Tender Grace Read Free Page A

the Mounties after me.
    Mark was impressed that I had the car taken care of, and he was glad to hear it still had substantial warranty time left on it. Molly was relieved to see my current insurance and AAA cards filed neatly in a plastic bag, ready for the glove compartment. The size and weight of my new atlas seemed to reassure them as well.
    “I may not know where I’m going from one day to the next,” I said, plopping it on the ottoman in front of the sofa, “but when I decide, I’ll know how to get there. Ultimately, I plan to visit an island near San Diego that your dad wanted me to see.”
    “That’s sad, Mom,” Molly said.
    “Sort of, I guess. But I want to do this.”
    I went on to tell them that the Bennetts, who have lived across the street since we built the house, would take care of the yard and collect the mail. “Mark can pick it up once a month and pay any bills for me that aren’t taken care of directly through the bank.”
    “Once a month!” They were a choir.
    “I may be gone awhile.”
    My cell phone, I explained, would be on, but just for family emergencies (and to hit *55 at the first sign of trouble). I would communicate by e-mail, and I’d try to do it several times a week, at least once a week. I assured them I’d stay in nice places and be very, very careful.
    When I finished, I asked if they could think of anything I’d overlooked.
    “Someone to go with you,” Molly said. Mark nodded in agreement.
    “Who?” I asked.
    The girls stared at me, eyes brimming with tears.
    “I think this may be something I’m supposed to do. I won’t exactly be alone, you know. Something you can think of every time you start to worry is the promise that runs through my mind almost daily: ‘I am with you always.’ ”
    Because they are children of faith, this seemed to help.
    August 8
    Everything is in the car except my overnight bag and this laptop. My clothes are laid out for tomorrow, a midcalf brown cotton skirt, a white tank top, and brown leather flip-flops— the usual. Tom and I always packed the car the night before a trip. He wanted an early start and nothing to impede that goal. I’m not too interested in my departure time. Whenever I get around to it. I loaded up tonight to check for things I’ve forgotten and to have tomorrow morning to check again.
    Mark wanted me to take Tom’s Tahoe, a three-row version purchased with a number of grandchildren in mind. He liked the idea of my being in something tanklike. But I’m taking my Solara. I know it well—it’s my second one, and it takes much less gas. And I can park it.
    Molly asked me to stop by when I told her I planned to spend the first night in Tulsa.
    “Joplin’s on the way, Mom,” my daughter pleaded so sweetly.
    I couldn’t refuse her even though I will have barely been on the road an hour. The kids want to tell me good-bye again. The little boys aren’t old enough to know I’m going farther than Wal-Mart, but the girls are, and they aren’t much happier than their parents about this sojourn of mine. They have a charmingly limited point of view: I’m a nana, not a wanderer.
    What I am is a woman who wants her old life back.
    I don’t know how to be without Tom Eaton.
    August 9
    Molly had a nice lunch ready for my arrival and had me on my way in an hour. She and the kids walked me to the car, gave me hugs and kisses, and waved good-bye until my car turned the corner and headed for I-44. Part of me hated leaving them.
    Almost as much as I’d hated pulling out of my driveway this morning. I sat in the car with the garage door open, practically hyperventilating as I contemplated leaving everything I have loved. But in the end I put the car in reverse and drove away before the life that I have loved destroys me.
    Getting my overnight bag, two suitcases, and this laptop into my room (upstairs and down two hallways) took so much energy that I may stay here a week instead of two days. If that’s the case, I could have