ROOK MAKES A MOVE: Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

January

Crossroads

Max changes everything.
My grandson’s arrival has pulled my logical and rational approach to life out of kilter. In my sixty-one years on this earth, I’ve developed highly honed skills of analysis, problem-solving, and decision-making, but Max put a match to that. He ignited a fire that’s burned down my worldview. Sure, I’ve fallen hard before and experienced that head-over-heels, giddy, reckless feeling familiar to anyone in love.
This is different.
This is compelling, intense, and beguiling. I now get the meaning of smitten.
This calls for action.
Max lives there, and I live here. It’s untenable.
Picturing the events that have led to this point, I see my son, Jay. He is handsome in his tux, exchanging vows with Carly. Campbell and I look at each other through tears. Our bird has flown the nest and built one of his own.
Years later, Campbell and I each hold an ear to the kitchen phone to hear Jay’s voice reaching us across the miles. “Carly’s pregnant!” We whoop and grin, astounded—seven years since their wedding. The prospect of grandchildren had faded. We’d become content with our family of four.
A sonogram. I study it but can’t, as my mother used to say, make heads or tails of it. Literally. I can’t make out where the baby’s head is, but I’m engulfed with a rush of love for the swirls of my future grandchild’s anatomy.
Then, another phone call. Campbell and I play tug-of-war with the phone as Jay announces the arrival of Max on November 8, 2006. Seven pounds, eleven ounces, of perfection.
Now, Max takes center stage. Max smiling. Max rolling over. Max crawling. Max babbling. What you don’t see in this production is me. The paternal grandmother. There are glimpses, but mostly I’m off stage. Part of the crew, rushing in between acts.
I envision a final scene: Max showing his grandchildren family photos. “Who’s that?” pipes up an adorable blonde moppet, pointing. Max taps my picture. “That? That’s my grandmother on my father’s side. I didn’t know her very well. I don’t remember much about her.”
I consider my legacy. Do I want to be remembered as an outstanding project manager? Reliable employee? No-nonsense team player? Or the grandmother with the best cookies? Unparalleled read-aloud skills? Snuggliest bear hugs? Are these two visions of my legacy mutually exclusive?
They are, I decide. The geography of the situation demands a choice. I’ve tried the long-distance relationship thing: seeing Max every six to eight weeks for a long weekend. My frequent flyer balance is growing, but so is my dissatisfaction with the status quo.
I can hear what Campbell will say: “I love my job here. We’re seeing Max all the time. Moving is huge. What if we move there and then Jay or Carly gets a new job somewhere else? Are we going to follow them around the country like puppy dogs?”
Yes. Woof.
The thing is, I love my job too. Well, I like it a lot. I like most everything about my life here in Ohio. We’ve got things down pat. We know the traffic shortcuts, which bakery has the best rolls, and what hardware store to trust. We have family, friends, and an amazing church community. We have roles to play and responsibilities to fulfill. We have roots here, a support network, and we just planted fifty lily bulbs in the yard. Moving is insane.
Yet, I can’t help my mind drifting back to Max, showing the family photos to his grandchildren in sixty years with a different twist. Blonde moppet points, but this time Max says, “That? That’s my father’s mother. My Gram. I adored her.”
I like this version of history, but I’m also a pragmatist. I have to figure out how to make sense of uprooting ourselves and moving halfway across the country. How do I convince others (e.g., Campbell) that Rook McFadden hasn’t lost it?
Inspiration strikes. It’s time to use my business skills. I’ve been to dozens of classes in my banking career: Effective Decision-Making. Leadership. Overcoming Obstacles. Team-Building. Process Improvement. System Design. I’ll apply proven techniques, which should reveal and support the right answer.
And if they don’t?
That’s why they invented do-overs.