Devon took me away from my thoughts. “Mom, this is a cool toy. Look. It lights up!”
“That is awesome, bud. I’m glad you like it.” But the chances of me ever seeing it again were slim to none. It would probably wind up lost under his bed or the couch—if he even remembered to pack it when he left his grandparents’ house.
“Hey, mom?”
“Yes?”
“How come you and dad aren’t married anymore?”
My stomach clenched. At least twice a year since the divorce, Devon would ask, and I’d remind myself that he was young and needed to hear it again. He probably didn’t remember much of when Mike and I were together, and I prayed he had no memories of the beatings or the verbal abuse my ex had regularly rained down on me.
Devon probably hoped it would change between Mike and me. From what I knew of his classmates, a lot of his friends’ parents were still together, so it was hard for him to understand. The easiest course of action was to give him the same answer I’d given him before. “Daddy and I love you, Devon, but we just couldn’t live together anymore.”
“Why not?”
Today, I wouldn’t tell him the real reason: because your dad’s an abusive asshole. “Well, because…because your dad and I just didn’t get along.”
For the first time on this trip, Sarah spoke up. “He was mean.”
In response, my son raised his voice. “He is not!”
Holy shit. Nowadays, Sarah’s neutral state was one of malaise and reticence—so, for her to voice a strong emotion or opinion about anything jolted me. I definitely knew where it was coming from, and now I understood why she hadn’t wanted to spend time at Mike’s—but I’d always tried hard not to say disparaging remarks about his father in front of the kids, mostly because my ex had never displayed one iota of abusive intent toward Devon, and I was certain it would remain that way. After all, the guy was a misogynist and he loved his kid, no matter how he felt about women—but could I communicate that to Devon without downplaying Sarah’s feelings and opinion that most certainly was rooted in reality?
I had to take a chance—because, if I didn’t, this could brew into something else later at my parents’ house when I wasn’t around to do damage control. “Devon, your dad and I grew apart, and that’s why we’re not together anymore. I know you love him, but he was mean to me and sometimes Sarah. Sometimes when people aren’t happy anymore, they do mean things—but that doesn’t make your dad a mean person.” Looking at my daughter through the rearview mirror, I prayed this was enough to appease both my children. “Right, Sarah?”
“I guess.” She wasn’t looking at me, but at least she was talking. Although she’d been on the verge of anger moments earlier, she’d already returned to this apathetic state.
Devon asked, “Is it like how you said even though Brady is a jerk, it doesn’t make him a bad person? It was—what did you say?”
Oh, kindergarten. I’d almost forgotten. Devon and Brady, another child in his class, had some sort of argument midway through the year, and the teacher had talked with me about it after school. For the remainder of the school year, they’d continued to clash. One evening after pondering how to approach it, I’d told Devon that sometimes there are people you don’t get along with, but that “doesn’t mean that you or he are bad people. You just don’t get along.”
And then I remembered the phrase he was thinking of. “A personality clash.”
“Yeah. Personality clash. Is that what happened with you and dad?”
“You could say that.” Although it was the understatement of the century.
Fortunately, Devon seemed happy with the answer and took another bite out of his cheeseburger. Sarah was back to looking like she didn’t give a shit about anything, and as I raced down the highway, I wondered why I hadn’t ordered anything for myself other than a Diet Coke. Trying to ignore my rumbling stomach and thundering thoughts, I drove slightly over the speed limit until we neared the town nestled in the mountains, Chipeta Springs, where my parents had moved not long after I’d gone off to college.
Just a few minutes of driving through the tiny town and we arrived in my parents’ driveway next to their neat-as-a-pin manicured lawn. I grabbed the bags I’d packed for the kids that lay in the passenger seat as the kids got out of the van. Silently, as if we were attending a funeral, we walked up to the door. Although I rang the doorbell, I also opened the door and let them know it was us. “We’re here!”
My mother’s soprano voice rang out. “Come on in!” As we entered the living room, my mother emerged from the kitchen. I knew objectively that Adele Miller was a lovely woman, with light brown hair and sharp green eyes and a thin face. Thanks to her expert hairdresser, her locks looked as shiny and vibrant as they did in her wedding photos—and, although my mother was in her mid-fifties, she looked like she did ten years ago. It didn’t hurt that her figure was as slender and firm as it had been when I’d lived at home. My mom was religious about exercise and fanatic about appearances—and, as I pondered it, how had I ever thought I could escape her scrutiny and judgment when she was just as hard on herself?
Not unkindly, my mother walked over to me and gave me a gentle hug. “Honey, you look tired.”
“I am tired, mom.”
She turned to Devon, who promptly wrapped his arms around her neck when she bent over. “I’ve missed you, grandma.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” she said, tousling his hair. “Why don’t you take your things to your room?” Devon picked up his bag and ran off before I could say another word to him, and my mother focused her attention on Sarah. My daughter didn’t look quite as enthusiastic as Devon, though, so my mom lifted her chin. “Hi, pumpkin pie. How are you, sweetheart?” When she embraced Sarah, my daughter responded by squeezing her back, burying her head in her chest—but she continued saying nothing. “I guess you’ve missed me, too.” When my mother looked at me, I couldn’t help but frown. Obviously, she knew something was going on. How much, exactly, would I have to tell her? “Go ahead and take your bag to your room, pumpkin.”
The way my mother’s eyes continued to bore through me gave me chills—but she didn’t say a word. Briefly, I thought about moving in here, that if I did, I’d probably have the guest room or maybe they would convert the office/ sewing room into a bedroom. The biggest problem I foresaw was that the rooms my mother referred to as belonging to my kids didn’t really. Instead, they were for all her grandchildren. One was a boys’ room, the other a girls’. How would that sit with my sister Megan if I moved in and took it all over? Or would living here change things? Would my parents have me share a room with my kids or have the kids share a room or? I needed to stop it. The last thing I needed was my mother’s voice in my head more than it already was.
I had other reasons for hesitating when it came to my parents’ offer. Aside from their religious beliefs that I no longer adhered to, my parents had also shifted from being middle class to upper-middle sometime after I’d moved out on my own. Here at this large, beautifully decorated house they had a tennis court and a pool, for Christ’s sake. If I and the kids moved in, my children would be spoiled rotten.
I had to decide if that was a good thing.
Still, I resisted. I didn’t want my kids wearing rose-colored glasses like I had growing up. Life wasn’t an easy ride and shit wouldn’t be handed to them on a silver platter. They had to work for what they wanted—and doing so would allow them to appreciate what they had. Here at my parents’ house, I didn’t know if they would learn that lesson.
“Let’s have a cup of coffee,” my mom said and, as I followed her to the kitchen, I realized my mind was already made up.
But that they’d offered…well, that reminded me that my parents weren’t monsters. They loved and cared for me and my kids. Even though that didn’t stop them from chiding me about my stupid decisions over the years, I realized then that I might do the same thing with my kids when they grew up.
Behind me, I could hea
r Devon tearing down the basement stairs, probably off to the den to play video games, because he knew where everything was.
I was growing more satisfied with my decision by the minute.
I set my purse on a chair while my mother crossed to the sink to pour water into the coffee carafe. As she filled the coffeemaker, she asked, “What’s going on, honey?”
“What do you mean?” Even though I had a lot of guesses as to what she might have meant.
“I sense some strange things going on here. How much do you want to tell me?”
That was a very good question, and I wasn’t sure of the answer. “Well, I don’t have a lot of time.”
“You can give me the abridged version.” She flashed me a slight smile, pulling out a chair at the table and sitting.
As I settled in next to her, I lowered my voice, because I wasn’t sure where my daughter was at the moment. “Something is going on with Sarah.”
“What is it?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know, and she won’t tell me.”
My mom tilted her head, squinting her eyes. “Do you want me to see if I can find out?”
“If you want. I haven’t been pushing her, because she seems so…fragile lately. Anyway, that’s what we were doing yesterday. I’ve started taking her to a child psychologist.”
“Is it that bad?”
“The psychologist seems to think so. She thinks it’s something pretty serious.”
My mother’s eyes widened in an almost cartoon-like fashion while I tried to focus on the sound of the coffee pot pushing water through the coffee grounds. She asked, “Does he think she has some kind of mental illness?”
“The psychologist is a she. And I don’t know, mom. She said she needs more time with Sarah so she can learn to trust her and be comfortable with her. And she thinks Sarah is afraid to talk about her problems with me.”
“Good heavens.”
“The psychologist—Rebecca—thinks that once Sarah is comfortable with her, I need to actually not be in the room.”
“Does she think you’re the problem?”
“No, she just said she thinks Sarah would feel more comfortable talking without me…like Sarah’s holding back and doesn’t feel like she can tell me whatever it is. So I don’t know. Maybe I am the problem. But what could I have done to make her like this?”
“What’s she been doing?”
“Remember when we were down here at Easter? How she kept yelling at Megan’s kids and Devon? And then when dad finally told her to knock it off, she just sat in the recliner the rest of the day pouting?”
“How could I forget?”
“She’s been like that a lot, especially lately. Quiet, acting depressed. But earlier this week she set a fire in the girls’ bathroom at the school. I talked with the principal and the school counselor, and we agreed that putting her in therapy might help us get to the root of the problem.”
My mother stood, retrieving two mugs from the cupboard. “Well, I’m glad you told me. Maybe I’ll be able to find something out.”
“Don’t be surprised if you can’t. She hasn’t been talking much lately. She didn’t even say much to the psychologist yesterday.”
After mom set the cups full of steaming coffee on the table, she brought a bowl of sugar and a small pitcher of cream. “But don’t forget I’m her grandmother. She and I have a special relationship. Who knows what she might tell me?”
“Don’t be surprised if she doesn’t.”
While I doctored my coffee, my mother sat down again. “So, is there any certain way we should treat her? Anything we shouldn’t mention or anything we should avoid?”
“Not that I know of.” As I took a sip from my mug, I figured out a way to change the subject. “Where’s dad?”
“He’s playing golf. You know, he doesn’t do it that often, but he always has so much fun when he does. He was going to cancel when he found out you were bringing the kids, but I told him to go. He’ll be home sometime this afternoon. He said he would play tennis with the kids later, but they might want to go swimming instead. This is one of the last weeks they’ll be able to before we have to cover the pool. Don’t you worry. If anyone can get Sarah out of this funk, it’s your dad.”
If only it were that simple. Although my dad was a fantastic grandfather, Sarah was beyond needing just a little cheering up—what was going on with her was more than childhood boredom or sadness. But I didn’t want to debate the issue with my mother, because—if nothing else—her heart was in the right place.
As I took another gulp of my coffee, I looked at the clock. “I should probably get going.” Moving to the sink, I poured out what was left and rinsed out the cup. “Thanks so much, mom.”
She stood. “So tell me about this date tonight.”
“There’s nothing to tell, really.”
“This friend…you said the two of you met in school.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s a mechanic.”
The disapproval could not be more obvious in her expression. “What is he going to school for?”
Was she hoping for a different answer? “To be a certified mechanic.”
“Really? You go to school for that?”
“Jesus, mom, you have to. Cars have all that computerized stuff in them nowadays. You have to go to school for that.”
“Randi, do not take the Lord’s name in vain in my house, please.”
“Sorry, mom.” I was usually pretty well-behaved with my mouth around my parents, but I slipped on occasion.
“So does he have a job?”
“Well, yeah, it’s like an apprenticeship. He works for a car repair shop and gets paid for it while practicing. He’ll be out of school soon, and then he’ll be able to get a job anywhere he wants and get paid pretty good money for it.” As if to remind my mother I had to go, I picked my purse up off the chair, slinging it over my arm.
“That’s good.” Fortunately, she took the hint, and we started walking back toward the living room. “So what are your feelings for him?”
“What do you mean? We’re friends, mom.”
“Are you so sure about that? He’s taking you out on a date, Randi.”
Part of me wanted to shock the hell out of my mother, telling her that Justin and I been sleeping together at least once a week over the past year—but I refrained, because I had neither the time nor the patience to also tell my mother some of the lies I’d told myself about my complicated relationship with that man. “Mom, we’re just friends. That’s all. He said he wanted me to have some fun. Nothing more—so don’t get your hopes up.”
“Randi, I love you and want the best for you. A good man in your life would do more for you than you know.”
“I disagree, Mom. That’s why I’m never getting married again.”
“People change their minds, Randi.”
“I won’t. I am never putting myself in that situation again.”
“Not all men are abusive.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m never giving control over my life to a man again.” I didn’t plan on saying anything else about it.
“Well, have a good time, honey. Your friend was right about one thing—you do need to have some fun. Don’t worry about the kids. We’ll take good care of them.”
“Thank you.” Then I raised my voice so my children could hear me no matter where they were in that large house. “Sarah, Devon, I’m leaving.” In a flash, Devon appeared from the stairs, throwing his arms around me. “I love you, son. Be good for grandma, okay?”
“I love you, too, mom. I promise.”
I patted his head, knowing he’d have no problems behaving. “Sarah?”
My daughter appeared in the hallway. Apparently, she’d been in the bedroom since we’d arrived. “Sweetie, I’m leaving now. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon sometime.”
“Okay.” Although she gave me a hug, her arms were limp.
I held her close, ho
ping she could feel the depths of my love. “I love you, Sarah.”
“Love you, too.” With that, she turned around and shuffled to a recliner, slinking into it.
Stifling a sigh, I turned my attention back to my mother. “You think around one o’clock?”
“Yes. We should be back by then.” From church, she meant. I allowed my parents to take my kids when they stayed over the weekend, but I was beginning to question my choices. “We’ll have lunch before you leave. I’ll make sure the kids are packed before you get here so you won’t have to worry about that.”
“Thanks again, mom.”
My mother hugged me tightly, reminding me that there was nothing like it. “Anytime. I love you.”
And, like me with my own daughter, I hoped it was enough.
Chapter Nine
When I got back home, I took a long bubble bath and cranked some metal tunes at full volume in the background, something I couldn’t do when the kids were home. I didn’t know why I was looking so forward to this date. Maybe it was because, for just a few hours, I wasn’t going to worry about the kids, homework, my job, my parents—or any other fucking thing.
I decided to spoil myself a little. Not since I’d been a freshman in college the first time had I taken the time to treat myself—or even to try to be sexy. Usually, I’d hop in and out of the shower and throw on minimal makeup. Today, though, after the bath, I slathered a vanilla-scented lotion on my body from head to toe, and then I put on a black lace bra and panties. After that, I painted my toenails a shimmery pink while a mask dried on my face. Once I washed it off, I took my time applying makeup, painting it darker than usual.
If this was a date, I was going to treat it that way.
After fishing around in my closet, I threw three different dresses on the bed, trying to decide which one to wear. I wanted something cute and feminine, something that would go with a pair of shoes I could dance in. Finally, I decided on a black dress with thin straps that ended mid-thigh. Sexy but not too much. Snug but no cleavage, a little revealing but not slutty. Then I picked through my old jewelry that I never wore anymore, settling on a thin silver chain and small silver hoop earrings to match. After that, I put my hair in hot rollers so I could wear it loose. I even wound up painting my fingernails after all was said and done—and when I looked at myself in the full-length mirror next to my closet, I was pleased with my efforts.
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