Left Neglected (28 page)

It’s the last weekend in March, and while most parts of the country are enjoying the beginning of spring, Cortland is celebrating its annual Forever Winter Festival. Bob, Charlie, Lucy, and I just finished eating lunch in the main lodge after a full morning on the slopes. My mother and Linus spent the morning at the festival, and now Bob and the kids want to go, but I’m feeling too tired. We decide that Bob will drop me off at home for a nap, and he and the kids will go without me.

The festival is a weeklong affair, quintessential small-town Vermont and great family fun. There are snowman contests, bonfires and s’mores, hot cocoa and snow cones, ice-skating on the lake, cross-country ski races, and live music. And all the local businesses sell their goods at the festival market—maple syrup, fudge, jams, cheese, quilts, paintings, sculpture. We’re in the car, and I’m reading aloud from the festival brochure to get the kids excited.

“Ooo, they’re having the dogsled races today!”

“Maybe I could be a professional dogsled musher,” Bob says.

“Yeah!” yell out Charlie and Lucy.

“And ice fishing,” I say, trying to stay on the subject of the festival.

“I could be a frozen lake fisherman,” Bob says.

“Yeah!” cheer Charlie and Lucy.

“Bob,” I say.

“Or I could raise cows in the yard and make ice cream!”

“Yeah!” they yell, giggling.

I laugh, too, but only because I can’t help picturing Bob with his shirtsleeves rolled up, trying to milk a cow.

“And I could have my own ice cream truck, and I’d be the ice cream man!”

“Yeah!” they shout.

“Do that one, Daddy,” says Lucy.

“Yeah, be an ice cream man!” says Charlie.

“The votes are in, babe. I’m Vermont’s newest ice cream man. I’m going to need a white truck and a hat.”

Again, I crack up, picturing Bob in the hat. I’ve also added red suspenders.

It feels good to joke around about this topic. Our conversations about Bob’s job and Welmont versus Cortland have been charged and stressful with no resolution as of yet. He’s at least open to the idea now, and he’s actively looking for a job in Vermont. But he’s picky. If he wasn’t finding anything suitable enough for him in Boston, I have less and less faith with each passing day that he’s going to find anything acceptable to him here.

We pull into our driveway, and Bob helps me out with the car still running.

“You got it from here?” he asks, handing me my cane.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Will you bring me home some fudge?”

“You got it. I’ll watch to make sure you get in.”

I walk down the gravel pathway to the front door. I let go of the cane, turn the knob, and push the door open. Then I turn and wave good-bye as Bob pulls out of the driveway. I’m getting better and more confident at standing without relying on the cane or holding on to anything, and it feels thrilling to experience even a few successful seconds of standing on my own two feet.

As I walk through the mudroom, I hear a high-pitched whistling sound. It sounds like the whistle from one of Linus’s battery-operated trains, but he should be smack in the middle of his three-hour nap. He’d better not be up playing with trains.

“Mom?” I call out, but not too loudly in case he’s napping as he should be.

I walk into the living room. My mother’s asleep on the couch. Linus must be up in his crib. Good. But the whistling sound is louder in here. And constant. Maybe the button to one of his electronic trains is stuck pressed in. I look around the living room for the train, but I don’t see one anywhere. The room is clean, and all of Linus’s toys are put away. I check the TV. It’s off.

I granny cane over to Linus’s toy box and listen. The whistle doesn’t appear to be coming from Linus’s toys. I listen again, trying to localize the sound. I can’t figure it out. I’m more curious about what the heck it is than annoyed or worried by it. It’s not so loud that it’s disturbing Linus or my mother, and I’m sure I wouldn’t hear it at all from my bedroom. But what is it?

I cane, step, and drag myself into the kitchen and listen. The sound is definitely coming from in here. I open and close the refrigerator. Nope, it’s not that. I look across the floor, the table, and the counter for one of Linus’s trains. Everything is clean. No trains. No electronic toys. No cell phones. No iPods.

I look at the stove top. Nothing there. Then I remember to
look left,
and I see the teakettle sitting on a bright red burner, steam billowing out from its spout. I look across the counter again, this time remembering to
scan left,
and I notice my mother’s empty mug, the string and paper square from her tea bag hanging over the side.

My heart drops into my stomach, and my skin goes clammy. I turn the knob to Off and move the kettle to the right. The whistling stops.

I granny cane back into the living room. I listen. Everything is quiet. I sit on the edge of the couch next to my mother and know, even before I hold her hand, that she’s not sleeping.

We sold our house in Welmont and moved to Cortland in June, after Charlie and Lucy finished the school year. Bob took the summer off, Charlie and Lucy spent mornings at the YMCA camp, all three kids played in the yard or swam in Lake Willoughby most afternoons, and I learned to kayak in the same lake through NEHSA’s summer recreation program. Even though my mother had always planned to spend the summer back at her own house on Cape Cod, it still felt strange to be here without her. I kept expecting to see her walk through the front door, for her to bring me the latest
People,
to hear the sound of her laugh. I still do. I had imagined making at least a couple of road trips with Bob and the kids to visit her over the summer. I’d imagined spending time with her on the beach, eating fresh tomatoes from her garden, meeting her Red Hat friends. And when we weren’t together with her on the Cape, I’d imagined that we’d Skype.

It’s now the first week of November, past peak foliage and mountain biking season and at least a month before there’s enough snow on the mountain. It’s a sleepy month in a town that’s drowsy all year, but I don’t mind. Bob and I are seated at our favorite table by the fireplace at Cesca’s. We didn’t need reservations, we didn’t have any trouble finding a parking space right in front of the restaurant, and we didn’t have to wait for our favorite table. We’re the only two people here, partly because it’s so early in the evening, but the place won’t fill up at any point tonight.

Bob slides a small white box across the table.

“What’s this?” I ask, not expecting a gift for this occasion.

“Open it,” he says.

We’re here to celebrate the anniversary of the day I survived my car crash. We’ve consciously chosen to make this a day of celebration and not a day of regretful What-Ifs—What if I hadn’t won the shoot? What if it hadn’t been raining? What if I hadn’t tried to use my phone? What if I’d looked up sooner? What if I hadn’t banged my head? We’re here to celebrate the life we have and not bemoan the life we’ve lost. But before I open Bob’s gift, I can’t help but reflect on both.

I miss my old job at Berkley. I miss Richard and Jessica, the brilliant consultants, the feeling of conquering a seemingly impossible day, staffing interesting projects, recruiting season, managing career development, and being really good at it all. But I don’t miss my old commute, the travel, the hours, and the stress that accompanied all of those.

I love my new job at NEHSA. I love Mike and the volunteer staff, a diverse group of people with the most generous hearts on the planet. I love the hours. I’m typically there from eight to noon, Monday through Friday, and usually put in five additional hours a week from home, but some days I work entirely from my living room couch. I love the work itself. It feels challenging and important. And I’m really good at it. I’ve been working there for two months now, and I haven’t had to cry yet. I don’t suspect that I will.

I don’t miss my dry-clean-only, button-down shirts and suits. NEHSA is strictly casual dress. I do miss my high heel shoes.

I miss my old paycheck and the sense of pride, power, and worth that it gave me. I make a lot less money now. A lot less. But what I’ve lost in dollars, I’ve gained in time. I have time in the afternoons now to help Charlie and Lucy with their homework, to play Wii with them, to watch Charlie’s soccer games, to take a nap with Linus. I can’t wait to spend afternoons snowboarding. I have time to paint a portrait of Lucy (my only child who will sit still long enough) or the apples we picked at the local orchard. I have time to read novels, to meditate, to watch the deer walk across the backyard, to have dinner every night with my family. Less money, more time. So far, the trade-off has been worth every penny.

Neither of us misses Bob’s old job. He found a position at Verde Inc. working to help an international list of clients develop economically favorable plans for converting to renewable energy sources. The company is young, smart, growing, and passionate about what they do, and Bob loves it. It’s located in Montpelier, about fifty miles from our house in Cortland, but it’s all highway, and there’s never any traffic, so it only takes him forty-five minutes, which is the same amount of time it used to take us to commute from Welmont to Boston (if the weather was good, if there weren’t any accidents, and if the Red Sox weren’t in town). Everyone there has been understanding of his need to leave the office early to help with me and the kids. He’s usually home by 4:00.

The elementary school here is wonderful. The class sizes are half what they were in Welmont, and the teachers in the special education program are working really well with Charlie. He can’t wait to start snowboarding with the school’s team this winter. Lucy likes her new teacher and loves Hannah, her new best friend. And Linus has adjusted without a hiccup to his new day care. Bob drives him there every morning before work, and either Chris or Kim from NEHSA brings him home for me at 2:00.

I miss Heidi. She promises to bring her whole family to Cortland over February vacation for a week of skiing and snowboarding.

I miss Starbucks. B&C’s is still closed. At least we have the Impressa.

I miss being able to do simple things easily, like reading, typing, shaving, getting dressed, cutting paper with scissors, putting a pillowcase on a pillow, fixing a shirt that is inside-out.

I miss driving and the independence that goes with it. Bob drives me to Mount Cortland in the mornings, and Mike or someone from NEHSA drives me home, but I miss being able to come and go without being someone else’s passenger.

A small percentage of people with Left Neglect do eventually recover enough to drive safely. Still unwavering in his encouragement, last Monday, before work, Bob pulled into the empty church parking lot and told me to give it a try. After switching places, I buckled my seat belt (something I never could’ve done six months ago), shifted from Park to Drive, and eased my right foot from the brake to the gas. We only traveled a few feet before Bob yelled,
Stop!
I hit the brake, panicked but not understanding why.
Look LEFT,
he said. At first, I didn’t notice anything at all, and then there it was—the driver’s side door, wide open. So I guess I’m still not ready to drive. Someday.

I miss walking. I’m still cane, step, and dragging with my granny cane, but with much more confidence and a lot less drag, and I hope to progress to a regular cane soon. Hope. Progress. There is still both of those.

But of everything that I miss, I miss my mother most of all. What if I hadn’t won the shoot? What if I hadn’t banged my head? What if I hadn’t needed her help? What if she hadn’t offered it to me? I’m so grateful that I had the chance to know and love her before she died.

I lift the lid off the unwrapped box. My heart swells with emotion, and tears spill down my smiling cheeks.

“Oh, Bob, it’s beautiful.”

“Here, let me attach it for you.”

He reaches across the table and holds my left hand in his.

“There,” he says.

I waggle my shoulder and hear the jingle of my charm bracelet at my left wrist. Look left, scan left, go left.

I find my diamond ring and wedding band. Me and Bob.

Look left, scan left, go left.

I find my pink, plastic watch. My good friend, Heidi.

Look left, scan left, go left.

I find my silver charm bracelet and the three dime-sized discs. Charlie, Lucy, and Linus.

Look left, scan left, go left.

I see my gift from Bob. My new charm. A silver hat adorned with a single, bezel-set ruby. My mother.

“Thank you, honey. I love it.”

Our waitress brings us a bottle of Shiraz and asks what we’d like for dinner. We both order Caesar salads and the pumpkin ravioli. Bob pours the wine and lifts his glass.

“To a full life,” he says.

I smile, loving him for changing with me, for going where my Neglect has taken us, for getting the new me. Because while I still hope for a full recovery, I’ve learned that my life can be fully lived with less.

I look left again and find my hand, clad in beautiful symbols of me and Bob, our children, my friend, and now my mother. With every ounce of focus I can gather, I lift my wineglass high with my left hand.

“To a full life,” I say.

We clink glasses and drink.

I’m riding the quad chairlift to the summit of Mount Cortland. My mother is sitting next to me, to my right, her favorite place to position herself so I can be sure to see her. She’s wearing a red knit shawl over a white sweater, black elastic-waist pants, black boots, and a huge Victorian tea hat covered with red flowers.

“Mom, you’re not dressed appropriately.”

“I’m not?”

“No. And you don’t have skis or a snowboard. How are you going to get down the mountain?”

“I’m only here to see the view.”

“Oh.”

“And to spend time with you.”

“You should learn to snowboard.”

“Oh no, it’s too late for me to be doing that kind of thing.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It is. But I’ve enjoyed this ride with you.”

I look up and see that we’re approaching the end of the lift. I raise the bar over our heads, turn my board, and edge forward on the seat.

“Remember to look left,” says my mother.

I turn my head to the left and gasp. Nate and my father are sitting next to me.

“Oh my God. Where did you come from?” I ask.

“We’ve been here the whole time,” says my father, smiling at me.

My father and Nate are both wearing red ski jackets and black pants, but they don’t have skis or snowboards either.

We reach the top, and I slide down the ramp. Nate, my father, and my mother walk ahead and board another lift without me. I watch their chair ascend and dissolve into sky.

“Hey.”

I turn my head to the left. It’s Bob.

“You’re all here,” I say.

Linus is sitting in a child carrier strapped to Bob’s back, Lucy is standing next to Bob on her skis, and Charlie is ahead of them on his board.

“Of course. We’re waiting for you.”

I look ahead at the untouched trail before us, at the snow-covered valley below, at the Green Mountains in the distance, enjoying the feeling of the warm morning sun against my cold cheeks. In the stillness of the summit, I hear nothing but the sound of my own breath.

“Let’s go,” I say.

I turn the toe of my board and lean downhill.

Slide, turn, slide.

I am peaceful.

Slide, turn, slide.

I am whole.

Slide, turn, slide.

Hush.