I Have the Answer

by Kelly Fordon

  “I’d love to get together, but I’m just swamped with the new account . . .”

  “How about we go to the zoo a week from Thursday, Bridget? Let’s put that in our calendars, and then, unless the Frye deal goes through, it’s definitely a date.”

  Bridget had decided early on that she would never make her children feel like they were curios hung on the wall next to the coats at parties. Unlike her mother, she would devote her life to her family. For a while it had seemed like a great plan. She’d been proud of herself for breaking the chain, but now she wasn’t sure whether she’d achieved all that much. She’d behaved with great restraint, it was true. But it was possible that by trying to avoid her mother’s mistakes, she’d gone too far in the other direction. If she’d said something snide to her mother, her mother would have shot a poison dart right back at her. One time she’d told her mother to leave her alone, and her mother had slapped her so hard that the hand imprint lasted eight hours. Her mother had won a momentary victory by silencing her outbursts, but she had paid the ultimate price: a daughter who avoided her at all costs.

  Bridget was proud of the fact that her first two children actually missed her when she left the house. They told her what they had been up to at school. Keira liked a boy named Rod the entire time she was in grade school. Eight years of Rod, Rod, Rod. Brendan had wanted to start his own fly-fishing business since they lived in an area where fly-fishing was the rage and she’d made sure he had all the supplies, helped him advertise. When he graduated, salutatorian, he’d said she was the most important influence in his life.

  But it had all been so short-lived. Both Brendan and Keira had left home without a glance back, and even though William had been sweet when he was younger, for the last two years he’d made her miserable with his late nights and ranting temper tantrums. After all the sacrifices, what did Bridget have now? She had twenty extra pounds, blank canvases, and a husband who spent all of his waking life on the golf course. It was not that she’d expected something in return, per se, but she had expected to forge deep connections, something to fill the void. She’d wanted her children to know they mattered, but perhaps she had needed to feel that as well.

  A few minutes later, Bridget was awakened by what sounded like quacking. Where in the world was it coming from? She shot up in bed and looked around. It was her iPhone.

  “Hello?” she asked.

  On the other end, William was laughing. “It’s called the ‘duck’ ringtone, Mom. I changed it while you were sleeping. Isn’t it hilarious? Can you come downstairs? I have a quick question for you.”

  Bridget dragged herself out of bed. Why was she even going downstairs? Maybe he really was a narcissist; what other explanation could there be for a boy who would run his mother through a shredder one minute and then call her the next minute as if nothing had happened at all?

  Down in the kitchen, William asked, “Can you believe I leave in six days?”

  “Nope,” Bridget said, aghast at the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink. Where had they all come from?

  “You know I was thinking . . . I was going through my stuff. Do you think we could go shopping one of these days?”

  When he put a hand on her shoulder, Bridget tried not to flinch. “So just a minute ago I was ‘soooo stupid,’ and now you want to go shopping?” she asked.

  “I know, Mom. I felt terrible about that. I don’t know why I said it. You’re the best.” He removed his hand and went over to the cupboard to extract yet another bowl.

  “Do you have any idea how mean you are sometimes?”

  “It was just funny to see you dancing.”

  Funny.

  Bridget woke up the next morning to what sounded like a gorilla slashing through the jungle. It took her a minute to realize it was just her own son running down the hall. His feet going down the stairs sounded like boulders tumbling off a cliff during an avalanche. Why couldn’t he be thoughtful? Didn’t he know that there were other people on the planet and that they might need sleep?

  Now that he had made it downstairs before her, there would be no chance to make coffee before facing him. From the kitchen below, she heard a plate clatter on the granite countertop, the dishwasher open and slam shut repeatedly, a pot clanking on the stove, and the television switched on, the volume increasing to a deafening range.

  Bridget opened another cupboard and noticed he had used every last cup. “I mean what is this mess? When I went to bed last night, the kitchen was clean.”

  “Some of the guys came over to watch a movie,” he said. “Sorry about that. I’ll take care of it after I do my lawns.”

  “When will that be exactly?” Bridget asked.

  “I’ll be back around 11.”

  Bridget had taken Tylenol PM. Perhaps that was why she felt so fuzzy. “I hope you didn’t wake your father,” she said.

  “He didn’t come down,” William said with a shrug. “Anyway, I really need some new shoes. It could be fun to go shopping later today. We could go out to the mall, and then we could stop into Jeepers.”

  Bridget raised her eyebrows.

  “Kidding!” William said, with a grin.

  For years William had been obsessed with Jeepers, the indoor amusement park at the mall. Bridget would take him along with a friend at least once a month. How she had hated Jeepers! The loud whizbanging of the machines, the incessant chiming and bells that signaled success at the pinball machine, the inevitable shrieking when someone dropped their popcorn or their candy or when the small roller coaster provoked nausea.

  During those outings, Bridget would sit in a booth with a book while William and his friend ran through the maze of gadgets, returning sporadically to collect more Jeepers coins.

  “Brother, the things I’ve done for you,” Bridget said.

  “I know it, Mommy. I love you.” William bent down to kiss the top of her head.

  This is all for the shoes, she thought, and I’m licking it up like rotten milk.

  At Jeepers later that afternoon, Bridget asked the attendant at the front door if they could just walk through once for old times’ sake. Immediately the noise hit her like a slap. The zooming, screaming kids, the slushy machine whirring. She wanted to stick her fingers in her ears and scream.

  She and William walked over to the miniature roller coaster. One boy, around four or five, was riding in a car, looping around and around. He rode with his arms in the air, and every time he passed his harried-looking mother, he yelled, “Whoa!”

  “Whoa! Look at you!” she called. Then, when he was out of sight, she glanced down at her phone for a second. But a second was all she got, because around he came again.

  “Whoa!” they both called out to each other.

  William looked over at Bridget, and they both laughed. “This roller coaster used to seem enormous!” he said. The pint-sized car came to a halt and the little kid jumped off. William looked like a giant standing next to him.

  “You never stopped screaming,” Bridget said. “You screamed from the moment they put you on until I pulled you off.”

  “In fear?”

  Bridget shook her head. “All of these kids would be crying and having meltdowns on the little tilt-a-whirl or this tiny ride here and you’d be running from one end to the other like ‘What’s next?!’ No fear at all.”

  “I wish I felt that way now,” William said, still looking at the kid and his mother. The kid was trying to convince his mother to stay for one more ride. The mother kept saying it was time to go, but the kid wasn’t having it.

  Something in his tone made Bridget pause. Was he scared now? That thought hadn’t occurred to her. Her anger toward him lately had been so all-encompassing, her energy had been used up just surviving this stage. She hadn’t spent time analyzing what was behind all the nastiness.

  Before she could give it more thought, William clapped her on the back. “I’m ready to hit Red Robin.”

  In Red Robin, William ordered not one but two cheeseburgers, the sw
eet potato fries, and a large chocolate milkshake. He told her that in China he would stay in hostels that cost ten dollars a night.

  “That sounds impossible,” Bridget said.

  “I know. Too good to be true, right?” he shoved a fry into his mouth and looked around. In the corner, a teenage girl with a frizzy ponytail was being serenaded by the waiters for her birthday.

  “Won’t you get lonely?” Bridget asked.

  “Hostels are great places to meet people. Plus, I’ll have Zack with me for the first leg of the trip.”

  “But why China? I just don’t get it.” It was sad that he was leaving this week and she’d never asked this question before, but then again, it’s hard to know anything about a person who refuses to speak with you.

  “I want to see the Great Wall. One time in AP World History, Mr. Anderson read a poem by Mao Zedong: ‘He who doesn’t reach the Great Wall is no hero.’ For some reason, that line really hit me. If I can make it to the Great Wall, I can do anything.”

  Later that night, Ryan said, “Your problem is that you let him walk all over you. One minute you’re crying because he’s making fun of you, and the next minute, you’re out buying him new clothes.”

  This was true, Bridget knew, but what was there to say in response? Her behavior was inexplicable.

  That night in bed, Bridget tried to envision William as a baby napping in this very bed. She remembered how, in those days, she used to pray that he would fall asleep for at least ten minutes so she could rest. On the rare occasions when he did, she’d turn toward him and study his beautiful face. Sometimes she’d pick up his tiny fingers one by one and gaze at them.

  When she opened her eyes, Ryan was staring down at her as he tied his tie, his shirt bulging over his ample stomach. “What are you up to today?” he asked.

  “That depends. I was going to clean out the guest room, but William put a damper on my cleaning project, so now I’m lacking motivation.”

  “You’re supposed to take it in stride, remember?”

  Bridget tried not to roll her eyes. Ryan’s version of “taking it in stride” was drinking beer and watching Curb Your Enthusiasm.

  “Maybe it just eats at me the way he’s morphed into the antichrist.”

  “That’s nothing new,” Ryan said, sitting down to put on his shoes. He went into the closet. “I told you how mean I was to my mother. He’ll grow out of it,” he said.

  How comforting, Bridget thought.

  Finally, the day of departure arrived. The night before, William and his friends had partied in the basement until nearly 3 a.m. Although she and Ryan both had earplugs in, they could feel the vibrations from the TV, which was blaring noise from some apocalyptic video game.

  “The only reason I’m not going down there is this is the last night we will have to deal with this,” Ryan had whispered around 2 a.m.

  Bridget had resolved not to wake William up the following morning. If he missed his flight, it was his problem. But the next morning she came down to see his duffel packed and waiting next to the front door. There were no dishes in the sink or in the basement. Apparently, William didn’t actually want to burn the house down on his way out.

  William, himself, was up and showered with a half hour to spare before his 10 a.m. departure for the airport. He had remembered his Chinese/English dictionary and his passport. The car on the way to the airport was filled with several rounds of false cheer and good wishes. Ryan handed William a small envelope, which contained the locations and phone numbers of all the American consuls in China.

  At the security gate, they met up with William’s friend Zack, who was accompanying him on the first two months of the journey, as well as Zack’s parents, who had come to see him off.

  William hugged Bridget, then Ryan. “I’m going to miss you guys,” he said.

  “You too,” Ryan and Bridget both said.

  And then, how was it possible? Suddenly it was true. Bridget could barely hold back her tears. She could not have been more surprised.

  Zack hugged his parents and the boys got into the security line.

  “There they go,” Zack’s mother said. She looked at Bridget and shrugged. Then she looked at her watch.

  “We’ve got to run,” she said. Their youngest son had a playoff baseball game at noon. With four children still at home, they might not even notice Zack was missing. Bridget remembered that she’d been so busy, she’d registered just the tiniest blip of sadness when Keira left home.

  Zack’s parents departed, but Ryan and Bridget stood and waited as Zack and William wound round and round through the security line. William had his small duffel slung over his shoulder. It was going to be hot in Beijing, so he’d only packed shorts and T-shirts. Maddeningly, in the end, he’d decided not to take the new sneakers they’d purchased at the mall because he didn’t want to ruin them.

  Finally, they made it to the security guard and handed over their passports. Bridget watched William take off his shoes. She hoped he wouldn’t forget to pick his passport back up after it went through the scanner. She stood up on her tiptoes to try to get a better look. She would be surprised if she didn’t get a frantic call from Asia at some point because he’d lost some vital document. Just a month ago he’d misplaced his keys to the pickup, and Ryan had had to pay $600 to replace the locks.

  Once they’d picked up their bags and replaced their shoes, Zack and William turned to Ryan and Bridget and waved before turning a corner and heading down the corridor toward their gate.

  Bridget wandered through the house for the next week in a daze. It was not due to a lack of options. In fact, all she had to do was look around the neighborhood for numerous ideas about how to spend her free time now that her children were gone. The vast majority of empty nesters seemed to kill time exercising. A day didn’t pass without one of her mature neighbors exclaiming that they were in the best shape of their lives. But exercising held no appeal for Bridget. It seemed to her that no matter how buff your body, if you ended up in a line-up next to a twenty-year-old, you didn’t stand a chance. And wasn’t exercising the thing you did when you lacked imagination? Volunteering was an option and, of course, she ought to get back to the art. There was no reason to put it off now. Another idea was to get a dog—from strollers to leashes—every woman she knew attached herself first to one and then the other.

  One day, a week after William’s departure, Bridget finished her coffee and wandered upstairs to his room, where she sat for a long time staring at his log cabin wallpaper. They’d repapered the wall when he was ten. The night before Christmas, they’d moved a sleeping William to their bed and spent the night constructing the bunk bed. Then they’d put him back in the lower bunk. When he woke up, he’d run down to the living room, and Bridget, seeing his radiant face, realized that nothing she’d ever bought for herself had given her half as much pleasure.

  She lay down on the lower bunk, which had sagged into a crevasse under the weight of William’s 180-pound, 5′10″ frame. All these years, this had been the first thing he’d seen in the morning. On his bookshelf she thumbed through the chronicle of his reading life: Dr. Seuss, Arthur, Harry Potter, The Chronicles of Narnia, Lord of the Rings. Why had he kept his tenth grade AP US History book? Wasn’t that the book he’d thrown against the wall in a fit of frustration?

  Bridget took the AP US History book down from William’s shelf and paged through it until she hit on the chapter on Jamestown and realized that although she’d heard the name a million times, she had absolutely no memory of what had taken place there. She sat down on the bed and began to read.

  Sometime later, Bridget was awakened by the sound of a duck quacking. She opened her eyes. She was still on William’s bed with the history book open beside her. She rolled over and extracted the iPhone from her pocket.

  The text included a picture of William standing with his hand on a brick guardrail. Around him, crowds of mostly Asian people were bent at forty-five-degree angles trudging up a steep incline.
William was standing in front of a watchtower. In several of the small openings in the turret, people were peeking through the apertures, smiling and waving down at the pedestrians below. In the background, the wall wound through a jumble of green hills before disappearing into the horizon. William stood in the middle of the photo, at the apex, giving the thumbs up.

  “I made it!” his message read.

  It was amazing to think that someone she’d given birth to was all the way on the other side of the world, wandering around, seeing the sights. Bridget pressed on the picture and zoomed in so that she could view everything around William: the hills, the sweat-soaked shirt of another man leaning against the wall, a group of three boys in navy shorts and white T-shirts running past. She scrolled over the towers and the cobblestones and stopped when she saw a young girl holding the hand of a woman who might have been her mother. They were standing about ten feet away from William. When Bridget looked closer, she could see that the little girl was crying and the mother was looking up at those last ten steps before the summit, probably thinking, Why did I ever think this was a good idea?

  Bridget felt like a deity looking down on the whole scene from a great height. She wanted to reach down and pat the woman on the head.

  Acknowledgments

  First, I would like to thank my husband, Fred, and my children: Jack, Charlie, Megan, and Peter Fordon, who are the best people I know.

  I would also like to thank the writers who read and critiqued these stories: Whitney Bryant, Stephanie Early Green, Lolita Hernandez, Robin Martin, Linda Miller, Ellen Birkett Morris, Laura Hulthen Thomas, Joy Williams, and Alex Wilson.

  Thanks also to Will Allison for editing these stories and providing much-needed encouragement, as well as the editors of the journals who first published them.

  I’m so grateful for the Queens MFA program, as well as the Key West Literary Festival and the One Story Conference, where I kept on working and revising.

  I cannot begin to express how indebted I am to the Jentel Artist Residency in Banner, Wyoming, for a month-long residency, which was such a productive period for me, and also reminded me that peace and quiet is pretty sweet.