chapter 15 | house no. 13

January, 2009

The map is endless. A wide, wide expanse of roads and streets and green and blue. Terrifying, yet familiar.

When the kids left last week, Christmas packed away and the new year ahead of them, I promised I’d look. Promised I’d think. But I’m stumped. How do you pick somewhere to spend the rest of your life? How do people do that? We’ve moved so many times I’ve almost lost count . . . Twelve? Thirteen? But not once have I had even an iota of say in where we go. They said go here and we went there, end of story. So much easier that way, not having to think. We may have hated where we were going, but there was always the promise of another place after that . . . and really, you can live anywhere for a couple of years. No one has ever asked my opinion before. Now I’m ashamed of my inability to process the map in front of me and spit out a destination, a destination based solely on my own desires.

The obvious choice would be closer to the kids. A city only two hours from here, a quick move by military standards. For some reason that doesn’t sit right with me. They’ve got their own lives. They’re doing so well without me, and I’d just be a chain around their necks, a burden. I want them to be free and independent. They can’t do that with their mom living just down the street.

I could do the easy thing and just pin the map to the wall and shoot darts at it. Leave my fate to fate and just go somewhere, anywhere. But the permanence of this move won’t let me do that. I have to decide.

So I make a list.

What do I like? Oceans. Beaches. Lakes . . . water in general. A view, but not enough view to swallow me up.

What do I like to do? Nothing, lately. I’m functioning on broken cylinders. I can barely focus on any task for long. I like to escape. I’d like to escape this choice.

Who do I want to be near? The kids. My mom. It’s been so long since I’ve lived close to my mom. It would be so nice to just drive over and say hi, not spend all of my savings on an airline ticket every time I want to see her.

Who do I want to avoid? Him.

I don’t know where he is now, but he’s likely on a base somewhere. So all military bases are out. That’s a good idea anyway . . . the farther away I can get from this . . . life—for lack of a better term—the better. But it’s hard to imagine any other life than the one I’ve always lived.

I sold my soul to the military when I married John, and now it doesn’t want me anymore.

My head falls onto the map, and I wait for the ever present tears to drown me, but they don’t. I feel . . . empty—empty of tears, empty of sorrow, empty of empty. A vacuum.

A dependent with nothing to depend on but myself.

Finally, after hours of staring and hair pulling and coffee drinking, I pick a place near the ocean, four hours northeast of where the kids live, and five hours south of where my mom lives. I don’t know what it is that attracts me, but it looks nice on the computer. Perhaps it’s the name, Sophia Beach. It sounds exotic and sweet, and Sophia reminds me of Maria. The pictures on the Internet show a quiet town, long stretches of lonely beaches, and tall pine trees. I pick a real estate agent from a list of about five. I take a deep breath and call him. I can do this. I can.

“Trent Wallace speaking.” He sounds young, perky, and ready to run a marathon. I’m exhausted just from those three words.

“Hi, I was um . . . wondering if I could come and look at a few houses . . . in the next few weeks. Sort of a house-hunting trip.”

Trent Wallace is ready to help. “Sure can, ma’am. What sort of price range are you looking at?”

I tell him.

“How many bedrooms?”

“Um . . . two? Maybe three?”

“Waterfront, waterview, or doesn’t matter?”

Wow. So many questions. It’s 69 degrees in the house, but I break out in a sweat.

“Um . . .” We’ve bought and sold so many times . . . but John always did this part while I watched kids and cleaned up puke. “Water-view?” I finally spit out. Somewhere I can see the beach, but not be afraid of it washing me away.

“Excellent. I can go through the listings and pick out a few things. Can I email you?” He waits for my name.

“Ellen. Ellen Michaels.”

“Can I email you Ms. Michaels?”

“Okay.”

I give him my email address, and he double checks it.

“And when would you like to come for your showings, Ms. Michaels?”

“Next week?” I ask, because I hadn’t thought that far in advance.

“Will there be a Mr. Michaels with you?”

And with that one question, he’s hit the nail on the head. There will be no Mr. Michaels with me. I’m on my own.

“No,” is all I say.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “All right then, I’ll send you the listings, and we can go from there. Did you see anything online that you’d like to look at?”

“No.”

What little bravado I had is gone. I’ll be going on my own.

I can’t do this.

“Okay then, I’ll send you the listings tonight. Thank you, Ms. Michaels. Good bye,” he says, and we hang up.

I sit there for a long time, looking at the little blip on the map between the blue ocean and the green shore. What if I don’t like it there? What if I don’t know anyone? What if there’s nothing for me? What if I can’t get a job? What if? What if? What if?

Moving from military town to military town guarantees you at least one kindred spirit—like Jennifer, like Barb—someone who understands what you’re going through because they were in the same situation themselves not long ago. Maybe not a best friend, but a friend you can meet for coffee when you are lonely. This time there’s no guarantee. Do I want to chance that, as lost as I am now and without John to support me from behind?

Every time we’ve moved John has done so much. Well, he’s done the military paperwork and bought the packers beer—which is fine by me because I don’t want anything to do with unknown beefy men. How am I going to do it this time? And how do I buy a house, a three hundred thousand dollar purchase, without him to haggle the price and check the walls for cracks? How?

I guess I’m going to find out. This dependent only has three more months to vacate the premises.