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How to Party with an Infant

Page 18

by Kaui Hart Hemmings


  I looked at my daughter, Ms. Minority. Her skin is like my sheets: Oatmeal Linen. Her hair is wispy, thin, and straight, the color of straw, but on paper she’ll be a brown girl with roots from afar. Polynesia, China.

  “Have you asked Henry to the wedding yet?” Barrett asked.

  “No,” I said. I hadn’t seen him in over a week. “It was a stupid idea.”

  She didn’t disagree.

  “What are your tricks?” I asked.

  She was writing quickly, then stopped and looked up. “Tara is African American,” Barrett said, then continued filling out her form.

  “You’re not really putting that, are you?”

  “Of course I am. I did that National Geographic DNA thing. They said my ancestors were originally from Kenya.”

  “They can find that out?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Yes, but all of our ancestors were from someplace like that.”

  “Then she’s African American, too,” Barrett said, tilting her head toward Ellie.

  “I don’t think the school means what is their nationality traced back thousands of years.”

  “Well, they don’t specify.”

  I gestured to blond-haired, blue-eyed Tara. “I think they’ll be a bit confused when they meet their new black student.”

  “It will be good for them. Teach them more understanding.”

  “Sister, I’m not sure about this,” I said. “And I’m usually pretty immoral.”

  Barrett sighed. “Look. My daughter is unique and intelligent. She’s diverse; she’s a fuckin’ sundry, and if this city is going to make it impossible for our kids to get into schools, then I’m going to match wits and beat ’em at their own game. Now, you say you’re part Hawaiian? Hawaiians don’t count for shit. They weren’t totally persecuted. They’re not living on reservations. They didn’t have to sit in the back of the bus. They are, however, native to Hawaii. Hawaii is in America. And thus, your daughter is a Native American. You see how it works?”

  “I can paint!” Ellie said. “I paint all of it all up.” She put the paintbrush to her face. I didn’t stop her. I remembered at carnivals getting my face painted, the cold, wet paint, the soft bristles of the brush.

  “You see!” Barrett said, laughing. “One Who Paints on Face!”

  I looked down at the ethnicity box (that would be a good band name). I sometimes picked Pacific Islander for Ellie and myself, but knew deep down that this wasn’t really given much credit. When they saw this box checked, admissions officials most likely envisioned coconuts and hula dancers, an idyllic, balmy existence, before stamping ENTRANCE DENIED over Keolani Miller, or whomever.

  “Her name doesn’t sound Native American,” I said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Barrett said. “Names get changed. Look at Ellis Island. Your last name could have been Wolfe Range, but your great-grandfather changed it to avoid persecution, or had it changed by some conformist boss. Tara’s grandpappy could be Suge Knight for all they know. They can’t question you.”

  “You’re out of control,” I said.

  “Out of control,” Ellie said.

  Tara glared at Ellie and held her paintbrush tightly to her chest. “Mines!”

  “You have to pay an application fee to even see some of these schools,” Barrett said. “Some charge seventeen thousand dollars a semester. For preschool! Henry paid for that art room you saw. If you want to get in, you need to either build a new gross-motor decompression room or check the right box, and don’t feel bad about it. Do it!”

  I had filled in everything but the ethnicity box. My essay was two pages long. It had a thesis, body, and conclusion. It stressed how much time I had on my hands to volunteer.

  “Did you do this for Jake?” I asked.

  “Jake? No. And it took me three tries to get him into his old elementary school, so he entered late and he had no friends. He wouldn’t listen or focus. He hit kids. He smelled everything, like obsessively. We thought he was on the spectrum for a while there. I’m not putting Tara through that rejection.”

  She looked at me with intensity. It was as if we were in the trenches and she was building me up to make a run for it. “Just do it,” she said. “Do you want her to have no friends like my son?”

  I thought of Betts enrolling Bella when she was still in the womb. I thought of that woman today, implying that she’d pay for a new play area. I thought of all the moms who had hired preschool consultants and of the school tours, the boredom, the time, the cost of applying, the effort to keep my knickers concealed.

  “Do it,” Barrett said. “This city is a battlefield. And we are warriors.”

  I looked at the black paint on my daughter’s face and held my pen.

  Native American. Check.

  * * *

  So that’s what scares me the most—not just preschool but the choices we make that herd us toward a certain point, making the other points and places fall away. I’m scared of my choices. I’m scared of what I’m capable of doing for my child, I’m afraid I’ve already taken too many bad turns and she’ll look back at the map and say, “Why didn’t you go here? Why did you turn there?” and “Why can’t we go back?”

  I know we’re not supposed to use this forum to advertise our own business, but there have been so many posts on potty training that I thought it would help to let you know about the company I founded, Poop in the Potty Forever, LLC, which provides private education services and potty boot camps. My process involves interviews, observations, educating your children about their bladder and bowels, and devising a customized plan for your little learner. Contact me if I can help!

  —Consultant Linda York, MA

  I wanted to warn everyone about a business called We Fix Doors. I had an appointment with them, but found another company who could do it for a better rate. When I called to cancel, the repairperson hung up on me. I called back and he answered the phone saying, “F— you in the ass. F— you in the ass, you cheap bitch.” And so I would not recommend We Fix Doors.

  —Email response to a mother asking SFMC for garage-door repair recommendations

  Mele finishes her post on saffron-roasted cauliflower. How she loves roasting cauliflower! It’s like taming a shrew.

  Ellie comes to the kitchen in her fourth outfit of the day. “Make it happen,” she says.

  Mele doesn’t know where that came from, probably Michael, the boy from her daycare who has a head shaped like a football. She had heard his mom say to him one day, “Make today your best day,” so figures it’s one of his family’s platitudes. Maybe she could have Ellie pass one along to Michael. He could go home saying, “Live like you’ll die tomorrow” or “I don’t sweat, I sparkle.”

  Mele grabs the Pirate’s Booty and fills a baggie with carrots. “Are you sure you don’t need to go potty?”

  “I’m sure,” Ellie says and lifts up her dress.

  “Then we’re off.” Another afternoon doing the mom thing. Park, bath, dinner, bed, repeat, repeat, repeat. They are making it happen.

  * * *

  “Henry!” she says when she sees him at a picnic table. She exaggerates her enthusiasm, like they are buddies and everything is all g and normal and her heart isn’t racing, her body not aflutter. It’s so strange when you land upon the idea, the fact, that you’re attracted to a friend. It’s like discovering something that was there the whole time. Like money in your pocket, or something in your purse you didn’t miss but are so happy to find. Henry! It feels wonderful to want something, to be charged by something, to let her know she isn’t dead down there. Mele had been beginning to accept a nunlike kind of living, but at the sight of him, she’s thinking, See ya, sisters, I’m dropping you like a bad habit.

  She walks in, closing the gate behind her. For the first time she feels single and happy about it. Married parents can’t realize the significance of this simple thought and the healthy rise you get from believing it.

  “Hey,” Henry says, almost standing up. They gi
ve one another awkward high fives. He always looks so nice, though not overly styled. He wears Ray-Bans, a collared shirt, and jeans.

  “We’ve missed you guys,” she says, looking at Tommy.

  “We went camping,” Tommy says. “We camped a lot. We ate marshmallows, we had a wagon. It was my wagon.”

  “We went camping, too,” Ellie says. “We built a fort.”

  Tommy stands with his hand on his hip, assessing if he is going to let this fly. Mele can read him. Did she really go camping? That makes my camping less significant. How should I define myself?

  “Want to go down the pole?” Ellie says. “Only I can do it so.”

  “I can, too,” Tommy says, seeing an opportunity to reinstate his masculinity, and they walk off. Mele looks after them, imaging them as siblings, then quickly pulls in the reins. How did it go from friendly attraction to stepmom? There seems to be little difference between young crushes and adult crushes: at both ages you are willing to compromise so much of yourself. Mele remembers during her freshman year in high school, she quit dance, something she loved, something she was so good at, just so she wouldn’t miss Jared Terra’s call. Cell phones must be changing young love lives.

  “Sorry,” Henry says. “I didn’t let you know.”

  “About what?”

  “Camping,” he says.

  She laughs and crosses her arms and sits down next to him. “Why would you need to let me know?”

  She doesn’t trust herself to look at him or to move. She would be so devastated if she is reading him wrong. He’s like a hot drink. She has to go slow.

  “We had dinner that night and I forgot to mention we’d be gone all week.”

  “You don’t need to check in with me,” she says. Her voice breaks a little, like she’s gotten teary! How awful. She clears her throat. “Was it fun?” God, now her voice is husky. She pulls the zipper on her sweater up to her neck.

  “I needed to get the kids out,” he says. “Outside, not thinking about things. She’s been with the guy for a year.” He gazes out at the playground. “How was your week?”

  She doesn’t answer. Who knows what her voice would sound like? He turns his head. “What did you do?”

  Okay then. She won’t address the yearlong affair. They can always circle back. “I did preschool tours. They’re horrible.”

  “I wouldn’t know, to be honest,” he says. He puts his ankle on his opposite knee, grazing her leg. “Kate just enrolled the first kid and the rest followed.”

  This is the opportunity. On the application she didn’t end up saying that Ellie was Native American. Barrett chickened out, too, after Gary asked if she was all right in the head.

  “Could I ask a favor?”

  “Shoot.” His face opens up and relaxes as though this is a relief to him.

  “I visited Tommy’s preschool and I really loved it. You must get asked all the time, and I don’t know—”

  “I’ll call Ms. Eldridge tomorrow morning,” he says and takes out his phone, perhaps writing it in his calendar.

  She restrains herself from saying anything but “thank you.” This is how the world works.

  “Did you finish your book?” he asks.

  “I got everyone’s stories,” she says.

  “Yeah?” He looks over at her, genuinely enthusiastic.

  “Yeah,” she says, his energy affecting her.

  “You should come over sometime, cook some of the recipes. For all of us,” he adds. “Georgia, Annie, Barrett. The gang.”

  “Sure,” she says. “Sounds good.”

  They stay for a long time that day. Tommy and Ellie hang from the bars, cross the wooden bridge, slide, and sit on stumps. There’s an older boy near them, kicking sand and sucking a Popsicle. He wears shorts and has fresh wounds on his legs. He has long, dirty hair, and the skin around his mouth is stained red. He looks like Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest when she gets all crazy with the makeup. He puts his mouth around the Popsicle. In college, Mele knew some guys who were so afraid of seeming gay that they wouldn’t suck on Popsicles or eat bananas.

  “Too many babies here,” he says to another boy who walks over. Henry and Mele exchange looks.

  “You want to know a place that’s baby-free?” the other boy says. He has khaki pants, longish black hair, and sad eyes.

  “Where?”

  “Under there.” Mele looks under the wooden ramp that leads up to the hutch. “You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Babies can’t dig.”

  “That makes no sense,” she says to Henry.

  “If anything they can dig,” he says. “These boys seem old to be here. They should be playing basketball or smoking or something.”

  “Is your mom here?” they hear the tough boy ask.

  The boy in the khaki pants points to the bench. “She’s over there.”

  Mele looks at a woman in the distance sitting on the green bench. She loves listening to kid conversations.

  “But she’s not my mom. She’s my babysitter. I have two babysitters.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause I was adopted.”

  “Oh,” the tough boy says. “How do you know?”

  “My second mom told me.”

  “How come you were adopted?”

  “I don’t know. Someone needed money.”

  The boys walk off, leaving Henry and Mele a bit bewildered.

  “That was something,” Henry says. “I love stuff like that.”

  “Me, too,” Mele says. “How old do you think they are?”

  “Around nine,” Henry says without hesitation. She guesses it’s because he’s known that age before. She can’t imagine Ellie as a nine-year-old. What will that look like? Maybe a parenting trick is to look at your child and think to yourself: You will be five years older than you are right now. This age will be over and you will rejoice and you will mourn.

  Ellie comes over and smiles at Henry and pats his knees. Henry swoops her up, kisses her head, then hands her to her mother. It feels like the most intimate thing in the world.

  “We better get going,” Mele says, standing up.

  “No!” Ellie says and sprints toward Tommy by the ladder.

  “Have you ever been to Nopa?” Henry asks. “Right down the street. We could walk with the kids.”

  “They’d love that,” she says and thinks of Courtney talking for her baby. Parents use their kids all the time. “Ellie needs a nap” often means “I’m dying to get out of here.”

  “They’re so cute together,” she says, watching Tommy push Ellie’s butt so she can reach the next rung.

  “They can have their second date,” he says.

  * * *

  Wine, dinner, company. No bath, dinner, repeat. She’s warmed by what life can do sometimes, and by the second glass of cabernet.

  The children share the pappardelle, recalling Lady and the Tramp. She and Henry share the asparagus with duck egg and fried leeks, the avocado toast with pickled jalapeño and smoked cheddar, and when the kids are still content, still civilized and users of inside voices, they continue on to the porchetta and halibut.

  Mele tells him the story about momentarily stealing the belt.

  “I know every one of them,” he says. “My wife’s friends.”

  She looks down, avoiding commentary. She imagines Kate is like Betts, an expensive though minuscule appetizer. When it arrives you know it’s valuable, but you’re still like, “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  Henry circles back to Kate, though he uses code names and code words, so Mele feels like a spy. Kate is “Karl.” Divorce is “Diabetes.”

  “Karl said that God brought them together,” Henry says. “Karl and this other man. He has a bumper sticker on his car that says KITE SURFING IS REALITY.”

  “Well,” she says. “Maybe it’s better than JOGGING or BIRD WATCHING IS REALITY.” God, was that lame? She puts her hair up in a ponytail. If only guys knew girls fidget with their hair when the
y find them attractive.

  “So she said she couldn’t ignore this gift of love from God.”

  “What did you say to that?” She bites into a trumpet mushroom and tastes basil, pine nuts, and hope.

  Henry grins and blinks, recollecting some private moment. “I said, ‘Jesus Christ,’ then made the sign of the cross with my middle finger.”

  His teeth are tinted with red wine. It conjures the image of Bobby, coming home late at night, purple teeth, a smoky T-shirt. She sees Henry doing the same, stumbling home with secrets. What is Kate’s side of the story? Henry places his hand on his son’s head, his grin falling away, and Mele feels suddenly self-conscious sitting across from him. She must look so small and unkempt compared to his wife. She wipes her mouth with her napkin.

  “I can’t believe she’s friends with those ladies from my old playgroup. We could have been in the same group.” She laughs and looks down. “I didn’t quite fit there.”

  Ellie and Tommy are going through their fourth bread basket.

  Henry leans forward. “They’re older, that’s all,” he says but looks away, knowing that wasn’t all. He seems to be giving up on something. “You’ll find your way.”

  She thinks of him in his kitchen, advising his son and his friends, and she feels a bit like a student. She wonders then if that’s how he sees her, as a friend he is looking out for, himself as a mentor—someone who can help her along. She likes the idea of that, but it takes her down to a lower groove.

  “Thank goodness you didn’t fit in,” Henry says. “We wouldn’t have met.”

  “Yeah!” she says. “And what would these guys do without each other?” Ellie and Tommy are poking holes in the bread and putting them up to their faces to see out of.

  Her heart races. She takes her hair out of the ponytail, then puts it into a low bun. Her leg touches his under the table.

  “Sorry,” she says.

  “I don’t mind,” he says.

  This just isn’t a good idea. They are friends. It is healthy. Right now nothing has happened. She can ignore the innocent flirtation and they can split the check and call it a night. He’s married. He’s rebounding. Who’s to say he isn’t just like Bobby?

 

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