Soul Survivor by Andrea Leininger, Bruce Leininger
Authors: Andrea Leininger, Bruce Leininger
Tags: OCC022000
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Bruce’s various crises that she hadn’t made any friends.
The neighborhood was filled with walkers and joggers, and so Andrea decided to join the parade. In her own practical and dedicated
fashion, Andrea managed to make friends.
Red’s Gym had her back to her fighting weight of 120 pounds, she had a posse of girlfriends, James was happy in Mother’s Day
Out, and Bruce was preoccupied with all his perplexing puzzles. By the end of that summer, the Leiningers had really settled
in. Lafayette began to feel like home.
CHAPTER TWELVE
O N OCTOBER 5, with a deep sigh of relief, Andrea ran around opening all the windows, inviting the fresh breeze into her home.
The sweltering tropical weather had finally broken. James trailed behind, imitating his mother, savoring the first whiff of
autumn. It seemed as if the air of suspense created by the new details that James had shared about his dreams was softened
by the cooler weather and the drop in humidity.
And so, on that Thursday, Andrea’s native optimism kicked in. There was that zip in the air, and it was only two days until
Bruce’s fifty-first birthday (she enjoyed any excuse for a celebration), and she could tell by the slack in her clothing that
she was getting into shape, losing that “schwag.” Of course, once you have been a ballet dancer, objectivity is no longer
possible when standing before a mirror in skimpy leotards. No matter how buff she got, she always felt a twinge of disappointment;
she always half expected to see that twenty-two-year-old dancer looking back.
But ferocious discipline was also part of her history. So she took James, strapped him into his car seat, placed his diaper
bag on the floor, then got into the front and strapped herself in, ready to head for Red’s Gym.
She glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled. James had a new and comical stunt; it was a car ritual. Once he was strapped
in, he would reach up and pull an imaginary something over both ears, like slapping on earmuffs; then he would reach high
up over his head and pull another imaginary something down to the front of his mouth, like a football player pulling down
a face guard. She had no idea what it meant, but it looked cute. This had been going on for a few weeks. James did it every
time they got into the car now, and Andrea meant to mention it to Bruce. Let him stew about it. He was her go-to worrier.
They went to the gym, stopped to buy a couple of mushy birthday cards, and picked up Bruce’s gifts—several workout outfits,
a Walkman, and a jogging stroller so he could take James along—then bought some French champagne and a layered chocolate butter
cake, called a doberge, at Poupart’s Bakery.
They came home and had a light lunch. Andrea put James down for his nap and started to make dinner. She liked to cook, enjoyed
getting her hands messy and into all the sauces and ingredients. And she enjoyed the mental challenge of dreaming up menus—something
that was “grown-up” yet could be managed by a two-year-old boy who was still finding his way around the utensils. Aunt G.
J.’s recipe for chicken tetrazzini included diced chicken breasts, pasta with butter, and peas and mushrooms. That worked
for everyone.
Bruce came home from work, and the family sat down to dinner. The meals they all ate together were always the best. There
was the whole frantic run-up—setting the places, timing the courses (they always had to be served together for Bruce)—then
the calm of saying grace, followed by the unstrained conversation.
They usually played “high-low,” a game in which everybody got a chance to complain or boast about their day. James was still
trying to master the fork, and Andrea would scold him mildly when he reverted to using his hands. Table manners were important,
she said, but still those little hands would sneak out onto his plate from time to time to grab an elusive morsel.
After dinner there were the
The neighborhood was filled with walkers and joggers, and so Andrea decided to join the parade. In her own practical and dedicated
fashion, Andrea managed to make friends.
Red’s Gym had her back to her fighting weight of 120 pounds, she had a posse of girlfriends, James was happy in Mother’s Day
Out, and Bruce was preoccupied with all his perplexing puzzles. By the end of that summer, the Leiningers had really settled
in. Lafayette began to feel like home.
CHAPTER TWELVE
O N OCTOBER 5, with a deep sigh of relief, Andrea ran around opening all the windows, inviting the fresh breeze into her home.
The sweltering tropical weather had finally broken. James trailed behind, imitating his mother, savoring the first whiff of
autumn. It seemed as if the air of suspense created by the new details that James had shared about his dreams was softened
by the cooler weather and the drop in humidity.
And so, on that Thursday, Andrea’s native optimism kicked in. There was that zip in the air, and it was only two days until
Bruce’s fifty-first birthday (she enjoyed any excuse for a celebration), and she could tell by the slack in her clothing that
she was getting into shape, losing that “schwag.” Of course, once you have been a ballet dancer, objectivity is no longer
possible when standing before a mirror in skimpy leotards. No matter how buff she got, she always felt a twinge of disappointment;
she always half expected to see that twenty-two-year-old dancer looking back.
But ferocious discipline was also part of her history. So she took James, strapped him into his car seat, placed his diaper
bag on the floor, then got into the front and strapped herself in, ready to head for Red’s Gym.
She glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled. James had a new and comical stunt; it was a car ritual. Once he was strapped
in, he would reach up and pull an imaginary something over both ears, like slapping on earmuffs; then he would reach high
up over his head and pull another imaginary something down to the front of his mouth, like a football player pulling down
a face guard. She had no idea what it meant, but it looked cute. This had been going on for a few weeks. James did it every
time they got into the car now, and Andrea meant to mention it to Bruce. Let him stew about it. He was her go-to worrier.
They went to the gym, stopped to buy a couple of mushy birthday cards, and picked up Bruce’s gifts—several workout outfits,
a Walkman, and a jogging stroller so he could take James along—then bought some French champagne and a layered chocolate butter
cake, called a doberge, at Poupart’s Bakery.
They came home and had a light lunch. Andrea put James down for his nap and started to make dinner. She liked to cook, enjoyed
getting her hands messy and into all the sauces and ingredients. And she enjoyed the mental challenge of dreaming up menus—something
that was “grown-up” yet could be managed by a two-year-old boy who was still finding his way around the utensils. Aunt G.
J.’s recipe for chicken tetrazzini included diced chicken breasts, pasta with butter, and peas and mushrooms. That worked
for everyone.
Bruce came home from work, and the family sat down to dinner. The meals they all ate together were always the best. There
was the whole frantic run-up—setting the places, timing the courses (they always had to be served together for Bruce)—then
the calm of saying grace, followed by the unstrained conversation.
They usually played “high-low,” a game in which everybody got a chance to complain or boast about their day. James was still
trying to master the fork, and Andrea would scold him mildly when he reverted to using his hands. Table manners were important,
she said, but still those little hands would sneak out onto his plate from time to time to grab an elusive morsel.
After dinner there were the
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