The next few weeks go by in a blur. Turns out Mom had done a little more than some Googling on the Internet before she sprung the idea of moving to Connecticut on me. She already has a house in mind – a tiny white ranch with pretty powder-blue shutters and a big maple shading the front yard – and she has talked to a local real estate agent about listing our bungalow in Fort Myers as a rental home. She has even applied for that librarian job in South Haven, and they call her to do an over-the-phone interview two days after my midnight revelation.
Everything seems to fall into place easily – and for some reason, I’m not freaked out. Instead, I’m actually excited.
At first Mom seems skeptical about my out-of-character ease. “Now you’re sure you want to do this?” she asks repeatedly for the first few days, and every time I answer “I’m sure,” my heart flutters – but with anticipation, not nervousness. It feels, I dunno, exhilarating to be acting so unlike myself – to be taking such a risk and not worrying every step of the way. I feel grownup and mature, like my mom and I are making this decision together.
There are only a few times during the month before we move to Connecticut that I feel like the old Lucy – the old scared, nervous Lucy. The first is when Mom and I come home after a lunch out celebrating the news that she got the job to find an unexpected visitor sitting on the front porch...