by Ede Clarke
“Dan and I and the kids will pick you up at 9,” Mad confirmed. “The Father loved your idea of going to the park and having a winter barbecue. He said he’ll buy all the meat and fixings and drinks, if we can bring a dessert and paper plates and napkins and stuff. ‘All the things us guys usually forget’ as he put it.”
He sounded generous, funny, and normal. Might be refreshing. Then again, how can someone who has five kids and whose wife just passed away less than two months ago be normal? I remember when my parents died I was afraid to be funny or happy or anything normal. It somehow meant I wasn’t sad enough or didn’t love them enough if I was going through my day normal. Maybe he can manage normal right now. That would be impressive.
“So, you work at the Erie County Public Library downtown?” he asked with a tiny dab of mustard on the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah, that’s right. That’s how I know Madeleine and Dan, of course. I’ve been there about four years.”
“Right out of school?” he asked while catching the mustard with the tip of his tongue.
“Yes, after finishing my masters in library science at BU I went straight to Erie Public and haven’t wanted to look elsewhere since. How about you? You work with Dan at the bank, right?”
“Yeah, going on almost five years now, although I switched departments about half way through to the investment side.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, quite frankly, the money was better and the hours were shorter. I was in business accounts at first, but too many nights away from the family and the schmoozing took so long to pay off that the trade-off was rarely seen in my paycheck.” He took a huge gulp of soda and continued, “I got lucky, Patty. There was an opening in investments and I had just finished a special project with a VP, and that gave me the advantage. I don’t want to paint a dishonest picture. I got lucky, that’s all.”
Humility. That’s refreshing, especially in investment banking. “But I hear now you’re a VP,” I countered.
“I’m surrounded with great people who make me look very good. And, that has just been recent. About four months now or so. Look, I have to tell you this is the longest conversation I’ve had with an adult in a long time with the kids around. Usually, if they are around, it’s maybe one sentence at a time. It’s great that Dan and Madeleine came along so we could get to know each other a little bit.”
“Yes,” I smiled as I stood and grabbed our dirtied plates. “I’m going to trash these and help finish the snowman before I’m accused of abandoning the effort.” As I stepped over the bench with my back to him, I could feel him look at me. Not a sound came out of him as the two smallest came running past me towards him.
“There are so many of us,” giggled Lizzie, “I bet you can’t keep us straight.”
“Is that a dare?” I asked as I failed miserably at trying to form a snow foot for our snowman. “I didn’t think snowmen had feet?” I continued.
“You’re just trying to sidetrack the dare,” Beth pierced.
“Beth, you are twelve years old. Hector,” I said while swatting his hat off his head.
“Hey!” He cried as he grabbed for it before the wind could steal it away.
“You my cold-headed friend are eight. Clara, who is swinging on the swings right now with your Dad is seven.”
“And she’s sick,” Jackie offered and everyone nodded while continuing with whatever they were doing or not doing. “She gets tired a lot and her heart is funny so she takes a pill everyday, but doesn’t feel any better,” he concluded.
“And little Lizzie who is a monkey wrapped around my right leg at the moment . . . ”
“Don’t call me little!” she squeaked with defiance.
“Of course, I’m so sorry. You, my dear, are six. And Jackie who is making a lovely snow angel is five.”
No one said anything. It was the quietest it had been since lunch. “Well?” I asked.
“It’s cold,” said Beth.
“Yes, indeed, it is.” I offered her. “Very cold.”
However, things started to warm up when they realized I have a special talent for making snow angels. “The trick, you see, is to leave your hat on so that the grooves of the material make it look like real snow hair,” I puffed.
“Real snow hair?” challenged Hector. We all looked at each other and started to laugh.
“Yeah, well . . . you know what I mean . . . ” The laughter was encouraging and I was truly enjoying the play, talk, and challenges. They are smart and considerate for the most part—only having bad manners when tired or during a moment of laziness.
“My Dad said your Mom is dead too,” Lizzie said suddenly.
“Lizzie!” corrected Beth, while standing next to her and giving me a face of apology. “That’s not nice to say to people. We should wait for them to bring that up. You don’t like it when people ask you about Mom, do you?” Beth asked her little sister.
“I don’t care,” Lizzie answered, confused and then looked back at me obviously waiting for us to get back to the discussion of my parents.
“I can talk about it if you guys want me to,” I gently told them.
“How did she die?” asked Hector.
“About one week before my graduation from graduate school, the day before my last final, my parents were in a car accident and both died within twelve hours of the accident.”
Total silence. They stopped creating snow things. Stopped playing. Stopped looking at each other. A few looked at me.
“This happened about four years ago. I understand your Mom has been gone for about one and a half months.” Most of them nodded or gave a faint confirmation. They slowly went back to work with the snow and each other and eventually me. For the first time all day, Beth looked my way a few times and stuck quite close.
Early Spring in Buffalo brings with it such a satisfying relief and awakening that I usually shelf the coming-of-age novels until mid-summer. Why take in words of de-layering, when I can authentically strip myself of cashmere and wool and pack away my sweaters and scarves? Although not a guarantee of maturation, light-green leaves do offer hope of a season leading to darkened layers and depth only time can effectively achieve. The unattractive slush in the corners and gutters and stairs looks almost crisp against this hope. The old wooden windows in my third-floor office at the library are made for being flung open on just such days. Of course stones and heavy books and mugs and envelope openers all need to be in place on the various stacks of material first. But, then the miracle of fresh air washes in and over and through me (and the material), even the places I thought fresh air could not reach or have an affect.
During the last few hours leading up to my lunch date with Ted I chose to do busy work, sorting and categorizing old and not-yet-catalogued theory. Must give myself room to decide who I will be when meeting him. Who should show up for lunch: The well-educated, assertive woman? The competent business negotiator? The off-beat yet insightful literary mind? The group home caregiver? The good friend who is an intent listener, although a bit self-centered? The orphan who can uniquely relate to his children’s situation? The satisfied single woman? The unsatisfied single woman? The good cook and skilled housekeeper? The talkative, social me? The rather-read-a-book-than-talk-to-a-person me? Should I choose someone I think he would want to take care of his children, or should I choose someone I think I should be while taking care of his children? I’m insane! I finally realized, along with realizing I can’t categorize theory and my personalities at the same time; too many mistakes.
“Hi, Patricia,” this big smile welcomed me into the café patio where he was already seated at a table.
“Hi, Ted. This place is great, and on a day like today it’s perfect.” I beamed back as I took a seat, but kept my sweater on as a slight chill in the air reminded me winter had just passed.
He fumbled a bit with his menu and seemed uncomfortable, though trying quite well to hide it. If he hadn’t touched his nose three hundred times in the last thirty se
conds, he may have successfully pulled it off.
“What do you think looks good?” I offered to help him along. What had Mr. Theodore Tedesco so spooked? “I can’t help but think a salad is the perfect compliment to this setting and weather,” I extended, closing my menu and taking a sip of lemon water.
“That’ll work,” he sighed, like he had surrendered after a great battle.
“Are you okay?” I finally asked.
“Yes. Sure. Of course. You know, work and the kids and this conversation. You know. Just want to . . . make sure . . . everything is . . . is . . . done properly.”
It is people like Ted that I have to make myself patient around. I always want to rest my hands on their shoulders with a fierce grip and gently, but vigorously, shake them into my way of thinking, saying something like, What exactly do you think will happen if you make a mistake? I mean, the guy can’t even talk he’s such a control freak. Fear has crippled this guy. I wonder if it was her death that did it or if he was already like this. “Yes, that is so good of you to be prudent. How wise. Were you always this careful? Maybe you get if from one of your parents?”
“I . . . well . . . life I think.”
Right. He really opened up on that one. Moving on. “I have really enjoyed the afternoons with the kids. Thank you so much for being so flexible whenever my schedule at the library allows. It’s been a real treat over the last month or so. I think they’ve really enjoyed it too.” I guess I’m going with the assertive business woman, apparently taking the interview into her own hands.
“Yes, they have really enjoyed it . . . you . . . too.” He smiled and took some water as the waitress approached. Is it me or himself that he can’t stand?
Over two salads, two glasses of lemon water and a meager bread basket, Ted and I agreed to turn our worlds upside down. “Although I think it will be a far greater change for you, of course, Patty. Let’s face it, you’re helping us out.”
And there it was, something I had wanted as much as I had feared the opportunity of having: Beth, Hector, Clara, Lizzie and Jackie.
“Are you sure it’s what you want?.. . . . Are you really sure?” he asked once more, not looking at me, probably for fear I’d call the whole thing off. Or maybe asking himself more so than me.
“I think sometimes we need to get beyond what we feel like, or what we want, or what is easy or comfortable. Sometimes it’s an 'ought to' instead of a 'want to'. You know?” He looked me square in the eyes with great hesitation and alarm which prompted me to continue with, “Not out of obligation, but out of love.”
“There is a big difference,” he said as his whole face relaxed and he again looked away. Again, was he saying that to me or himself? We both nodded and sat in silence.
“And Clara’s health . . . ” I finally interjected but then didn’t know where to go with it and felt embarrassed for Ted that he didn’t finish my sentence. So more silence until I finally finished the thought to no apparent audience, “ . . . they still don’t know what’s wrong with her—no diagnosis.”
Not really knowing if I’d made the right decision didn’t offer an out or permission. It was just part of the process that I had to live with. Time had dictated this would be a decision without complete certainty. Chances are, if we had waited for me to be completely certain of wanting to live with them, leaving the library and becoming part of their family, then the kids would already have kids of their own. He smiled at me as we rose from the table. Relief swept over me as he guided my steps in front of him, leaving the restaurant. Sometimes just making a decision and going with it whole-heartedly, even without complete peace if it’s the right decision, clears the head and frees the heart. I was grateful the season of decision was over and a new season of living out a commitment was beginning.
Chapter Three
The next year flew by at the speed of a county fair three-legged race, and with the same obstacles: frustration, necessity of unity and like-mindedness that is rarely present, a great need for perseverance, and, as time goes on, a growing test of just how much the desire to win really is present in each party.
“You are not my Mother and cannot tell me what to wear, how to wear it, that I have to wash it, and that I have to let Lizzie wear it too,” screamed Clara only two weeks into the new chapter of our lives. It was only when she slammed the door in my face that I truly surrendered that conversation one morning. It was an important morning because it was the first time in two weeks that I had made all their lunches, gave them breakfast, and had all their clothes ready the night before. Pathetic as it may sound, this was the highlight of my first two weeks in the Tedesco household and I therefore gladly surrendered the first battle of wills of the day to Ms. Clara.
“Fine, darling. I understand you are upset and I hear you loud and clear. Feel free to wear the ripped jeans, but change your shirt and we’ll have a deal. See you downstairs.”
As I turned down the hallway I wondered if I said it loud enough through the closed door. I didn’t want to appear like I was yelling, yet could she hear me? As my hand grasped the handrail for my decent, I heard a faint, “Fine!” A smile came over me. It’s a great morning.
As Ted and the kids all left within 3 minutes of each other, the becoming-familiar sudden stillness came over the kitchen. It arrested me every morning for the first few months. At an animal level, I just don’t think human senses can shift that quickly when the stimulus changes so dramatically. My hearing, sight, smell, and touch could not instantly process a next move for at least 30 seconds. Standing with my back to the kitchen side door, I took in the mess and unfulfilled needs like the dishes and the to-do list, but my brain took a half-minute to make the leap from need to actually doing something about it. Then, like a whip to a race horse, I was off, trying to finish the morning and early afternoon heats before the younger ones got home. A quick flip of the radio and I was in motion. I didn’t have a good routine down for months, but the necessities were getting done and the rest Ted was patient about. Actually I don’t know if he was being patient or if some things, like immediate consequences for disobedience, just weren’t on his radar. Either way, we were bumbling through it, getting to know each other as we went.
This included me getting to know myself better. Turns out I liked sleeping in on Saturday morning. I didn’t realize this until I could no longer do it. I also do not like explaining the reason for why someone should do what I’m asking them to do. Apparently at the library when I asked an employee to do something, they just did it. Rarely did I have to explain why, and when I did it was usually of my own prompting. I soon realized my new occupation could more aptly be named human encyclopedia rather than nanny. And, a rather poor encyclopedia, at that. When I was tired, my answer for why was very often, “I have no idea. Just do it or you’ll be punished.” At first I tried, “Why? Because I asked you to. That is enough. You are the child and I am the adult.” But what I soon discovered was that this was a very unreasonable and unfair demand: Expecting trust and respect where there is no relationship, or very little. It took me only a few days to lose that tactic and focus on getting them fed, clean, and ready for the next day while we all got to know each other a little better. I read tons of books, most of which said to give it a year or so for the bonding that would result in a respectful relationship. Of course other books reminded me of the complexity of the results of abandonment, which I suspected they were all dealing with to some extent. At the end of three months, I finally forgot about planning and timing our relationship and just focused on spending time with them.
“I called this meeting to talk about new ways we are going to run this house. I’ve been here for a little over three months and I think things are going pretty good. Let’s make it better.” The looks I was getting back included boredom, sarcasm, detestation, and incomprehension. “First let’s play a game.” Except for Beth, the rest of the looks instantly improved. “Pick a number from one to ten and don’t tell anyone and don’t say it. Raise your little f
inger when you have a number.” It was obvious Jackie forgot to raise his pinky. Clara was kind enough to finally nudge him. “Okay. Good. Here’s the game. Each of you take a piece of paper and write down your number and fold it up and put it back on the floor. Quick. Quick.” They all dove. The older ones helped the younger ones. “Okay. Without looking at the pieces of paper, I think all the numbers are different. If I’m right, then you guys have to sit here and talk with me for the next thirty minutes about our new house plan. If I’m wrong, if even two numbers are the same, then we won’t have the talk tonight.” They all looked at each other. “Okay?” I asked. All nods and “Okays” came back. “Okay,” I said with a big sigh, “Here goes. Help me out. Everyone undo the papers and lay them out so we can see.” Thankfully I was right and they were all different. The kids were so shocked. Even Beth wasn’t angry anymore.