A Different Kind of Normal
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From acclaimed author Cathy Lamb comes a warm and poignant story about mothers and sons, family and forgiveness--and loving someone enough to let them be true to themselves. . .
Jaden Bruxelle knows that life is precious. She sees it in her work as a hospice nurse, a job filled with compassion and humor even on the saddest days. And she sees it in Tate, the boy she has raised as her son ever since her sister gave him up at birth. Tate is seventeen, academically brilliant, funny, and loving. He's also a talented basketball player despite having been born with an abnormally large head--something Jaden's mother blames on a family curse. Jaden dismisses that as nonsense, just as she ignores the legends about witches and magic in the family.
Over the years, Jaden has focused all her energy on her job and on sheltering Tate from the world. Tate, for his part, just wants to be a regular kid. Through his blog, he's slowly reaching out, finding his voice. He wants to try out for the Varsity basketball team. He wants his mom to focus on her own life for a change, maybe even date again.
Jaden knows she needs to let go--of Tate, of her fears and anger, and of the responsibilities she uses as a shield. And through a series of unexpected events and revelations, she's about to learn how. Because as dear as life may be, its only real value comes when we are willing to live it fully, even if that means risking it all.
Beautifully written, tender and true, A Different Kind of Normal is a story about embracing love and adventure, and learning to look ahead for the first time. . .
need to meditate extra long tonight.” Sandra said, not quietly, “It’s a question of white wine or red tonight. Maybe both. I shall mix them together.” We had the usual settling-in sorts of conversation, with Dirk huffing and puffing, the outraged son, I had killed his father, medical care was poor, what about all that morphine forced down his father’s throat, etc. He kept staring at me, his eyes wandering down my front, ticked off that I hadn’t plopped my head in his lap when I met him. My
protective, encouraging, and brought her a bouquet of lilies in a long, rectangular glass vase, tulips between them. “So glad you’re back, Brooke, so glad you’re back. You feeling better now?” She assured him she was. She took him outside for a walk through our fir trees that first visit. I knew she was apologizing to him, and when they came back in, they’d both been crying. “Come and work for me in my flower shop, Brooke. We can make flower arrangements in the shapes of sports cars, dogs,
another way of letting life take charge,” my mother said. “Hope is a drunk feather. Hope is mist on a rainy day. You take charge, Damini. Take charge of this love affair—” “Mom!” Caden gasped. “It’s not a love affair.” “It’s the hope of a kiss!” my mother said, eyes wide, as in, Don’t you get it? “I live in hope that I’ll get a date for Winter Formal,” Tate said, tossing a piece of pancake in the air and catching it with his mouth. “It’s not looking good, not looking good at all. Maybe I can
aggressive, then fall into jack crying, she’d lose her appetite, then she would eat as if her stomach would never be full. She fought vociferously with our mom and dad, and they ended up crying or yelling while she slammed out the door, stealing money if she could. Our whole house was in total upheaval all the time. She later on would leave for days or weeks at a time to get high.” “That’s a long time.” “It was. One time Brooke was gone for over a year, and when she came back she was pregnant
to them before, they told her their aches and pains, in both body and heart. She listened, she soothed, she healed. She did not hesitate to send them to a doctor when needed. For example, when Davis Castille crawled to her on his knees because his appendix had burst, she called an ambulance. “I want you to take it out, Violet,” he pleaded, pale white. “You do it. I don’t trust them damn doctors. Stealing my money, that’s what it’s about, all for a bad stomachache.” When Lizzie Hasten’s son’s