Beauty

by Christina Chiu

  He starts to cry. “Yes.”

  The moment stretches out. Vast, empty, cold. “It’s okay, Toby,” I start to say, but Alex grabs Toby by the collar of the shirt. “That’s not you saying it and you know it.”

  Toby shoves Alex away. “You know everything, right? You have everything, right? Well, you don’t know nothing.”

  Then they’re brawling. Plates knock into each other. Dishes slide. Glasses teeter.

  “Boys!” I yell, trying to get between them. “Stop it, stop it right now!”

  But they’re both bigger than me, and stronger. They hold on, their faces distorted with rage, punching and shoving as if to kill one another. Glasses tip. Plates fall. Food splatters over the carpet. Then Alex loses his footing. He slips backward. They careen toward the floor, Toby falling on top of Alex. Shit! The plate in his skull! Time slows, and yet everything happens faster than I can stop it.

  Then I’m screaming. The back of Alex’s head strikes the carpeted floor, making a sickening thud.

  Toby quickly shifts off Alex. Alex immediately sits up to show he’s okay. Still, I can’t stop. The sound gushes from my throat. Every ounce of terror I’ve held onto over the years roars out of me. When it finally subsides and there isn’t an ounce of energy left inside me, I collapse to my knees. “I’m sorry, Mom,” Toby pleads, trying to hold me.

  “It’s okay,” Alex says, touching and showing me his head. “I’m okay.”

  “Everything’s okay, Mom,” Toby says.

  Spilled grape juice drains onto the carpet. It’s reddish purple, thin and anemic. The boys help me to my room.

  Nearly two weeks later, the night before Alex leaves for college, I find Toby at 2 AM, huddled in the corner of the living room sofa. He’s clutching his phone to his chest. Who can he possibly be calling at this time of night? “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he says. Maybe it’s the moonlight, but he seems sickly pale.

  “Everything okay with Amanda? You have a fight or something?”

  “No.”

  I sit beside him on the sofa. “Sandwich? I was thinking about grilled cheese and ham.”

  He shrugs.

  “Or cookies—I got the chocolate-covered Oreos you like.”

  His eyes swell with tears.

  “Oh, Toby,” I say, putting an arm around him. “It’s okay, sweetheart. It really is.”

  “No, it’s not.” Warm tears bleed through my nightshirt onto my shoulder. “It’ll never be okay.”

  I want to tell him he’s wrong. Everything changes no matter how bad or bleak the situation may seem. But I know that feeling he’s describing. I’ve felt it before. It’s real. It deserves to be acknowledged.

  He starts to sob. Dark crescent moons pouch beneath his eyes. When he’s done, he lies limp against my shoulder.

  “I know I’ve been upset lately,” I say.

  “It’s all my fault.”

  “No, it’s not. I love you like a son and you love me like a mom. The adoption thing doesn’t change that. We don’t need a piece of paper to prove that.”

  He looks at me, his eyes half closed, and blinks as if the weight of his eyelids is a burden. He seems decades older than his age.

  “It’s time for bed,” I say. “You’re exhausted.”

  “Can I sleep in your room?”

  I fix the day bed in my bedroom. It’s against the window overlooking the garage. Toby gets under the comforter and winds it around himself.

  “Have I ever told you about my father?” I ask. “He left when I was about your age.”

  “You told me about this bed.”

  “Oh, yeah.” In fact, he’s lying on the opium bed my grandfather created. After Dad left us, Ma said she’d cleaved and fried it in the backyard barbecue. Only it turned up years later when Ma closed up her storage space. “Ma could be vindictive, but I guess it’s kind of funny when I think about it now,” I say.

  “Your dad deserved it,” Toby says. “From what you’ve told us, he’s kind of a dick.”

  “Maybe,” I laugh. “Look, I don’t mean to compare my father with yours—”

  “Don’t,” Toby says, cringing.

  “They’re nothing alike, actually.”

  “You can say that again,” Toby says, ghostly pale and recoiling into the comforter.

  “What I’m trying to say is—” My mind comes up empty. Finally, I say, “It’s like my closet. There’re all these clothes and shoes, you know? If I don’t wear them, they sit there and sit there. So then when I do wear them, there’s dust all over. No one else can see it, but it’s there like this invisible cloak around me. With me so far?”

  He shakes his head. No. Absolutely not.

  I sigh. “All this with your father? It just brings up all that dust, you know? From what happened with my own father. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

  He sneaks a hand out of the comforter and takes mine, hugging it to his cheek.

  “I don’t know why my father left. I always felt that maybe it was my fault somehow. Or, partly, anyway. Who knows. I’ll probably never know. But what I do know is this: I don’t want to go through the rest of my life living in all that dust from my father. It’s behind me now. It’s over. And I’m moving on.”

  “I want to move on, too,” he says.

  “You can,” I say. “You will.”

  “No, it never changes,” he says, shaking his head. “And it’s my fault for making you sad.”

  “It’s just dust, Toby. As sad as I am that you’re leaving, I get it, I really do. I know what it feels like to miss your father. I know what it feels like to want to be with him.”

  There’s a loud metal bang outside my bedroom window. Toby throws off the comforter and peers through the curtains. “Where’s my phone?” he rasps, his eyes bulging. “I need my phone!”

  “It’s just a raccoon,” I say, pointing at the garbage can lying on its side. A small creature rummages through the trash. As if it senses that we are watching, he turns and looks directly up at us, his shiny eyes marked by his distinctive black mask. “See?”

  Toby’s as pale as the moon. I have never seen him so terrified.

  “What’s going on with you?” I ask. “Toby, please tell me.”

  Toby shakes his head. “My Dad hates you.”

  “It’s hard for him not to have control over others,” I explain. “That’s all it is.”

  “I hate him sometimes.”

  “That’s normal,” I say. “You have a very complicated relationship, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t feel like you should be with him. Because you’re right. He is your father. And he deserves a chance to be one. I can’t stand in the way of that.”

  Toby starts to sob again.

  “I may not love your father anymore, but I’ll always love you, Toby. If I had to go through all of that craziness with him again, just so that I could be your mom for a few years, I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

  He looks at me with big eyes.

  “So, thank you,” I say. “Truth is I love Alex but I just never loved being a mom. Maybe I didn’t know how, you know? And you, when you came along, well, you made me feel like a good mom. It’s not so hard to love something once you feel good at it.” I kiss his head and hug him tightly, not letting up on the pressure until the tension drains from his body. Finally, he’s asleep.

  It’s the big day. A three hour trip to Cambridge. I’ll drive solo—not a great combination when you’re feeling exhausted. Alex is going with Jeff via limo. Toby’s supposed to come with me, but he wakes feeling sick. I touch his forehead again and find it cool. “I’m just tired,” he says, rolling away from me.

  “You want to stay home?”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Um, okay.” Way things have been going, I half expect him to come ch
asing after me as soon I hit the bottom landing of the steps. When he doesn’t, I gather sketches I’ve started in anticipation of school. Technically, they seem fine, yet, something doesn’t feel right. At least I’ll have time to think about them during the ride. Upstairs, it’s quiet. I don’t want to baby Toby, and yet, I don’t feel good about leaving him home alone. Just as I’m headed into the garage, I get an idea. “Toby?”

  He moans.

  “Why don’t you stop by Amanda’s later? I’ll call Connie. Maybe you can have lunch there?”

  “No, don’t,” he says. “I’m fine, okay? I just want to sleep. I’ll text Amanda later.”

  “Call me, then, okay?” The University’s parent lounge and resources fair—whatever that is—starts at 1 PM, and the official “Welcome” is set for three. If I get back on the road right away, I can be home by dinner. I get into the car and spread my sketches on the passenger seat beside me. The idea I want to develop in school is a high-end line of clothes specifically geared toward older women. The target audience would be between the ages of 50 and 70. Modern. Classy. Clean, elegant lines. With special emphasis on material—sweat-wicking “silk” for the Spring/Summer Collection; thermal itch-free “wool” for the Fall/Winter—and spectacularly sexy fit, with firm, Spanx-like support built into each particular garment, and tailored to each specific individual. Flat abs. A shapely waistline. A generous lift at both the bosom and buttocks.

  No more sucking in. No more turkey waddle nor hiding behind layers.

  Finally 50. The New Modern Woman.

  If only I could figure out why the drawings aren’t working. Einstein got solutions in the shower. Maybe I’ll get some on I 95. It’s start and stop traffic, though the kind that makes a sleepy person sleepier. I glance at the sketches. They are each on a cheat sheet, obtained from the internet—a vertical line down the middle of the page with horizontal lines for nine sections of the body, each separated by the length of one head. There are also red dotted lines, further delineating the neck, elbows, wrists and hands. I’ve drawn in the head and neck, torso, lower trunk, legs and feet. Four and a half sections are leg, starting with the hip.

  The first is a dress with a corset top. It’s made with sweat-wicking material and pressurized foam that’s sturdy, yet form fitting. Technically, everything fits. So, then what’s wrong with it? Nothing comes to me. Nothing at all.

  Outside Stamford, I stop for gas and a large Diet Coke. There’s a slight hissing sound from beneath the hood. I ignore it and get back on the road. Half an hour later, the orange engine light flashes on.

  Suddenly, the engine dies.

  Steam funnels out from the vents in the hood. Heat rises off the pavement in waves. “Please, please, don’t do this to me. Not now. Please.” I twist the key counterclockwise toward me, pause a moment, then start the car again. Then, again. Nothing.

  There’s the smell of gas. I’ve flooded the engine. I slam my fists against the wheel. “Shit, shit, shit.” I hit the hazard button. Click, click…click, click… Despite the emergency lights, more honking from behind. I dig the cellphone from my purse, call AAA, then Jeff.

  “It’s going to be a while,” I say, explaining about the car. “You guys go ahead. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Is that Mom?” I hear Alex say.

  “Don’t be silly,” Jeff tells me. “Leave the car. I’ll call a tow.”

  “I’ve already called AAA—“

  “Where exactly are you?” Jeff asks.

  “What happened?” I hear Alex yelp. “Where’s mom? Why isn’t she coming?”

  “Alex!” Jeff snaps. “Just give me a minute. I can’t hear what she’s saying!”

  “I’m on 95,” I say. “Just outside New Haven.”

  “Did you get off the exit?”

  “Unfortunately, I’m dead center in the middle of the highway.”

  His voice muffles as he speaks with his driver. “We’ll be there in fifteen,” he finally says.

  “No, Jeff, I—” But, Jeff hangs up.

  Whatever. I glance behind me. My car is causing major bottle necking. And the heat. Sweat streaks down my scalp onto my face. It pools at the dip between my breasts and under my arms, soaking through my dress. I call Toby but go straight to voice mail. He’s probably with Amanda, watching TV. So why do I feel so uneasy?

  In the distance, I see the twirling yellow lights of the tow truck, trying to make its way through, if only traffic would allow him to get by. It isn’t until a police car appears on the scene that traffic divides, the truck following immediately behind. The cop parks directly behind me. He motions for the tow truck to pull into the right lane, directing traffic so that it now funnels into a single lane. The tow driver pulls on his gloves. He says for safety reasons to wait in his truck.

  Jeff’s limo pulls up just as the tow hook draws the front of the car off the ground. Jeff steps out. I think he’s coming to speak with me, but he goes to the driver side of the car. “I called and settled with the office,” Jeff says, “so, take the car to the station and we’ll call tonight with further instructions.” The driver radios the station.

  “That’s sweet of you, Jeff,” I say, “but—”

  “Come on, let’s go,” he says, glancing at his watch.

  The dispatcher confirms that the tow charge for the vehicle has been paid and tells the driver to hurry back. There’s another accident at the last exit. He’s instructed to drop my car at the garage and get to the next vehicle as soon as possible.

  I step down from the truck with purse, bag, and sketches, and reluctantly follow Jeff to the limo. Alex games with his headphones on. I sit directly across from him, my arms crossed tightly over my chest as the limo continues on its way. “Something wrong?” Jeff asks.

  “I appreciate the fact that you paid the towing fee. I’ll pay you back.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  I roll my eyes. As efficient and capable as he is, he never supported me when I truly needed it. What makes him think I need it now? “I don’t want to be saved, okay?”

  “Uh, yeah, Ma, you do,” Alex says, matter of factly. “The parent fair starts in two hours.”

  “The only parent resources I need right now are a bottle of Advil and a soy latte with a double shot of expresso.”

  “I forgot your mother’s humor,” Jeff says.

  “I’m not joking,” I say, because nothing can possibly make a person pissier than her car dying on I-95 on a sweltering August afternoon. “Just like I’m not joking when I tell people to fuck off when they suggest I read The Parent’s Survival Guide to Freshman Year of College or Letting Go: A Parent’s Guide to Understanding the College Years.”

  Jeff opens the compartment that separates his seat from Alex’s to reveal a copy of The Parent’s Survival Guide to Freshman Year of College.

  “You got the wrong one,” I say. “You need ‘letting go’.”

  Jeff actually laughs. I tell them about my neighbor Jenna, whose son leaves for Emory in the morning. “She counted down the days like he was a death row inmate.”

  Alex bursts out laughing. “Oh, man,” he says.

  “And they called me a helicopter mom.” I shake my head. “What a bunch of helicopter nitwits.”

  “Hey, I may be a helicopter but I’m no nitwit.” Jeff’s alluding to the seven-figure charitable donation he made to Harvard, as well as the fact that he checked the “Caucasian” box on the application, which read: “Alex Jones,” son of “Jeff Jones” and “Amy Jones.” Jeff had spoken with a top College Education Advisor who’d explained that more than 21% of the student population at Harvard is Asian. When I questioned him about obfuscating the fact that Alex was at least in part Asian, he responded: “There’s a quota, you know, or didn’t you realize?”

  “Now, if you two don’t mind,” Jeff says, “I haven’t slept the past couple of days. I
need to rest my eyes.”

  Alex is already back to his gaming. Jeff’s napping doesn’t seem the least bit unusual to him. For me, however, it’s a first. During our marriage, “rest” was never a part of Jeff’s vocabulary. Logically, however, it makes sense. He’s in his 70s now, and slowing down. And yet, who would believe Superman ages? He’s supposed to be immortal, goddammit.

  Jeff’s head lulls to the side. He snores.

  There’s a strange tug inside me. As much as I’ve wanted to blame him for everything, he’s human, as human as the rest of us.

  Jeff’s head rests against the window. The snoring stops. His breath grows silent. Sleep shadows the lower lid of his eyes. His chest slowly rises, then falls. He slips deeper into sleep.

  From my purse, I withdraw the sketch with the corset top dress. Looking at it now with fresh eyes, it occurs to me that the bottom of the corset comes up too high. It should, I realize, fall as low as the top of the bikini line. This would cover the belly one often acquires with age or after pregnancy, or both, and which, if left untucked, tends to buckle outward like a roll of fat.

  Swiftly, I erase and pencil in the new lines.

  “Ma,” Alex says. “You going home tonight?”

  “Oh, god. Thanks for reminding me,” I say, digging the cellphone from my purse. I call the insurance company, then an auto rental service. Due to high demand over the back to school weekend, no vehicles are available. I try another auto rental and receive the same response.

  “The driver’s going back tonight,” Alex says, pausing his game. “Just go home with him.”

  “That’s a great idea.” I assumed that since Jeff was staying a few days—he likes to be certain that Alex is safely settled—the driver would stay with him in Cambridge. But Jeff may not have the same comfort level with the new driver as he had with the last, who’d worked for him for almost twenty years. “You think Dad will mind if I leave right after the ‘welcome’ speech?”

  “Definitely not,” Alex says, “Maybe you could also take him with you?”

  “Oh, Alex.” The accident had given Jeff a chance to truly connect and love; and he’d taken it, finally dropping all the bullshit—the women, the sexing, the drugging—to put his heart into caring for his child. Only Jeff took it to the extreme. When Alex started sleep away camp, Jeff insisted on vacationing at a resort close by, “dropping in” on occasion, which grew quantum times more suffocating and mortifying for Alex with each passing year. I assumed it was an issue of control. But now, I’m not so sure. Ever since Toby said not to follow through with the adoption, I struggle with a desperate feeling of abandonment and loss. Had Alex’s accident triggered a similar response in Jeff? “Be patient with your father,” I say softly.