in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, where the current temperature is a balmy seven degrees Fahrenheit.”
The flight attendant’s cheerful voice snaps me out of my daydream. We never did find exactly the right Buster, I think to myself, with a little smile. What if…
“Hallie Caldwell, you’ll only drive yourself crazy playing the what if game.”
It was something my mother used to say, whenever I peppered her with questions. The same questions that my own daughter peppers me with on a daily basis. And my response is an echo of my mother’s. I chuckle to myself. It is true, the old adage. We all become our mothers, given enough time.
The wait to disembark is painfully long. As soon as I hit the end of the tunnel at the gate, I break into a run. The airport is tiny, and I can see both of them standing just beyond the glass.
I bust through the doors.
“Mommy!”
She’s running towards me on steady, chubby legs. It takes everything I have not to run towards her with the same determination that I see in her face. But Grace would hate that, so I force myself to stand still. I settle for scooping her up and closing my arms tightly around her tiny little body as I ignore the rush of people hustling past us with their bags and cell phone and tablets and signs.
The smell of baby powder really is the best smell in the whole wild world, as Grace would put it.
“Mommy, you were gone for so long. So much has happened.”
I chuckle and touch the tip of her nose.
“Like what, sweet girl? Tell me everything.”
“I got a new pink shirt and a truck and a real trucker hat.”
I give my mother a sideways glance as I set Grace back down again.
My mother sighs and grabs the black bag from my shoulder as she leads us into the parking garage.
“It’s not good for little girls to fall into masculine and feminine stereotypes. She wanted the pink shirt, so I told her the only way I was indulging that wish was if she agreed to wear the trucker hat along with it.”
I look down at the camouflage cap covering Grace’s riot of dark curls and tousle the ends with my fingers. She grasps my hand with surprising strength and beams up at me.
“Uncle Sam called to tell me almost happy almost birthday and we sang together and he said we need to go to the beach, him and me and you and Aunt Marie and maybe Aunt Eva and maybe Grandma and we’ll get shells and swim in the ocean. He said that we went swimming in the ocean a long time ago, but I can’t ‘member.”
“We most certainly did go swimming in the ocean a long time ago. And Uncle Sam is right. He and I talked about the beach while I was in the big city, and we both think it’s time for another trip. And maybe Grandma and Aunt Eva will want to come this time, too, since they had to miss it the last time we went.”
“I’m a good swimmer. Probably even better than Uncle Sam.”
“Uncle Sam has a deathly fear of sharks, so I think it’s probably safe to say that you are a better swimmer than Uncle Sam.”
“See, Grandma? I told you she would want to go to the ocean.”
I lift Grace into her car seat and ignore the surprised look on my mother’s face. Unfortunately, I can’t ignore the questions.
“You saw Sam? And you want to go to the ocean?”
Her voice is incredulous, but I try to make my answer as matter-of-fact as possible.
“We didn’t go last year. And I think it’s probably time to go again. Grace doesn’t even remember the ocean. It’s my duty as a mother to rectify that.”
“I really just want to swim. With the sharks. And the jellyfish. Miss Oona says that the jellyfish aren’t made of jelly, though. But she might not be telling the whole truth.”
“I promise, we shall swim. But hopefully not with any sharks. Or jellyfish, for that matter.” I take the cap off and ruffle her hair. “There will be lots of fish, though.”
My mother drives, and I sit in the back seat with Grace as she babbles away. She’s filled with long, winding stories about preschool and Grandma and a boy named Derek and everything else that happened while I was gone. I catch my mother casting a wary glance in my direction a few times, but my attention stays