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I know exactly what she means. I’ve been a cranky mess since getting back from Florida. Last week, a customer came in with an adorable little schnoodle, one of those hypoallergenic breeds, and I snapped “no dogs” and made them leave, even though I love dogs and keep a box of Milk-Bones in my desk drawer. Yesterday, I talked a perfectly nice woman into choosing a pair of frames that made her eyes look beady and her nose gargantuan. Luckily, I came to my senses before the order was final and suggested a more flattering pair.
Kim thinks I’m in some sort of “grief purgatory” because my mother’s so-called funeral didn’t give me proper closure. She doesn’t understand that I don’t need to mourn. I was already used to my mother leaving me.
“You haven’t had a vacation in years,” Kim says. “A long weekend cat-sitting at Lake George does not count. And this one is paid for.”
The bells jingle and a customer walks in, thankfully stopping our conversation. But all day, fitting glasses, adjusting frames, and cutting lenses, I can’t stop thinking about my mother’s payment to Germaine What’s-her-name. Not getting what you paid for is like throwing money away, which makes my skin crawl. But the English countryside? It hasn’t exactly been on my bucket list. I went to Greece after college with a girlfriend, and everything about it was luscious—the weather, the turquoise sea, the olives and feta cheese, a vacationing med student named Gregori. An English village seems likethe opposite. If Greece is a sarong tied around your waist in a sexy knot, England is a pair of galoshes. There’s nothing enticing about sitting in front of a fire with a bunch of old biddies doing needlepoint and debating whether it was the colonel with the cricket bat behind the field house or the vicar in the parsonage with the candlestick.
After work, I bring Mr. Groberg a Tupperware container of chickpea soup and tell him about the email and the partial refund. He’s so enchanted by the whole trip that I suggest he go as my proxy.
“When you crack the case, we can share the glory,” I say.
“Is there a prize?” he asks.
I tell him about getting to be the backup victim in a murder mystery and he says, “What’s second prize? You get to understudy two dead bodies?”
He pours some soup into a bowl and puts it in the microwave. While it’s heating up, he tells me his travel days are over. And then he shakes his head and says, “For all her faults, that mother of yours had a real joie de vivre.”
The comment stings. The first time my mother met Mr. Groberg, she waltzed into the store unexpectedly while I was working. I hadn’t even known she was coming to town. I was embarrassed by the way she hugged me for too long, and I apologized to Mr. Groberg for the intrusion. Before he could say anything, she’d said, “Nonsense! I’m your mother, and I couldn’t wait to see you.” But then she spent nearly an hour talking to Mr. Groberg, asking him all sorts of questions about his life, his business, even his childhood. I’d worked for him for nearly a year by then, but until that day I had no idea that he’d had polio as a child and had once dreamed of being a famous ventriloquist. The longer they talked the angrier I got, though I’m still not sure if I was jealous of Mr. Groberg for getting all my mother’s attention or if I was envious of how easily she got him to open up. What bothered me even more, though, was that my mother neveragain mentioned Mr. Groberg other than to ask when I was going to get a more exciting job.
Mr. Groberg takes the bowl of soup from the microwave and dips in a spoon for a taste.
“I have two things to say,” he tells me. “One, nice touch of cumin. Two, you should go to England.” He sits down at the table, tucks a napkin over his shirt. “Travel is never a mistake. Even if the trip is not fabulous, it will give you a new perspective. You know that moment when you fit a customer with new glasses? And everything they’ve gotten used to seeing as blurry or distant suddenly pops into focus? You’ve made everything old new for them. Going away from home for a little while can do the same thing.”
That night, I have trouble sleeping again. I think about what Mr. Groberg said about bringing things into focus. Maybe travel offers that, but do I need to see my life more clearly? Do I want to? There’s nothing wrong with my routine. It’s reliable and familiar, even if I can’t pretend that lately it hasn’t felt off-kilter. Since returning from Florida, I haven’t slept straight through a single night. Maybe Kim is right that I need closure. Could this trip provide it, a way to say goodbye to my mother for good?
I roll over onto my stomach and punch the pillow. The light of the clock is a penetrating blue. It’s 4:00 a.m. There’s no way I’m going to be in a better mood tomorrow. I flip onto my back and tuck the quilt around my legs. I think about crossing the ocean. Landing at Heathrow, taking a train north to the distinctly low “uplands.” Maybe I should call Aurora, pretend I believe in astrology, and ask what the stars say. Should I do this for my mother? For myself? It’s 4:15. An eon later, it’s 4:25. By 4:45, I’m bargaining with the gods of slumber. If I take this cockamamie trip to England, can I sleep through the night?
At work that morning, Kim reminds me that I use a credit cardfor the shop’s expenses and that I’ve probably accrued a lot of points. “I bet you could fly business class,” she says.
“Very funny,” I say.
We both know it would physically pain me to spend more to sit in the front of an airplane that’s going to get me to my destination at the exact same time as the people in the back. But flying on miles sounds good, like traveling for free.
“What about the shop?” I can’t remember the last time I’ve been away from work for an entire week. “Spring is busy.”
“I can handle things here,” Kim says. “And what would you miss anyway, the chance to watch another woman try thirty different frames, ask your opinion on each, and choose the first pair you suggested?”
She’s right. It’s a routine business. She can manage it easily.
“I’ll even house-sit,” Kim says. “I can water your plants.”
“I don’t have plants.”
“I’ll bring mine.”
I open my desk calendar and flip to May 27.
“We’re getting the new display cases that week.”
“And I know exactly where they’re supposed to go,” Kim says.
“What about Mr. Groberg? He relies on my hearty soups.”
Kim folds her arms and nods. “His favorite is lentil. I know.”
“But no onions. They give him gas.”
“Noted.”