Story: Mothersdream
This isn't the final title for this story, but I wrote this story years ago and found myself thinking about it, so I thought I'd post it. Of course, it doesn't hurt that it's almost Mother's Day, so let's just call it relevant. If you can think of a better title for this story, do tell.
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Mothersdream
By
Nivi Engineer
Rita, mother of one, impending mother of a second, watched the boys play. Four four-year-old boys ran wild, behaving rather badly.
Tony wielded a plastic golf club, which he waved in the air like a sword. “Admit defeat. You will never beat me.”
Joe waved back with his own golf club sword. “I will never surrender to the likes of you. Hai-Ya!”
Tony dropped his club and walked over to Joe. “No, no. Hold the club with both hands when you say ‘Hai-Ya!’”
Meanwhile, Bill and Andy charged screaming into the couch, climbed up, then jumped out as far as they could, taking breaks by tossing couch pillows toward Tony and Joe, who would strike them with their swords.
“They shouldn’t be here,” thought Rita. “What are their parents thinking? Bringing them to a new years party when they can’t take care of them.” Her own two-year-old lay sleeping upstairs in their friends’ son’s bed, asleep since her bedtime of eight o’clock, oblivious to the noise below.
She imagined these boys, years later, bored, on a late summer evening, filling in details from what she had overheard from her own eighth-graders.
# # #
Tossing a baseball or a football or a tennis ball around in Joe’s backyard, Tony and Joe wait for the signal. The screen door slams shut with a “Bye Mom” shout. A few seconds later, a tennis ball flies through the air over the back fence.
“You guys there?”
“Hey Bill. Yep. You getting Andy or should we?” calls Tony.
“I’ll get him. You got the stuff?”
Joe pats the backpack he has just picked up from the edge of the driveway and puts it over one shoulder. “Right here.”
“Good. See you in a minute.”
Tony and Joe get on their bikes and race to Andy’s house, where Bill and Andy are standing next to their bikes at the edge of the driveway.
“Woohoo!” shouts Joe.
“Yeah, well, I was watching the backpack. You’ve got to be careful with that,” says Tony. “Hey, Andy.”
“Hey. Where to tonight?”
“I was thinking we could go down to Shaker and find a few houses there,” says Tony.
“I don’t know,” says Bill. “I gotta get back in time tonight. Mom’s already pissed.”
“God, you’re such a loser, Bill,” says Joe, glancing at Tony.
“I probably shouldn’t be out that late either,” says Andy. “I have to get up early tomorrow.”
“That’s fine. We don’t have to go at all. We could just go home and let our mommies tuck us into bed. C’mon Joe.” Tony starts pedaling. Joe follows.
“Hey, wait up. We’re coming,” yells Bill, quickly mounting his bike and racing after the others.
Andy watches the others for a moment, shaking his head, then mounts his bike and rides.
Tony leads them around the lake and down onto one of the side streets in Shaker with the big houses. As he rides, he assesses each house, looking for the perfect conditions. He passes South Woodland before slowing down. He turns down one of the side streets, and then points to a small mint-green colonial on his right. They ride past, quickly glancing at their target.
They ride down two blocks before turning left and heading for the playground. Letting his bike fall on the grass, Tony gracefully runs up the slide and settles onto his perch on the wall next to the steering wheel. Joe walks up the tires without using his hands. Bill tries to run up the slide but slips halfway up and climbs up using his hands, his face red. Andy walks slowly to the jungle gym, sits on the bottom of the slide and lies back, resting his head on his hands. The four sit silently, listening to the crickets and to Bill’s labored breathing.
“Did you watch the game last night?” says Andy.
Nobody answers.
“Well, Rodriguez’s catch in the seventh kicked butt. Totally saved the game. And his double in the eighth…” Andy continues.
“Oh yeah, I saw the highlights for that,” says Joe. “Did you see the double play in the fifth?”
“Hey, yeah. That was amazing,” says Bill.
“I don’t think he really made it,” says Andy.
Tony snorts. “You wouldn’t.”
Silence.
“It was a close call,” says Joe.
More silence.
After a while, Tony stands up at the top of the slide and clears his throat. Bill and Joe scramble to get to their feet; still lying down, Andy looks up the slide at Tony without rising.
“It’s time,” says Tony. “Let’s do it.”
Andy stands up and walks to his bike. Tony runs down the slide, followed by Joe, and then Bill, who slips after two steps and slides down the bottom half. They ride back to the mint green house. They drop their bikes on the tree lawn in front of the brick colonial next door. They huddle around Tony, who is opening the backpack. Joe grabs two rolls of toilet paper and runs around the front lawn, tossing the rolls over branches and bushes. Bill grabs the can of shaving gel and follows Joe’s path, spraying the bushes and grass. Andy pulls out a 20-ounce plastic cola bottle, half-filled with the works, opens it and waits. Bill and Joe return to their bikes, Tony walks to the front door, and Andy walks to the birdbath. Tony waves his left hand, and Andy drops the crumpled piece of foil inside, replaces the cap, and tosses the bottle onto the ground between the birdbath and the stone bench. The doorbell rings as Tony cuts the wire, and Tony and Andy run to their bikes. As a light turns on upstairs, the boys ride off, laughing and howling.
# # #
Rita picked up her son’s hat, which he has learned to pull off. She rose and carried him to a shadier seat, escaping for the moment the oppressive July heat. She sat next to the woman she remembered from New Years as Tony’s mother. They sat watching their children play, Tony was climbing the slide; her own daughter sat on a tricycle, trying to reach the pedals. Soon, Joe showed up and, seeing Tony, screamed ‘Toneeee’ and ran to him. The two then proceeded to climb halfway up the slide then jump off.
“For the record,” said Janet, Tony’s mother, as she stood up and walked over to say hello to Joe’s mother. “Tony was behaving just fine until Joe showed up.”
Rita smiled sympathetically. She had seen her own daughter act more rambunctiously around her friend’s sons than when she played at home. Her innermost fear was that - despite reading countless parenting books, talking to her children and not at them, engaging their cooperation, and encouraging their autonomy – her children may still grow up to become vandals, smokers, drunks, drug addicts, or criminals. How can peer pressure not lead her to do questionable things when she’s older when her friends already influence her now?
# # #
“C’mon, Tony. My mom won’t be home for another hour and a half,” says Mia, outside the school. “As long as you guys are quiet when she calls to check up on me, we’ll be fine.”
“Well,” says Tony, slipping his arm around her waist, “if you’re going to be all alone, maybe I could keep you company. I mean, the guys are pretty loud, you know.”
Mia smiles and leans in to kiss her boyfriend, who wraps his arms around her.
# # #
Rita gasped.
“Are you all right?” said Lisa.
Rita looked around. Seeing her daughter, Mia, still sitting on the tricycle, she recognized her surroundings and relaxed. A little. “I’m fine. Sorry, you were saying?”
“Yeah, don’t believe Janet. We live behind them, and my son Andy likes to play with Tony. Tony bullies him so bad, saying ‘You can’t play with that because you’re not old enough.’ The kid is six months older than Andy,” said Lisa.
“But she’s so nice,” said Rita.
“Well, sometimes it doesn’t matter what the parents are like. You know, there are so many influences in kids’ lives once they start school.”
If she’s trying to make me relax, thought Rita, it’s not working.
# # #
The tears streamed down her cheeks, a fitting accompaniment to Jay’s screams. Two a.m., Tuesday night, early September. With a meeting in the morning before school starts, Rita needed a good night’s sleep.
“Shhh. Please, go to sleep,” Rita whispered, rocking Jay in her arms. Diapered, fed, and burped, her eight-month-old son should be sleeping. “What is wrong? Are you hurt? I can’t do this.” She rested her son’s head on her shoulder, still rocking, and he settled down to a whimper. She rocked him for a few more minutes before she was convinced that he was asleep. She stood up slowly, slowly, stepping so softly she practically glided to the crib. As she pulled him away from her chest, he stirred, and she froze, debating between pulling him back to her for a few more minutes and quickly setting him in the crib to let him adjust. She caught sight of the clock – two fifteen – and decided he would have to get himself to sleep now. The moment Jay’s back touched the crib, the crying resumed. She screamed soundlessly and walked out, closing the nursery door behind her.
She plopped down onto her empty bed, and sighed. She closed her eyes and was asleep instantly.
# # #
Rita parks her car and gets out. Her ten-year-old Camry is the youngest car in the parking lot. She pulls out the post-it note from her purse, and double checks the address.
“Don’t judge,” she tells herself. “Never judge.”
“But she shouldn’t be here,” she answers. “This is all wrong. Where did I go wrong?”
“You did your best,” she says. “Now just love her.”
She reaches the door and knocks. The door opens and there stands Mia, dressed in her cap and gown.
“Are you ready to go?” says Rita.
“I don’t know,” says Mia, “maybe I shouldn’t go.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “You’ve earned this. Don’t stop now.”
“But…”
“What? People will talk? So what? You will get your diploma.”
“But what’s the use? It’s not like I’m going to use it,” says Mia.
“Of course you are.” Rita unlocks the car and they climb in.
“Mom, since when do you need a high school diploma to change diapers and stay up all night?”
“You need it to go to college,” says Rita, starting the car.
“And how is that supposed to happen?”
She reaches her hand over and places it on her daughter’s hand. “We’ll figure it out, sweetie. Everything will be fine.”
Rita watches from the bleachers, anxiously waiting for her daughter’s name to be called, so afraid that in the end, Mia will either not be able to make it or she will talk herself into sneaking away – again. But finally, her row stands up, and Rita watches her daughter’s figure waddle forward, climb the stairs, and walk across the stage to accept her diploma.
“So where do you want to go for dinner?” Rita asks Mia.
“Actually, let’s go to the hospital.”
“Wh-“ Rita looks over and sees Mia’s eyes are full of tears with an expression of fear she cannot hide from her mother. “It’s time?”
Mia nods.
# # #
“Mommy?”
Rita opened her eyes. The darkness confused her.
“Mommy? I vomited.”
Mia stood next to the bed, her face six inches from Rita’s face. The smell of vomit wafted from her daughter’s mouth and Rita sat up. Three thirty, read the alarm clock.
“Mommy? Where’s Daddy?”
Rita looked to the other side of the bed and felt her eyes fill with water. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, refusing to let herself cry.
“He’ll be back tomorrow, sweetie. Remember? He went to Chicago for work.” They walked to the bathroom.
“And he’ll fly on an airplane and come back and come in and pick me up and twirl me and call me his pumpkin.”
Mia gargled and spat, then the two walked across the hall into her bedroom. Mia climbed into bed, and Rita pulled up the blanket. Rita kissed her daughter, then walked slowly to the doorway, where she turned and looked upon Mia’s smiling face, so relaxed and innocent. In that moment, she envied her daughter, and vowed to keep her children – for as long as she could – free from the worries that would give them sleepless nights. Because, to her, Jay’s crying was not just a rough night of teething or gas, it could be a sign that Jay is deeply troubled and is being haunted by some inner demons that will plague him throughout his life; Mia’s vomiting was not just a one-time random occurrence, but rather could be the start of a horrible stomach flu or, if left unchecked, could lead to countless diseases and ailments, or could be a sign of bulimia.
Of course she was overreacting. She berated herself for giving her nightmares any consideration, something she never did before. She had always considered herself rather rational and reasonable. Any foolish doubts that would try to sneak into her mind would be sent away. She always knew she would be a teacher, and remained convinced that it was the right choice even after she learned how little money teachers made. When she met Holden, she never doubted that it would work. She never worried that he wouldn’t compromise, wouldn’t be an equal partner in life. When his job sent him traveling, she never worried that he was having an affair. When she became pregnant with Mia, she knew he would be an excellent father. Even with his traveling, he accompanied her at every pre-natal doctor’s visit. When he was in town – and since Mia’s birth, his traveling had decreased significantly – he took care of his “two ladies.” She also knew that she would keep teaching. Mia had adjusted wonderfully to daycare, as had Jay. And while her life tended to get quite busy at times – and downright exhausting during the school year when Holden went on his trips, so that she would have to be a full-time teacher and mother – she still loved her job. And she still helped people. And she still believed that she was making the world a better place.
But she wasn’t happy. She wasn’t now, and had not been for a while. She could not remember exactly when she stopped looking forward to her children’s coming milestones and started fearing for their futures. When Jay was born, she was happy. She saw Mia holding Jay (with Holden’s help, of course), and she was so happy she cried. And that, she recalled, was the last time she cried happy tears. So moving was that scene in the hospital that reality could not possibly live up to the idyllic future she had envisioned in that moment.
She recovered from childbirth much more quickly than after Mia – physically. Holden stayed home for one week following his son’s birth; three days longer than with Mia. After he returned to the office – although she was grateful for the time he had spent at home and had her mother around to help – she began to resent him and his ability to leave. He came home smiling everyday, and told her little about work, although she did hear some of what went on during his frequent phone dialogues with his colleagues. He talked about mergers and business plans, while she talked about breastfeeding (which wasn’t going well) and diapers (which would run out shortly). Mia had quickly grown bored with Jay, who did nothing and took up all of Mommy’s time and energy. Rita was usually too tired to play with Mia, who then grew closer to her grandmother. As months went by, Mia alternated between doting on her baby brother (running upstairs to get him a blanket, giving him the sippy cup out of her mouth when he started to cry) to completely antagonizing him (pinching his hand when he was sleeping, snatching the pacifier from his mouth). Rita found herself yelling at Mia many times, much more often than she ever had before.
She had read the books. She knew better than to tell her daughter to stop playing with the drums “because your brother is sleeping,” and instead would say it was “because it’s giving me a headache” (which was true) or “because it isn’t drumming time” (which rarely worked) or – she shuddered whenever she did this “because I said so.” But as Jay grew older, and from a sitting position started getting into more of Mia’s toys, things got even tougher. Mia often pushed him down and pulled things out of his hands. Rita tried reasoning with her, giving her timeouts, praising her whenever she was nice to Jay, even yelling at her out of sheer frustration (which never worked, but rather made Mia scream and plummet into a tantrum). Several times a day – between meals, snacks, feedings, diaper changes, baths, stories, and cleaning up after the kids – she found herself feeling so incredibly alone. When Holden would call, she wouldn’t feel like talking. It was never the right time to talk; either she was tending to the children or she wanted to savor the momentary lull – which was likely to be disturbed by the ringing of the phone. She would get upstairs to shower when Holden came home. She would come down, cook dinner while Holden played with the children, and they would all sit down to eat together.
By the time they finally put the children in bed, set out and ironed their clothes for the next day, cleaned the dishes, and picked up the toys that the kids had scattered while playing with their father, Rita was exhausted. She just wanted to be alone for a while, and found Holden’s enthusiasm at finally being home overwhelming. When he returned from being gone for a few days, she found the transition even harder, having settled into a comfortable routine and looking forward to her alone time.
In bed, as they talked in the dark before dozing off, Holden complained that she didn’t seem happy to see him. Too tired to argue, the hour being too late to start a dialogue, too anxious about having to wake up early and start the exhausting routine all over again, Rita simply kissed him and reassured him that she was thrilled to see him and hopefully he hadn’t misread her tiredness as a lack of affection. She then turned over and closed her eyes, and, telling herself to act more lovingly toward him the next day, she fell asleep.
Work was her retreat, her time away from home, away from vomit and diapers and screams. It was a place where she could talk to other adults about things other than when the house could get painted, who would go to the grocery store on the way home, how his parents had invited them to dinner after he got back from the airport the next night, and whether the bills had been paid. She would talk about plays she would never get to see, teacher’s conferences she wanted to attend, educational journals she never had time to read, and former students that had come back to visit that she was too busy with her children to see.
Life was happening without her. Her life was a scratched record, stuck on the same tired loop, wearing her down. She grimaced as she thought of the outdated reference, realizing how old she felt. She was stuck. She could see the world moving around her, and could notice her children growing and having a carefree life. She gave them that. She sacrificed her own life of leisure to give that to her kids. And she didn’t regret it, didn’t resent them for it. But she did, on occasion, wish that her sacrifice be acknowledged and appreciated. Sure, she got a card and a trip to the spa on Mother’s Day, but on other days, when there weren’t signs, commercials, sales, special Mother’s Day Buffet Lunches and a million reminders screaming “Buy this and spend this money on this particular day,” she didn’t get anything. Consciences were cleared and mother’s overlooked until the following April when the advertising blitz began again only to stress out the rest of the world lest women get snippy and mad that they were forgotten.
Usually, she heard the thoughtless comment, the “Oh, dinner’s not ready?” or “You didn’t happen to pick up the dry cleaning, did you?” or “Wow, this place is a mess” or even, “If you have a chance tomorrow…” She knew she was overly sensitive lately, reading more into every comment than was intended, understanding that her husband’s life was not simple. But the fight she never had the energy to start was eloquently rehearsed and pushed aside over and over again.
“You do know,” she would start, “that you work the same number of hours now as you did before we had Mia and Jay.”
“Well…” he would respond.
“And back then, we split the household chores fifty-fifty.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Since having Mia, somehow I’ve had to cook and clean, maintain the house, hold down my job, and take care of the kids.”
“I do a lot around here!”
“Yes, but less than you used to. Sure, you play with the kids, but you’re their dad. You’re supposed to spend time with them; it shouldn’t be a favor to me.”
And then she would continue to resent him for having an easy life, for doing more than his father or her father ever did. She would suspect that whenever, in the future, he did help out more, that it was all for show, to prove to her that he really does do a lot. And he, in turn, would resent her for putting him in the impossible position of having to prove himself without being believed.
Knowing the wedge it would drive between them, Rita said nothing. She knew that a good day with Holden would make up for the worst day with the kids, and that even the best day with the kids would be ruined if she fought – and couldn’t make up – with Holden. Rita and Holden. The two of them predated the children, and would – hopefully – still be together after the children grew up and left. So never would she jeopardize what they had.
Rita awoke Saturday morning and found Holden had already gotten up. The clock read 9:30, yet the children’s rooms were silent. She went downstairs, expecting to find bowls, spoons, and cereal boxes on the dining table, milk still sitting on the counter; a family room littered with toys, Holden on the sofa reading the paper. What she found instead was a clean house and a note on the dining table.
You know you talk in your sleep, don’t you?
She had no idea what that meant, or what she should do. She tried to remember her dream, but could not. She went upstairs, showered, then returned downstairs in time to hear the phone ring.
“Have you eaten?” said Holden.
“Not yet.”
“I presume you’ve showered?”
“Yes… Where are you?”
“Meet me at the Inn on Coventry in ten minutes.”
When she got there, she found Holden standing out front, holding a single snapdragon, smiling. Seeing him, she smiled and felt inflated and light. They hugged.
“Where are the kids?” she asked when they sat down.
“At my parents’. We have to go there for dinner tonight anyhow, so I dropped them off early.”
“But… you haven’t seen them in a week. I thought you’d--.”
“How long have I known you?”
“Ten years,” said Rita.
“So I know you pretty well, right?”
“I guess,”
“You guess. Nice. Well, even if you didn’t talk in your sleep, I can still tell when you need a break. I know I haven’t been pulling my weight around here, but that’s going to change.”
Rita felt her face grow warm as she imagined what she exactly she had said the night before.
“Wait, what do you mean I talk in my sleep?”
“You don’t remember? You sat up and started talking to me, only you were facing the foot of the bed. You said something like ‘before the kids we used to split the chores. Why should I do everything now? It’s not fair!’ And then you lay back down, rolled onto your side, and didn’t respond when I asked you if you wanted to talk about it.”
“When was this?”
“Around three o’clock.”
“I’m sorry,” said Rita, and then she rambled, “I didn’t want to, I don’t want to talk about this. It’s not fair to you. I know you work hard and I’m teaching fewer classes now and I didn’t mean to, and I don’t want it to create a wedge between us. You’re too important.”
“Shut up,” said Holden, laughing.
Rita stuffed a large bite of pancake in her mouth.
“Look at you. You are so damn cute,” he said. “You really need to relax a little. Don’t look at me like that. You got the day off. Now that you can’t say anything, let me tell you my news. I got the promotion. I wanted to tell you last night, but I never got the chance. No more traveling. None. And I can work from home sometimes if I need to. We’re there, lovely Rita. We’re finally there.”
# # #
Rita puts a baseball cap over her shoulder-length spiral-permed hair and grabs her keys. Her roommate yells from the stairwell, and she rushes out, pulling the door closed behind her.
“Hold on, Ame. I forgot my glove.”
“My god, Rita. Are you actually going to play?”
“Of course. It’s a fundraiser,” said Rita.
At the baseball field, she joins her sorority sisters and the guys from the fraternity that co-sponsored the event and they break into teams. Standing at second base following her double, she glances at the shortstop.
“Nice hit,” he says.
Panting from her sprint, she half-smiles.
“I’m Holden.”
“Rita,” she says, before turning her head to watch home plate. The hit is short and she stays at second. As she tries to inch toward third, Holden comes closer. She steps back on second. The next hit is pop-flied to Holden, and she watches him catch it, finally noticing how cute he is. As the final hit is drilled into the outfield on a bounce, Rita races for third and, waved ahead, darts for home. As she reaches home plate, she feels the softball slam her in her leg and she falls, the catcher standing right next to her.
“I am so sorry,” yells Holden, running in. “I had no idea you could run that fast. I thought I had plenty of time.”
Rita says nothing, but tries to stand. The pain in her left calf is unbearable, and she stumbles as she takes a step. Holden stops her fall and, putting his arm around her waist and hers around his shoulder, he helps her to the bleachers before jogging to the other side bleachers.
“Wait a minute,” she yells. “There’s still one more out.”
“No, he hit you. Remember?” says Amy.
“I touched the bag first.” Rita stands up and hops over to the fence.
The clouds overhead finally break and the game is called. As they all head to the fraternity house across the street, Holden finds Rita and asks if she is all right.
“Well, other than the giant welt on my leg and the fact that you were trying to fabricate an out, yeah I’m fine,” she says, grabbing the back of his arm as she trips on the tall grass.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, slipping his arm around her waist.
“Never mind,” she says, smiling, enjoying the tingling inside.
# # #
Rita, getting out of work early one afternoon, called her friend and planned to meet her at a playground. When she got there, she recognized several of the children as her friend’s neighbors’ children. Janet sat on a bench next to a stroller, which she absent-mindedly rolled back and forth while looking at the slide where Tony played. Rita watched as Tony climbed up the slide halfway, then turned and jumped off the side. She quickly considered turning around and heading for home, but Mia’s hand slipped from hers. As Mia ran over to the monkey bars, Rita watched as Tony ran toward his mother, holding a yellow dandelion in front of him, seeing nothing but her tired forced-smiling face.
Tony bumped into Mia and she fell down. She sat still for a moment, stunned, and then turned her now frowning face toward Rita. But before she could start crying, before Rita could take a step toward her, Tony bent down, put his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her up to standing.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you okay?”
Mia nodded.
“Here,” he said, holding out his flower. “Would you like this flower?” He looked up at his mother, then, smiling, looked back at Mia.
Mia said “No.”
Tony held Mia’s hand and led her to the slide he had just been playing on. She then led him toward the monkey bars. He ran toward his mother, then, handing the flower to his mother, leaned into the stroller and kissed the baby. As Tony ran back to the monkey bars, Rita smiled and felt fortunate that Mia had just made such a thoughtful, caring friend.
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Mothersdream
By
Nivi Engineer
Rita, mother of one, impending mother of a second, watched the boys play. Four four-year-old boys ran wild, behaving rather badly.
Tony wielded a plastic golf club, which he waved in the air like a sword. “Admit defeat. You will never beat me.”
Joe waved back with his own golf club sword. “I will never surrender to the likes of you. Hai-Ya!”
Tony dropped his club and walked over to Joe. “No, no. Hold the club with both hands when you say ‘Hai-Ya!’”
Meanwhile, Bill and Andy charged screaming into the couch, climbed up, then jumped out as far as they could, taking breaks by tossing couch pillows toward Tony and Joe, who would strike them with their swords.
“They shouldn’t be here,” thought Rita. “What are their parents thinking? Bringing them to a new years party when they can’t take care of them.” Her own two-year-old lay sleeping upstairs in their friends’ son’s bed, asleep since her bedtime of eight o’clock, oblivious to the noise below.
She imagined these boys, years later, bored, on a late summer evening, filling in details from what she had overheard from her own eighth-graders.
# # #
Tossing a baseball or a football or a tennis ball around in Joe’s backyard, Tony and Joe wait for the signal. The screen door slams shut with a “Bye Mom” shout. A few seconds later, a tennis ball flies through the air over the back fence.
“You guys there?”
“Hey Bill. Yep. You getting Andy or should we?” calls Tony.
“I’ll get him. You got the stuff?”
Joe pats the backpack he has just picked up from the edge of the driveway and puts it over one shoulder. “Right here.”
“Good. See you in a minute.”
Tony and Joe get on their bikes and race to Andy’s house, where Bill and Andy are standing next to their bikes at the edge of the driveway.
“Woohoo!” shouts Joe.
“Yeah, well, I was watching the backpack. You’ve got to be careful with that,” says Tony. “Hey, Andy.”
“Hey. Where to tonight?”
“I was thinking we could go down to Shaker and find a few houses there,” says Tony.
“I don’t know,” says Bill. “I gotta get back in time tonight. Mom’s already pissed.”
“God, you’re such a loser, Bill,” says Joe, glancing at Tony.
“I probably shouldn’t be out that late either,” says Andy. “I have to get up early tomorrow.”
“That’s fine. We don’t have to go at all. We could just go home and let our mommies tuck us into bed. C’mon Joe.” Tony starts pedaling. Joe follows.
“Hey, wait up. We’re coming,” yells Bill, quickly mounting his bike and racing after the others.
Andy watches the others for a moment, shaking his head, then mounts his bike and rides.
Tony leads them around the lake and down onto one of the side streets in Shaker with the big houses. As he rides, he assesses each house, looking for the perfect conditions. He passes South Woodland before slowing down. He turns down one of the side streets, and then points to a small mint-green colonial on his right. They ride past, quickly glancing at their target.
They ride down two blocks before turning left and heading for the playground. Letting his bike fall on the grass, Tony gracefully runs up the slide and settles onto his perch on the wall next to the steering wheel. Joe walks up the tires without using his hands. Bill tries to run up the slide but slips halfway up and climbs up using his hands, his face red. Andy walks slowly to the jungle gym, sits on the bottom of the slide and lies back, resting his head on his hands. The four sit silently, listening to the crickets and to Bill’s labored breathing.
“Did you watch the game last night?” says Andy.
Nobody answers.
“Well, Rodriguez’s catch in the seventh kicked butt. Totally saved the game. And his double in the eighth…” Andy continues.
“Oh yeah, I saw the highlights for that,” says Joe. “Did you see the double play in the fifth?”
“Hey, yeah. That was amazing,” says Bill.
“I don’t think he really made it,” says Andy.
Tony snorts. “You wouldn’t.”
Silence.
“It was a close call,” says Joe.
More silence.
After a while, Tony stands up at the top of the slide and clears his throat. Bill and Joe scramble to get to their feet; still lying down, Andy looks up the slide at Tony without rising.
“It’s time,” says Tony. “Let’s do it.”
Andy stands up and walks to his bike. Tony runs down the slide, followed by Joe, and then Bill, who slips after two steps and slides down the bottom half. They ride back to the mint green house. They drop their bikes on the tree lawn in front of the brick colonial next door. They huddle around Tony, who is opening the backpack. Joe grabs two rolls of toilet paper and runs around the front lawn, tossing the rolls over branches and bushes. Bill grabs the can of shaving gel and follows Joe’s path, spraying the bushes and grass. Andy pulls out a 20-ounce plastic cola bottle, half-filled with the works, opens it and waits. Bill and Joe return to their bikes, Tony walks to the front door, and Andy walks to the birdbath. Tony waves his left hand, and Andy drops the crumpled piece of foil inside, replaces the cap, and tosses the bottle onto the ground between the birdbath and the stone bench. The doorbell rings as Tony cuts the wire, and Tony and Andy run to their bikes. As a light turns on upstairs, the boys ride off, laughing and howling.
# # #
Rita picked up her son’s hat, which he has learned to pull off. She rose and carried him to a shadier seat, escaping for the moment the oppressive July heat. She sat next to the woman she remembered from New Years as Tony’s mother. They sat watching their children play, Tony was climbing the slide; her own daughter sat on a tricycle, trying to reach the pedals. Soon, Joe showed up and, seeing Tony, screamed ‘Toneeee’ and ran to him. The two then proceeded to climb halfway up the slide then jump off.
“For the record,” said Janet, Tony’s mother, as she stood up and walked over to say hello to Joe’s mother. “Tony was behaving just fine until Joe showed up.”
Rita smiled sympathetically. She had seen her own daughter act more rambunctiously around her friend’s sons than when she played at home. Her innermost fear was that - despite reading countless parenting books, talking to her children and not at them, engaging their cooperation, and encouraging their autonomy – her children may still grow up to become vandals, smokers, drunks, drug addicts, or criminals. How can peer pressure not lead her to do questionable things when she’s older when her friends already influence her now?
# # #
“C’mon, Tony. My mom won’t be home for another hour and a half,” says Mia, outside the school. “As long as you guys are quiet when she calls to check up on me, we’ll be fine.”
“Well,” says Tony, slipping his arm around her waist, “if you’re going to be all alone, maybe I could keep you company. I mean, the guys are pretty loud, you know.”
Mia smiles and leans in to kiss her boyfriend, who wraps his arms around her.
# # #
Rita gasped.
“Are you all right?” said Lisa.
Rita looked around. Seeing her daughter, Mia, still sitting on the tricycle, she recognized her surroundings and relaxed. A little. “I’m fine. Sorry, you were saying?”
“Yeah, don’t believe Janet. We live behind them, and my son Andy likes to play with Tony. Tony bullies him so bad, saying ‘You can’t play with that because you’re not old enough.’ The kid is six months older than Andy,” said Lisa.
“But she’s so nice,” said Rita.
“Well, sometimes it doesn’t matter what the parents are like. You know, there are so many influences in kids’ lives once they start school.”
If she’s trying to make me relax, thought Rita, it’s not working.
# # #
The tears streamed down her cheeks, a fitting accompaniment to Jay’s screams. Two a.m., Tuesday night, early September. With a meeting in the morning before school starts, Rita needed a good night’s sleep.
“Shhh. Please, go to sleep,” Rita whispered, rocking Jay in her arms. Diapered, fed, and burped, her eight-month-old son should be sleeping. “What is wrong? Are you hurt? I can’t do this.” She rested her son’s head on her shoulder, still rocking, and he settled down to a whimper. She rocked him for a few more minutes before she was convinced that he was asleep. She stood up slowly, slowly, stepping so softly she practically glided to the crib. As she pulled him away from her chest, he stirred, and she froze, debating between pulling him back to her for a few more minutes and quickly setting him in the crib to let him adjust. She caught sight of the clock – two fifteen – and decided he would have to get himself to sleep now. The moment Jay’s back touched the crib, the crying resumed. She screamed soundlessly and walked out, closing the nursery door behind her.
She plopped down onto her empty bed, and sighed. She closed her eyes and was asleep instantly.
# # #
Rita parks her car and gets out. Her ten-year-old Camry is the youngest car in the parking lot. She pulls out the post-it note from her purse, and double checks the address.
“Don’t judge,” she tells herself. “Never judge.”
“But she shouldn’t be here,” she answers. “This is all wrong. Where did I go wrong?”
“You did your best,” she says. “Now just love her.”
She reaches the door and knocks. The door opens and there stands Mia, dressed in her cap and gown.
“Are you ready to go?” says Rita.
“I don’t know,” says Mia, “maybe I shouldn’t go.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “You’ve earned this. Don’t stop now.”
“But…”
“What? People will talk? So what? You will get your diploma.”
“But what’s the use? It’s not like I’m going to use it,” says Mia.
“Of course you are.” Rita unlocks the car and they climb in.
“Mom, since when do you need a high school diploma to change diapers and stay up all night?”
“You need it to go to college,” says Rita, starting the car.
“And how is that supposed to happen?”
She reaches her hand over and places it on her daughter’s hand. “We’ll figure it out, sweetie. Everything will be fine.”
Rita watches from the bleachers, anxiously waiting for her daughter’s name to be called, so afraid that in the end, Mia will either not be able to make it or she will talk herself into sneaking away – again. But finally, her row stands up, and Rita watches her daughter’s figure waddle forward, climb the stairs, and walk across the stage to accept her diploma.
“So where do you want to go for dinner?” Rita asks Mia.
“Actually, let’s go to the hospital.”
“Wh-“ Rita looks over and sees Mia’s eyes are full of tears with an expression of fear she cannot hide from her mother. “It’s time?”
Mia nods.
# # #
“Mommy?”
Rita opened her eyes. The darkness confused her.
“Mommy? I vomited.”
Mia stood next to the bed, her face six inches from Rita’s face. The smell of vomit wafted from her daughter’s mouth and Rita sat up. Three thirty, read the alarm clock.
“Mommy? Where’s Daddy?”
Rita looked to the other side of the bed and felt her eyes fill with water. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, refusing to let herself cry.
“He’ll be back tomorrow, sweetie. Remember? He went to Chicago for work.” They walked to the bathroom.
“And he’ll fly on an airplane and come back and come in and pick me up and twirl me and call me his pumpkin.”
Mia gargled and spat, then the two walked across the hall into her bedroom. Mia climbed into bed, and Rita pulled up the blanket. Rita kissed her daughter, then walked slowly to the doorway, where she turned and looked upon Mia’s smiling face, so relaxed and innocent. In that moment, she envied her daughter, and vowed to keep her children – for as long as she could – free from the worries that would give them sleepless nights. Because, to her, Jay’s crying was not just a rough night of teething or gas, it could be a sign that Jay is deeply troubled and is being haunted by some inner demons that will plague him throughout his life; Mia’s vomiting was not just a one-time random occurrence, but rather could be the start of a horrible stomach flu or, if left unchecked, could lead to countless diseases and ailments, or could be a sign of bulimia.
Of course she was overreacting. She berated herself for giving her nightmares any consideration, something she never did before. She had always considered herself rather rational and reasonable. Any foolish doubts that would try to sneak into her mind would be sent away. She always knew she would be a teacher, and remained convinced that it was the right choice even after she learned how little money teachers made. When she met Holden, she never doubted that it would work. She never worried that he wouldn’t compromise, wouldn’t be an equal partner in life. When his job sent him traveling, she never worried that he was having an affair. When she became pregnant with Mia, she knew he would be an excellent father. Even with his traveling, he accompanied her at every pre-natal doctor’s visit. When he was in town – and since Mia’s birth, his traveling had decreased significantly – he took care of his “two ladies.” She also knew that she would keep teaching. Mia had adjusted wonderfully to daycare, as had Jay. And while her life tended to get quite busy at times – and downright exhausting during the school year when Holden went on his trips, so that she would have to be a full-time teacher and mother – she still loved her job. And she still helped people. And she still believed that she was making the world a better place.
But she wasn’t happy. She wasn’t now, and had not been for a while. She could not remember exactly when she stopped looking forward to her children’s coming milestones and started fearing for their futures. When Jay was born, she was happy. She saw Mia holding Jay (with Holden’s help, of course), and she was so happy she cried. And that, she recalled, was the last time she cried happy tears. So moving was that scene in the hospital that reality could not possibly live up to the idyllic future she had envisioned in that moment.
She recovered from childbirth much more quickly than after Mia – physically. Holden stayed home for one week following his son’s birth; three days longer than with Mia. After he returned to the office – although she was grateful for the time he had spent at home and had her mother around to help – she began to resent him and his ability to leave. He came home smiling everyday, and told her little about work, although she did hear some of what went on during his frequent phone dialogues with his colleagues. He talked about mergers and business plans, while she talked about breastfeeding (which wasn’t going well) and diapers (which would run out shortly). Mia had quickly grown bored with Jay, who did nothing and took up all of Mommy’s time and energy. Rita was usually too tired to play with Mia, who then grew closer to her grandmother. As months went by, Mia alternated between doting on her baby brother (running upstairs to get him a blanket, giving him the sippy cup out of her mouth when he started to cry) to completely antagonizing him (pinching his hand when he was sleeping, snatching the pacifier from his mouth). Rita found herself yelling at Mia many times, much more often than she ever had before.
She had read the books. She knew better than to tell her daughter to stop playing with the drums “because your brother is sleeping,” and instead would say it was “because it’s giving me a headache” (which was true) or “because it isn’t drumming time” (which rarely worked) or – she shuddered whenever she did this “because I said so.” But as Jay grew older, and from a sitting position started getting into more of Mia’s toys, things got even tougher. Mia often pushed him down and pulled things out of his hands. Rita tried reasoning with her, giving her timeouts, praising her whenever she was nice to Jay, even yelling at her out of sheer frustration (which never worked, but rather made Mia scream and plummet into a tantrum). Several times a day – between meals, snacks, feedings, diaper changes, baths, stories, and cleaning up after the kids – she found herself feeling so incredibly alone. When Holden would call, she wouldn’t feel like talking. It was never the right time to talk; either she was tending to the children or she wanted to savor the momentary lull – which was likely to be disturbed by the ringing of the phone. She would get upstairs to shower when Holden came home. She would come down, cook dinner while Holden played with the children, and they would all sit down to eat together.
By the time they finally put the children in bed, set out and ironed their clothes for the next day, cleaned the dishes, and picked up the toys that the kids had scattered while playing with their father, Rita was exhausted. She just wanted to be alone for a while, and found Holden’s enthusiasm at finally being home overwhelming. When he returned from being gone for a few days, she found the transition even harder, having settled into a comfortable routine and looking forward to her alone time.
In bed, as they talked in the dark before dozing off, Holden complained that she didn’t seem happy to see him. Too tired to argue, the hour being too late to start a dialogue, too anxious about having to wake up early and start the exhausting routine all over again, Rita simply kissed him and reassured him that she was thrilled to see him and hopefully he hadn’t misread her tiredness as a lack of affection. She then turned over and closed her eyes, and, telling herself to act more lovingly toward him the next day, she fell asleep.
Work was her retreat, her time away from home, away from vomit and diapers and screams. It was a place where she could talk to other adults about things other than when the house could get painted, who would go to the grocery store on the way home, how his parents had invited them to dinner after he got back from the airport the next night, and whether the bills had been paid. She would talk about plays she would never get to see, teacher’s conferences she wanted to attend, educational journals she never had time to read, and former students that had come back to visit that she was too busy with her children to see.
Life was happening without her. Her life was a scratched record, stuck on the same tired loop, wearing her down. She grimaced as she thought of the outdated reference, realizing how old she felt. She was stuck. She could see the world moving around her, and could notice her children growing and having a carefree life. She gave them that. She sacrificed her own life of leisure to give that to her kids. And she didn’t regret it, didn’t resent them for it. But she did, on occasion, wish that her sacrifice be acknowledged and appreciated. Sure, she got a card and a trip to the spa on Mother’s Day, but on other days, when there weren’t signs, commercials, sales, special Mother’s Day Buffet Lunches and a million reminders screaming “Buy this and spend this money on this particular day,” she didn’t get anything. Consciences were cleared and mother’s overlooked until the following April when the advertising blitz began again only to stress out the rest of the world lest women get snippy and mad that they were forgotten.
Usually, she heard the thoughtless comment, the “Oh, dinner’s not ready?” or “You didn’t happen to pick up the dry cleaning, did you?” or “Wow, this place is a mess” or even, “If you have a chance tomorrow…” She knew she was overly sensitive lately, reading more into every comment than was intended, understanding that her husband’s life was not simple. But the fight she never had the energy to start was eloquently rehearsed and pushed aside over and over again.
“You do know,” she would start, “that you work the same number of hours now as you did before we had Mia and Jay.”
“Well…” he would respond.
“And back then, we split the household chores fifty-fifty.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Since having Mia, somehow I’ve had to cook and clean, maintain the house, hold down my job, and take care of the kids.”
“I do a lot around here!”
“Yes, but less than you used to. Sure, you play with the kids, but you’re their dad. You’re supposed to spend time with them; it shouldn’t be a favor to me.”
And then she would continue to resent him for having an easy life, for doing more than his father or her father ever did. She would suspect that whenever, in the future, he did help out more, that it was all for show, to prove to her that he really does do a lot. And he, in turn, would resent her for putting him in the impossible position of having to prove himself without being believed.
Knowing the wedge it would drive between them, Rita said nothing. She knew that a good day with Holden would make up for the worst day with the kids, and that even the best day with the kids would be ruined if she fought – and couldn’t make up – with Holden. Rita and Holden. The two of them predated the children, and would – hopefully – still be together after the children grew up and left. So never would she jeopardize what they had.
Rita awoke Saturday morning and found Holden had already gotten up. The clock read 9:30, yet the children’s rooms were silent. She went downstairs, expecting to find bowls, spoons, and cereal boxes on the dining table, milk still sitting on the counter; a family room littered with toys, Holden on the sofa reading the paper. What she found instead was a clean house and a note on the dining table.
You know you talk in your sleep, don’t you?
She had no idea what that meant, or what she should do. She tried to remember her dream, but could not. She went upstairs, showered, then returned downstairs in time to hear the phone ring.
“Have you eaten?” said Holden.
“Not yet.”
“I presume you’ve showered?”
“Yes… Where are you?”
“Meet me at the Inn on Coventry in ten minutes.”
When she got there, she found Holden standing out front, holding a single snapdragon, smiling. Seeing him, she smiled and felt inflated and light. They hugged.
“Where are the kids?” she asked when they sat down.
“At my parents’. We have to go there for dinner tonight anyhow, so I dropped them off early.”
“But… you haven’t seen them in a week. I thought you’d--.”
“How long have I known you?”
“Ten years,” said Rita.
“So I know you pretty well, right?”
“I guess,”
“You guess. Nice. Well, even if you didn’t talk in your sleep, I can still tell when you need a break. I know I haven’t been pulling my weight around here, but that’s going to change.”
Rita felt her face grow warm as she imagined what she exactly she had said the night before.
“Wait, what do you mean I talk in my sleep?”
“You don’t remember? You sat up and started talking to me, only you were facing the foot of the bed. You said something like ‘before the kids we used to split the chores. Why should I do everything now? It’s not fair!’ And then you lay back down, rolled onto your side, and didn’t respond when I asked you if you wanted to talk about it.”
“When was this?”
“Around three o’clock.”
“I’m sorry,” said Rita, and then she rambled, “I didn’t want to, I don’t want to talk about this. It’s not fair to you. I know you work hard and I’m teaching fewer classes now and I didn’t mean to, and I don’t want it to create a wedge between us. You’re too important.”
“Shut up,” said Holden, laughing.
Rita stuffed a large bite of pancake in her mouth.
“Look at you. You are so damn cute,” he said. “You really need to relax a little. Don’t look at me like that. You got the day off. Now that you can’t say anything, let me tell you my news. I got the promotion. I wanted to tell you last night, but I never got the chance. No more traveling. None. And I can work from home sometimes if I need to. We’re there, lovely Rita. We’re finally there.”
# # #
Rita puts a baseball cap over her shoulder-length spiral-permed hair and grabs her keys. Her roommate yells from the stairwell, and she rushes out, pulling the door closed behind her.
“Hold on, Ame. I forgot my glove.”
“My god, Rita. Are you actually going to play?”
“Of course. It’s a fundraiser,” said Rita.
At the baseball field, she joins her sorority sisters and the guys from the fraternity that co-sponsored the event and they break into teams. Standing at second base following her double, she glances at the shortstop.
“Nice hit,” he says.
Panting from her sprint, she half-smiles.
“I’m Holden.”
“Rita,” she says, before turning her head to watch home plate. The hit is short and she stays at second. As she tries to inch toward third, Holden comes closer. She steps back on second. The next hit is pop-flied to Holden, and she watches him catch it, finally noticing how cute he is. As the final hit is drilled into the outfield on a bounce, Rita races for third and, waved ahead, darts for home. As she reaches home plate, she feels the softball slam her in her leg and she falls, the catcher standing right next to her.
“I am so sorry,” yells Holden, running in. “I had no idea you could run that fast. I thought I had plenty of time.”
Rita says nothing, but tries to stand. The pain in her left calf is unbearable, and she stumbles as she takes a step. Holden stops her fall and, putting his arm around her waist and hers around his shoulder, he helps her to the bleachers before jogging to the other side bleachers.
“Wait a minute,” she yells. “There’s still one more out.”
“No, he hit you. Remember?” says Amy.
“I touched the bag first.” Rita stands up and hops over to the fence.
The clouds overhead finally break and the game is called. As they all head to the fraternity house across the street, Holden finds Rita and asks if she is all right.
“Well, other than the giant welt on my leg and the fact that you were trying to fabricate an out, yeah I’m fine,” she says, grabbing the back of his arm as she trips on the tall grass.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, slipping his arm around her waist.
“Never mind,” she says, smiling, enjoying the tingling inside.
# # #
Rita, getting out of work early one afternoon, called her friend and planned to meet her at a playground. When she got there, she recognized several of the children as her friend’s neighbors’ children. Janet sat on a bench next to a stroller, which she absent-mindedly rolled back and forth while looking at the slide where Tony played. Rita watched as Tony climbed up the slide halfway, then turned and jumped off the side. She quickly considered turning around and heading for home, but Mia’s hand slipped from hers. As Mia ran over to the monkey bars, Rita watched as Tony ran toward his mother, holding a yellow dandelion in front of him, seeing nothing but her tired forced-smiling face.
Tony bumped into Mia and she fell down. She sat still for a moment, stunned, and then turned her now frowning face toward Rita. But before she could start crying, before Rita could take a step toward her, Tony bent down, put his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her up to standing.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you okay?”
Mia nodded.
“Here,” he said, holding out his flower. “Would you like this flower?” He looked up at his mother, then, smiling, looked back at Mia.
Mia said “No.”
Tony held Mia’s hand and led her to the slide he had just been playing on. She then led him toward the monkey bars. He ran toward his mother, then, handing the flower to his mother, leaned into the stroller and kissed the baby. As Tony ran back to the monkey bars, Rita smiled and felt fortunate that Mia had just made such a thoughtful, caring friend.
posted by BrainHickey | 1:49 PM
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