Read Online The Miles Between Us by Laurie Breton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurie Breton
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and silver, was a perfect temporary home for their family. All they had to do was bring in a crib, a high chair, and their clothes, and, voilà! Chez MacKenzie.
She put Emma down for a nap, then ran herself a bubble bath . The tub wasn’t as big or as comfortable as the one at home, but it was deep, the water was hot, and the bubbles were satisfying. Best of all, she didn’t have to interact with anyone, didn’t have to think or feel. Here, in the hot, sudsy water, alone in the bathroom of her sixth-floor apartment while Emma slept in the next room, all she had to do was breathe in and breathe out, and let the frantic world rush by six stories below.
She closed her eyes and sank deeper into the bubbles . Rubbed her temple, wondering where this staggering exhaustion had come from. Last night, Rob had told her she was pushing too hard. “Remember what the doctor said?” he’d scolded. “You need to give yourself time to recuperate.”
He was probably right . Since they’d arrived in Manhattan, she’d barely given herself time to breathe, let alone recuperate. It would probably behoove her to slow down, but idleness didn’t sit well with her. She needed to be busy, needed to be doing something, needed to feel useful. Didn’t want to be dependent on anyone else. But this exhaustion was so complete, she wasn’t sure she had the energy to drag herself out of the tub.
The miscarriage certainly could—and probably did—account for the exhaustion. But not for the lethargy . Not for the ennui, or the apathy. She was a woman of strong convictions. Never, in thirty-seven years, had she felt indecisive about anything. If you asked for her opinion about something, she always had one. Always cared deeply, one way or another.
But this was something entirely outside her frame of reference . Yes, she’d carted the girls all over Manhattan. She’d done it because she felt it was what a good mother should do. Show them the sights, broaden their horizons, give them some nice memories while teaching them something. That was why she’d done it. That, and the fact that it filled up space and time in a way that sitting around the apartment, watching television, would never do. But she’d derived no joy from it. Her emotional investment in the edification of her daughter and stepdaughter was roughly equivalent to that of a paid tour guide.
In other words, she simply didn’t give a damn.
And that was so not like her.
* * *
Fifteen years ago, when they were both still wet behind the ears, Rob had taught her to play the guitar. None of that fancy fingering like he played; he was a musical genius, and she wasn’t a performer. She didn’t need to know how to make an electric guitar cry or sing. She just needed to know how to play a few chords to accompany the melodies that lived inside her brain. For her, the guitar was a compositional tool. So Rob had taught her, on his old, third-hand acoustic, how to play C and G and D 7 and E minor. Basic stuff, and just in case what was inside her head included a note or two not covered by those basic chords, he taught her how to turn a simple chord into an augmented or diminished. That was adequate for her needs, just enough knowledge so that if there was no piano available, she would always have access to an instrument on which to try out her new tunes.
So while he and Paige were in the studio and Emma was sleeping, Casey took his Gibson from its case, along with a few pieces of manuscript paper and a couple of stubby pencils—she didn’t think Rob had sharpened a pencil ever in his life—and she sat down to capture some of the music that had been playing in her head ever since the miscarriage.
To her surprise, the music flowed like a bubbling spring. But it was nothing like the songs she’d written in the past. This new work was dark and disturbing, rich and deep and discordant. Somehow, she’d tapped into some dark place she never knew existed inside her, and she was
She put Emma down for a nap, then ran herself a bubble bath . The tub wasn’t as big or as comfortable as the one at home, but it was deep, the water was hot, and the bubbles were satisfying. Best of all, she didn’t have to interact with anyone, didn’t have to think or feel. Here, in the hot, sudsy water, alone in the bathroom of her sixth-floor apartment while Emma slept in the next room, all she had to do was breathe in and breathe out, and let the frantic world rush by six stories below.
She closed her eyes and sank deeper into the bubbles . Rubbed her temple, wondering where this staggering exhaustion had come from. Last night, Rob had told her she was pushing too hard. “Remember what the doctor said?” he’d scolded. “You need to give yourself time to recuperate.”
He was probably right . Since they’d arrived in Manhattan, she’d barely given herself time to breathe, let alone recuperate. It would probably behoove her to slow down, but idleness didn’t sit well with her. She needed to be busy, needed to be doing something, needed to feel useful. Didn’t want to be dependent on anyone else. But this exhaustion was so complete, she wasn’t sure she had the energy to drag herself out of the tub.
The miscarriage certainly could—and probably did—account for the exhaustion. But not for the lethargy . Not for the ennui, or the apathy. She was a woman of strong convictions. Never, in thirty-seven years, had she felt indecisive about anything. If you asked for her opinion about something, she always had one. Always cared deeply, one way or another.
But this was something entirely outside her frame of reference . Yes, she’d carted the girls all over Manhattan. She’d done it because she felt it was what a good mother should do. Show them the sights, broaden their horizons, give them some nice memories while teaching them something. That was why she’d done it. That, and the fact that it filled up space and time in a way that sitting around the apartment, watching television, would never do. But she’d derived no joy from it. Her emotional investment in the edification of her daughter and stepdaughter was roughly equivalent to that of a paid tour guide.
In other words, she simply didn’t give a damn.
And that was so not like her.
* * *
Fifteen years ago, when they were both still wet behind the ears, Rob had taught her to play the guitar. None of that fancy fingering like he played; he was a musical genius, and she wasn’t a performer. She didn’t need to know how to make an electric guitar cry or sing. She just needed to know how to play a few chords to accompany the melodies that lived inside her brain. For her, the guitar was a compositional tool. So Rob had taught her, on his old, third-hand acoustic, how to play C and G and D 7 and E minor. Basic stuff, and just in case what was inside her head included a note or two not covered by those basic chords, he taught her how to turn a simple chord into an augmented or diminished. That was adequate for her needs, just enough knowledge so that if there was no piano available, she would always have access to an instrument on which to try out her new tunes.
So while he and Paige were in the studio and Emma was sleeping, Casey took his Gibson from its case, along with a few pieces of manuscript paper and a couple of stubby pencils—she didn’t think Rob had sharpened a pencil ever in his life—and she sat down to capture some of the music that had been playing in her head ever since the miscarriage.
To her surprise, the music flowed like a bubbling spring. But it was nothing like the songs she’d written in the past. This new work was dark and disturbing, rich and deep and discordant. Somehow, she’d tapped into some dark place she never knew existed inside her, and she was
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