by Didi Oviatt
Marsha dishes me a plate before helping herself and joining me at a bar stool followed by Dean. We eat in comfortable silence for most of the meal, with an occasional mention of Dean's nerves about finals. Marsha doesn’t bat an eye at test time, never has.
Unique is the best way to describe my yoga loving munchkin. She’ll throw herself into a pretzel for an extra thirty minutes over her normal routine on test days, quoting all of her notes between deep breaths. Then she trots off to school and aces every essay and test that comes her way. With a grin on her face she comes home from school and helps herself to a single glass of my wine to celebrate. Then she moves along with life as if no stress can possibly penetrate her. She’s done this since ninth grade, and I kept my mouth shut about the single glass of wine. If that’s her process, then it’s worked. One glass never hurt anyone, and she’s otherwise a saint.
They know that I’m thinking seriously about the summer condo, or they wouldn’t have talked to my boss in the first place. Overstepping boundaries is a common thing in our family, but only because I’ve encouraged them since birth to take fearless steps when the outcome is for the greater good and no one can possibly get hurt in the process. Bold approaches are a learning experience. That’s what I’ve always told them, and now it’s backfired against me. They don’t push the subject, for now. I mostly contemplate every possible scenario with each slurp of a noodle. Over analyzing is an issue for me, one that I’ve embraced at my age.
A two-hour drive isn’t too far away from my kids. I could come home to see them whenever I want, or vice-versa. They promised to come out on a few weekends here and there, or on days that there’s no school. It’s logical, and any middle-class single woman who’s spent her entire life living in the same town would be mad not to jump on such an opportunity. I could use the time to relax, sleep in and even read.
I have three whole bookshelves full of paperbacks that I haven't touched since I swiped my debit card for their purchase. Call me silly but I buy more books than I could possibly read. Always have, and likely always will. Some women like to spend their extra cash on pretty accessories, like purses and belts. I like beautiful paperbacks with the promise of an adventure worth their design printed on the back. Fortunately for me there are hundreds of books granting such promise, practically everywhere I look.
Inevitably my mind wanders back to the possibility of meeting someone. What if I actually did meet a man? What would I do with myself? What if I forgot how it all works down there? What if I get too wet? Or worse… too dry? Oh my God, what if men have evolved and gotten bigger all the while my vagina has shrunk from non-usage and he can't get it in? I snort out loud at the thought, trying to hold back a laugh. It causes my kids to eye me with suspicion. I wave a hand of dismissal in their direction and swallow my last bite of garlic bread.
Of course you’d know what to do, Carla, you're a rockstar in the sack, I correct my own inner battle with a necessary and likely accurate compliment, as all women should.
"Thanks for the dinner, Marsha." I've practically licked my plate clean. "It was good!"
She raises one brow at me again. This time the left one and forms a purse of her lips to accompany it.
"Coulda been steak," Dean pipes up, clearly speaking on behalf of his sister's facial expression.
"Yeah yeah," I say. "I liked it!"
"Annnnnd?" Marsha pushes me to continue.
"And…" I take a deep breath and talk as fast as my tongue will allow. "One of you can find a movie to rent, I'll buy, and the other is welcome to book a couple rooms in Cayucos on my credit card for tomorrow night. If I'm going to house-sit for a summer, then I'd better go meet its owners before they leave."
"YES!" Marsha shouts while Dean does a celebratory fist pump into the air. She jumps from her seat. "Mom, you're going to have SO much fun! And--"
"Stop!" I interject with a palm an inch from her face. "Don't get too excited! If I get a bad feeling about anything at all while I'm there, then I'm backing out."
"You won't," she beams. "You'll love the condo, AND the beach, AND--"
"Stop!" I interrupt again. "Just go book the rooms and shut up before I change my mind. And pack your shit too, both of you. You’re coming with."
Chapter 2
Breakfast is my favorite. Well, it’s my favorite after I’ve had a good twenty minutes of alone time, locked away in my room with a gigantic cup of coffee. Dean got me an oversized mug for a Christmas gift nearly a decade ago. It’s plastered with close-up pictures of him and Marsha pulling ridiculously embarrassing faces, and it literally holds over half a pot of coffee. He thought it was a funny gag gift at the time, but little did he know I’d cling to it forever. Like a life source, feeding me just the right amount of caffeine to pull me out of zombie mode in the mornings.
Today I hold onto it tightly while the very outer cushion of my rear sits on the edge of a signature bench. It hugs the bottom of my bed, a perfect fit. It’s my favorite piece of furniture in the entire house. I bought it as a reading bench, but I usually only use it as a quiet and grounding place to align my chakras and enjoy coffee. My eyes are wide and I’m rocking back and forth slightly, keeping the motion alive with the tips of my toes on the carpet.
Marsha attempted to walk in and talk to me at one point, only to take one look at my face and back away slowly, exactly like one would a bear in the wild. I’m pretty sure she even did it on the tips of her toes. Not completely positive though, it was hard to tell in my peripheral as my eyes were glued to a dirty spot on the wall. She had a handful of bikini tops draped over her forearm, likely wanting my opinion on today’s attire.
I’ve assumed this position for a good twenty minutes now, so I suppose it’s time to pull myself out of it. I’m not even nervous about seeing the condo and meeting Stephany’s parents, that’s the weird part. I've spoken to them on the phone plenty, our children have been close for years and we have much in common. I feel like I’m exactly where I need to be, and doing exactly what I need to do, oddly enough. What’s got me spacing out on a dirt spot and rocking myself to a dark blend this morning is the aftermath of the dream I woke up to.
There was a little girl. She had a gigantic sun hat on, so I didn’t get a very good look at her face, but she couldn’t have been older than five. She was sitting on a beach chair, kicked back with her bare feet crossed at the ankles and the paint on her toes was a bubblegum pink. I was sitting in a similar chair right next to her, sipping a margarita. The breeze was as welcome as the sun that was beating down on us, and I was consumed by comfort. It was natural, sitting there just the two of us. It felt like I’d known her her whole life. That is, until she reached her tiny hand over to place it on mine.
In her sugar-coated voice, she called me, “C-ma.”
I’d jolted awake, sitting straight up in a cold sweat. My first thought was Marsha, but how could that possibly be? She tells me everything. Even the silly things like how Rigdon from science class in tenth grade slipped her the tongue. It made her gag because he had too much spit in his mouth, and he tasted like an onion sandwich. He was mortified at her response to him, and she never talked to him again. My dreams have never lied about the serious stuff, though. They’re strange like that.
Aside from the farfetched dreams, like flying and making random animal friends, I have this odd way of telling if the emotions in them are genuine… if they’re rooted in reality. I don’t like to call it a premonition, I’m not a psychic by no means. However, I dreamt of my twins, my brother's car crash, my wedding dress. Hell, I even dreamt of the exact girlfriend Bradley had while we were married, all the way down to her siren hair and shoulder freckles.
Why would this little girl call me C’ma rather than Grammy, or even straight up Grandma? I can’t for the life of me figure it out. My own kids called their grandmas GramGram, surely they’d carry on the tradition. Maybe it isn’t one of my kids’, maybe a friend’s? No, it doesn’t feel like she belonged to a friend. She felt too close i
n the dream, like she was mine. Oh shit, maybe I should be on birth control this summer. No, I’m too old. But am I? Having a child at forty-one isn’t completely unheard of. I haven’t started menopause yet after all.
Trying to wrap my head around the dream has every part of me on edge. Heat, I need heat. I’ll steam the flesh bumps away in a long hot shower. Whatever swimsuit issue Marsha is having can wait. I need to relax my muscles and clear my head. It was just a dream after all, can’t be real, can’t be my kids. Even though a growing baby bump would be the perfect reason behind wanting to ship me off for the summer.
Stop it, Carla, pull yourself together! Even if that little girl was one of your kid’s children, she might not make an appearance for years to come! Stop obsessing!
I take a deep breath and count to five before letting it out slowly. Shower, I’m most definitely in need of a shower. I pull myself to my feet and lock the door to my bedroom on auto pilot, separate from any conscious thought process. I leave the door to the master bathroom open so that the steam can escape into my room.
I plug my Bluetooth speaker into the power outlet before undressing. I wouldn’t want the speaker’s battery life to die a premature death. Music is my center, my chi. I like all kinds. My playlists are impressive, and they’re lumped into dozens of categories ranging from year, to artist, to genre, to mood, to pace, and more. This morning I need something calming, something with a little simplicity on life’s perspective. I need a smooth voice and a mellow beat. By the end of my shower I want to be able to take charge of the day confidently. I want to enjoy a road trip with my kids without constantly questioning their motives… or reproductive systems for that matter.
Simplicity, comfort, and confidence, that’s what I need.
I find a slow-moving eighties list; that ought to help push away the dream. It might even help me find a way to melt my insecurities, the ones I keep tucked inside. Being single has long ago given me the chance to throw all reason out the window. I’m allowed to dance around making a fool of myself and play dress up in public with my children - without batting an eye of embarrassment. I’m comfortable with bold outtakes and sarcasm. But the truth is, I’m not okay at all with the fact that I’m finally showing signs of aging in my face and body. I’m a young forty-one, there’s no arguing that. But the crow’s feet around my eyes are forming, and I’m getting some of that loose skin under my biceps when I lift my arms. It sucks, and I fear that if I don’t find someone who loves me for me now, then I might not ever.
Cayucos is a fairly small beach town in Cali. It’s tucked away on a gorgeous hillside with a pier to die for. It’s a beautiful place and it’s quiet, full of mostly locals. It isn’t a busy tourist city, or a teenage hormone fest. My kids weren't lying when they told me it’d be a quiet escape, the kind of city that’s a fit for all ages. There’s even charming antique shops with the promise of finding old books that I can wrap my heart around.
I scrub the shampoo into my scalp extra hard and take deep breaths in the relaxing steam. The muscles in my back absorb the heat while I stretch my arms and neck every which way. After a good fifteen minutes or longer of clearing my head, I watch the last of my soap bubbles disappear down the drain. “Free Fallin’” blares through the speaker, appropriate. I’ve managed to place that little girl from my dream on the back burner of my mind. If something is going on in the baby department with my kids, they’ll tell me when they’re ready, and I’ll embrace it. If it’s me who’s meant to bring another life into the world… well we’ll just cross that bridge when, no if, it gets here.
I choose a quirky summer dress with pineapples on it. Then I twist a little chunk of my long brunette hair on top on my head, leaving a spike of ends to peak out at the side. Makes me look young and saucy, I like it. I skip down the hall and into the kitchen where the scent of waffles is filling the air in swirls of awesomeness.
Dean’s cramming in one last study session at the kitchen counter before our spur of the moment trip. He likely set an alarm and has been at it for hours, bless his heart. Marsha’s whisking away at a fluffy blend of something strawberry and cream cheese-y for a topping. She has her back to me and is swaying her hips to the beat of whatever song she’s got plugged into her earbuds. Kids after my own music-loving heart, the both of them. She’s oblivious to her surroundings, so naturally I plan to act on it.
Dean looks up to see my placing a shush finger over my lips, he narrows his eyes mischievously and nods me in her direction. He’s giving me an encouraging go ahead on my devious endeavors. I bob my head up and down in agreement and slowly, silently, I creep toward her. I close in the distance and in a flash, I grab her with the tips of each finger at the rib cage and shout, “BAH!” at the top of my lungs to the back of her head.
She jumps, arms flailing about and it causes the wire whisk to fly across the room. It lands right in the middle of Dean's textbook. Marsha spins around to scowl and places a hand on her rapidly beating heart. I have to grip the countertop to stop myself from falling over in laughter. The look on her face is absolutely priceless.
Dean groans and grunts between unstoppable giggles while he peels the whisk from his page. Some of the topping drips back down to it with a thud. The vivid image he’s studying is the anatomy of a full-bodied man, and it’s now splotched with a pinkish colored goo.
“Shit,” he says and continues to laugh. “Now what am I supposed to do?”
I can’t even answer, I’m still doubled over. I can’t look at Marsha either, with her flared nostrils and pointed brows.
“Aww,” I sigh and catch my breath. “You should see your face.”
Marsha pulls the earbuds away from her head and shoves them into her short, cut-off jeans pocket. Then she wipes away the single chunk of creamy topping that splashed onto her forehead.
“Glad to see that blaring 80’s rock to the point of busting out windows has brightened your spirits this morning.”
“Yep,” I agree. “Me too! Good choice on waffles, smells amazing.”
“Yeah.” The sides of her mouth play at a smile, but only for a second before retreating to a tight-lipped scowl. “Really though. When I went into your room this morning, you looked like death warmed over. Are you okay?”
“I think so, yeah.”
I grab a towel and toss it to Dean, who’s still staring at his now wet and sticky book page. “I just had a weird dream, that’s all. Let’s not talk about it. Did you get your swimsuit dilemma straightened out?”
With that, that whole morning is right back on track. We eat, we joke around about the naked, cream covered man in Dean’s book as it sits in the corner with its pages splayed out to dry; a fan of shame. We even go over a quick mental checklist with one another about everything we have packed for the trip. My kids spend their usual amount of time texting friends while I tidy up the kitchen. No sooner than I press the start button on the dishwasher, my doorbell rings.
“Oh,” Dean chimes in. “I forgot to mention that I invited a friend along.”
Marsha and I stare at him blankly.
“What do you mean, you forgot?” I ask. “That’s kind of a big invitation, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Marsha agrees. “Please don’t tell me I have to get hit on by one of your friends for two whole days! Maybe I should go switch out the swimsuits that I packed to one-pieces — better yet, full-body snorkel gear.”
He tilts his head to the side and cuts her an annoyed glower with his hands on his hips. The doorbell rings again and none of us are in any hurry to answer it.
“If she was just a friend, she would have walked in by now,” he says.
“Wait… she?” I ask. “How long have you been seeing this one?”
I hold my breath, trying my darndest not to think of my dream. Dean goes through girls like weekly specials at a mom and pop diner. I’d worry more about the dream baby being his, but I genuinely believe that he doesn’t actually sleep with them.
I know he’s telling the truth
about it, because he’s always testing them in innocent yet tedious ways He gives them weird and sometimes embarrassing tasks just to see if they’re up for the challenge. Plus, he talks in his sleep. He sleep-told me not too long ago that he’s only slept with two girls since he’s been in college and he regretted it because they both stalked him afterwards. He said that now he ‘wants to be sure.’ Even more proof that they’re good enough kids to leave behind in my home for an entire summer.
When they were in high school, Marsha and I spent a large amount of time making Dean watch boring shows with us. Ones that would inevitably put him to sleep on the couch. Then we’d shut down the television and turn all the lights off to keep him comfortable, so that we could eat popcorn and ask him random questions while he slept. That kid would spill the beans about every detail of his life; nothing is ever a secret when Dean’s snoozing. He’s handsome too, and I don’t just say that because he’s my son. He’s like a confident Ryan Gosling, abs and all. The girls just keep running at him.
Dean shrugs at my question and grins. “Since today.” Then he chuckles. “I think she’ll be fun. It’s promising. You’ll like her.”
He turns for the living room with a single bounce to his step. Poor girl, she’s doomed. I let the air out of my lungs and shake my head in awe of him. I swear that kid never ceases to surprise me. I nudge Marsha in the arm, and she only pulls her shoulders up toward her ears and mouths a silent, I don’t know. We’re standing in the middle of the room, no direction, no purpose, just listening like inexperienced spies. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but her voice sounds young, too young. I pull my brows together and look at Marsha out of the corner of my eye, only to see that she’s doing the same. Their voices grow closer and we kind of panic.