Almost Home. Debbie Macomber

could hide somewhat from the reporters on Christie’s fenced ten acres of property, but I couldn’t hide from the townspeople. The front page of our own newspaper soon ran the story in giant headlines: “Chalese Hamilton is Annabelle Purples, Famous Children’s Story Book Author. Whale Island Animal Lover Center of Online Controversy.”

      My sister’s answering machine was jammed. A few people were ticked I hadn’t shared my work with them, others were amused or tickled at this juicy secret. Some were shocked. Overriding it all: was Aiden still my special friend?

      I put my head between my legs.

      “You gonna throw up?” Wendi Jo asked me.

      I nodded. “Maybe.”

      She dragged over a pan. “Always throw up in a pan, not on the carpet. That’s what Mommy says.”

      “You’re very helpful, Wendi Jo,” I said.

      “Yes, I am.” She gave me a hug. “Mommy said you’re in trouble because you drew a bad picture. Did you get a spanking?”

      “The parents are having a fit,” my editor breathed. “We may have to postpone your next book. I feel breathless. I think it’s my heart, Chalese! My heart!”

      “You may lose your contract,” my agent hyperventilated. “You may be done. Finished.”

      “I have a nightmare on my hands,” my public relations gal whimpered. “Why did you have to draw Cassy Cat with a boob job and a cigarette? Why?”

      I bounced Jeremiah on my lap as I took the calls. My life had collapsed, and, overriding the whole dismal, nerve-rattling, sickening fear of my family’s past being drudged up again and poured out for American consumption, I was drowning in Aiden-guilt and the unparalleled embarrassment those drawings would have caused him.

      I left him a message. “Aiden, I’m so sorry. I’m so very, very sorry. Remember I told you I’m a clumsy elephant, a ridiculous, pathetic, writer. I don’t get out enough, I hot-flash, I talk to my dogs and half the time I expect them to answer back, I hang out with Brenda, who is a menace. Aiden, the pictures were never supposed to be on the Internet. They were private, a way to work out my … this … us … our … me and you … a mess …”

      I hung up. What was there left to say, anyhow? That the drawings were a way to work out my bitter hurt, this life-sucking loss? That I wanted to erase my entire self like I did when I drew a caterpillar incorrectly?

      “I’m fine, Mom,” I said into the phone. “You’re still in Los Angeles? I didn’t want to worry you, so I didn’t tell you. Yes, I’ll use an organic face cream tonight and lay with cucumbers on my eyes. Thank you for the box of blueberries and the new book on how to organically care for a stressed face …. Love you, too … No, I have no plans to make any more designs for your company right now …. Please, Mom … I’m fine.”

      But I wasn’t fine.

      Every morning since Aiden had left I woke up and this raging flood of grief came for every bone in my body.

      Every evening the flood was still with me, after hanging around all day, making me cry at unexpected moments, my chest heavy, my mind slogging through sadness.

      When I turned off the light at night, the grief was worse in the darkness because I was alone and figured I’d be alone for years. Maybe forever.

      A forever without Aiden.

      I would curl up with my pillow, flipping it several times when my tears soaked it.

      Brenda slept with me a few times. “Want to dress up as bunnies or something?”

      His voice was so cold, so detached, I thought a glacier had removed itself from the North Pole and lodged between us.

      I felt sick with pain and loss. I gripped my stomach. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t eat, which was not helping this calamitous situation, as I felt nauseous.

      “Aiden, nice to hear your voice,” I said into my cell phone. “One second.”

      I raced to the bathroom and slung my head over the toilet, then leaned my forehead against the rim.

      I could hear Wendi Jo on the phone talking to Aiden when I stumbled back into the family room, leaning hard against the wall in my dizziness.

      “Yeah, Aunt Chalese is in the toilet. She’s still in her pink doggie pajamas. It’s after Sesame Street, too. Mommy says no one should be in pajamas in the afternoon. I think she’s sick. No, my mommy’s in bed with the babies in her tummy. She’s sick, too. She eats lots of salsa. I the boss now … Yeah, I the boss. You stink, Aunt Chalese. Like throw-up.”

      I grabbed the phone. “Aiden?”

      “How are you, Chalese?”

      “Aiden, I’m fine but—”

      “Good. I think we need to come to some sort of agreement here. I know you didn’t want the article written, but we’re both backed into a corner. I’m besieged by reporters wanting to know why America’s leading children’s writer and illustrator hates me so much and how I ended up being lampooned by Cassy Cat and other assorted famous characters.”

      “I understand. Please listen—”

      “So I’m finishing the article now.”

      “What? I thought it was already written.”

      There was a deep, heavy silence.

      “It wasn’t written?”