation to the adoption agency.”

We both laughed and then, with my straightest face, I said, “So, I hope it's okay with you, but I think I'm going to be their surrogate.”

I felt a little mean when I saw how ashen Graham's face got.

I laughed, and the color returned to his face. He bumped my hip with his. “That was not funny.”

After champagne and dancing and cake and flowers galore, we were tucked in tight, underneath the covers. “Isn't it strange,” I said, “how I can feel so perfectly myself in a field in Kinston wearing an old pair of Levi's and a T-shirt and then turn around and feel just right in the Waldorf in a Robert Rodriguez gown?”

Graham kissed me. I struggled so much with those opposing sides of my personality, wondering which one of those people I should be, how I was going to pick whether I wanted to be the
farm girl or the city woman. Graham must have known what I was thinking because he said, “It's okay for you to be both, you know. It's actually one of my favorite things about you.

Sometimes in the rush of life and hectic schedules of children, I forget to really look at my husband, to see the kind lines of his face and the tight, broad shoulders. It felt far away sometimes, that moment when he told me he loved me again, that instant that I knew he had called off his wedding and the lead vest that I had been wearing sank to the bottom of the river. I would be lying if I said there weren't times when I wished that I could feel that splash-of-soda, first-days-of-love feeling all the time. The good thing, though, was that in the quiet moments like this, when I really saw the man I had married, I got that stomach-flip feeling all over again. And it was magic.

People always talk about having a creative outlet, and for years I was jealous that I didn't have one. Bunny would always say, “Don't have a creative outlet? You're a
designer
. What's more creative than that?” But I didn't feel like I was
creating
anything. A writer creates a story, a painter creates a painting, a musician creates a song. But I guess designing was so second nature to me that I always felt like I was taking other people's creations and buying them for people too busy to do it themselves.

It took me years to realize that not everyone is blessed with the ability to layer nine patterns in a room and have it come off looking relaxing and cohesive. But now, thanks to Charlie, I know. She always insisted that I was a visionary, and I always told her how ridiculous that was. If she had time to get fabric swatches and pick out furniture, she could decorate as well as I could.

So she put my theory to the test. I did every room in her house
in California except one, a particularly easy one, I thought. She was in charge of furnishing one guest bedroom. That was all.

Roughly the third week of our challenge, she called me and said, “You know, Khak, you might be right. I think I'm pretty good at this decorating stuff after all.”

I was a little disappointed that my theory was going to be proven true: Anyone could do my job.

Charlie had kept her guest room sealed off from prying eyes, so Greg and I had the pleasure of seeing it for the first time together. Greg isn't one to get overly involved in the material, so I didn't think he would care one way or the other what the room looked like. But when the door swung open and he exclaimed, “What happened?” my horror melted into a fit of giggles.

Charlie's face fell, and she said, “What? You don't like it?”

A black laminate bedroom set that looked like it belonged in a Vegas nightclub was the least of our worries. An overstuffed, black leather recliner was overwhelming the corner like a big-and-tall man in a coach seat, and the bed was dressed in a burgundy-and-purple flowered bedspread. A desk lamp that must have come from Staples was the only thing on the massive dresser, which was so oversized the closet door wouldn't open, and on one of the nightstands was a faux flower arrangement that perfectly matched that bedspread.

I was trying to compose myself, but the flowers set me off again. “Where, sweetheart, did you possibly get those flowers?”

Charlie leaned into Greg, who rubbed her back supportively. She finally decided to laugh herself. “I went to a class.”

I whipped out my cell phone like a head stylist with his scissors and began dialing. “Who are you calling?” Charlie asked, panic filling her voice.

“The Salvation Army, who else?”

Greg grabbed the phone and hung up.

“What the hell did you do that for?” I asked. “You couldn't possibly want to live with this stuff.”

Greg looked at me incredulously, and I thought a lecture about hurting his wife's feelings was coming on. Instead he said, “Fran, don't you think those people have enough problems?”

We all doubled over in laughter like a bachelorette party recapping the night after too many Pink Panty Pull-Downs. Charlie shut the door and brushed her hands together. She looked at me helplessly and said, “Well, on the bright side, we've learned that you are even more talented than we formerly believed.”

I put my hands up over my eyes, trying to block out the horror of what I had just seen as if it were a dead body, not a display of truly terrible taste.

All I knew was that it was a good thing I was coming home to design Charlie and Greg's new home for them so as not to have to replicate that scene. I had been sad to leave New York, but with the store in capable hands, my design work was all I needed to focus on. And my A-number-one priority was in Kinston. It only made sense for us to come home for the holidays.

I was sharing that story about Charlie's design disaster with Jodi when we got back from New York. We were planning our Thanksgiving menu, and she was teaching me one of her new winter canning recipes. She looked terrible, like she hadn't slept since we had been gone, and I thought the story might cheer her up. When the laughter stopped, Jodi said, “Khaki, I gotta talk to you for a minute.”

My heart stopped beating, and I could feel the blood drain from my face, my spoon practically stuck to the pot where I'd been stirring. My mind started racing, and I wondered how I could have been so stupid. I had known better than to let her get too close to you.

But then I looked into Jodi's eyes. I studied her sweet, honest face, and my heart rate returned to normal. And I think I finally realized that Graham had been right about your birth mother all the time. She had known what she was doing when she gave you to us. It wasn't a rash decision. And she wasn't going to change her mind.

This could be a talk about anything. Boyfriends. Ricky. Restraining orders. Maybe I was wearing the wrong bra size, and she was nervous about hurting my feelings. But whatever she wanted to talk about, she wasn't trying to take you back.

Jodi said, “I know I said you and Graham was the ones doing Carolina's raisin', and I was gonna stay out of it.” She paused. “I mean, I'm real glad she's got to spend this time with y'all, and I ain't trying to make you upset or nothing. I want Carolina to have a real good life. But I don't want her all spoiled rotten and having Gucci bags and mess.” Jodi leaned on the island, a little closer to me, and said, “I mean, how you do her raisin' is up to you, but I just had to say something.”