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. . .
saying good-bye to us, have a pleasant day, thanks for your time, no vindictiveness or anger in their voices, they followed Dirk. They were there for Dirk’s money. What did they care? The next day was tough, too. Not all deaths are fair, we all know that. When my patients are over seventy, I honestly feel that they had a fair shot at life. Seventy years. That’s a long time. Not long enough, but a gift. And often I have patients in hospice care who have run themselves into the ground.
repair a severely broken marriage that should have ended decades ago. “Good-bye, George.” Joyce wobbled out of the bedroom. “You gold digger, you stupid bitch, get back in here, get back right this minute! Shit, Joyce, I ain’t kidding. I will write you out of my will so fast your head will fly off. I’ll give it all away, the whole lot of it, the money, the homes, the stocks, it’s all going to a gorilla organization, better monkeys than you, Joyce, better monkeys than you!” He turned beet red
palpitating, then lowered my face to the crystal plate and inhaled. Death. I quickly mixed up mint, bay leaves, and cumin. Same scent. The death scent. The same scent I’d smelled three times before in my life. It was clingy, scary, life-sucking, and black. Please, God, not Damini, not the triplets. Please, God, not Tate. Not Tate. “Tell me more about my Other Mother.” I flinched, deep in my gut. Tate and I were on stools at the butcher-block island counter. I’d lit the apple cider
“buts.” “I have to do what’s best for Tate.” “There are other highly skilled doctors.” I understood what he was saying. My whole body became stiff, and I clenched my teeth. I envisioned what could be. What could be between Ethan and me realistically, not just in my rambling imagination. I could be with him. Date. Sleep with him. Jump that tall and lanky body. Talk honestly way into the night as we ate popcorn. We could grow herbs in my greenhouse, fish in my drift boat, and play cards when we
back, screaming, his screams racing around the plantation, the white-columned mansion, and the magnolia and oak trees. The overseer, a skinny, short man with a leather hat, brought the whip snaking through the air again and again.” My mother sighed, so sad, all these years later. “Faith and Grace ran out to stop it, but they knew they were only stopping one particular incident. They heard about other brutal plantation owners, how the slave women were used and abused, how children were sold away