Page 13 of Intoxicating Pursuit

Thinking It Over

SAMMY

M om shared dinner with me that night, and Meghan even joined us after practice, which made it a rare event.

As was often the case, we tucked into food prepared by the brewery’s chefs: homemade fried chicken and waffles and a cranberry apple crisp dessert.

Both were potential specials for the fall menu.

The long hours required to run a restaurant and bar didn’t always make for the best lifestyle, especially these days when we struggled to get staff to show up, but the food sure was great.

Mom chattered about her gardens and the upcoming tennis tournament she was helping organize. Meghan complained about the soccer drills the coach was putting them through despite the summer heat. Finally, I mentioned the possibility of the North Carolina trip, as unlikely as it was.

Sneaking time away from my tasks today, I had researched a bit more about Creekside.

The picturesque location was home to a small liberal arts college, decent Smokey Mountain tourist traffic, and a fairly robust population.

It was the kind of town we liked to build in, and the trip really could be a good scouting opportunity for the business.

The real unknown was whether I could manage the journey. I stewed over the thought for a minute before noticing that the table had gone oddly quiet.

I looked up into a death stare from Meghan. Her lips were working, obviously getting missiles ready to fire, her teenage temper on full display. “So let me get this right. You’re allowed to go away, but I'm not?” She looked to my mom for support. “Does anyone else see how wrong this is?”

“Honey, I don’t even know if I’m going, and if I did, it would only be for a few days, not a whole year. It’s just for business.”

“Oh, I know. If you want to go someplace, it’s okay. If I want to, it’s the end of the world. You are so unfair,” she spat. “I don’t even want to look at you.” She grabbed her plate and stomped up the stairs to her room.

Mom regarded me, her expression warm but even. The silence stretched out, and I massaged my forehead.

Why did everything with Meghan have to be so hard? Why couldn’t we go back to spending time together, enjoying a safe, warm home with enough of everything?

Mom finally spoke. “You’ll figure this out, honey. I know you will.”

The words hung in the air, and the kitchen remained quiet except for the sound of the faucet dripping.

Mom looked at me patiently. “You know, she’s worked really hard, and those schools she wants to go to are excellent. Plus, I think I remember a young lady who also wanted to go far away at that age.”

She wasn't wrong—about any of it. But I felt stuck.

We finished dinner quietly, and I retreated to the front porch swing to read the last few chapters of my Ariel Lawhon book before turning in. I stopped outside Meghan’s room on my way to bed.

“Still don’t want to talk to you,” she called through the closed door.

I took a deep breath. “Love you, Meghan. I’m sorry about this.”

It was painfully true. She would be eighteen before long, and sometimes I felt the harder I tried to hold on, the more determined she became to get away.

***

A s the day’s distractions faded and the quiet reflection of night seeped in, I lay in bed and tried to find rest. Unfortunately, the realities of a trip to Creekside invaded my thoughts, keeping sleep at bay.

Nine hours. Creekside, North Carolina was nine hours away. Far too distant for me to get home quickly if anything went awry.

Who would be saddled with the responsibility of helping Mom in the worst scenarios?

My daughter? My friends? What if Meghan had an emergency?

And who would be here to support Tina? What if any of them failed to protect each other?

The consequences were inconceivable, and I couldn’t bear to burden them with crushing guilt.

My chest tightened around my heart. Three long years had passed, but my body still waited on edge, physiologically unable to dismiss the possibility of imminent crisis.

I remembered lush, white Casablanca lilies; wreaths of spicy carnations; elegant, drooping blooms of freesia sent by well-meaning friends and business associates.

Dad had deep roots in the community, and an explosion of floral arrangements blanketed the church altar, overwhelming the sanctuary with their heady perfume as I sat helpless in the pew, freezing in the air conditioning, staring at his coffin in shock.

Damn it. Stop, stop, stop!

I sat up, clicked my bedside lamp on, and shuffled the images in my brain, refusing to let them imprint, muddying my mind’s eye with thoughts of literally anything else.

Fighting the tension constricting my ribs, I struggled to take a deep breath.

I couldn’t go down this road. Not again.

Tossing the comforter back, I got up and washed my face, then headed downstairs.

My to-be-read stash was ample, and I plucked a romantic comedy from the bookshelf—something funny and heartfelt to distract me.

I sought solace in chocolate, sipped on herbal tea, and laughed my way through the first couple chapters until my eyes grew heavy again.

Finally, I gave in and returned to my bedroom, staring down the enemy of my pillow.

My therapist had suggested a weighted blanket for these nights, and I fetched the heaviest one from my closet.

I laid back down, turned off the lamp, and settled myself beneath its twenty-five pounds of heft.

She’d also recommended turning onto my other side if I awoke from a bad dream, as if flipping like a pancake could somehow reset my brain. Absurd as it seemed, I tried anyway.

Tonight, it seemed to work.

I closed my eyes beneath the calming, ponderous pressure of the blanket and focused on the physicality of my day, on plans for tomorrow.

I thought of soccer games, of groceries and laundry, of nothing.

I thought of my daughter, of her need for freedom, of my desire to see her unfurl her talents and fly on the currents of her own choosing.

Images of Meghan’s toothless kindergarten smile filled my mind, her enormous brown eyes sparkling with youthful mischief as she climbed in my lap and squished my cheeks in her palms. I recalled the feel of her silky hair in my fingers as I braided it before school.

The glint of sunlight on her skin as we sampled our way through the gelato and salt water taffy shops lining the Ocean City boardwalk before riding Ferris wheels high above the seaside.

Driving, always driving to our next adventure—through the pinelands and blueberry fields of southern New Jersey, weaving through the Poconos.

Images of rolling hills and weathered farmhouses. Verdant mountains in springtime.

My breathing slowed, my thoughts wandered, and my conscience finally. . . slowly. . . disintegrated.