Adult Conversation

by Brandy Ferner

  Violet whined, writhed, and tried to run away as I attempted to pull a shirt over her head to ready her for a trip to the museum with Dad. But her animosity didn’t break me this time since my shift would be ending so soon. I was getting first-hand intel as to why Aaron had so much more patience than I did. Anyone could be patient for the twenty minutes before freedom.

  “I think we’re ready to go,” he said.

  I pointed to the kids’ feet. They had no shoes on.

  “Oh. Right. Let’s get shoes on, guys.”

  Elliot quickly grabbed his nearly too-small sneakers and Violet put on her red and black polka-dotted rain boots that looked like ladybugs. Aaron looked pleased.

  “She can’t wear those,” I said.

  “Why not? She wants to.”

  “Because she likes them at first and then she takes them off because her feet get sweaty.” She was jumping with joy in her clunky boots.

  “They’re fine. I got this,” he said, looking at a happy Violet.

  “Never mind then,” I said, holding my hands up and stepping away. He was going to find out for himself, especially since he unknowingly packed Violet’s leaky water bottle.

  I stood in the doorway, blowing kisses to the kids who were buckled in the car, all smiles. Violet had not only been compliant, but helpful enough to put her arms through the straps for Aaron. I shook my head. The fruit of my goddamn loins and their ability to betray me.

  The house was empty for the first time in three centuries. I felt like doing snow angels in the crumbs on the filthy floor. Anything was possible right now. I could do any of the kid-free things I’d always wanted to do, like take pictures of all of my outfits and make a visual index for the days when I forgot what I had to wear, learn a sick online dance routine to “Bitch Betta Have My Money,” or spoon with all my belongings and wait for them to tell me their life story. But today I was promised to my sewing machine—and I had an order to fill, money to be made, value to be had.

  My first stop (after sitting on the toilet alone) was to dig up the bin of forgotten fabrics in the garage. I unearthed it from the bottom of a sky-high stack of boxes and lugged it upstairs, breaking a sweat from all the unstacking, then the restacking, while cursing about the prevalence of bikes and scooters underfoot—which felt like I was channeling my dad circa 1984.

  Once upstairs, I opened the lid to the bin and the smell of used shirts wafted out, carrying me back to a different life. The bowling-shoe-spray-like odor conjured up the memory of asking the Goodwill manager if they sprayed all the donated clothing with a certain kind of disinfectant before selling them. To my surprise and disgust, the manager said no, they do absolutely nothing with them, and then added that most came from post-death estate removals. Gulp.

  I rummaged through the death-riddled shirts, taking inventory. At the very bottom of the fabric bin was a plastic container with colorful threads and matching bobbins that Violet would surely love to sort the shit out of. Tucked to the side of the spools was a bag of leftover tags with the “Ruby Riot” logo on them.

  I approached the small work table in the corner, plugged in my sewing machine, and carefully placed the foot pedal on the floor in front of me. I flipped the power switch on and the light awoke, still working and illuminating the needle, the star of a show. Sitting down, I put my hands next to the sewing machine, and then I hugged it. It was sparking goddamn joy. Curse you, Marie Kondo! I grabbed the closest fabric scrap from the bin. Lifting the lever, I slid the scrap under the presser foot and pushed the lever down, the metal foot landing softly on the fabric. The ball of my right foot pressed against the pedal on the floor and the rhythmic hum of the machine began. How I’d missed that sound. With a heavier press of my foot, the needle started bobbing up and down.

  I was sewing again.

  I pulled the fabric out and tugged at the seams to test the stitches. Solid.

  Luckily, I had leftover blank-shirt inventory in toddler sizes, in a tri-blend grey color. Creative juices coursed through my body as I contemplated which other designs to include in addition to heart-stealing octopi. The whale was a favorite, but perhaps too many sea creatures wouldn’t be varied enough. The elephant and its cutely curved trunk could be great, but perhaps not in this atrocious political climate. Maybe the squirrel was a safe bet. And the guitar. I made a visual plan and then hunted with my fingers through the mish mash of t-shirt fabrics, holding them up against the grey shirts to see what would look best—which pattern was more squirrelish and which was more metal for a guitar? Then, with a thin Sharpie, I traced the sturdy shape stencils I’d made years ago onto the most interesting sections of the t-shirt fabric, and cut them out with my special magenta-handled fabric scissors. I was known to murder the man who used them to cut paper. A quick and light adhesive spray on the back of the appliques, and they were ready to meet their destiny with the needle. I got completely lost in my work—in the flow—so I was startled when my phone dinged with a text from Aaron.

  On our way home. Should be back in about 30 minutes.

  How had it been four hours already? It couldn’t be possible. I hadn’t looked up from my project the entire time. There had been no interruptions. I felt a mix of feelings—content and thankful, yet already longing for the next time. This wasn’t enough. Would anything ever be enough? I didn’t know when I would get to sew again, but I knew that it would have to be soon because I had only finished three of CeCe’s ten shirts.

  I looked around at my corner of beautiful disarray. The contents of the fabric bin were scattered across the floor, there were cut thread ends here and there, a pile of fabric cut-outs, and stacks of shirts—some done and some not. I knew I had thirty minutes to put it all back together before Violet would be throwing it all into the air like confetti.

  When everything was out of toddler reach, I went downstairs and opened up the fridge. My stomach was grumbling. I had chosen to forgo lunch in exchange for food for the soul. I spied the sea salt butterscotch caramels and quickly opened the bag, slightly shaking from the sudden lack of sustenance. I took out one of the shiny, round orbs, popped it in my mouth and stood there, savoring the rich, buttery flavor of about five more, until I heard the sound of the garage door, which meant my time was up.

  Elliot barged through the door first. “Mom, we saw these huge dinosaur bones!” His story was hijacked by Violet’s cries coming in behind. Aaron, looking like a soldier returning from combat, held her, until he aggressively handed her to me. I felt her damp shirt. Aaron shook his head and refused eye contact with anyone. There was something so satisfying in seeing an endlessly-patient-with-kids Aaron undone.

  Elliot, the messenger, spoke. “Violet spilled her water all over herself in the car on the way there. She’s been wet the whole time. And crying.”

  I couldn’t bear to look in Aaron’s direction. He seemed mad and embarrassed, banging around the kitchen. I had been there before, only for the past eight years. The God-forsaken Ariel water bottle leaked everywhere when turned over, which was why it existed in the back of the cupboard. Discarding anything with Ariel on it was not an option.

  “Let’s get you some dry clothes,” I said, turning to take Violet upstairs.

  “No!” she wailed, kicking to get down. Amidst the thrusting of legs, I saw something black. I grabbed one and firmly held it for inspection. Her feet were bare and dark black, as if she’d stepped in charcoal.

  “I no wear my way-dee-bug boots, Mama,” she admitted. I looked at Aaron, who finally broke his vow of huffy silence to take a stab at justification.

  “She was wet and crying and wouldn’t fucking wear her boots and I tried to carry her, but she wouldn’t let me so she walked through the entire museum barefoot. I didn’t have a choice.” We both ignored the presence of profanity amongst children because Aaron was too upset. I deeply empathized with him while also appreciating the real-life education he was getting in toddler-ology. Maybe now he would understand why I couldn’t just “relax” and why I cons
tantly carried a bag with an extra pair of clothes and shoes and endless wipes and Advil. The rules and strategies I put into place weren’t me being a buzzkill, it was just the way things had to be so that everyone could get through this day and the next and the next in one god-damn, dry, shoe-wearing piece. I recognized myself in his exasperation and resisted the urge to smirk like an asshole, albeit a right one. Instead, I changed Violet into a clean shirt, set her on the kitchen counter and went to scrubbing the museum off of her. It tickled and she giggled uncontrollably, easing some of the tension.

  “Oh and we didn’t have lunch yet. I’m starving,” Elliot called from the other room, sitting pants-less on the couch.

  “I needs something eat.”

  My throat burned in frustration. I had fallen for Aaron’s bait-and-switch promise yet again. Today’s episode: lunch. My disappointment must’ve shown.

  “Violet was too upset to stop anywhere. She was filthy and wet. I had to get her home,” Aaron said.

  There was nothing I could say that would change anything, or that I wouldn’t regret. Here they were, home and hungry, myself included. I had counted on the respite of having one less meal to make that day and nothing was going to get in the way of it, dammit. All I said was, “Everyone get back in the car right now, we’re going out to lunch because I’m not making it today.” And everyone obeyed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Seeds

  Fuck yeah, today was June day. I was eager to tell her what had happened in the short time since our last visit. And I had made sure to schedule our session on a day that Aaron’s mom, Lucinda, could babysit, so as to avoid unnecessary marital turmoil.

  The kids went bonkers when she knocked on the door, as usual. They loved their “Lucindy”—a name Elliot had given her when he was small. Violet simply called her “Lu.”

  If Aaron was the world’s most optimistic man, Lucinda was the world’s most optimistic woman. She had a twinkle in her eye and was good luck in human form, mostly. When together, their positivity infinitely multiplied to the point that their zest for life was off the fucking charts. This was typically a fortunate trait to have in family members—especially in a mother-in-law who saw the best in me. But it proved to be challenging on days such as Christmas, when I wanted to crawl under the tree skirt and die from my sheer exhaustion at having planned all the festivities—including every single present (and homemade Chex Mix)—and Aaron and Lucinda wanted to smile at each other all day long and exclaim, “Isn’t this fun?!” back and forth on repeat. The only thing that stood in the way of my throat-punching them every December 25th was that I knew their way of being with each other stemmed from truly terrifying times together when Aaron was young and his dad was going through the kind of severe and sometimes violent mental breakdown that causes one to take a baseball bat to the neighbor’s car. Aaron and his mom had always been there for each other amidst the fright, eventually leaving it, and then somehow rebuilding a stable life at his grandma’s house. So to them, the world was rose-colored and their love for each other was one of the purest things I had ever seen. My low-grade envy of their connection almost made me wish my dad had been that level of crazy too, so Marnie and I could’ve bonded over it.

  Unsurprisingly, Lucinda was the quintessential fun grandma who said yes to everything—including sugar in all forms (even cubed). When she came to babysit, I had to let go of any rules being enforced, but she was so damn fun it didn’t matter. Mostly. Not to mention that it’s hard to complain about someone’s job performance when they are volunteering.

  “My little sweethearts!” Lucinda said as I opened the front door for her. She was already digging in her purse for treats. Elliot and Violet ran to her, their hearts and palms open. She gave them each a kiss and hug, and a large pack of Skittles. I pretended not to care.

  “Thank you for helping me out today.”

  “I’m happy to. And don’t you look so cute.” I smiled, looking down at my burgundy blouse with the sophisticated buttons and ruched cap sleeves. I hadn’t worn it in years. Elliot picked a Skittle out of his pack and handed it to Lucinda.

  “Lu, we play monsser?” Violet asked with her mouth full, tasting the rainbow. Lucinda looked at me for translation.

  “I think she wants you to play monster.”

  “Yes, of course.” Lucinda dropped her purse right to the ground, put her arms up above her head, and stomped around, chasing a bonkers Violet. Elliot joined in too. I slowly backed out of the room, grabbed my keys, and bolted.

  “How are things?” June said, taking a seat in her own chair as I sat down on the now familiar couch. She wore a gauzy navy shirt with pink mandala patterns on it, white capri leggings, and leather gladiator sandals with the one strap that separated the big toe and second toe—a sort of thong underwear, but on a foot.

  I updated her, and she smiled, as if she had expected this news. “And how did this make you feel—getting time to sew, and the order?”

  “I felt ecstatic. Kind of like finding out I was pregnant with Elliot and Violet.” Totally unlike if I found out I was pregnant now. “I wish it could be a regular thing, but . . .”

  “But what? What are you telling yourself about it?”

  I thought for a moment. My head slapped me from the inside, sternly telling me there was no way this could work. “I’m a stay-at-home mom. That’s what I chose. We chose. What if it interfered with Aaron’s work?”

  “What does your heart say?”

  I knew she was trying to get me to speak from a different place, outside of my skull. I closed my eyes and imagined what my heart looked like. Not an anatomically correct heart with valves and twisty purple veins, but a warm translucent red one with a miniature room inside where I could sit inside myself. It was peaceful in there.

  “My heart wants me to be both a mom and a designer, but my stupid brain is telling me no fucking way.”

  “Our mind tries to keep us out of trouble, but sometimes it oversteps. What true words of warning do you think it’s giving you, and what else can be tossed aside?”

  That was a weird way to put it. How could I know which warnings were important or not—weren’t they all? I shrugged.

  June sat upright in her chair and planted both feet on the floor. “Are you willing to try something new with me?” she asked, eagerly. I hoped we were going to drop acid together.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then. I invite you to close your eyes or lower your gaze. Start to focus on your breathing. Not trying to force it in any way, but just become aware of the sound and feel of it coming in and out.” This felt like childbirth class all over again. I tried to breathe deeply, like I imagined I should breathe. She must have noticed. “Let go of any ideas about doing it the right way. Your body knows exactly how to breathe. Yes, just like that.” Her voice was slow and soft. “Bring this image of you being both a mom and a designer to mind. Let yourself play in the imagery of what it might look like.”

  Eyes closed, I imagined getting new orders, sewing often, and the freedom that would come with it—listening to an entire podcast in the car, alone, like Aaron did. I saw myself feeling capable and interacting with other interesting women. I saw the kids too, but at a distance.

  June’s words piped in the background. “Keeping with your daydream, open up your concerned mind and ask it what it’s most scared of, or wanting to protect.”

  I shut my eyes tighter. I was feeling for answers like a hand feeling for a light switch in the dark. The distant image of Elliot and Violet went blurry until they vanished completely.

  Flick.

  When I opened my eyes, June was attentively waiting. Quiet.

  “My kids.” I could barely utter the words. Tears were forming. Again. Always. My repressed emotions lived in my face, namely my tear ducts, just waiting to spill.

  “What about them?” she asked calmly, leaning forward.

  “Abandoning them. I don’t want them grow up feeling like I was more interested in my own things than
raising them.”

  “Do you know what that feels like, April, to grow up feeling like your mother was more interested in her own things than you?”

  A sneak attack. I gasped for air, as if I had suddenly been dropped on a planet without oxygen. I think I nodded.

  “What are you scared of?” she asked, her eyes fixed on mine, her voice grave.

  I looked down at the floor. I couldn’t say the words. I suddenly knew them, but I had never said them out loud. I didn’t want to admit that I was paralyzed by the thought of Elliot and Violet feeling abandoned by me if I left them to pursue my own interests—like I felt by my own mother, who chose convenience and her own career over connection, and left me alone too often. I knew it wasn’t really logical—plenty of my friends had outside interests or jobs and utilized babysitters with no blowback. Hiring a babysitter for a few hours or setting up consistent and loving childcare was different from expecting your kids to walk home to an empty house every day after elementary school, like I did. My brain could tell this difference, but my heart could not. Saved in my memory bank was Marnie dropping me off at a nautical-themed daycare called Little People’s Landing when I was just a squirt. It was the Long John Silvers of childcare, and I remember being left to fend for myself with a bevy of other strange land lubbers, forced to eat everything off of my plate, including the milk that made my tummy upset. Looking back, maybe it was the loneliness I was reacting to and not the dairy.

  “I’m terrified I will become my mother.” The words sliced my throat open. “I wanted better for my kids.”

  June uncrossed her gladiator feet and reached her hand onto my knee. “You have given them that. You have worked so hard to create a deeply loving and respectful mother-child relationship, even though maybe you didn’t grow up in one.”

  “It’s a mountain I’m willing to die on, apparently.” I pulled my lips in and smiled painfully. June handed me a box of tissues from her desk. I took a moment for mucosal management.