Separation Anxiety
Page 19
“She’s about to go for a walk, so you can just relax.”
“When? When is she going for a walk?” A third person has now appeared.
“When she’s ready.”
“She’s ready now.”
“How do you know? Are you a dog psychic?”
“All I know is that I’m not comfortable with what I’m seeing. I’m not comfortable with you confining a dog against its will.”
“Neither am I.” A fourth person has appeared.
“And neither are we.” Two more, a couple of some kind, have joined the conversation.
I feel like I’m in a creepy online chat room that has suddenly come to life. “What are you, dog lawyers?”
“If you’re not doing anything wrong, why are you so defensive?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I say, but the minute I utter the f-word, even more of a crowd gathers.
“Now, wait a minute,” a dude wearing spandex bicycle shorts says to me. “That was uncalled for.”
“Who the fuck are you? The fuck police?” I do a big theatrical shrug and look around for support. No one is with me. Instead of deterring me, it only emboldens me. “I’ll tell you what’s uncalled for,” I say, pointing at his encased thighs. “That outfit.”
“That’s it. Let’s call animal control.” Everyone in the mob takes out their phones and starts swiping and tapping.
“Animal control?” I snap. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No, we’re not kidding you. Let’s get Ranger Molly down here and we’ll see if this is even legal.”
“If what’s legal?” I bray.
“Wearing a dog.”
* * *
While we all wait for Ranger Molly I pace, trying to calm myself. I stare off into the trees and at the water, which today is gray instead of bright blue the way it sometimes is. It’s then that I think I see Gary coming off the trail. I’m squinting, trying to see if maybe it’s not him—It’s Wednesday morning. Isn’t he supposed to be at work? But the closer he gets the clearer it’s him.
Only he’s not alone. He’s walking with someone. A woman. Tall, no makeup, black turtleneck under a zip-up fleece, jeans.
He’s laughing now, and talking using his hands, animated. He’s telling her a funny story—maybe about how I wrote all over Sari’s photographs and our escape from Vermont—which I still feel bad about and expect any day some kind of public shaming about in Sari Epstein’s social media feeds. Or maybe not, since actually that’s not a funny story. That’s a sad story. One that proves the true grimness of being stuck in a marriage you wish you could leave, is what he would be telling her if he were telling her that story.
No, they’re having far too much fun for him to be telling her about me. He must be telling her something else because she’s laughing so hard she stops midtrail and throws her head back, then holds her arm out, as if to say, No. Stop. It’s too much. I can’t take any more of this brilliant hilarity. I almost start to laugh, too, as if we’re all friends and I am in on the joke, too, but I don’t want to witness something upsetting that I won’t be able to un-see: like if he kisses her, or gathers her up in his arms, or takes her hand as they walk farther along the path.
I know I should stop watching them and that I should instead turn back to the mob of accusers pawing at their phones, texting and calling and waiting for Ranger Molly to show up and cite me for unlawful confined restraint of an animal, or so I overheard one of them say. I know I should protect myself from seeing something that could change everything. Would I survive secretly, but accidentally, watching Gary on a great date?
Whether from the dog-mob or from spying on Gary, or both, my hands are shaking from the adrenaline and my legs are weak. Couldn’t I have just one normal uneventful day when I’m not being accused of something like torturing my dog, or my son’s not being suspected of pooping in public, or I’m not acting like a complete and utter lunatic in someone else’s home after one or two hits off a joint? After everything that’s happened, is my only reward really getting a full set of unsightly adult braces and having to watch my husband fall in love with someone else in real time?
I stare at Gary and his girlfriend like they’re Martians, their body language so alien to that of ours at home. They’re holding hands now, and Gary kisses her on the head. If I weren’t about to be arrested for animal cruelty, I would probably run away into the woods and vomit. But instead, I force myself to watch them, to see the result of my ambivalence and disinterest. Isn’t this what you wanted? Your husband has found a woman who likes him and wants to date him. Isn’t that what you wanted for both of you—freedom? Shouldn’t you let him go and be happy? Shouldn’t you stop your “confinement and restraint” of not just the dog, but of him, too?
I finally force myself to look away. I realize, when I hug Charlotte before taking her out of the sling and putting her leash on, that I’m crying. My eyes blur with tears as I turn back toward the water, but when I do I still manage to see, in the other direction of the trail, the strange figures of a couple, shrouded in oversize puffy parkas and hats and scarves. I wipe my eyes and blink, trying to get a clearer view: if I were the paranoid type, which of course I am, I would say the couple looks like Nick and Phoebe—something about their theatrical movements as they flee from my line of vision, ducking behind trees and now running toward the parking lot. If it is them, aren’t they supposed to be at school—rehearsing for the evening Spotlight, which is less than a week away? What are the chances that they’d be here, at the same time as me, and at the same time as Gary and his new girlfriend—all while I’m about to be arrested for some arcane animal cruelty infraction—unless they’d followed me here? But why would they do that?
Before I can even concoct an answer to such a bizarre and unlikely question—I’m probably just seeing things—Ranger Molly arrives. She’s wearing her usual forest-green pantsuit uniform with an army-green windbreaker, carrying a clipboard. A heavy black radio hangs from her belt. As she gets a quick briefing from the outraged mob, I stare at my phone and pretend not to notice while Charlotte strains on the leash. She wants to leave. A wave of sorrow for the weird un-pet-like life I’ve forced upon her overwhelms me. She should be running and playing with other dogs, not awaiting possible punishment for my sins. But no good dog goes unpunished; she did nothing to deserve any of this and yet she is stuck paying the price for all of it.
They’re pointing at me now, while I stand there, the empty sling hanging from the front of my body like a big empty bra. “The dog is on a leash now but before she wasn’t—she was confined to that instrument of torture.” I can hear someone say these words, carried on a breeze that blows through Charlotte’s fur and makes her, for once, look like a wild animal. As she should.
Ranger Molly takes notes, nods, then walks toward me. Her big boots crunch the gravel on the path.
“So much for cool heads prevailing,” she says with a thick Boston accent and a half-smile that makes the wrinkled skin on her cheek look like a skate wing. “These people over here are claiming that you’re abusing your dog.”
I shake my head. “Oh. My. God.”
“I know, I know. Everyone’s an animal cruelty activist, but I’m the one paid by the city to make sure no one’s actually harming their pet. Now, because I didn’t see anything—right now what I see is a dog on a leash, with an up-to-date city permit on her collar—I’m going to let you go.”
“Thank you.”
“But because they’re a mob of entitled crazy-people, I’m going to pretend to write you a citation.” She winks at me, then flips to a clean piece of paper on her clipboard and takes a pen out from behind her ear. “So I’m going to write it like this—All work and no play make Jack a dull boy—The Shining, that’s my favorite movie—and then I’m going to do a big John Hancock at the bottom.” She winks again. “And now I’m going to make a big deal of handing it to you like this and you’re going to look at it and nod like I’m explaining it to you.”
I shake Ranger Molly’s hand through the window of her van. “Well, thanks for saving me.”
“If I were you, I’d take a break from this place for a while,” she says, backing out, the tires of her van crunching the gravel as she turns the wheels.
I wave, then get the dog back into the car. Don’t worry. I won’t be back.
Contained
Getting braces only compounds the collective misery at home after the Vermont trip. Gary and I are barely speaking despite still sharing a bed, and Teddy seems touchier than ever: simple questions about homework elicit near-tearful grunts, then high-pitched pleas for privacy, then dramatic exits. I keep my mouth shut, literally, and keep to myself and the dog, working extra hard on Well/er, feeling the added financial pressure that our orthodontia is bringing—especially now that my fantasy of starting, let alone selling, a new project doesn’t feel like it will ever happen. I had my chance. I could have buckled down over the weekend with Sari Epstein’s coloring books and gotten to the buried core of my dormant creativity, but I let myself get derailed. Instead, I churn out five to six Well/er pieces a day now, which seems to be the perfect pace to keep me from thinking too much about anything: money, Gary’s new girlfriend, our increasingly miserable teenager, my terrible behavior that still hasn’t been called out in any of Sari’s social media feeds.
Midweek I’m supposed to bring Teddy in to see Michael—for dental impressions and more insurance paperwork so that the appointment on the day he actually gets his braces will be shorter—but when I pick him up at school on the day of the visit, he pleads with me to cancel.
“I can’t today.”
I tell him that yes he can. That two shorter appointments are better than one very long one. “Trust me.”
“I can’t! I’m too stressed-out!” He starts to breathe heavily and shake his hands out, working himself into a panic. When he stops, his brows furrow and he turns to me. “Do you think I’m becoming like Dad?”
It’s the first time I realize that Teddy sees Gary’s anxiety and worries about it, wonders if it is somehow catching, or communicable by proximity or observation. Which means we’ll need to talk about it, just not right now. I reach around for his seat belt to buckle him in. “No, dude. You’re not becoming like Dad. Being a teenager is just the worst. But braces really aren’t that bad!” I lie, flashing him my mouthful of ugly hardware.
“No, Mom, you don’t understand.”
“How can you say that? I’m an adult with braces! How could I possibly feel your pain more?”
“You’re not being watched constantly every day at school. You’re not being made to feel like you’re a criminal.”
Criminal? “What are you talking about?”
“They think I’m the Secret Pooper.”
“Wait. What? Who?”
“Ms. Grace. She watches me all the time and says if there’s anything I want to tell her, I should. She says that being truthful is the only way to truly come clean.”
“Well, that’s disturbing.” I stare at him. No wonder he’s in knots. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wasn’t sure you’d believe me. But, Mom, it’s not me. I’m not the Pooper. I swear.”
“Of course you’re not the Pooper, Teddy!” Of course he’s not. Right? It’s only when he lets me touch him on the cheek without pulling away that I know how upset he is and how relieved I am that all I’m sensing is a genuine frustration at being falsely accused, not the fear of being caught.
I throw the car into reverse. “Let’s go home.”
“Really?”
“Really. Fuck the orthodontist.”
Teddy beams, like I’ve just commuted his death sentence, then flops back against the seat and headrest, totally relieved. I call Michael’s office from the car to cancel the appointment, then drive home, promising Teddy a special burrito for lunch as he runs up to his room, taking the stairs two at a time. But when I check the mail, I see the manila envelope and its return address—Morningside Montessori.
Inside, Grace has attached a handwritten note—Just so we’re clear—and clipped it to a housing-in-exchange-for-tuition contract. A contract? Paperwork that spells out the exchange of three weeks’ room and board for a month’s tuition with a neatly folded and self-addressed-stamped envelope for me to return it. It all seems overly formal for a school that prides itself on having no administrative handbook and no code of ethics—basically, no rules for parents, children, or teachers. I’m taken aback. This feels like a setup. And a threat. Who is this woman and why is she suddenly so aggressively organized and professional?
I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to do an extensive, detailed Internet search on Grace—whose nondistinct last name—Brown—appears on the top of her preprinted school notepaper. After all, I’d long extolled the virtues of “researching” the people in your life for Well/er (“Prepping for your parent-teacher conference: Why not know more about the people grading your child?” “Will you trust your doctor more if you know where he/she went to medical school?” “Ruling out the unknown: how having a mental dossier about others can lower generalized anxiety”). But for some reason, I’d ignored her strangeness and her half answers the first time we talked—the oversharing about her eating disorder and obsessive personality; her nonanswer about whether or not she has children; her odd insistence that Charlotte was a therapy dog. Even last week after Nick told me that she and his father, Mr. Noah, were involved in an obviously secret relationship, I didn’t immediately start my background check. But now it’s time. Who is this person helping to run the school, cutting weird deals and sending “contracts” in the mail?
Despite over an hour of my online research efforts, the best I come up with is a few old posts on Pinterest, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn. Old ones. From a few years ago. Which produce an incomplete composite of who she is: someone with a strong interest in vegetarian cooking (with an emphasis on beets and cauliflower), an affiliation with an oboe chamber music group and a feminist drum circle, and expressed “likes” for a local female-owned craft brewery and The Container Store.
That’s it? Is the person making my son’s life a daily hell really a social media nonparticipant, occupying a black hole of personal information so that no one can know who she really is? Or is the biggest clue the most obvious of all: Doesn’t the fact that she has almost no footprint online mean she has something to hide?
* * *
When I return from around the corner with Teddy’s burrito, he comes into the kitchen and sits at the counter on the one big stool to eat the way he always did when he was little. I’m glad to see that despite the stress he’s under, he still has an appetite, evidenced by how he’s ripped the foil away and already has rice on his chin and sour cream on his lips. I could not possibly love him more. I think of my parents, how much they used to love to watch him eat when he was a baby and toddler—chicken, pasta, soup, cereal—how he actually smacked his lips when he chewed, how he intensely enjoyed every meal, how he rarely made a mess. He must have changed back into his pajamas while I was out, like he’s taking a sick day, which in a way he is, so I rub his back gently, making slow circles on the plaid flannel, and kiss him lightly on the head. His hair is coarser than it used to be, not the corn silk I remember, but I run my fingers through it anyway, thrilled that he lets me. Then I lean against the counter with my arms under the dog in the sling and watch him eat.
He swivels toward me, wipes his chin. “Have you told Dad?”
I shrug, then sigh. “Not yet.” I usually try to keep stressful things away from Gary, always fearing that his reaction to them—or his overreaction to them—will make them worse.
How many times over the years did I regret telling him about minor rifts that Teddy or I was having with friends or neighbors, which would then blow up in his mind to major feuds and, ultimately, to differences that for him were irreconcilable? His loyalty to us has always been absolute and he has always been our fiercest defender, though sometimes it felt like overkill.
“Are you going to tell Dad?”
“Going to tell Dad what?” Suddenly Gary is in the kitchen, in his WIT fleece vest and black work clothes. “Late arrival today,” he says, explaining his unexpected presence when we thought he was already at work. He looks from Teddy to me to figure out what secret we’re keeping, then sits on the counter next to the sink. Clearly he’s not going anywhere until we tell him.
So we do. I start and then Teddy talks over me and I talk over him, until we’ve told the whole story about the Secret Pooper—including the latest and the worst part, about how poor Teddy is living in fear of being wrongly accused. The more we talk, the more nervous I get that Gary is going to explode. This is exactly the kind of thing that normally makes him crazy with rage. Only for some reason, now he seems totally contained.
I stare at him. “What are you thinking?”
“Well, I’m furious of course. Aren’t you?”
I nod, then bury my hands inside the sling and fill my hands with the dog’s fur. “Beyond.” I’m also relieved that he knows, and clearly Teddy is, too. Something in Teddy’s face has already relaxed, gone back to normal. He picks up his burrito again and takes another huge bite. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you,” I say to Gary, gently. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I just didn’t want you to get upset.”
“And make things worse,” he offers generously. “Who could blame you?”
“Thanks for understanding.”
He nods calmly, then watches as Teddy puts his plate in the sink and practically skips off to the living room to watch SpongeBob SquarePants. “So,” he says, jumping down off the counter and holding his hand out like an invitation. “Shall we go?”