The house is quiet today. It occurs to Fairfax that the silence has grown along with her sons.  There used to be, on Saturday afternoons, that particular click-clack-crash of boys playing, Legos or video games, depending on how old they were.

But bodies grow and so do interests; Jack and Will switched their focus from inside (home and mom) to outside.  Friends and activities drew them further away each year that passed.  Fairfax thinks now it’s lucky they had the pool in the backyard.  The cool lure of water had held her sons at home for longer on weekends, especially Jack.

And now, they were both gone. Will, she’d had for an extra year, going to the local college, FSCJ, before transferring to the University of Florida.  Jack, her baby, graduating in the spring, now up in North Carolina at Davidson College.  Fairfax was proud of both of them. Whatever they chose to do with their lives, at least they’d made it through their secondary school years with hard work and respectable grades and healthy interests.

And she’d made it too.

Fairfax sighs. Yep, Mike and she had delivered both boys into adulthood. Through the goal posts of eighteen.  That had been her mission, resolved back in 2015, when she was first diagnosed. She had told Fig this as soon as they stepped out of Dr. Simpson’s office.  Her husband’s eyes had filled with tears, an uncommon sight, and she felt bad for jumping to death first.

But Fairfax later decided she wasn’t assuming she was going to die from the cancer.  Instead, she was assuming—no, she was asserting—that she would live to a certain date, no negotiations.  And then, after that, well, they would just see.

So now, they would see.

A chime from her phone catches her attention. Ah, Jack! A text shows he hasn’t forgotten her after all.

Dorian is going to OBLITERATE the Bahamas.

Yep, her little weather boy is right.  It wasn’t looking good for the islands down there.  The season had made it to the letter D, and the damn storm had puffed up as it approached the Bahamas.  It’s like Dorian has been perfectly timed to do in those poor souls down there.

In her usual weary response when hearing the first hum of disaster, Fairfax prays the universal question.

Why, Lord, why is this happening?

An enigma.  A mystery.  Ultimate harm and pain and destruction and death, surely, the result of the natural world.  God’s world.

And our neighborhoods, our homes, our bodies, subject to forces beyond our control in the current world. Despite who or what is to blame for climate change and environmental dangers.  The individual, group, community can make a stand, plead for change, but once chaos is in play we cannot begin to stop a storm, stem a flood, mend a mutating cell.  Well, not yet, anyway.

And, as Fairfax’s brain continues along this path, she comes to her usual conclusion that even as the human race figures out how to safeguard itself, the natural world adjusts, regroups, and endures, persisting in beauty and danger in random measurements for the living.

We are not meant to control the world, to comprehend why disaster happens.

We are meant to live amid beauty and danger and succeed.

Fairfax texts back to Jack:

Dorian is terrible, I agree! but people live through these things, you know that. we will send something to them after this is over. Is the church up there going to do something?

She had urged Jack to connect with the Episcopal Church in Davidson, or even a bit south in Charlotte, since the college town itself was rather small.  Of course, he had been his usual terse self when Fairfax texted him the link to the church’s website.  Simply replied “yep,” or “k” in the curt way of boys.

Which is more response than she is getting from him now.  Not even an emoji after her last text.

Oh well. She’ll try again later, ask what Jack’s plans are for Saturday night.  Mike says she shouldn’t ask him this, says their son thinks it’s nosy, but Fairfax wants to keep the lines of communication open.  Come to think of it, she’ll ask Will the same question. He’s trying to pledge a fraternity (again), which in Fairfax’s mind might not be a good thing. Rejection is soul-sucking, so why put yourself through it not once but twice? It’s for situations like these that she wants to be there for Will, be a sounding board if he needs one.

Ha! But when has an adolescent son ever used his mother as a sounding board? As a listener who will take it all in and offer sage advice?  Certainly not her two, not recently anyway.  It hurt Fairfax’s feelings, their remoteness, though she knew it was common for teenage boys.  Still she can’t help recalling that when she was their age, she missed her dead mother terribly, longed to tell Genevieve about her worries and indecision.  As for talking to her father, well, he had not a clue what Fairfax was up to and she wasn’t about to tell him. Come to think of it, she doesn’t remember her twin brothers ever confiding in him either.  It’s like their mother dying distanced them all from their father. Well, that plus the fact that he remarried too quickly, in Fairfax’s opinion.

In any case, when Fairfax started dating Mike at UF, she gained a listener, a sounding board. A caring soul.

It occurs to her now that Fig kind of mothered her in college.  Hmm. One of these days Fairfax will share this realization with him, just not now.  Due to his…well…moodiness.

Mike’s been touchy lately, and Fairfax is chalking it up to his blood pressure spiking again.  Not as bad as last year, oh no, but it is up, so his primary care doc is adjusting the meds.  Fairfax mentioned that his salt intake could be to blame—she had caught him eating chips the other day—and he blew up at her.

“Can’t I snack in peace?” he snapped.

Fairfax had held up her hands in mock surrender and walked away.  She had learned in marriage that sometimes it was best to keep your mouth shut.  This was one of those times.  Don’t explain, plead, reason.  Leave it be.

Fairfax shifts her stance at the kitchen sink, putting her weight on the other leg. One of her knees is clicking again, a strange sound.  She tries to ignore the ache blooming there as she examines the faucet control and fiddles with the rubber button.  For some reason, the thing won’t spray now.

Why is this dang knee bothering her? Fairfax had been on a walk that morning, though a half-hearted one, when it first started the clicking.  She gave up on the Arts Market and turned around; by the time she got back to Mallory Street, she was limping.

Too bad Nancy hadn’t been with her; they would have laughed about forty-eight being the new fifty.  Maybe jumped in the pool because it was so hot outside—plus, cold water was good for quelling any swelling.  Ha—that’s a good rhyme.  Nancy would like that one.

Fairfax sighs, extends her right leg out to the side. There is a quick crack, knee or ankle, she’s not sure, so she bends and extends again, rotating her foot for good measure.

No pain, no pops this time. Alright, all is well again, it seems.

The clock on the new double oven is flashing midnight.  Power outage to blame. Dang Jacksonville Electric Authority, Fairfax starts on a mind rant, then quashes it.

Think of the Bahamas, think of them. We are on the good side of this disaster. They are not. Lord, help them.

She cringes, thinking of the force of Dorian, barreling toward the beauty.  Swamping the streets, scooping out homes, shearing palms.

Splintering them to their hearts.

In sympathy perhaps, Fairfax feels an ache in her chest region, right above her own heart.  She starts to feel around there but stills her hand.  Not today, no.  Leave it for now, no breast patrol. She does a targeted side stretch, and the ache dissipates. A not unwelcome warmth lingers, though.

My heart’s a kettle—you, the stove.  The line comes to Fairfax from somewhere.  Was it a poem from school, a song?

She thinks of Nancy because if her friend were here, she could ask her. Of course, Fairfax could Google the lyric, but she’d rather bounce the question off Plumb.

Who hadn’t been around much this year.  Well, for the last nine months, actually.  The length of a pregnancy. Ha, just think of that! Nancy’s relationship with Adam Ainsley lasting for nine months.

Well, hmm.  Fairfax closes her eyes, opens them.  She counts off the decades, then years, on her fingers. One, two, three, and one, two, three, plus this latest. Thirty-three years and nine months to be exact, Nancy first meeting Adam freshman year of high school.  1985.

And then reconnecting with him in 2017 at their high school reunion.  How beautiful Nancy was that night! A vision in smoky silver silk, eyes blazing bronze with happiness, talking to the one that got away back in the day.

Then got away again.  And again. Adam had cut off contact with Nancy’s mother on her death bed, a no-show for a planned visit with no explanation.  Then, a few years later, he’d cut off communication with Nancy after she discovered this treachery.

It seems to Fairfax that Nancy should have learned her lesson about Mr. AA.  It never worked out with him and maybe it wasn’t meant to.  If it’s the natural course of things that he should slip away time after time, then just let him go.  If we’re meant to live in this world as it is and succeed, then learn your lesson, Nancy Plumb.  You’ve just got to move on, away from the beauty and danger of Adam Ainsley.  One of these days, Fairfax just might work up the courage to give this advice to her friend.  But not right now.  The relationship is still too new—too passionate, if you want to get right down to it—to sustain any criticism.

Just listen to this:  last year, Nancy’s at her Guilford reunion, and Double A calls her.  She leaves campus in a flash, driving to see him in Atlanta, as if he had never been a jerk at all.

And then, continuing the crazy whirlwind of bad choices (and let’s face it, mind-numbing sex), breaking up with Peter Redmond by cell phone the same weekend.

Poor Peter, who, at least, deserved an explanation face to face.  Fairfax knew, she just knew, that he had been in love with Nancy.  He was so smitten back then.

Nancy broke his heart.  And, even though she knows she shouldn’t (it’s none of her business Mike keeps saying), Fairfax feels responsible for her friend’s behavior.  She’s tried to explain to Peter during her office visits how Nancy just has to get this Adam Ainsley thing out of her system.  They were teenage friends, and he has some kind of hold over her.

But Peter doesn’t seem to want to listen to her, at least about Nancy.  He redirects the conversation to Fairfax’s health, her energy level, asks about bruising, other skin signs, etc.  She knows they could have better conversation over dinner and drinks if only he would accept their invitation, but Peter begs off every time. Mike made her promise to quit asking him over.

“Fair,” her husband had said in that ‘oh so patient voice’ of his, “Peter probably doesn’t want to come over here because there’s a chance he might see Nancy.”

“But, that’s what I’ve been telling him!  Nancy’s never here anymore.  She’s hardly in Jacksonville—she goes to Atlanta all the time!”

“Yes, and I’m sure he loved hearing how someone else swept her off her feet.”

“Oh,” Fairfax had replied, slumping down into the pillows.  She closed her eyes. Darn. Well, a man would see it that way.  When she didn’t mean it like that at all—all Fairfax wanted to discuss with the good doctor was how to win Nancy back without Nancy around.

Fig had patted her on the arm.  “Besides, I saw him out with someone at Al’s Pizza the other day, so I think he’s doing fine.”

Fairfax’s eyes had popped back open.  Hmm, Al’s Pizza was several cuts above the local Pizza Hut.  It was a good place for a family meal.  Or a date.  “Who was he with?” she asked Mike, her voice pitched too high.

Now it was her husband’s turn to close his eyes.  “I don’t know.  I was picking up our order, he waved to me.”

“What color hair did she have?”

“What does that matter?” His mouth fell open in exasperation.

“Just answer.”

“Honestly, Fair, I’m not sure.”

She stared at him. Oh, Mike Figueroa will answer this question. Yesirree.

He sighed. “It was very light.  Like yours—either white or platinum blonde, I couldn’t tell.”

Relief hit her veins, a flood of comfort reminiscent of the Xanax she rarely took anymore.  Fairfax turned to her husband, smoothing the hair on his arm. “Oh, I know who that was.  His receptionist, that describes her to a ‘t.’ She’s older than him.”

Mike had just looked at her, then shaken his head.

If Fairfax remembers correctly, he’d changed the subject to his mother and brother, a surprising move because he never wanted to discuss them.  Apparently, the topic of Dr. Redmond’s love life had eclipsed his family as bad conversation.

Which reminds Fairfax now, Lucinda and Max may be coming for a visit, depending on what Hurricane Dorian decides to do.  Luce is beyond scared about this one—she feels sure it’s headed her way, another Andrew, which swamped the Figueroa house in 1992 when Mike was eleven years old.  The family had fled the storm then, heading north via I-95’s packed lanes with thousands of other evacuees.  Ever since Andrew, Lucinda feels escape is the only way to survive a hurricane, Mike said.  She sees those first furry radar images and wants to high-step it north.

To be fair, though, it has been a while since Lucinda has visited Jacksonville, so they were due for a visit, Dorian or not.

Max, on the other hand, seems to pop in on a whim now.  He visited in the spring and early summer, with the excuse of checking in on his brother’s health, but Fairfax feels sure Max is taking the temperature of Nancy’s love affair with Adam Ainsley.

Which, to his chagrin, has been and remains hot.

Still, unlike Peter Redmond, Max doesn’t give up.  He asked Nancy out to dinner a few times when he was here in June; all weeknight invitations, nothing that would hinder her weekend getaways to Atlanta, but she still declined due to “too much work.”  Fairfax overheard him suggesting sandwiches in the office, he would bring them to her so she could have a quick bite, but still Nancy said no.

Max had seemed low after the last rejection.  Fairfax was running around town, getting a head start on college shopping for her boys—new comforters and sheets for their dorm beds, to begin—so she didn’t take a lot of time to chat with her brother-in-law about her best friend.

All she remembers saying to Max is “it will never work out—he always gets away,” meaning Adam, and patting him on the shoulder.  He had looked at her and smiled, seemed on the verge of saying something, but Fairfax had no time to listen—she had to get to the Town Center, specifically Dillard’s.  Which proved fruitless (ugly comforters), so then she was off to Calico Corners for fabric and then to the seamstress.  So cute those patterns were! Edgy plaids in the boys’ college colors!  With pockets sewn into the sides for storage of small items, like phones or remote controls, so they wouldn’t get lost in the sheets and covers.  Fairfax is so proud of that bedding!

What a whirlwind of accomplishment she had been at the start of summer! Come to think of it, she had so much more energy (the good ‘pancakes on the griddle’ kind) back in June, than now on the cusp of September.  The excitement of feathering her sons’ nests, infusing good design into their new surroundings, kept her busy for about two months.

Fairfax has to say that both boys thought she went overboard.  Jack especially didn’t care for the yellow monogrammed towels she packed, but everyone needs a break from red and black, don’t they?  Still maybe she went a little over the top with some items—perhaps the monogrammed shower caddies were too feminine for them.  But how useful—stretchable pockets and antibacterial to boot!

In any case, Fairfax had a blast designing each son’s space.  Davidson, especially, had been kind enough to send her a picture of a room in Jack’s future dorm, so she was able to play around virtually with the corners, pockets, closets.  She even designed a great stretchy suspended laundry bag which made use of some dead space.

Fairfax wonders now if Jack is using the bag, also monogrammed. Maybe she’ll ask him that when she texts him about his evening plans. Yes, she will ask him.  That bag is too cute not to use.

As if her thoughts could call her to him, her phone chimes back with a text from her youngest.

Idk. I don’t go to church.

Jack’s response to her question about the church’s response to Hurricane Dorian.

Fairfax sighs, a familiar fatigue rolling in like the fog. Not too surprising, Jack’s answer.

Fairfax and her sons have gone round and round about church attendance since they reached their teens. Didn’t want to go, either to the Episcopalian Church or to the Catholic Church, where Mike often goes.  Even chafed at going to youth group, though the directors planned such interesting trips, even if the weekly meetings were boring.  Advertised outings to Camp Weed, Itchetucknee Springs State Park, Disney World!  Fairfax couldn’t understand why her boys didn’t jump at the chance.

Well, no matter. That is all in the past now.  But…maybe if the Davidson church had some kind of weather interest group?  That might pull Jack in.

It suddenly is hot in the kitchen, and Fairfax feels her face flushing.  She moves to the banquette, redone last year in neutral fabrics, table and benches painted a deep cream, meant to be soothing after the wild turquoise kick she’d been on previously.  She sits down with a groan.  Oh my goodness, how tired she feels.  It’s this heat.

What both boys need is to get connected with a church in their college towns.  Now that they are away from her, it is important that she make sure Will and Jack have some sort of spiritual life. It is vital that they feel a connection to a loving, protective force, since their parents aren’t around to be one.  Going to church was the most direct way to make this happen.  The obvious way.

After all, Fairfax firmly believes that, at a bare minimum, a spiritual life is the best pathway to safety.

She contemplates sending Jack the link again to the Davidson church’s schedule but stills her hand.  The more she pushes something, the more they run away from it.  She knows this, she’s no rookie mom. And to just let them slip away from their own faith lives, hopefully through a church, well, she cannot allow it. Fairfax will not give up on finding this treasure for her sons.

Hmm. Perhaps now is the time for her to be silent around her son.  To shut her mouth, like she has to do in marriage.  Leave it be for a while.  It’s often required in motherhood as well.

But silence can take many forms, she knows.  It is often best crafted as a deft change of subject, a sleight of hand (or tongue, or text) if you will.

After all, faith, like motherhood, takes persistence.  Finding God, feeling God in your daily life, takes practice.  But it’s worth it, for the comfort.  The safety of His love is worth all the wily ways she persists, pesters, and prods her sons into spirituality.

The one who will save you will keep you safe.

Fairfax stands up and walks to the French doors flanking the back patio. With her phone, she snaps a picture of the rippling St. Johns, and then applies her favorite filter to the shot.  The one with prescription-strength focus, which makes the best of the beauty that is there.  She texts it to her youngest son with the caption.

The river and I miss you.  Never forget that even if the water gets choppy, all shall be well. Love, your mother