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Chapter 3. I Wake Up and Think About Family

  When I woke up again, I felt great—even woke up with a smile on my face. I could finally appreciate just how comfortable the bed was, so I decided to stay in it a while and enjoy it consciously. It was light in the room, like daylight, not lamps, so I figured it was the next morning. I started to fold my hands behind my head and the cast got in the way—that was the first I remembered it. It didn't hurt or anything, but it was uncomfortable to lie on, so I put just my left hand behind my head.

  First, I mentally went over everything that had happened. There was never any question in my mind like, Did I dream it all? I knew I hadn't. What it finally boiled down to, I decided, was that some jerks in a pickup had for reasons unknown run us off the road, and we had had an accident in which the car was totaled, I broke my arm, and Shep got banged up pretty bad. Then someone had come along and rescued us. And now we were in some hospital or medical facility somewhere.

  I got hung up a little bit on how my angel had been so big, then even bigger, and then normal-size, and on how we'd actually gotten from where the car was to here, and on minor matters like my cast and the box they had Shep in and how she knew my name and, since she did, how come they hadn't called our folks, but I decided that those were just details. Bottom line: we were both okay. I knew I was, and I also somehow just knew Shep was too.

  I didn't know what stage of okay he was currently at—in the recovery room, or in intensive care, or what—but it didn't seem too important. I figured somebody would tell me, or take me to see him, pretty soon. Until then, or until somebody came to roust me out, I figured I didn't have any responsibilities or obligations.

  Actually I was just as glad to have some thinking time. I had a lot to think about, a lot to sort out. Part of it I didn't really want to think about—my mind kept kind of shying away from it. So I decided to start way back and sneak up on it.

  My mom's name before she was married was Ramona Paxton Mitchell. My dad's name is John William Wynand. My mom is mostly called Mona and my dad is called John. I have an older sister named Constance (for my dad's mom) Camellia (because my mom thought it was beautiful) Wynand, and she's called Cammie (because my mom thought it was more beautiful than Connie). My name's John Mitchell Wynand, so, to avoid confusion with my dad, I'm called Mitch. Well, Mitchell by teachers and stuff.

  Shep's mom's name before she was married was Jean Andrea Paxton. She and my mom are second cousins—her grandfather and my mom's grandmother were siblings. Her husband, Shep's dad, is named William Wallace Shepherd, and Shep is named William Wallace Shepherd, Junior. William Senior is usually called Will. Shep's mom, whom I call Aunt Jean, even though she's actually my second cousin once removed, doesn't like the nickname Bill, or the nickname Liam, or the name Wallace, and she really doesn't like the nickname Wally. She calls Shep "Will Junior" or, mostly, just William. Everybody else, even his dad, even his grandparents, calls him Shep.

  My mom went north to college, Sarah Lawrence, and majored in art. In a bow to good sense and her parents' urging, she got her teaching certificate, so she can teach art, which she has done, on and off, before and ever since she was married. She's kind of a strange mother, I guess—for instance, she goes barefoot inside the house, even in the winter. She has a studio upstairs in the attic, where she draws and paints and makes stuff out of clay. She wears big white bib aprons most of the time, and they usually have paint and clay and spaghetti sauce on them. She plays the guitar.

  It sounds like she'd be an embarrassing mother to have, but she isn't at all. Nobody ever teased Cammie or me about her, and other kids always love to come over to our house. First of all, she's a really good cook, and there's always good stuff around to snack on, homemade cookies or cornbread or banana bread but also really interesting things: pureed spicy black beans, that she gave us as a dip with raw vegetables; whole-wheat crêpes wrapped around chopped-up roast vegetables; big mushroom caps stuffed with spaghetti sauce and topped with cheese and broiled; even, when I was only in fourth grade, artichokes. She'd gotten a whole lot of small artichokes, I think because they were on sale, and when I brought a bunch of kids home with me after school, she made a creamy, lemony sauce, cooked us each an artichoke in the microwave, and showed us how to eat them.

  Maybe you're getting the idea of a "Come on, kids, let's do a fun project" kind of mother. That would be totally wrong. She sort of drifts around calmly, never seems rushed or impatient, doesn't really pay attention to untidiness or spills, is pretty much unfazed by anything anyone does or says, seems to be slightly somewhere else in her head most of the time, doesn't try to organize the group, and talks to everybody as if they were her age. She just makes it really nice to be around her.

  My dad's a doctor, an old-fashioned family practitioner. He and four other doctors have a family practice clinic in a purpose-built building near the university hospital in Lincoln. They take turns being on duty twenty-four seven for a week at a time, so their patients never have to go to the emergency room.

  But it was actually Shep's mom I was thinking about, Aunt Jean. She went to a campus of the state university, not the one here in Lincoln but the one in Greenville, which is not too far, so she was away but could come home for weekends. She went to law school and passed the bar and works for Hoppner, Bamberg and Reid, but she's never made partner, probably because she's always only ever worked part time.

  She and my mom have known each other of course since forever and have always been close friends, even though Aunt Jean is two years older. They got married the same year, and Jean had Shep a month after my mom had me. (Of course, my mom had had Cammie in the meantime.)

  I love Aunt Jean. She always smells really good, and she's always given me really nice birthday presents. But—but there's a "but." I don't want to say anything mean about her, because she doesn't deserve it, and I do love her. Let's just say that she's very unlike my mom.

  For instance, my mom has thick dark hair that's wavy, which Cammie inherited. Aunt Jean was dark blonde when she was younger and she's still blonde, but now with outside help. Aunt Jean has a hairdo, and my mom has hair. Aunt Jean has outfits, and my mom has clothes. Aunt Jean's house, the way it's furnished, is beautiful. Our house is comfortable. When Aunt Jean has people over for dinner, she's charming and a good cook and everything is lovely and it's a dinner party, an event. When my mom has people over for dinner, she's charming and a good cook and everything is just fine and it's the way you wish life always was.

  Nobody has ever told me in so many words, but Aunt Jean also has medicine, I think for depression, and sometimes she has "spells" and has to stay home from work and be left alone, and sometimes, actually pretty often, she has a little too much to drink.

  Shep and I played together a lot when we were in grade school. I went over to his house every Tuesday after school. Aunt Jean sometimes took us somewhere, like the petting zoo or the natural history museum or bowling. I stayed for dinner, which was always great, and we always had a good time.

  Shep came over to our house a lot, whenever. Sometimes my mom let us mess with paint or clay or pancake batter or took us to the library or the pool. He stayed for dinner a lot, and it was always great, and we always had a good time.

  I know my mom loves me more than anything in the world except Dad and Cammie and equally with them. I just know—no big deal. It's total security, like the weight of the earth or something, behind me, supporting me, forever, no matter what, no questions asked.

  I know (and so does Shep) that Aunt Jean loves Shep more than anything, maybe more than Uncle Will. But somehow it's more intense, not as restful, not as comfortable, not something you can just collapse down on. I don't mean it's contingent. But I think maybe it's a little demanding. No, demanding is too strong—maybe expecting. I don't know what I mean exactly, except I'm really glad I have my parents and not Shep's.

  Uncle Will is great, by the way. He's CIO of a big insurance company. He's also an athlete. My dad goes to the gym and
jogs and bikes because he knows he needs to. He doesn't hate it, but it's not a passion. Uncle Will really loves sports, all sports. He's always willing to shoot hoops with you or toss a football around or help you with your backstroke or your tennis serve. He takes Shep and me to games, college and pro, which he enjoys even more than we do. He's taken us kayaking and rock climbing and wind surfing. He's even taken us to a NASCAR rally and a horse race, and at the racetrack he gave us each five dollars to bet with and taught us a little about handicapping.

  I'd still rather have my parents.