Like most Costco shoppers, I have three of everything—three tubes of toothpaste, three jars of spaghetti sauce, and three boxes of dish detergent. In commerce as in literature, three is a magic number. Princesses must complete three tasks before they can marry the prince. Think of three wishes from the genie’s lantern. Three’s the charm, etc., and by the time we slide into third base, we are almost where we need to be. Home.
There was a good reason I considered reorganizing my life, not by threes, but alphabetically. A mystery writer had successfully used the same strategy and I saw no reason why it couldn’t work. Each letter had served in her case as a starting point for a new book, but I was unclear how to proceed—eat foods beginning with A for an entire month? That would leave me with apples, asparagus, and abalone, but with the exception of apples, I didn’t think Costco sold any of those in bulk. Instead, I considered leasing my place to find answers.I enjoyed taking road trips, sleeping in low-cost motels with breakfasts of thick waffles and weak coffee, eating at local mom & pops and taking in the rhythm of a new place. To overhear conversations and read local bulletin boards seeing what the schools and libraries were doing, the latest church fundraiser, a breakfast to raise money for the volunteer firefighters, a way to momentarily leave the concerns of my own life and gain a new understanding that would make things easier on my return trip.
But I wasn’t in a big hurry—part of me thought that if I stuck around long enough, maybe I wouldn’t have to leave; hoped for my mother to walk through the pearly gates for a quick heart-to-heart. She had died in my early twenties.I had missed her all the more throughout the major the events of my life—marriage, pregnancy and birth, navigating my way through motherhood and my husband’s death. I yearned to have ten minutes with her, that’s all. Ten minutes.To sit down at the kitchen table and share one of her yeast cakes enjoyed with a cup of Maxwell House coffee fresh from the percolator on the stove. She’d be dressed in a house coat, the silver bridge wire in her mouth visible as she talked. I could imagine her lighting a cigarette with a book match and saying, “Look, dear. You’ve done everything you can. He’s a big boy and must decide what to do with his life. You’ve been trying for years. It’s time you took care of yourself.” But the person I actually spoke with, was not my mother, but a probation officer at the jail.
My picture of Terry was that of a stylish brunette with highlights. I thought she must wear black slacks, loose enough to sit in front of a computer and fax machine, basically, a no-nonsense woman who worked in St. Helens, Oregon, approximately forty minutes to the north of Portland, Oregon, known for its annual Halloweentown celebration and as the location featured in the “Twilight” vampire movies. Like most small towns, it hosts Walmart, Safeway and the usual pizza and Thai restaurants, and a Best Western Motel where I stayed while waiting to visit my son. I’ve visited him three times, the first when he was arraigned in court. On my last visit I spoke to him through plate glass. The following day, I called his probation officer. Terry said, “Until he decides he wants to change his life, there’s not much you can do.” Oddly, she sounded just like my mother.
Which is the reason I was trying to make better sense of everything. I’d watched a woman at Costco empty a bagful of tangerines onto the ground and squish each one with three-inch heels. Did she know something I didn’t? How about the young boy who placed three ramps one after another on an abandoned stretch of pavement and hurtled effortlessly over each one on his skateboard? He made it look so easy. I counted all those times my heart had sounded an alarm in my chest. But there’s the conundrum. My faith could possibly lead me out of heartache. But how was doing nothing, doing something? The nothingness of it. How to let go and just trust?