Free Heart and Home by Jennifer Melzer Page B

working on still at her house. That she had taken great pride in
collecting articles and clippings of my work. Maybe Becky might even like to
have some of the loose scrapbooking odds and ends my mother left lying around.
    The more I thought about it,
the more it felt like my mom’s life just stopped in mid-sentence. She’d left
piles of laundry and ironing, and a grocery list on the refrigerator that she’d
obviously spent about a week putting together. She had a personal calendar
marking all of her functions, and there were to-do’s written on post-it notes
stuck all over the house. As I started to sort through and try to organize
things in the dining room, her system eluded me. She always held everything
together so well, but how she managed it, I’d never know.
    I thought for years that my
own meticulous need for order came from her, until one day she looked over my
research system for a term paper I was writing in tenth grade. “I never thought
I’d say this” she held a wooden spoon like a conductor’s baton,” but you’re too
organized, Jan.”
    “That’s the most ridiculous
thing I’ve ever heard, Mom. How can a person be too organized?”
    “Well, if you’ve got
everything all planned out, where’s the room for spontaneity, or even worse,
what happens when someone throws a wrench into the cogs?” Turning her attention
to the pot on the stove, I stared at her back and squinted, as though trying to
unearth the alien being lurking underneath.
    “That is what planning is
for, Mom. It helps you prepare.”
    “You can’t prepare for
everything.” She stretched up onto her tiptoes and into the cupboard for the
chili powder. I watched her reach, her fingers working it forward until she
finally managed to draw it out far enough to grasp it. She’d was barely 5’4”
with shoes on, but she’d never let that stand in the way of her getting what
she wanted. “No matter how much you prepare and organize, life has a way of
seeing to its own design.”
    “Not my life.”
    Even from the side, the
glance she shot me was both disbelieving and mischievous. “Not my life.” She clucked
and shook her head. “And just what makes you think you’re so special, Janice
Claire McCarty?”
    I never answered her, but I
realized as hot tears dampened my face, that it was her. She’d told me every
day of my life, in one way or the other, that I was special. Even beyond that
moment, I’d believed her. Her belief in me was what drove me out of Sonesville
and into the city. I was special, different. I was too big for that crummy old
town with its run down grocery store and nosey neighbors.
    “You can plan and prepare
all you like,” she went on, “but none of it will matter in the end. You mark my
words.”
    The ringing of the telephone
brought me back to the moment, and I was almost grateful. I walked into the
kitchen and checked the caller id, but didn’t recognize the name. It occurred
to me during the third ring that my mother probably knew dozens of people I
didn’t, so I picked up and said, “Hello?”
    “Oh, um, hi,” an uneasy
voice started. “Is that you, Janice?”
    “This is Janice.”
    “Hi, Janice, it’s Becky.” Before
I even had a chance to respond, she went on. “I wasn’t sure if you were still
in town, but I wanted to call and leave a message for someone. Your mom, she
ordered some stuff at my last scrapbooking party, and… well, it came in today.
I wasn’t sure what I should so with it, so I thought I’d give a call.”
    More scrapbooking stuff? I
looked to the boxes of supplies cluttering the hutch and shook my head.
    “It’s already paid for, so I
thought you might want it.”
    At a loss for words, I tried
to hide the sound of my sigh. “Yeah, I don’t know what to do with it, but I
guess I can come and get it.”
    “Oh, good!” She said. “Then
you can pick up the books I was telling you about and see what she was working
on. She was so excited about it.”
    I had a hard