Best Kept Secret

by Amy Hatvany

  Natalie goes home around noon, and Jess and I make lunch for the boys: toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, and for us, mandarin grilled chicken salad. Jess gets Charlie’s jeans washed while the twins take a nap, and Charlie and I walk to a nearby park so we don’t disturb their rest. Charlie wears a pair of sweats he left at his aunt’s house the last time he slept over; the elastic hems hit just above his ankles now. Watching him play, it strikes me just how quickly he has grown.

  After we return from the park and the boys wake up, Jess and I decide to get out of the house for a few hours. We take the boys to Tube Time, a venue filled with well-padded, obstacle course-like tunnels and cushioned slides, both designed to wear out even the most energetic kid. Jess and I take turns crawling in after our children when they refuse to get out of another child’s way, or when Jake is too frightened to go down the bigger slide. For a while, chatting with my sister and seeing the kids play, I almost feel like myself again.

  The afternoon passes and the light starts to fade as we pull into Jess’s driveway. Derek calls and tells Jess he has to go out to dinner with his clients to write up an offer on a house. Jess growls playfully at her loss of their bet, happy, I know, to have another commission coming in. Lured by the promise of Jess’s cheesy lasagna and garlic butter-drenched bread, I agree to stay for dinner. My nephews have gone downstairs to play, but Charlie runs around the house, alternately clinging to me, then spinning in circles, arms spread wide in the middle of the living room.

  “Hey, champ,” I say, “knock it off, would you? You’ll break something.”

  “No I won’t!” he exclaims. “Look at me! I’m Spida-Man!” He leaps onto the couch and pretends it’s a trampoline. Even after a busy day of playing, his energy levels are insane; not hyperactive, exactly. More kinetic. He’s pretty much been in constant motion since he learned how to walk. This has been somewhat disconcerting for me to deal with as a woman who views exercise as punishment for her private, passionate love affair with ice cream.

  “Wow,” Jess observes. “Too much sugar?”

  “Too much Alice, more like it. She completely clamps down on him so he freaks out when he gets away.”

  “I do not!” Charlie screeches, the slender cords in his neck standing out like rope. He jumps across my sister’s couch, feet together, cushion to cushion. “Don’t call me a freak!”

  “I didn’t call you a freak, I said you freak out. Big difference. Now, get down.” I try to keep my tone calm, but there is an itch in my chest, a tightening that feels all too familiar.

  “No!” He jumps again, once, for emphasis, then looks at me defiantly.

  “It’s really okay,” Jess says. “The boys do it all the time.”

  “No, it’s not okay.” I stand up, step toward him, and grab my child around his skinny bicep, maybe a little harder than I should have. “I told you to get down. Now.”

  “Owww!” he squeals. “Don’t!”

  I yank him a bit to get him to land on his butt, which he does.

  “Cadee,” Jess says, her voice quiet. “It’s okay.”

  I look at her, my eyes flashing. The adrenaline is already pumping. Another withdrawal symptom—extreme irritability. It takes nothing—nothing at all—to set me off. I want a drink is the first thought in my head. My blood is heating, bursting into tiny, stress-induced flames beneath my skin. I can no longer douse them with wine. My child is my trigger. “Identify them,” Andi encourages us in group. “Avoid them if you can.” What the hell is wrong with me? Who reacts like this to their own child? I let go of my son’s arm, sit down next to him on the couch.

  “Sorry, monkey,” I whisper.

  He sits still, arms crossed over his chest, bottom lip pushed out but no tears. I try to run my hand down his arm, but he jerks away. “Don’t!” he says, more quietly than the time before.

  “Okay.” I rest my hands, cupped together gently, palms up, in my lap.

  “Why don’t you go downstairs with the boys?” Jess suggests in a happy voice.

  Charlie glances at me, tentative, sidelong. He is not ready to forgive me. I don’t blame him. I’m nowhere near being able to forgive myself.

  I nod. “Aunt Jess is right. Go play, have fun.” He walks slowly, head hanging, down the hall and down the basement stairs. The ache in my heart is a palpable thing. I wish for a way to have it surgically removed.

  “He’ll be fine,” Jess says. Her expression is blank, but her eyes can’t mask her concern.

  I shake my head. “What if I can’t fix this? What if I’ve scarred him for life?”

  She sighs. “All of us are scarred, Cadee. We’ve all got our wounds. No one escapes their childhood unscathed.”

  I take in a jagged breath. “I feel like I’ve totally failed him. No wonder he’s freaking out. It’s not Alice. It’s me. It’s my fault. Kids need to know what to expect. They need stability and routine to feel safe and I’ve obliterated all of that for him. When I think about what I’ve done—”

  “Stop it.” Jess cuts me off. Her voice is firm. “You can’t do this to yourself. Yes, you screwed up. Yes, Charlie has gone through some shit you wish he didn’t have to go through. But wallowing around in your guilt about it is going to get you nowhere. So knock it off.”

  When I don’t respond, she walks over and puts her arms around me. She holds me close, her palm pressed against the back of my head, her mouth next to my ear. “You are a good mother.”

  “No,” I say. “I’m not.” This is the tape that plays in my head: I’m shit. I’m selfish and useless and I got drunk in front of my son. I’m nothing but a piece of shit. It’s the sound track that sets the rhythm of my days.

  “Yes, you are. Remember when Charlie wouldn’t nurse right away in the hospital? Remember how your milk wasn’t coming in?”

  I sniff, then nod into her shoulder.

  “And what did you do that I’m sure to this day the nurses at Swedish still talk about? You started massaging your boobs to get those milk ducts going. You rubbed your boobs so hard they were black and blue. I thought you were a rock star mom. You were absolutely determined Charlie would get what you thought was best for him. Right?”

  I nod again.

  “And what about the time when he had bronchitis and you didn’t sleep for eight days straight? Remember how you held him? How you sat in the bathroom running scalding hot water for hours and hours trying to help your baby boy breathe easy? You had tile marks on your ass for a week.”

  A small, reluctant smile pushes out the corners of my mouth. She is still holding me.

  “You’re a good mother, Cadee. Not perfect, but good.”

  I shake my head, but don’t say anything more. She doesn’t understand. She has no idea just how deep this sense of disgrace goes. How could she?

  She sighs. “Okay, then. I’ll set up the guest room.”

  I pull back from her and start to protest, but she stops me by holding up her hand. “No arguments. You’re spending the night. Derek won’t be home until late and I need the company.”

  “I should take him home,” I say meekly. “He needs to be in his own bed.”

  “Cadence.” This is all she says. Her tone is enough to tell me the debate has ended. We won’t talk about it outright. She won’t say she is worried about the flare-up of my anger, my inability to manage it without taking a drink. She doesn’t have to speak. My sister knows me well enough to hear my thoughts, to know I need help, even when I can’t come close to admitting it to myself.

  Five

  Mama!” Charlie yelled from the bathroom. “Come wipe me!”

  I sighed as I stood in the kitchen on a chilly spring morning, picturing my four-year-old son in front of the toilet, palms flat on the cold, green tile and his tiny, naked bottom stuck up in the air. “Coming, baby,” I called out. “Mama just needs to take out the garbage.” I heard the truck rumble just down the street and knew I had to be quick. The recycle truck only came twice a month, and if I missed today, the bin wou
ld overflow.

  I grabbed the blue recycle bin I kept beneath my sink, ready to lug it outside, when the noisy clanking of glass stopped me. I looked down and quickly counted the bottles—two, four, six, eight . . . what the hell? I kept counting. Fifteen?

  I didn’t want my neighbors—or the sanitation workers, for that matter—to see how many bottles I’d gone through in two weeks. It seemed to happen the same way I cut away slivers from a pan of brownies, telling myself, I’m only having a tiny bit—really, it’s not that much.

  But now I had to get rid of the evidence. I hurriedly padded each bottle with newspaper, shoved them deep into the regular garbage can, and rolled it out to the curb, happy to have stumbled upon such an easy solution.

  “Mama!” Charlie screeched from the front porch, where he now stood naked, cupping his genitals with both hands while hopping up and down.

  I raced up the stairs. “Get inside, Mr. Man. No naked boys on the porch.” It was hard for me to believe he would be five in just a few months; he was already almost as tall as my waist.

  “How come?” He giggled.

  I smiled. “It’s the law. Now, shoo.”

  He complied, and shot back down the hallway to the bathroom. “Didn’t you clean yourself up?” I asked, shutting the door behind me.

  “Nope!” came his cheerful reply.

  I sighed again. Ah, too much to hope. I joined him in the bathroom. “You know, you’re getting to be such a big boy,” I said after I finished helping him. “You can do this.”

  “Nuh-uh. You do it better.” He grinned. “Let’s go play.”

  “Clothes first, mister.”

  I helped him dress, too, and then spent the next hour lying on the living room floor, rolling the same bright orange Hot Wheel Corvette back and forth for what seemed like the nine hundredth time in a row. I tried not to think that what I really should have been doing was trying to write something that might actually make us some money.

  I’d all but given up on freelancing; I had a hard time concentrating on anything for more than a few minutes at a time. Coming up with query letters and article outlines overwhelmed me. I’m just exhausted, I told myself. Once I start sleeping better, I should be able to get back in the swing of things.

  Until then, I managed to spit out short pieces for websites like About.com or CareerBuilder, mining old articles I’d written on how to ask for a raise and reslanting them to how to ask for a raise in a downsized economy. E-zines like this didn’t pay much—some not at all—but it was enough to at least help get us by. Each month I reluctantly pulled out just enough money from savings to pay the mortgage, utilities, and my health insurance, sickened by the shrinking balance. The months I didn’t sell an article, I used credit cards to pick up any slack. When those bills came due, a heavy panic swelled in my chest as I made the minimum payment, which I knew wouldn’t even make a dent in what I owed. Just thinking about skyrocketing interest rates as I tried to play with my son brought on the same feeling.

  I jumped up from playing with my son. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  “Okay, Mommy,” Charlie said, intent on smashing two Mack truck grilles against each other in a head-on collision.

  I zipped down the hall and into the kitchen, knocked down two swallows of merlot—the last from the bottle I opened the night before. I walked back into the living room.

  “Want to go to the store with Mommy?” I asked Charlie.

  “What are you going to buy me?” he asked, leaping to his feet.

  I laughed. “I’m going to buy you lunch,” I told him, ruffling his hair with my fingers. “Whatever you want from the deli, okay? I don’t feel like cooking.” I slipped on my flip-flops and made a silly face at Charlie, who giggled, crossed his eyes, and stuck out his tongue at me.

  I loved this moment. It was the one I was always trying to reach. I was happy, Charlie was happy. After the wine, everything in my body felt loose, like it was saturated with oxygen and massaged into a deep state of calm.

  We hopped in the car and drove the few short blocks to the store. “Can I ride in the cart?” Charlie asked as we approached the entrance.

  “Sure, baby,” I said. I typically made him walk. “Hop in.” I tucked my fingers into his armpits and lifted him up, struggling a bit to get his feet through the holes in the cart. “You’re getting to be such a big boy. Almost too big for this.”

  “No, I’m still a baby,” he said, and jammed his thumb into his mouth. “Th-ee?”

  “Oh, do I have to buy some diapers, too?” I asked playfully.

  “No,” Charlie said. A chuckle rolled beneath the word. He pulled out his thumb and wiped it on my forearm.

  “Ew!” I said, pretending to be horrified. “Charlie slime!”

  He giggled again and we headed to the deli.

  “I want chicken bones,” he said, pointing to the hot food section under the glass.

  I scrunched up my eyebrows. “You want what?”

  “Chicken bones.” He shook his finger in the same direction, and I realized what he meant.

  “Oh, you want fried chicken? The legs?”

  He nodded.

  “You got it.” I had the deli counter clerk bag up a twelve-piece meal, including six legs, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and biscuits. I gave his nose a little tweak. “You want some ice cream, too?”

  He looked at me with wide eyes. “Really?”

  “Why not?” We hit the frozen foods aisle, where I filled our cart with a few containers of chocolate fudge and strawberry cheesecake ice cream, along with a variety of quick, microwave dinners for the rest of the week. With just the two of us and Charlie’s picky appetite, cooking wasn’t as fun as it used to be.

  “Thank you, Mommy!” he said when I added an economy-size bag of frozen Tater Tots to our other purchases.

  “You’re welcome, sweetie.”

  “Can I have chips, too?” he pressed. “Wrinkles?”

  I cocked my head to the side, confused. “Wrinkles?”

  Charlie sighed, impatient with my obvious ineptitude. “The potato chips with all the bumps, Mom. You know. The kind you like with the yucky onion dip?”

  I racked my brain for a moment, until it dawned on me. “Oh! You mean Ruffles?”

  “Yeah, Ruffles. That’s what I said.”

  I laughed. “No, you said ‘wrinkles,’ kiddo. But that’s okay. I think that’s a better name anyway. I think we’ll skip them this time, since we’re getting ice cream. Okay?”

  “Okay!” He threw his arms around my waist. His small hands pushed flat on my lower back; his face pressed into the swell of my belly. “I love you, Mama,” he said, his voice slightly muffled.

  “Oh, baby. I love you, too.” My heart began to beat a little more quickly; I suddenly felt a little anxious about getting back home. On the way to the cash register, I flipped the cart down the wine aisle. The inside of my mouth was parched, like I’d been chewing on a wad of cotton.

  “You have to get more wine?” Charlie asked in a quiet voice.

  “Just a little bit,” I said. “I’m all out.”

  “And you need to relax.” He looked at me, questioning. “Right?”

  “Right.” I snatched two bottles of my favorite cabernet and merlot mix, thinking those would last me at least until the next night. Setting them in the cart, I clapped my hands together once and smiled at my son. “Let’s go home and play some more,” I said.

  “You’re too tired to play with me after your wine,” he said reproachfully.

  I swallowed back the ache in my throat. “I won’t be. I promise.”

  When he didn’t answer, when he wouldn’t even meet my gaze, I told myself I had imagined the disappointment weighting his voice when he asked if I needed more wine. I convinced myself he was still happy, that his smile hadn’t vanished because of me.

  Six

  After complying with Jess’s order to stay at her house overnight, I’m hunkered down in her guest room, snuggling with my son. Followin
g the controlled chaos of a tomato-sauce-laden lasagna dinner, Charlie and I changed into borrowed pajamas—he in one of Jess’s T-shirts and me in one of Derek’s—then crawled into bed. I curl around Charlie in the exact manner I used to wrap myself behind my sister. Big shrimp, little shrimp. His butt is pushed into my belly and his fragile spine rests against my breasts.

  “You’re all squishy, Mommy,” he said when we first climbed beneath the covers. He wiggled against me, adjusting to find his comfortable spot.

  “Is that a good thing?” I asked with a warm smile. I’m pretty sure my son is the only male on this earth who could call me “squishy” and not only get away with it, but have it make me happy.

  He nodded. “For mommies, it is.” He closed his eyes and let out a long breath, a spinning top finally winding down.

  “Well, thank you, then,” I said. “Hey, baby boy?”

  His eyelids lifted a bit, but didn’t open all the way. “Mm-hm?”

  “I’m really sorry I snapped at you today.” I kissed the back of his soft head. He smelled faintly of Johnson & Johnson’s baby shampoo and the fudge pop Jess fed the boys for dessert. I’m out of practice at the tasks of motherhood; I forgot to make him brush his teeth.

  “ ’S okay. Everybody gets mad sometimes,” he mumbled, and something inside me that had been held captive suddenly lifted and was set free.

  How is it that he knows this, at five? I wonder after he falls asleep. How is it so easy for him to forgive and let go? He didn’t learn this from me—or his father, for that matter. Maybe it’s something we’re all born with, this ability to accept another person’s failings and imperfections without lingering contempt. Maybe harboring resentment is an environmental hazard, habitual pollution absorbed into our blood. I wonder if I could get some kind of emotional transfusion. Out with the bad blood, in with the good.