The Distance Home Read online

  The ringing cuts off, magnifying the silence. A tick-tick-tick from the office pulls me away from the kitchen. There are a handful of papers on the desk, perfectly squared on top of one another and set to the side. There are no piles of books or papers or envelopes on the floor. No messy piles for my father.

  “Clutter, Emma, shows inattention. Inattention will not lead to success.”

  On his desk chair is a sweater, folded with the arms crossed in front and the neck just at the top slope of the chair back, as though its invisible occupant is leaning back in thought. I finger the sweater. Gray cashmere with burgundy trim along the neck and wristbands. Did he buy it for himself or was it a gift from someone? Someone who didn’t send a generic box of chocolates.

  I perch on the edge of the chair and swivel to face the desk. A leather pen box sits open, missing its pen. It’s not like him not to put the pen back.

  The first desk drawer opens easily, revealing a stack of notepads. The top one has indentations where someone wrote on a now-missing page. I run a finger over the lines. “Dictating patient notes, Dad?”

  The bottom drawer contains a handful of hanging file folders, each labeled in Dad’s crisp print. Tax receipts. Bills. Emma. Barbara.

  I flick at the plastic label holder with my name on it, then push the folder open to peer inside. Envelopes of various sizes and colors. Some with my handwriting on the front, some with his address typed. Each envelope containing a quick, halfhearted wish for a happy birthday or holiday celebration. Why would he keep them? It’s not like they revealed anything personal.

  The thought jabs at my gut. Was there more I should have done? More I could have done?

  “Why wasn’t I ever good enough, Dad?”

  I push past to the folder with my mom’s name.

  Inside the green hanging folder are several sealed manila envelopes and one unsealed envelope.

  I pluck out the unsealed one and shake the contents onto the desk. A photograph of my parents on their wedding day. Their marriage license. Two simple gold wedding bands.

  Sweat trickles down the back of my neck, sending a shiver of goose bumps up my arms.

  The items on the desk look exposed and I feel a stab of guilt for uncovering them. I position the now-empty envelope at the base of the table and scoop its contents back in, fingers trembling at each touch.

  I push the envelope back into the folder, my fingers spreading the two sealed envelopes apart. The one in the back has a return address label in the top left corner: Jumping Frog Farm.

  “What’s this about?”

  I yank out the envelope and slit it open. Invoices.

  Jumping Frog Therapeutic Program. Client: Barbara Metz.

  “What the hell?” I yank the rest of the papers out and flip through. Twice a week for almost two years, Client Barbara Metz attended the therapeutic riding program.

  Except, she was afraid of horses. She never wanted to come out there with me. And yet staring at me are two years worth of lies.

  The tick-tick-tick of the office clock tickles my nerves.

  I have to get out of here.

  I grab the other envelopes from Mom’s folder and stuff them into my bag.

  The condo releases a sigh of relief when I open the front door to leave.

  I release a sigh of regret as the door shuts behind me on a past I barely knew.

  6

  I call Jumping Frog Farm from the car, hoping to catch Rena. She probably wouldn’t be very forthcoming on the phone but, then again, she hadn’t been very open to me in person, either. She’s not at the barn or the house.

  I pull into the gas station at the decision-time intersection. A left turn and I’m going to the farm to talk to Rena. A right turn will take me back to the inn. I’ll try calling one more time.

  “Jumping Frog Farm, this is Jillian.”

  My breath freezes in my throat and my fingers fumble for the End button. “Shit.” I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Shit, shit.” No way I’m going back there now.

  The parking lot at the Mountain Inn is almost full. The restaurant is booked, I’m told, but since I’m a guest at the inn they can get me a table.

  The only open table is tucked into a nook. It’s cozy and secure and I don’t feel like the lonely-woman-eating-alone sideshow.

  I order a cream of asparagus soup, a beet and goat cheese salad, and a local pinot noir, then pull the envelope containing the invoices out of my bag.

  None of this makes sense. When we first moved to that house and I discovered the path to the stable, Mom had been adamant that horses were big and dangerous. Dad had grumbled that they were expensive and a waste of hard-earned money.

  For the first few weeks in that house, I’d come from school to find Mom curled up on the couch, reading or sleeping. Always in the same clothes she’d been wearing in the morning. She seemed never to leave the house. She even paid the housekeeper to go to the grocery.

  Those first weeks, I’d begged for permission to take riding lessons. Mom had said it wasn’t safe for a girl my age to walk through the woods alone. My father wasn’t around to lend his opinion.

  But since my father wasn’t around and my mom didn’t pay much attention, it had been easy enough to slip out of the house and race through the woods to the stable.

  Simon and Rena welcomed me immediately. Jillian not so much. At least not at first.

  I’d sit for hours watching lessons. Even back then I was drawn to the therapeutic sessions.

  I take a sip of wine and leaf through the invoices. How did I never see her there?

  Because you weren’t supposed to.

  But why? Mom had a heart problem; the clients in the therapeutic program had emotional or physical handicaps. That wasn’t my mom.

  And yet, two years’ worth of evidence say it was my mom.

  I try to picture her in the ring with some of the clients I’d seen. A group of military veterans, some learning to live with missing limbs, some adjusting to life with emotional scars that made the Grand Canyon look like a crack in the sidewalk. A group of inner-city kids, hostile and suspicious.

  Jilli used to complain that the therapeutic clients were creepy. I’d argue that they just needed someone to give them a second chance. That’s why they came to Jumping Frog Farm. Horses are the perfect therapists. They don’t judge.

  It still doesn’t add up.

  The waitress returns with my dinner and for a few minutes I allow the past and present to slip away.

  I give in to temptation and order a cappuccino bread pudding, then make a mental note to check with Drew about a spot in his spin class the day I get home.

  There’s one more envelope from the folder labeled “Barbara” that I haven’t yet looked at. Inside are more envelopes, smaller, white ones, the kind you’d use for personal letters. All are addressed to my father at his office.

  The writing has a familiar slant, the curves of the dropped letters, the haphazard location of the dots above the is. Mom’s handwriting?

  It’s not.

  The paper shimmies in my shaking hand.

  October 1991

  Dear Edward,

  I too am glad you made the move to Emmitsville. It’s a nice place, quiet, and people are friendly but far enough apart that you’ll have your privacy.

  If I may be so bold, consider giving your daughter the opportunity. I know you’re not thrilled with the idea of her riding. Or perhaps it’s her mother’s involvement with the program? Regardless, it might be just what she needs to settle in. It’s not easy for her.

  I don’t mean to overstep. Please just give it some thought.

  Yours,

  R.

  That was two months after we moved here. It was also when he agreed to pay for one lesson a week.

  R? Rena? Can’t be. Why would they have been writing letters to each other?

  I slide another letter out of its envelope.

  July 1991

  Dear Edward,

  My thoughts are
with you and your family. Please know I’m here if you need to talk.

  Yours,

  R.

  July 1991. That was when Mom had been rushed to the hospital. Before we moved here. Before Emmitsville existed in my world.

  I try to rewind my memory. The sirens from the ambulance are still clear in my head. But from that first time or the second I’m not entirely sure. I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to locate the right memory. She’d spent a week in the hospital the first time the ambulance took her away. Dad had visited every day but said I was too young. Mrs. Tate, the old lady who lived in the house next door, stayed with me after school until my father returned home. She baked casseroles and cookies. Awful things. Totally turned me off tuna. And raisins.

  I dump the rest of the envelopes on the table.

  August 1991

  Dear Edward,

  This is in response to your last two letters. I’m sorry to have worried you by not responding sooner.

  It’s a hard call and I’m not sure I’m qualified to give advice. I don’t seem to have done a great job with my own daughter. But from my experience, kids know more than we give them credit for.

  Consider the truth.

  Yours,

  R.

  “What truth?”

  Thankfully there’s only one couple left in the restaurant and they didn’t hear—or at least are not acknowledging—my outburst.

  It was her heart. My mother had a heart condition. My mother died of a heart attack.

  Jilli’s words push their way past sixteen years of repression: “Your mom offed herself. She was crazy, total woo-woo crazy.”

  7

  The computer whirs to life and I stare as the number of unopened e-mails grows. I tilt my head to the left and close my left eye, waiting for the number to stop multiplying. The pinging finally stops at 1,612. It’s only been two days.

  Time for e-mail triage. I click on “sort by sender,” then scroll through the list. First, I delete the newsletters I can’t seem to bring myself to unsubscribe from yet never read. That brings me to 1,582. There’s an update on the Friday-afternoon happy hour. Delete. A reminder that the window cleaners will be there on Wednesday. Delete. John, the handsome lawyer from the fifteenth floor, inviting me for dinner. Delete. Then undelete and send him a response that I’m out of town for a couple of days. Then delete again.

  After almost an hour, I’m down to under a thousand. I read and reread five e-mails between Howard and the printer, each escalating in frustration and confusion. There’s a sixth e-mail from the printer directly to me, begging for an intervention.

  Typical Howard. He excels at getting things done. Where he falls short is in the tact department.

  The trade-show-booth company almost fired us as a client two years ago after Howard had a hissy fit the week before the largest boating trade show of the year. And all because of the brand of espresso they’d purchased in bulk for our booth. Kathy, the account executive who’d been working with us for four years, had told Howard exactly where he could put the beans. Then, to me, she’d suggested rewiring the demo equipment for our communications service and zapping some sense into Howard.

  The contracts guy bought me a referee whistle for Christmas that year.

  That was the last time Howard was allowed near a vendor, especially during the tense final push before a big deadline. He’d assured me he could handle it this time. Bruce had been less convinced. There will, no doubt, be an I-told-you-this-was-a-bad-idea lecture from Bruce.

  Like I had any control over my father’s crashing into the concrete pillars of an overpass on the Washington, DC, Beltway at 2 P.M. What the hell was he even doing on the Beltway at that time of day?

  I push the chair away from the table and reach into the box I’d brought back after my visit to Thomas Adler’s office. I move a few things around until I find the most recent agenda and flip to “D” day.

  “You need help, Emma.”

  Each hour has a first name and a number. Nine A.M., Tina 43. Ten A.M., Bruce 128. The numbers are for the file numbers he assigns each patient. He’d never put a first and last name in the agenda book on the outside chance that someone got hold of the agenda.

  One P.M., Shannon 296. Two P.M., Liat 55. Three P.M., Stu 201. The patients at one, two, and three have lines through them. I dial the number for my father’s office and groan when it goes to the answering service. Has his assistant already left for the day? I glance at the clock and palm my forehead. “It’s Saturday night, you idiot. Not everyone works on Saturday nights.”

  If I’d been home I probably wouldn’t have been working either. John and I would be having that rescheduled dinner. Oh who am I kidding, I would have been working, that rescheduled dinner would have been rescheduled again.

  I push the unhelpful agenda back into the box. I’ll call the office first thing Monday morning.

  I turn back to the computer and click on an e-mail from Howard. A few colorful words jump from my mouth before I get past his first sentence. The next e-mail from him elicits the same involuntary reaction. As do the next five. All complaints. All increasing levels of Howard drama.

  How have I survived with him for almost four years? Was he like this at the beginning? Nothing I can do about it now. Except hope he doesn’t whip up a mass exodus of vendors.

  There are at least 250 e-mails from Bruce. Short, sweet, and stinging. “Why don’t I have the confirmation for the suite in Vegas?” Because your assistant sent it to me instead, knowing you’ll delete the damn thing and ask me for it. “I don’t see press appointments on my calendar for Vegas.” Because we’re a month out and no one will confirm that far from the event. “Why is the PowerPoint template empty?” Because it’s a template and not the presentation I sent you four times last week. “You’re not answering e-mails … I need you to answer your e-mails.” I have no snappy comeback for this.

  According to Bruce, I’m to be on call around the clock. When he has a question, I should be there with an answer. When he has an idea, I should be there to jump into action. It’s an exhausting game we play. And after seven years, I’ve gotten pretty darn good at anticipating his questions and ideas. And pretty addicted to caffeine to keep up.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard, waiting for instructions from my brain on answering his latest rant. I type a few words, then delete them. Type them again, and once again, delete. A slow, leaking breath whistles from between my lips.

  When Bruce took over the company seven years ago, he took a chance on me. He liked that I was hungry to prove myself and appreciated that I was willing to put in so many extra hours. In two years I went from being an invisible assistant to being the director of communications. A year later, I became the youngest VP in the company. During those seven years, we went from fifty employees to over two hundred, and from start-up to industry leader.

  I was too busy and entirely too worn down from the unstable winds gusting in and out of Bruce’s office to question why my personal life consisted of spin classes and one-off dinner dates, rescheduled multiple times.

  Truth is, I thrive on the craziness. I’ve become a master at catching the balls Bruce hurls out of his corner office. Work is the perfect escape.

  A subject line catches my eye, SOS. Anita Kincaid, the vice president of business development. Surrender or Suffer! Dammit, Emma, you leave and hell breaks out in the place. What did you say to Bruce before you left? I haven’t seen him this worked up since … I don’t know, last week??? And someone needs to neuter that little terrier of yours. How do you put up with him? You must return. Now! Or suffer the consequences. Love you. Mwah!

  I laugh and send Anita my sympathies and a reminder that the emergency chocolate-covered pomegranate stash is in the bottom right drawer of my desk.

  While I’ve been cleaning out e-mails, four new ones have popped in from Bruce. I stare at the bolded subject lines. I know what I’m expected to do and yet, for the first time, I don’t have t
he energy or desire to jump to attention.

  I’ve always been able to rely on work for a distraction. But today, there’s no comfort in the chaos, no escape in the details. I exit out of Mail and snap the laptop shut.

  I slip into shoes and leave the room, making my way to the main level of the inn. There’s a great room to the right of the stairs and I hear the hushed tones of a discussion. I walk past and peek in. A woman stands by a bookshelf, her fingers brushing the spines as she rocks from side to side. She reads the titles to a long pair of legs stretching out of a tall wingback chair.

  I hesitate for a fraction of a heartbeat, long enough for the woman to catch a glimpse of the eavesdropper at the door. She smiles and waves me to enter. I smile and wave “no thanks.” Across the hall I discover a small library. I slip into the thick darkness and flip on the overhead light.

  Pulled by the great-book magnet, I cross the room. Maybe the distraction I need is waiting for me in a good book and a comfortable chair on the inn’s patio. When was the last time I sat down with a novel?

  Three years ago on my beach vacation with my friend Julia. We’d spent ten days at a resort, baking in the sun, ordering umbrella drinks from cute young cabana boys, and talking. She’d insisted that a beach vacation wasn’t complete without a great book.

  She’d also insisted that a beach vacation wasn’t complete without a horseback ride on the beach. Riding was easy, she’d said. Riding would be fun, she’d said. She didn’t know about my horsey past.

  Who knew food poisoning would be a welcome distraction? After a night cursing the shellfish from the dinner buffet, I was in no shape to go anywhere, much less a sunrise horseback ride on the beach. I’d persuaded Julia to go without me. She’d fallen twice. Two days later, we were on a plane heading back to Chicago. I swore off shellfish and Julia swore off horses.

  Whether it’s being back in Emmitsville or my visit to Jumping Frog Farm or just a reemergence of the horse-crazy little girl, I go straight for a book with “spur” in the title. The cover shows riders in fox-hunting attire and a quick flip to the back reveals the author with her horse.