White Picket Fences is a heartfelt family drama fueled by an honest story of motherhood, written for those of us caught up in our own self-searching journeys. The one thing Julie Cahill knows because of her transitory upbringing as a military brat is that she never had a hometown. So she has made sure her kids would grow up in one forever home, in a forever neighborhood, with lots of forever friends. Yet her dream of a permanent hometown has her feeling fenced in.
Set in the Delaware Bay area, Julie has achieved her dreams but struggles with having to accept invisibility, underappreciation, and being taken for granted by her family in trade for her unconditional love. Her guilt over not being available for her family on that one fateful day has her challenging karma by tightening her grip on her daughters and husband, ultimately pushing them away.
My father’s voice echoed in every movement of the second hand from the vintage desk clock he had passed down to his grandson. “Time. Heals. All. Wounds. Give. It. Time.” I was pretty sure there was not enough time in the universe to sur- mount the death of my son.
I summoned strength by running my hand over the collage of superhero posters: Captain America, Spider-Man, and the Hulk. After today, the walls would be bare. The slight leathery, sport-locker smell of the light-blue room elicited visions of my darling son. And so, between therapy sessions, grief groups, and the several books I’d read on loss over the past year and a half, I digested my pain as a void forever in my heart. If it wasn’t going to get any better, then I had to learn to live in the now with my grief and help my family heal. I could understand that Curtis would never come home, but I couldn’t accept that he was gone forever. I called the incident an accident. Surely, an eleven-year-old dying from a brain aneurysm could be nothing but a mistake.
Curtis’s dearest possession, a team-signed baseball, rolled between my fingers and brought a smile to my face. On the hottest afternoon of his last summer, Curtis hit a home run in the ninth inning of his Majors All-Star Game. He tied up the longest, most boring, 1–0 game. He single-handedly brought a small stadium of zombies back to life. The echo of his laughter above the awakening crowd and his smile as he slept that night were forever locked inside my heart.
Draped over his karate trophy at just the right angle, I could easily read “Most Valuable Player” on the medal Curtis received from that game. The tears I had been holding back fell as our eight-year-old golden retriever entered the room, wanting his morning walk. Was he looking for Curtis too?
Plopping on the corner of the twin bed, I ruffled the puffs of fur behind Roger’s ears as he settled at my feet. “I know, Rog. I know.” Together we shared the loss, which was no less today than it had been yesterday or all the yesterdays before then.
I picked up book number eight of Darren Shan’s Cirque Du Freak, making sure the bookmark was secure where Curtis had left it. I smoothed out the wrinkles I had created in the superhero duvet cover and flipped the matching pillow, exposing the lump of Curtis’s hidden “Doggie.”
From inside the pillowcase, I pulled out the threadbare stuffed Doggie Curtis never slept without. But after one embarrassing sleepover with a few baseball buddies, I found Doggie tucked deep inside the pillowcase. Close by but hidden. Had everything not happened so fast in the days after Curtis’s incident, had I time to think about it, if I could have thought at all, I would have placed Doggie in the casket with Curtis.
“Come on, Rog. Let’s go for your walk.”
Roger sauntered in front of me down the long hallway. I paused at the door to my art studio as the early morning light illuminated the painted canvas on my easel. I would get back to my latest commission as soon as I cleared my thoughts and got through this first step toward my family’s new normal. Silence came from behind the twins’ closed bedroom door across the hall. The twins were either still asleep or understandably tucked under their weighted comforters to delay the start of their day.
By the time Roger and I made it to the sidewalk, pink and purple light seeped through the grays, but the sun hadn’t quite snuck above the horizon. I now walked Roger every morning and under- stood why Curtis never complained about this one chore. The boost of energy from the brisk stroll, the silent moments for clear thought, and the apparent joy it brought Roger was a great way to start every day.
Although Roger stopped and smelled every yard, his tail never failed to wag. If only it were that easy. Stop and sniff and move on. I needed to move on, but not back to where I was before Curtis’s incident. Life had gotten stale, and as good as Michael was to me, I thought I wanted more, but I was wrong.
On the day of Curtis’s passing, I had taken some time, just a few meaningless hours, for myself. Time to catch up with an old friend, one visit. It wasn’t intended to be a secret. It just wasn’t anybody’s business.
Curtis’s death pushed me closer to my empty nest sooner than I’d ever wished and was not what I imagined when I said I was tired of being Mom and Mrs. just for an afternoon. Would things be different if it weren’t for my selfishness and for not appreciating what I already had? I’d apologized to the universe every which way since then.
I kicked a stone. It bounced and rolled down the sidewalk in front of me. Roger chased it down, sniffed, then snorted, not pleased with his discovery. As we walked, the neighborhood came alive. Lights switched on. People brewed coffee and brushed their teeth. Across the street, Mrs. Amberly rocked on her front porch, sipped coffee, and watched me with consideration. Old Mr. Pender stepped out in his bathrobe, shot up a quick wave, then searched the ground as if the newspaper at his feet had disappeared before his eyes. Mary Simon herded her three small children into her minivan. I caught her eye, but she looked away, overreacting to her oldest child climbing into the back seat. It had been more than eighteen months, and still, people felt the need to avoid me. But I understood. How many times could a person say, “Sorry you lost your son”?