Keep Me Posted

by Lisa Beazley

  July 20 Cassie—

  I haven’t confronted Adrian because I barely see him. He works fifteen hours a day and travels constantly. I fall asleep with Lulu or am in the middle of a movie with River when he gets home. We haven’t had a meal alone together in weeks and never go to bed at the same time. It’s partially on purpose—I’m avoiding him because I want to delay the inevitable. I don’t have a plan for the kids and me, and he’s a non-factor in our lives. I know that when we do talk, it will be over. I’m not going to stay with him. But I’m not anxious to throw everything into upheaval. Cassie Sunday in the suburbs? Well, I never! Xo, Sid CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  By the second week in August, everyone who can afford to be is in the Hamptons or Connecticut or at the Jersey Shore. Apparently, Wendy can afford it, because she had hightailed it to Amagansett, instructing me to think through what I really want, neighborhood-wise, and to come up with a realistic budget. I think she was starting to sense that I was only half serious and possibly wasting her time on my housewife hobby.

  In August, the pedicures in the city are sad and chipped, the flip-flops are dull and overworn, and all the children are pasty-white because their mothers have spent a good part of the last three months slathering organic sunscreen on their squirming, sticky bodies. The city loses its buzz when it empties out. Things don’t run as smoothly. The heat is oppressive. The garbage rots quickly. In August, if the city so much as looks at me cross-eyed, I think, This shithole rejects me? No, no, no, no. I reject it. Even the stamp truck wasn’t immune to the August doldrums. It didn’t bother to restock the interesting stamps, which left me with the standard-issue Statue of Liberty ones, the ones you have to lick. The boys became enthralled, though, asking how big she was and if she was made of metal or bricks and whether she could talk. When a stroll along the Hudson River to view her from a distance didn’t satisfy them, I promised I’d get them closer. The Staten Island ferry—which used to be my go-to tourist attraction when I had visitors—was the obvious choice: It was easy, free, only took up an hour or two, and offered fantastic views of Manhattan’s skyline and the Statue of Liberty. The outing turned out to be a series of small disasters—a broken fire alarm in the terminal was a sob-inducing stressor for Joey; my refusal to buy candy on the boat triggered a good ten minutes of whining and begging from both of them; and then I sat down in an unknown liquid, which didn’t help my overall patience level. It was one irritation after another from then on—hardly the magical memory I’d envisioned. Still, I’d posted a selfie of the three of us smiling as we passed Lady Liberty, a brief happy moment bookended by threats (me) and tantrums (them). During the taxi ride home, while the boys groused and bickered, I texted Leo and monitored the likes and comments on the photo. Look, everything’s amazing! Right? it beseeched. And with every like, my Facebook friends assured me that indeed it was. I had two choices every time I looked back on the photo of that day in my news feed: I could believe what my friends did, that everything was great. Or I could let it make me feel like a fraud. I wished I’d written a letter that day instead. I would have admitted that it was a shitty day, and that I’d not handled it well. And I would have mostly forgotten about it until Sid’s reply came and validated my honest and complicated feelings. I would have been forced to reflect, and probably to forgive myself. Those letters were like therapy, only better. I loved the physical, sensory aspects of letter-writing, too. I loved that I had to use my hands, hands that often cramped up and bore a thick writing callus. I even loved that the ugly sound of a metal mailbox screeching open and closed would probably make me smile for the rest of my life. Who knows? Maybe if I’d written a letter, I wouldn’t have felt so restless that night, a feeling I thought might be helped by a jog. I regretted it as soon as I stepped outside. It was as if the day’s heat were trapped under some kind of invisible bubble that prevented it from dissipating. I forced myself to run down to the river in search of a slight breeze. Passing the Pig had become second nature, so I wasn’t necessarily hoping to run into Jake as I huffed red-faced and sweat-soaked on West Eleventh Street. When I spotted him unlocking the restaurant door, I thought about turning back or attempting to jog by unnoticed, but instead I sucked in my stomach and said, “Hey.” When he didn’t look up, I kept jogging, thinking that it was for the best we didn’t see each other right then. But after I passed him, I heard, “Hey, Cass!” I turned and said, “Hey,” again. He propped open the door with his foot and nodded me over with his head. “You’ve got to be dying in this heat. Come in. Let me get you a water.” “It is pretty miserable out here,” I said. It being a Monday, the restaurant was closed. I stretched a bit and wandered around, sipping my ice water and telling myself to leave while Jake futzed with some things behind the bar. We chatted easily about nothing much—food trucks and competition and parking spaces, I think—though flashes of the kiss kept me on edge. Maybe he felt the same tension, because soon he was lighting a joint. Without the smells of food and people, the familiar aroma of Jake’s excellent pot filled the space. When he offered it to me, I took it instinctively, joking about it not boding well to finish my jog. I wanted to take just a hit, for old times’ sake, but I have to admit it was also to show Jake that I wasn’t just a mom, that I was still cool. We passed it back and forth over the bar, me feeling lighter and freer with each puff. He offered me a beer. “No, thanks. But do you have any chips or anything?” “How about a sandwich?” he said, walking toward the kitchen and motioning for me to follow him. I stayed where I was on my barstool, though. I didn’t trust myself to go into that kitchen with him. Instead, I stood up and walked out. I floated home, feeling amazing. Why didn’t I do this more often? I wondered. I wasn’t stressed at all. Maybe I should be smoking during the day. Maybe I’d be a better mom if I were a little bit high for playground sessions or music class. I’d have to talk to Monica about this. My perception of depth, space, and time was a little off, but not so much as to be unsafe. In fact, I felt incredibly focused and present. What if I could bring this level of engagement to a game of statues or freeze tag? Forget Valium. This was the perfect “mother’s little helper.” For a moment I thought about calling Jake to say goodbye and thanks, but I felt like there was something a bit sordid about what we’d done, and also like I didn’t owe him anything. It piled on to my memories of his party, which made me feel silly and slutty and desperate, which in turn let me justify my rude exit and in a way let me feel like I had the upper hand. By the time I got to my building, the pros list of being a stoner mom I’d been building up in my head came crashing down in a cloud of paranoia. Leo would know I was high. He’d know I’d been with Jake. He might be packing his bags right now. What if Jake—angry that I’d left without saying anything—had called Leo and told him what a floozy I was? Maybe I should walk around the block, I thought. It was eight forty-five, and I couldn’t remember what time I’d left and whether that was so long ago as to raise suspicion. Did I smell like pot? Or like Jake’s restaurant? I didn’t have any money, or I would have gone to Amir’s for some eyedrops and gum. I should have stayed for that sandwich. But Leo barely looked up when I walked in. I went straight to the shower, and by the time I came out, he was busy doing something online. “I got you a pad thai,” he said. “Ah. Perfect. Thanks.” And that was all we said to each other for the rest of the night. Feeling tired and a tiny bit guilty about my dalliances the night before, I wasn’t in the mood to make good on my promise to go visit our old neighbor Rachel and her two-year-old daughter, Brooke. They used to live on the fourth floor of our building before they moved across the river to Hoboken when Rachel was pregnant. But we had canceled and rescheduled four times already, so I figured it was best to get it over with. The boys and I spent a rare morning indoors, and walked outside around eleven a.m. and into a wall of stink and humidity. The PATH station was five blocks away, on Christopher Street, and then we had an eight-block walk to Rachel�
��s place in Hoboken. Quinn helped me push the empty stroller while Joey skipped ahead. Within minutes, he’d stepped right into a big mushy pile of dog shit. I wrestled both of their already sticky and sweaty bodies into the stroller, promising chocolate milk for cooperation, took off Joey’s shoe, tied it up in a plastic bag and tossed it in the bottom of the stroller. Since it had opened six months ago, taking the place of our favorite corner bar, I had managed to avoid the Starbucks at West Tenth Street on principle. But it was too hot to go out of our way today, and I knew they had those boxes of organic chocolate milk. Plus, I’d seen many double strollers make it through those doors, so today it was a no-brainer. They were out of chocolate milk, so I negotiated strawberry milks, and then changed one to vanilla milk, which I didn’t even know existed until Joey asked for one, and then forgot to say “iced” when I ordered my chai tea latte. The stroller rocked back and forth as the boys wrestled, bonking each other on the head with beanbags shaped like bananas, screeching and yelping and not even hearing my hissed entreaties to stop it. The whole thing was pretty typical, but still my heart raced and my jaw clenched as I felt the line behind me growing longer. When Joey discovered that his milk box was missing a straw, he started sobbing as if he’d just watched a beloved relative savagely murdered. I asked for a new milk box as calmly as I could when the guy behind me in line exhaled loudly and muttered under his breath, “You gotta be kidding me.” Something inside of me snapped, and I spun on my heel so that my whole body was facing this guy, who was about my height and wearing a wool stocking hat in one-hundred-degree heat, and said, “Oh, fuck you.” It was out of my mouth before I even realized what had happened, and I immediately felt shaky but powerful and a smidge relieved that I had finally done what I’d envisioned myself doing so many times and that I’d lived. An older, well-dressed woman with her five-dollar bill in hand, ready to order, was standing behind him and pretending not to notice me. I had a flash of Grandma Margie witnessing something like this and grew hot with shame. Fortunately for me, the Starbucks worker handing me my new milk and iced chai burst into laughter and said with a flourish, “Well, there’s a first time for everything,” breaking the tension. I doubted it was a first, but the barista’s reaction made it difficult for Wool Cap to make a next move, so he plastered a thin smile on his face and locked his gaze somewhere over my head, waiting his turn in silence. If Quinn and Joey heard what was happening, they gave no indication. The poor kids could probably make it five or six years before they heard the word “fuck” if we lived in, say, Connecticut. But this was New York, and most days they hear it a half-dozen times before lunch and, sadly, sometimes from their mother. The wool cap guy got his drink and skittered around us on the way out, letting the door shut right on the stroller’s front wheel. But the barista—my new favorite neighborhood food-service worker—came out and propped open both of the doors so I could easily maneuver out. On the quiet walk to the station, I tried my best to focus on the kindness of the barista. But I couldn’t help reliving the confrontation with the wool cap guy, imagining more classy and intelligent ways I might have handled it. Rachel Pfeiffer lived in a fifteen-hundred-square-foot ground-floor unit with a washer and dryer and a common indoor pool. I wouldn’t let her tell me how much they paid for it because I couldn’t bear to know. Not that I’d be tempted; it’s been established that I’m too superficially proud of my New York address to ever move to New Jersey. Rachel was chomping at the bit to give me the grand tour, so we left the kids playing peacefully in the living room while she showed me around. In my apartment, the tour only requires craning your neck. But for her to show me the master bathroom with its soaking tub and double sinks, we had to walk down a pleasant hallway lined with framed family photos, past Brooke’s room and the guest room, and through the master bedroom. The bathroom was a sight to behold. As soon as my bare feet touched the cool marble, I felt my internal temperature start to lower. I climbed into her giant bathtub and rested my still-sweating head on the cushy ledge designed for a Calgon moment. “This is fantastic, Rachel. It’s like a real grown-up house!” I said, my eyes closed. “Yeah, we figured it was about time,” she said. I was still in the tub when I heard the loud crash. I looked at Rachel and said, “What’s that?”—refusing to panic just yet, in case she had a perfectly good explanation for what sounded like a boulder being thrown through a plate-glass window. Like, Oh, yeah. That’s why we paid only a quarter million for this place. We’re right next door to a wrecking-ball testing facility. But she was running for the door, so I scrambled out of the tub, and that’s when the screaming started. Quinn was standing in the middle of a pile of broken glass that had moments ago been the coffee table. A line of blood ran from his eyebrow, alongside his nose, and into his open, crying mouth. He was shrieking and staring at his hands, one of which was bleeding profusely. Joey, not bloody or screaming, was sitting on the floor and staring into his lap, where a puddle of urine had formed. Brooke appeared to be unharmed but was screaming even louder than Quinn. My heart split in two, half of it sinking to my stomach and the other half rising to my throat as I ran to Quinn. Yanking him up into my arms, I tried to cover the bleeding spots with the first thing I could grab, a cashmere throw strewn over the edge of the sofa. Rachel called 911, and soon Quinn and I were in an ambulance on our way to the emergency room, while she followed in her car with Joey and Brooke. The paramedic fastened a tourniquet around Quinn’s arm and carefully removed a few of the larger shards of glass from his eyebrows and scalp. When we got to the ER and Rachel wasn’t there yet, I was seized with irrational panic that she had gotten into a car accident with Joey, who wasn’t in a car seat, and that I was going to see my other baby wheeled in on a stretcher. I couldn’t bring myself to call Leo until I saw Joey and knew he was safe. While we waited, people kept coming in and out of the room, making both of us jumpy. Quinn cried on and off, asking the occasional question about what sort of machine the doctor would use on him, having not reacted well to the paramedic’s quip that the doctor was going to “sew him up.” Rachel finally peeked her head in, and I ran into the hall and lifted Joey into my arms. After I gave her an update on Quinn, she said, “I’m so sorry, Cass. I feel terrible.” “I’m sorry we destroyed your home. I can’t believe he jumped through your coffee table.” “I’m sure it was an accident. I’m going to get home, though. Can I take Joey with me? He can stay with us until you’re done here.” “No, thanks. I’ll keep him here. Just let me know how much the table is and I’ll pay for a new one.” “Oh, stop. Don’t worry about that right now. Keep me posted on Quinn, okay?” “Will do. See you.” Joey climbed up onto the hospital bed beside his brother and interlaced his fingers through Quinn’s. He looked up at me with damp eyes and said, “It hurts, Mama.” It wasn’t a question. He felt his twin’s pain. I sat on the swivel stool beside them, placing my hand over both of theirs and kissing their heads before calling Leo. I helped Joey change into clean pants from the change of clothes in my bag, and then a nurse came in and did a more thorough glass extraction and cleaning, patiently answering all of Quinn’s questions. “I have a three-year-old, too,” she said, winking at me. Her kindness brought a lump to my throat, and I felt the big August chip on my shoulder begin to dissolve. I found myself thinking about the wool cap guy and the barista and the nurse and how I wanted to be on the side of the barista and the nurse, not the wool cap guy. When the nurse and I made eye contact, I had to look away, deeply inhaling and digging my fingernails into my palms to stop myself from blubbering in front of the boys. Just then Leo was brought in by another nurse, and the tears started rolling down my face. Poor Leo must have assumed I had just gotten bad news, because he turned pale and searched my face for further clues, while walking quickly to Quinn. “Bu-ud,” he said. “Daddy, I’m sorry,” Quinn said, and started crying again. Leo and I exchanged a look. “I broke the table. I made a big, big, big mess,” he continued through sobs. “Did you do it
on purpose, or was it an accident?” Leo said. “A-a-a-accident.” “Well, if it’s an accident, you don’t have to say sorry. Nobody is mad at you—right, Mom?” “That’s right. I’m not mad, Quinn. Not one bit.” “Me neither,” said Joey, who still had his fingers interlaced with his brother’s. When the doctor finally came in, he wasted no time on pleasantries. We were a long way from the pediatrician’s office, where Quinn might have been called “big guy” and asked whether he had gotten into a fight with an alligator. “Remove the brother from the table,” was all he said. Leo and I gave each other a yikes look, and Leo pulled Joey into his arms. The three of us huddled near the end of the gurney while the doctor worked in silence, the kind nurse by his side. I held Quinn’s foot in my hand and laid my head on Leo’s shoulder. It was the closest I’d felt to Leo in a long time. Knowing that he felt just how I did—full of fear and love—was a foreign and oddly thrilling sensation. All four of us, in fact, were united under a common goal. Isn’t this how family life should be? I wondered. Don’t we all want the same things all the time? How do we replicate this feeling but swap out imminent danger for more love? Do we need to be against something to feel this solid? Or can we get it without one of us lying in a hospital bed? The doctor said that Quinn would need surgery to reconnect a severed nerve in his hand. We were there for nine more hours in the end. Joey said he wouldn’t go home without Quinn and I didn’t push him on it. I wanted us to leave the hospital as a family. So Leo kept Joey busy—a nap in an empty bed, wrestling on the grassy area outside, two movies on his laptop, and countless visits to the vending machine for Cheetos and candy—while I sat with Quinn, my heart in my throat. I hated myself for writing to Sid that I imagined life without the boys. I take it all back, I kept thinking. Please, please never let anything happen to them, I prayed to no one. CHAPTER FOURTEEN