Life After Coffee

by Virginia Franken

  From behind me comes the sickening sound of Violet’s favorite pink cup tipping over and the milk inside spilling out over the table. This seems to happen a lot. I go to grab the paper towels, remember they’re in the bathroom, and grab The Apron instead. Turns out faux silk doesn’t absorb milk that well. Even so I do my best with it, then I ball it up and push it firmly to the bottom of the trash can. Peter’s not going to be wearing it anytime soon, and I’m certainly not donning it in his place. Bon voyage to The Apron!

  Two hours later I’m persuading both kids out the front door and into the car. Things usually mellow out incrementally after I’ve dropped Billy off at preschool.

  “Amy!” Awesome. It’s Lizzie. “How have you been?” The clouds haven’t burnt off to reveal the morning sunlight yet, but even so Lizzie’s skin seems to gently glow in what morning light there is. Much like Cleopatra used to bathe daily in the milk of seven hundred asses, I suspect that Lizzie takes daily baths in the juice of seven hundred pressed organic vegetables from the most local farmers’ market possible. She’s that wholesome. Her hair is geometrically perfect. She’s an ensemble of flawlessly round circles, from her round blue eyes to her rounded tiny hips. Lizzie always reminds me of a ripe coffee bean, patiently waiting to be plucked from the tree. Small, round, rosy, perfect. She looks like she put more thought into her outfit this morning than I’ve put into my entire life plan.

  “You know. Working,” I say. “Hello, Odessa.” Odessa—Lizzie’s daughter—wasn’t blessed with her parents’ perfect genes. She has reedy hair, she’s shy and fearful, she picks her nose, and has been known to eat whole patches of grass from her front yard. I’ve no idea what’s with the name. Maybe the poor child was conceived in Odessa—I never asked.

  “Oh yes. All that travel!” She makes a face when she says “travel” that looks like the face someone would normally use when they say “eating fecal matter for dessert.”

  “Where are you guys off to?” she asks.

  “We’re just dropping Billy at preschool and then . . . we’re going shopping,” I improvise. I need an excuse for the fact that I’m driving Billy to school when it’s only six and a half blocks away.

  “Shopping? But you’re still in your jammies.”

  “Well—that’s why I need to go shopping. I gave away all my clothes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup.” That should shut her up. The average individual would clearly see that I’m being facetious—driven to it in response to her endless questions. But she opens up her mouth to talk again. “Actually, we’re running late so . . .” I poke Billy toward the car.

  “I just needed a moment of your time to discuss . . . an issue.” Great. Last time we had to discuss “an issue” it was Billy peeing through a hole in their fence and right onto her husband’s leather Hush Puppies. I never did reprimand Billy about that. I was actually quite impressed he had that kind of aim, and besides, no one should be wearing Hush Puppies in the year 2016. I don’t care if they had a second coming in the nineties; they were dorky then and they’re even dorkier now. That said, most days I dress in what could only be described as “United Nations chic” and until very recently wore a leather friendship bracelet that I’d been sporting since 1998, so what do I know?

  Lizzie beckons me conspiratorially to the side. “It’s Billy again, I’m afraid.” She’s talking about him as if he’s some kind of problem child.

  “What is it?”

  “He’s been taking sand.”

  “Sand?”

  “From Odessa’s sandbox.”

  “How would he even get to Odessa’s sandbox?”

  “Through a hole.”

  “A hole?”

  “That he kicked through our fence.” Okay. I’m a little shocked at this part.

  “I’m sure he didn’t kick a hole through your fence, Lizzie.”

  “He did. I have the footage.” Lizzie whips out her iPhone, pulls up some kind of kid spy app, and plays me the footage. It’s grainy, but clear enough to see a little foot kicking and pushing through the fence, then Billy scurrying across their backyard, shoveling sand into his pail, and hurrying back to home turf. I don’t know what to say. This explains where he’s been hiding, and it partly explains the piles of sand I’ve been finding everywhere. My firstborn is a vandal and a thief.

  “Um. Wow. Sorry?” I manage.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it fixed and send the bill over.” A bill for fixing her fancy fence? That’s the last thing we need right now. I consider asking Peter to fix it, and then I remember that high-heeled Lizzie probably has more hands-on experience fixing fences than he does. Peter isn’t handy. His three brothers are. But they’re in Boston, with no plans to visit.

  “Okay, fine. Send us the bill when you have it. And sorry again.” I have to force the last sentence out. I turn to leave.

  “But, Amy?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you think he did it?” What the fuck is it of her business?

  “I don’t know—little boys kick things sometimes.”

  “Do you think he could be struggling with social issues?” Seriously? Has she not met her own daughter—ever?

  “Billy!” I call over. He looks up. “Lizzie wants to know if you’re struggling with any social issues. Are you?” My face goes cold. I’m starting to lose my thin grip on civility.

  “I don’t know,” says Billy. “What are social issues?” Lizzie’s staring at me. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to. I am a terrible mother.

  “I’ll let you know when we have the bill, then,” she says.

  “Fine,” I reply.

  “You’ve got glue on your glasses.”

  “I know.”

  Sensing the atmosphere, both kids get in their car seats without a peep. Maybe this is why Peter sometimes exudes an air of grumpiness for days on end—he’s learned it’s a wonderful tool for controlling the children. And do I broach the subject of theft and wanton vandalism with my son? No. Why not? Because I have no idea how to handle it.

  The golden silence lasts about thirty seconds. My sleep-deprived brain spaces out on the first part of the argument, but by the time I tune back in, it seems to have reached some kind of crescendo.

  “I need you to STOP touching my body!” That’s Violet. “Mommy! Billy is touching my body!”

  “Billy, stop touching your sister’s body.”

  Okay, so that sounds pretty terrible out of context. Billy’s preschool is “progressive.” This is a fact that I normally happily forget until the teachers start talking to me about child development. It’s like they’ve got their own private language. One of their faves is that they don’t refer to the children as “you” when they want them to do something. They solely refer to their “bodies” as doing things. As in: “I need your body to take a nap” and “I need you to move your body away from Jason’s body.” It seems a little weird, doesn’t it? Peter asked them about it and turns out that asking a child to do something with their body, as opposed to just doing something, is more likely to yield a compliant response. Allegedly someone somewhere did an awful amount of research on the topic.

  Billy asked me to stop “touching his body” once, when I was trying to buckle him into his car seat midtantrum. Violet saw the instant and alarmed reaction the words had on me, and she took them on as her own. She knows she’s going to get some immediate attention when she starts talking about people messing with her body. The attention is mostly based around trying to get her to shut the hell up in public. “Daddy, stop touching my body” has had us leaving restaurants before the food even arrives. The other well-used variant is “I don’t like it when you touch my body.” That’s had us cross at least one local park off the list.

  “I’m not touching your stinky body. I’m not doing anything,” says Billy. He’s as tired of the whole thing as the rest of us. Violet lets out a killer scream. This close to her “body,” it’s so shrill it’s like someone just plunged
a scalpel into my ear. I turn around in my seat and catch Billy red-handed squeezing Violet’s arm.

  “STOP TOUCHING HER BODY!” I yell at both my children in cold fury.

  Can’t we even drive the six blocks to school peacefully without emergency intervention? Some reptilian sense in the back of my brain tingles. I swing around to face front just in time to slam on the breaks for the stop sign as a car whizzes past us on the road ahead. If I’d allowed myself to be distracted by my children for just another half a second, that would have been a head-on collision. It’s then that I really lose my cool. I don’t remember what I say. I think I do refer to the fact that their arguing nearly caused the death of all of us and maybe that might not be such a bad thing. Billy stares back at me red-faced, crying. Violet just gets that glazed-over look she has whenever she’s being told off.

  I’m a monster.

  We drive the last two blocks in the silence that I’ve been craving. By the time we get to school, both children seem to have recovered completely from my outburst. We pull up in the front. We’re ever so slightly early, so the lot is deserted. If I can quickly run in and out again, I should be able to safely leave Violet in the car without anyone calling social services. The buckle on her car seat is so frickin’ stiff, I nearly puncture my skin with my thumb bone every time I try to undo it. I’m already feeling weaker than normal because of my bout of insomnia last night. It’s no more than sixty-nine degrees outside. She can stay in the car.

  “Billy, out of the car. Violet, I’ll be back in two minutes.” She’s singing herself a made-up song about a pair of fabulous red shoes worn by a happy pony, and it’s so all-consuming she doesn’t even notice when I close the car door. Billy and I head through the gates.

  “Mommy, if you live in Chinatown, can you still speak Spanish?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you speak Spanish if you lived in Chinatown?”

  “Maybe because you were from Spain.”

  “But then why would you be living in Chinatown?”

  “I don’t know, Billy.”

  “Can you speak Spanish, Mommy?”

  “Yes, sweetie.”

  “Have you been to Chinatown?”

  “I have.”

  “Have you been to Spain?”

  “I have not.”

  “Why not?”

  Oh my God. And it goes on. Round and round in circles. Maybe he’ll be a prosecutor when he grows up. He’ll get people on the stand to fold purely because they’d rather take the jail time than keep trying to answer his endless, pointless questions. Questions. I thought that was going to be one of the best things about parenting: telling my kids about the world we live in, from my own wise point of view. Didn’t work out that way. Maybe I’d be more into it if the questions made any sense or had actual answers. For example: “Where does rain come from?” or “Can you tell us about the carbon cycle, Mommy?” I’d be all over that. Instead, it’s all: “What does five minutes look like?” and “If it’s sunny in heaven, will I have to wear sunscreen?”

  The minute I walk into Billy’s school room, I remember. It’s Flag Day. All the kids are supposed to dress in colors of the flag that represents their heritage and I was supposed to bring in, like, twenty-four party favors. Billy was meant to dress in blue and yellow to represent my Swedish background, but he’s wearing a dirty fluorescent-orange Nike T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. Quick as a whip I pull out my phone and Google “blue and orange flag color.”

  “Hey, Billy. Hey, Mrs. O’Hara,” says his teacher. Damn, I can’t remember her name. There are two of them working in Billy’s classroom and they both have red hair, for goodness’ sake.

  “Hey,” Billy says.

  “So, those are the colors of the Swedish flag?” she asks, getting out her phone to take his picture for the wall. She must have figured out how to print photos from her phone. I haven’t held a physical photo that I’ve snapped myself this century. There’s a huge chart on the wall with all the kids’ names on it, alongside the nationality they’ve chosen to represent for the day. By “Billy O’Hara,” it says “Sweden.”

  “Actually, we checked with my father and Billy’s great-grandfather was Armenian!” I say chirpily. I’m always surprised by how easily I am able to tell a lie. I deserve to be haunted by the entire clan of Janssons for at least the next six months of my life for denying my Nordic roots in the name of convenience.

  “Your ancestry is Armenian?” she says, flicking a meaningful look over my and Billy’s white-blond hair.

  “Yup. Armenian,” I say, and gaze over to her chart. She grudgingly picks up a thick marker and runs a big black line through “Sweden” and writes “Armenia” in its place. The chart is ruined.

  From out in the corridor comes the urgent slam and scrape of a busy woman wearing heels. I turn around to see another Cheerful Cheetah mom in full office garb blazing through the front door. She looks exhausted, a little tense, perfectly groomed. Her daughter is wearing a beautiful patchwork dress of green, red, and white.

  “Nice dress,” I say before I can stop myself. I generally try to limit my interactions with the other moms. It always just ends with me finding out information that I really didn’t want to know, like there’s a special orange folder that Billy’s supposed to take home every day that’s stuffed with homework that hasn’t been done for three weeks, or that we’re zoned for an elementary school so low in the ratings that we’re either going to have to go private or move.

  “Thanks. Regina’s grandma made it for her. The colors are for the flag of Italy.” She smiles, and some of the tension leaves her face. She’s pretty when you remove the first layer of stress. She’s carrying a cloth bag brimming over with what I can see are party favors. Damn it. The party favors. Why is it that I can instantly recall which roasting recipes work best for eighty different types of bean at any waking moment but can’t remember something as simple as bringing twenty-four nationality-themed party favors to preschool?

  “So I forgot the party favors I was supposed to bring,” I say in the general direction of Billy’s teacher. I really wish I could remember her name. “I can run to Target now and drop them off in about an hour if that’s okay?” Billy looks up at me from where he’s constructing some kind of epic tower from Lego. It’s a look that’s both embarrassed and scornful. If I wasn’t already feeling like the C-minus adult in the room, I surely do now.

  “No need,” says Regina’s mom. “I always bring extra ’cause someone always forgets.” She flashes me a genuine smile to show me she’s not being Judgment Mom. “We’re all so busy, aren’t we?”

  Finally. Someone who gets it. I’m just starting to think about a nonstalkerish way of asking her if she’d be down for our kids having a playdate sometime when there’s the sound of a smashing Lego tower. We all turn around to see Regina and Billy on the floor fighting. Regina stands up and starts punching Billy hard on the arm; Billy’s still down, but he’s kicking out at her legs with everything he’s got. We all swoop in, but before we get there Billy lands the ultimate one: he bites her, right on the fleshy part of her hand. I go for Billy and pull him out from under Regina. Regina immediately stops fighting and runs to her mother. Billy continues to lash out and smacks me square in the face.

  One second later, the teacher with no name somehow grabs Billy from behind and manages to fold his arms square across his chest, holding his wrists in both of her hands. She has the willful facial expression of someone who’s done this plenty of times before.

  “Billy. I am holding you because I will not let you hurt your body or your mother’s body. I will let you go when you calm down.”

  Billy doesn’t calm down. He’s wiggling like a fish tangled in a net.

  “Mommy, no! Make her stop—she’s hurting me!” he screams, bucking up against her restraint. What do I do? What do I do?

  “It’s probably best if you just go,” says his
teacher.

  “Really?” I ask.

  “It’s just easier. He’ll calm down quicker. We’ve been through this with Billy before.” I didn’t know that. “Just go for now.”

  Stay or go? My natural instinct is to tell this woman to get her hands the hell off my son—but then what? Watch him as he goes on a rampage around the classroom? Let him wage a full-on war against Regina?

  “Billy, I need you to listen to your teacher and try to calm down. Mommy will see you later,” I manage to choke out. I then duck my head down and leave the room, fast. I haven’t even got the balls to give an apologetic look to my almost-friend.

  I step back outside into the sun and push down the sob that is threatening. It’s not even nine, and this is shaping up to be one of the worst days of my life ever. And that’s a title not won easily.

  As I approach the parking lot, I see a gaggle of mothers surrounding my vehicle. That’s why no one’s in class yet. And then I remember: Violet. My instinct is to run to the car, but a flash of insight tells me that if I do that, I’ll look guilty. I’ve technically done nothing wrong. Well, maybe technically I have. But really I haven’t. My mother used to leave me in the car for an hour at a time when she ran errands. Mind you, that was in the eighties. She also used to drive around town with me in a Moses basket just slung on the backseat when I was baby. I doubt that would fly these days.

  “Hey,” I say to the group. The nervous comes out as hostile.

  “Is this your car?” asks one of the gaggle.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “Your daughter is trapped inside!” she says, gesturing to the back where Violet’s running Titanic hands down the window and yelling, “Let me out!”