like my mother. I don’t have spells or episodes like she
did. Episodes of what? I have no idea. She never said. I
only knew a fraction.
Now all I can think about is how much do I tell?
Can my grown children handle hearing the things that
happened to me before they were born? Things about
which they have no idea. I made sure of that—that
they’d have no idea.
I know they see me as diminished. To them I’m like
a bottle of old wine gone bad, cloudy with dregs rising.
They’re not entirely wrong. I am slipping away. What
they’ve got wrong is the reason why. They assume it’s
age. It’s not. It’s because of the life I’ve lived, the choices I’ve made. Choices that don’t make me proud.
I think the reason I feel an urgency to tell them
now is because I want them to know it doesn’t have
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to be this way. I’m worried that if I don’t tell them why
I turned out like this, if I don’t tell them the story of my life, it may end up to be their story too.
Have you ever had the experience of looking at the
face of your grown child and seeing everything all at
once, like a pentimento. You see them as a baby wiping
their nose on your shirt, and as a kid with dirt under
their fingernails and Band-Aids on both knees, and as
a teenager spitting mad as they slam the door in your
face, and as a young adult packing up their bags and
moving away for good. Everything in that one vulner-
able face.
Do all mothers have X-ray eyes that can see into
their child’s core no matter how old the child? I do. I
see their core and in it I see reflected back their disap-
pointment their mother is not the mother they wished
they’d had. When is it the right time to tell our children the story of our lives? Am I too late? Am I there now? Or
is the answer never?
Yours,
Cloudy with Dregs Rising
Dear Cloudy,
May I share that your letter broke my heart twice? First,
when I read it through the lens of a mother’s eyes and
again when I read it through the lens of a daughter’s?
If you’re a regular reader of my column you know
when it comes to our most intimate relationships I’m
a big believer in honesty. But honestly, you didn’t
share a single clue as to what it is you’ve spent your life protecting your children from. Which makes it’s very
hard for me to comment on whether or not disclosure
would help them, or cause them harm.
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Are there situations where the truth is so dreadful
it might harm a grown child to know? Yes. Does that
apply to your situation? I have no idea.
Notice that I used the word might. I chose that
word because it’s something we can never know for
sure. Yes, parents ought to do their best to avoid hurt-
ing their children even when those children are grown.
But does withholding information accomplish that?
Not necessarily.
Have you ever noticed that children are excellent
observers? If you haven’t, find a way to spend some
time with a baby and you’ll see. They stare. They study.
They imitate the melody of our voices long before
they understand our words. They copy our smiles and
twitches, even when we’re not aware we’re smiling
and twitching. What they can’t do is interpret. Children
need us to help them make sense of it all. Left alone,
they can be very inventive and completely wrong.
This is why a sick parent who decides to keep their
illness from their child might end up bereft to discover
their child felt the withdrawal and misconstrued it as
a sign that the parent is angry with them. This is why
a child whose parent has been violent in the home
might decide the anger is because of something they
did or neglected to do. It’s not that they can’t make sense of it, without context or information. It’s that
they can make the wrong sense of it.
To be clear: I’m not advocating telling difficult
truths to young children. But when children reach
adulthood, that’s a different story. You’re right about
der to keep their own life from careening out of control.
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The reason you haven’t found an easy answer to
your question is because there is no easy answer. But
there are some things you should know:
For sure, now is the time to let your children know
you are not cloudy with dregs rising. For sure, now is
the time to tell them that you’ve lived a life with won-
der and grace and disappointments. For sure, now is
the time to let them know you’ve made choices you
regret. This will be a gift to them so that when they
encounter life’s disappointments and regrets, as they
most surely will if they have not already, they’ll know
in a deep way, it’s all part of the mix of life.
You talk about seeing the vulnerability on your
children’s faces. Here’s the good news: their faces are
where you’ll find your answer. Watch their faces when
you talk to them and listen to what they say. The an-
swers will be in the gaze of their eyes, in how they hold
their mouths, in the plane of their shoulders. In those
small ways you’ll hear: go on I want to know more or please stop and let the past stay blurry.
As for the incorrect assumptions that they’ve made
about you, I say rise high and forgive them. They can
only know you as much as you’ve allowed them to.
Sending wishes for courage and love.
Yours forever, or at least for now,
Roxie
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Working out the after-school logistics for Henry was a
good distraction from worrying about why Sam had asked
her to come in for a late-afternoon meeting. The brief
email from his assistant, Chloe, had offered no explana-
tion for why he’d cut short his Guild-Europe trip, but
Lane doubted he would have come back for anything less
than an emergency.
Henry agreed to aftercare without complaint, prob-
ably because—luck of the draw—today was his resource
room teacher Mrs. Lindsey’s turn to be in charge. As for
the plumber who was coming over to fix the whining
pipes, Dana had offered to meet him at the house and
handle that.
As soon as Lane stepped into Sam’s office for her
meeting, half an hour early because Sam thought on time
was late, she smelled trouble in the air. Mentho-Lyptus.
A moment later Bert strode in. “Okay. Let’s get started.”
A well-groomed young woman skittered in after him
and sat down in the guest chair next to Lane. Bert took
the seat behind Sam’s desk.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Sam?” Lane gestured to include
the well-groomed young woman. “We can come back.”
�
�In three months? Sam’s away building Guild-Europe.
This can’t wait.”
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Lane did the calculation. Three months meant Sam
would be back mid-August, which meant for three
months— She stopped. “But Sam asked me to come in
today, for this meeting.”
“No. Chloe asked you to come in.”
She took out her phone and found Chloe’s email. Bert
was right. Chloe hadn’t said anything about Sam’s being
in the meeting. It was Lane’s assumption that if Sam’s as-
sistant was setting up a meeting, it would be with Sam.
Another wrong assumption.
Bert pulled in his lips. When he released them, they
made a popping noise. “Here’s the plan. We’re going
to nip this in the bud. Correct course now. Before you
sink.”
“Pardon?”
“This is three days’ worth.” He tapped the folder in
front of him. “Email. You really pissed people off with
that Dear Queasy letter.”
Dear Queasy. The woman who was worried because
her daughter’s friend had a scary father. “Okay. So? I
thought you liked disagreement. I thought the more
conflict the better.”
“You thought right. Disagreement is good for eyeballs.
Conflict is good for clicks.” He tapped the folder again.
“There’s no conflict here. These people agree. Your an-
swer was out of control.” He opened the folder and riffled through until he found what he wanted. “Here we go.”
He cleared his throat and read, “Roxie says we’re not
allowed to call people weird anymore. All of a sudden
weird is against the law. If I listened to Roxie I’d have
to cover my mouth with duct tape and never say another
word. Well guess what? Roxie is not the only game in
town. As of today, I am officially a fan of Dear Prudie.”
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Bert met Lane’s eyes. “You understand what this reader
is saying? She’s left the Guild for Slate.”
“I never said you’re not allowed to call people weird.
I agree with that, but I didn’t say it. Anyway, that’s one letter. From a crank. Why do you care? Let her go have
at it, over at Slate.”
“You don’t like that one? Okay. How about this one?”
He found another. “How dare she! Who does Roxie
think she is, telling a woman to call Child Services on a
neighbor just because she didn’t like how he chewed his
food at dinner!”
“Chewed his food? That person didn’t read my answer.
Fine. It doesn’t matter. People complain. It’s human na-
ture. Not every reader has to love every letter. Aren’t you happy they clicked and commented? Clickety clickety?”
He picked up the file. “Do you hear any clicking?”
He held it in the air and waited for her to admit she did
not. “You don’t. Because there is no clicking. Because
these aren’t comments. They’re emails. To me. From
ex-readers. Pissed off former paying Guild-Plus readers.
Readers who were so angry they skipped over clicking
and quit.” His hand made a gimme-gimme motion to
the well-groomed young woman. “The other one.” She
handed him the other folder that had been sitting on her
lap. He dropped it on the desk. “These are complaints
about the letter from the lady wondering should she or
shouldn’t she tell her children the story of her life. These people, like me, have no idea what any of what she said,
or what you said, meant.” He pointed to the first folder.
“Annoyed ex–Guild-Plus members.” He pointed to second
folder. “Bored ex–Guild-Plus members. See a trend?” In
case she didn’t, he helped her. “All of them. Ex. Guild.
Plus.”
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The young woman lifted up her hand, as if to be
called on, and then spoke so softly Lane had to strain to
hear her. “I think—we think—it’s because of the national
mood. You know. Depressed.”
“I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“I’m Summer. I’m…” She looked at Bert as if she
wasn’t sure it was okay to say.
“Summer’s your new producer. She’s smart. She’s
young. She’s hungry. And she’s yours. You’re welcome.”
He smiled at Summer, who smiled back. “Summer is
going to bring your column back to life. She’s going to
help you figure out your thing.”
“What’s my thing?”
“Exactly. What is your thing? A column needs a
thing. Like…” He snapped his fingers as if to summon
a thing to appear. “Sex. Sex is a thing. Or getting rich
or getting healthy. Those are things. You used to have a
thing. Snark. Now? Your column is one long blah blah
blah. Blah blah blah is not a thing. But Summer is here
to fix this. She will help you get your snark back. So it
sticks. So we can market it across platforms. Column,
online chat, podcast—”
“I’m not doing a podcast. Sam and I—”
Bert squinted. “I don’t get you. A lot of people would
sell their soul to do a podcast.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t
matter. This is not a debate. Podcasts are no longer the
future. They’re the present. The present is not negotiable.
Relax. This will not be painful. Summer’s entire job is
to make it fun. Why do I care if you have fun? I don’t,
except—Summer, you tell her.”
Summer’s smile came out slowly, like the sun sliding
from behind a cloud. “If you have fun, your readers will
have fun?”
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Bert tapped his head. “She’s a smart one, right?” He
folded his hands on his desk. Mission accomplished.
Lane felt her spine stiffen. She had a mission too. To
keep her job. She proceeded with care. “Summer is smart.”
She smiled at the eager young woman who, having been
praised, was now radiating goodwill and joy. “The thing
I wonder is, is it smart for a column to be snarky all the time? Life can be tough. Some readers write letters filled with pain. Don’t you think they deserve answers that are
compassionate?”
“Yes. No argument here. Totally agree. Knock yourself
out with compassion. On your time. On my time?” Bert
knocked on the desk. “Snark.”
“But Sam agreed—”
“Where is Sam?” Bert looked around. “I don’t see Sam.
I just see you and me and Summer. Here’s the deal: I’ve
got an IT guy working out a way for Roxie’s letters to
go directly to Summer. Once that’s in place, you’ll only
see letters that fit the model. Perfect, right? You’ll have zero temptation to answer letters from people wallow-ing in pathetic problems that—let’s be honest here—you
can’t solve.”
“Summer screening my letters won’t work. No of-
fense,” Lane told the well-groomed, grinning, extremely
young woman now sitting at the edge of her seat.
“You know,” Bert said, “some people might wonder
if this attitude problem of yours is because
of something
going on in your personal life. I don’t wonder because”—
he leaned closer—“I don’t care about your personal life.”
He leaned back. “It’s going to be great. We’ll have the
new Roxie team up and running by early fall.”
Lane took that in: the new Roxie team.
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“Podcast target start date is October one. Soon as we
get a publicist on board, we’ll fine-tune the brand. Still undecided about a voice coach.” He looked confused by
her expression. “Because…” He gestured in the general
direction of her mouth.
Okay. Bert thought something was wrong
with her voice. She disagreed. She had a perfectly good
voice for someone who was definitely not going to do
a podcast.
“Just to be clear,” Summer said, her smile glimmer-
ing back on. “I’m only here to help.” She tucked several
strands of her silky hair behind her adorably small ear. Was she even twenty? “And nothing is locked in. Everything’s
fluid so if there’s any—”
“Nothing is fluid.” Bert stood up and gestured toward
the door. “Thank you.” The meeting was over. Summer
left.
Lane did not. “Did Sam agree to this? Did he buy
into Summer screening my letters? I mean she seems like
a lovely young woman but—”
“The only person who needs to buy in is you.” He sat
down. “Should I be worried about you, Lane-Roxie-Lane?”
She’d heard stories about Bert from Jem. About his
mercurial temper, his lack of loyalty, his questionable
ethical core. But he’d always been civil to Lane. Now she
wondered, had his hands-off attitude toward her been a
courtesy in deference to Sam? Sam who was going to be
away for the next three months. She needed to keep her
job. She took a breath.
“I’m good,” she told Bert. “We’re good.”
“Good.” Bert slipped a Mentho-Lyptus out of its wrap-
per and popped it in his mouth. He offered one to Lane.
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She opened her palm. He dropped it in. She closed
her hand around it. “Thanks. Saving it for later. For when I’m writing. With clarity.”
He smiled and pointed at her with his two finger gun.
“Clickety click?”
She nodded and pointed back. “Clickety clickety.”
h h
h h
“Howdy, stranger!” Hugo, who had not been at his desk
when she arrived, quickly pelted her with questions. “Were you just with Bert? Did he say anything about Sam? Did