Looking for Me Read Free

perfection.
Other than the matching brush and comb lined up neatly on top of her chest of drawers, the room lacked anything personal.
    Years ago Daddy had kept the Bronze Star he was awarded after WWII displayed on his bedside table. When I was a little girl, I’d sometimes sneak into my parents’ bedroom and lift his medal from its velvety case. I loved the feel of the grosgrain ribbon and how the five-pointed star sat cool and heavy in my hand. But after that terrible autumn night in 1977, Daddy put the Bronze Star in his drawer, and I never saw it again.
    I set a stack of sheets and pillowcases on Mama’s bed, grabbed the empty basket, and headed downstairs. From the kitchen window, I saw the familiar old green-and-white Rambler careen into the backyard and come to a stop beneath the oak tree.
    Stella Rose was here.
    She and Mama had been best friends since first grade, and while Mama had grown thin and brittle over the years, Stella Rose had grown soft and round. When she smiled, it looked as if two big thumbprints had been pressed into her cheeks. For as far back as I could remember, Stella had always worn full-skirted floral dresses, and today was no exception. A riotous print of poppies swirled around her thick calves as she climbed out of the car.
    I dropped the laundry basket on the kitchen table and rushed out to greet her.
    “Teddi!” she cried, opening her arms. We hugged and swayed as if we were about to set off in a waltz. As she held me, I became a child again when I closed my eyes and buried my head in her softness.
    Stella stayed for the rest of the day. After the sun dipped behind the trees, the three of us had chicken and dumplings for supper, and then Mama pulled her playing cards from a kitchen drawer.
    “Want the radio on, Mama?”
    “Yes, but not the news. I can’t stand hearing about the Gulf War. Makes me nervous.”
    I fiddled with the radio while Mama shuffled the cards. When I took my seat at the table, Stella said, “Teddi, how’s your work?”
    “It was rough after Hurricane Hugo. But once the insurance settlements started coming in, people flocked to my shop. You wouldn’t believe how many antiques I’ve restored . . .”
    We played three-handed euchre, talking and tossing our cards on the table while oldies from the forties played softly in the background. I could hear the
tap-tap-tap
of my mother’s feet keeping rhythm to the Andrews Sisters and Glenn Miller. When Stella won yet another hand, Mama dropped her cards on the table and pushed back her chair. “Anybody interested in coffee and pie?”
    Stella’s face lit up. “Pie? Oh, count me in, honey. What kind did you make?”
    “Rhubarb.”
    “Mama, you made my favorite?”
    She didn’t say anything, but as she measured coffee into the pot, her lips edged toward a smile.
    While Stella headed up the stairs for the bathroom, I sat quietly and watched my mother pull plates from the cupboard. It occurred to me that maybe her way of trying to build that bridge between us was different from mine. Maybe we were working on the same bridge but approaching it from entirely different directions.
    “Mama, I’m going to take Eddie for a walk. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I pushed open the screen door and said, “Come on, little boy.” His nails clicked across the linoleum floor as he scurried to join me.
    The moon was round and fat, and a light breeze tickled my skin. Outlined against the sky was the barn, its white paint weathered away to reveal the original gray siding. For more than a hundred sixty years, it had clung to its stone foundation, sheltering animals from the elements, storing farm equipment in its belly, and supporting mountains of hay above its wide-beamed shoulders. It was the great-granddaddy of the Overman homestead, and for all my life I had admired its staunch beauty. I slowed my pace when I came to Daddy’s old workshop. Though cancer of the liver had taken him from us four years ago, it felt like