“Did. Honestly. Past tense. If you just get the right medication, and then actually take it, that doesn’t have to happen. But it has to be a lifetime commitment.”
“And you’ve made that.”
She drew in a deep breath, looking again at Sam. “I have. At first because I felt so bad about how I messed up with him and you.” She quickly brushed at her face, and whispered, “You probably don’t believe this, but I really did love you.” She shrugged, then louder said, “Finding him, seeing how wonderful he is, that gives me a whole new incentive. I want him to always know me as a good person. I am a good person.”
He studied her for a moment, then asked, “How much of all this does Tim know?”
“I told him. He’s digesting it. I mean, he knew I was on medication, but I think he just figured it was like ennui or something. All single businesswomen take pills, right? Things are sort of on hold for now, while he decides if his career can absorb this.”
Gus sighed and shook his head, then gave her a shoulder hug. “If not, he doesn’t deserve you anyway, okay?”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
Sam ran up carrying their snow cones. “Here comes the treats!” he shouted.
“Yea!” Maureen clapped and stretched her arms toward him.
Gus accepted his own snow cone from the child, then watched as she boosted him up onto her lap, brushing his hair off his face and kissing his temple before taking hers. His chest tightened. This was the woman he had loved. She was graceful and intelligent and so gentle. No traces of the screaming shrew he had parted ways with in the end. He tried to remember when the metamorphosis had taken place. Had it been related to her pregnancy hormones? No, before that. Then again, at first it was just her nagging about his slovenliness, and she was actually justified there. And he knew how frustrated she had been in her low paying, stressful job at the bank. And he only paid attention to her in spurts, when the mood struck him. No wonder she had been unhappy. That all sounded pretty explainable to him; not symptoms of a dark mental illness.
What did he know about bipolar disorder? He thought suddenly of the Van Gogh at the Chicago Art Institute.
Maureen glanced over at him, then smiled querulously, “What‘cha thinking?”
“This medication…what do you think would’ve happened if they had given it to Van Gogh, for instance?”
She looked surprised, but smiled a little, answering, “Well, he probably would have lived to a ripe old age with a symmetrical set of ears. But the world would never have found out what a sunflower is really all about. Think how sad that would be.”
He gently touched her cheek, whispering, “I’m sorry I didn’t understand.”
She nodded, shifting her eyes back to Sam as her cheeks even under her suntan blushed a perfect pink. He sighed and turned his attention to the colored ice melting over his hand.
Chapter 29
A few days later, as they were eating lunch, Sam mentioned, “Mommy really likes our house. She said she wished she lived in a nice house like ours when she was growin’ up.”
“That’s nice,” Gus answered neutrally. “It’s pretty hot today. You want me to take you guys to a movie?”
“Jordan said he ain’t my friend anymore.”
“Really? Why?”
“‘Cause I tol’ him he’s a Moron Girl Breath.”
“That’s a pretty serious accusation. Why’d you tell him that?”
“He tol’ Angelo Mommy don’t live with us ‘cause she thought I was a rotten baby. That’s not true, is it?”
“No, that is absolutely not true. And it was a very unkind thing for him to say. Your mom and I broke up way before you were ever born for lots of grownup reasons, none of which involved you. She raised you for your first four months, and then she gave you to me because she thought I could offer you a better life, being home with you all day. She did that because she loved you and wanted what was best for you. She has always loved you. Okay?”
Sam nodded and poked a finger through his sandwich. “I wonder if Frodo likes cats.”
“Why do you wonder that?”
He shrugged, then said, “Did you know Mommy has a cat? It’s orange. She said maybe I can see it sometime.”
“Mm.”
“We got that other bedroom. Too bad no one ever sleeps there.”
“Then I never have to wash the sheets,” Gus countered. “Are you eating that or planning to wear it?”
“Silly.” Sam pulled a generous margin of crust off and passed it to Frodo, then bit the sandwich, coming away with a mustard mustache. He ventured, “I was thinkin’ sometimes Mommy could spend the night here. Then we could make her waffles. She likes strawberries…”
“I’m not sure Tim would approve of that. He’s going to be her husband, remember?”
“But she’s my Mommy.”
“I know. And you can have lots of visits with her. But she really wouldn’t be comfortable spending the night. Trust me.”
“Can I stay at her house?”
“We’ll see. Maybe after the wedding. We’ll see how Tim feels about it. Okay?”
Sam sighed. “Okay.” He ate most of his sandwich and one slice of pear, then said, “Daddy, ‘member when I told you Mommy didn’t look soft?”
“Yes.”
“I was wrong. She’s super nice for snuggling. Real soft. And she don’t smell like a rotten girl or anything.”
Gus grinned. “Actually, I remember that about her. But here’s a secret: most grown up girls are lots better than those eight-year-old monster variety.”
“Grandma’s not very snuggly.”
“No. She is definitely an exception.”
“I’m prob’ly never getting married.”
“Not until you finish school, at least. But time will tell after that. Who knows; some day I might even get married.”
Sam perked up. “Really?”
“I’m just saying I’m not ruling it out. No prospects.”
“Maybe you’ll marry somebody with a boy to be my new best friend.”
“Sounds like a lot of work. I think it’d be easier if I have a talk with Jordan. Would that be okay?”
“Do I gotta be there?”
“Well, no. We can figure something out. How’s that sound?”
“I needa think about it. Can I play in the bathtub with my boats?”
“Okay. Get your stuff. I’ll be right there.” He fed the rest of Sam’s bologna sandwich to Frodo, then stacked the dishes in the sink, fetched his laptop, and headed to the bathroom.
Sam was already sitting in the empty tub, surrounded by his fleet of plastic boats. “Isn’t that cold on your butt?”
“Feels good. I need cold water.”
“Elbow temperature.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Here—how’s that feel?”
Sam stuck his foot up in the flow. “That’s good. Are you making a new game?”
“Not today. I was just going to check my email. That okay?”
“When I get in first grade, can I have some email?”
“Like from who?”
“Like if Mommy wants to tell me ‘hi’ from her computer.”
“Ah. Okay. Hey, I have an email in here from Mommy. She sent me your pictures. Want to see them?”
“Yes!”
“Okay. No wet hands on the keyboard, right? Look.” He turned the machine so the monitor faced the boy, then paged through the photographs. Sam pointed to the one in the rocking chair. “I need you to print that one for me.”
“That’s my favorite, too. There’s a couple of surprises in here. Look.” The next image was a scan of an older photo, showing a newborn in a carrier.
“Is that me?”
“Looks like you. Did you know you were a baldy baby?”
Sam giggled.
“You’ll like this one.” The picture showed Maureen cradling the infant in her arms, smiling down at him as she fed him a bottle.
Sam stood up on his knees to
look closer. When he didn’t say anything for a long time, Gus suggested, “We’ll print this one, too, okay?”
Sam looked up at last. “Can you show it to Jordan?”
“Sounds good.”
He sat back and used his washcloth to start a whirlpool effect in the middle of his fleet. “Do you believe in the Loch Ness Monster?”
“Where’d you hear about her?”
“It’s a girl?”
“I don’t know. Don’t know if it’s real. Who told you?”
“Craig. They was talkin’ about a funny part in a movie they all been to lots of times ‘cause it’s so funny, and they was laughin’ about this guy ‘cause he believes in the Loch Ness Monster. You should take me to it. It’s called ‘Dynamite’ or something.”
“Napoleon Dynamite. I’ve heard about it. Don’t think Grandma would approve.”
“Grandma don’t like 101 Dalmatians ‘cause it gots dogs on the furniture.”
“Good point.”
“Can we send Mommy an email?”
“Okay. What should we say?”
“Say: ‘Hi Mommy, this is Sam, not Daddy, but Daddy is just typin’ it for me.”
Gus transcribed the message. “Okay. Next?”
“‘How is your cat? What is his name? You prob’ly told me but I forgot. Sometimes I forget things and Daddy says I needa check my memory.’”
“Of course you remembered that,” Gus commented.
“’Do you believe in the Loch Ness Monster? Craig seen a pitcher of it once. Craig is Jordan’s big brother. I wish I had a brother. Jordan don’t want to be my friend anymore, but Daddy is gonnta fix it. I love him. I love you. We gotta extra bedroom if you ever want to spend the night.’”
“I’m leaving that part off.”
Sam sighed, then added, “‘Did you tell Tim I’m a good kid so he’ll let me come visit you? Have a great day! Love, Sammy.’ She likes to call me Sammy.”
“Okay. I’m putting ‘From Sam’ in the subject line so she’ll know right away. I’m sure she’ll be excited.” He clicked Send, then asked, “You ready to get out?”
“Can we print the pitchers now?”
“Sure.”
Once they had printed several of the photographs and Sam had taped them up around the house, Gus called Craig and asked him to bring Jordan by for awhile. While Craig and Sam researched Nessie on Gus’s computer, Gus took Jordan out back to share a popsicle with him. “So what’s going on?”
Jordan stubbed his bare toes against the steps a few times, then said, “I’m sorry.”
“I believe you. I’m just wondering what would make you say something like that in the first place, when you knew it wasn’t true.”
“‘Cause.”
“Because?”
“None of the moms ‘round here look like Sam’s mom. Look like movie stars. Ricky’s mom said maybe if she hadda raise a real kid she woun’t look so great.”
Gus frowned. He should have guessed this wasn’t just an “out of the mouth of babes” situation. “Jordan, Sam’s mom has always looked like that. It’s just how she looks. But she has a job where she needs to buy very nice clothes and have her hair and nails done up and all, which is what makes her seem so different. When the moms around here dress up for parties and stuff, they look like that, too.”
“Not my mom. She’s never pretty.”
“Your mother is beautiful. Keep in mind that she’s fifteen years older than Sam’s mom. And she has raised two kids, plus worked very hard at a job to make sure you all have everything you need. She’s a remarkable woman. I want you to do something, okay? Next time you see your mom just sitting quiet, like watching TV, I want you to look real long at her face. At her eyes.”
“Her eyes?”
“Yes. Because what you’ll see are the most beautiful, loving eyes in the world. Eyes that you know will keep you safe against anything. All right?”
Jordan nodded skeptically.
“And next time you feel a little jealous that Sam’s mom is so pretty, just remember at least your mom is with you when you need her. Not just for a visit now and then. Okay?”
Jordan nodded.
“Can we all make up then?”
“I don’t smell like a girl.”
Gus hugged him. “No. You smell like a lime popsicle, actually. But not a girl. Let’s head inside. See how the monster research is coming.”
He didn’t think to check his email before putting Sam down for the night. First he called Frodo in from where he was resting under the neighbors’ running sprinkler. “Okay, Odor Boy, you stay off of the couch and out of my bedroom, understood?”
With a groan Frodo dropped next to the central air return in the kitchen.
“Good. See you tomorrow.” He filled his bowl with fresh water and gave him an extra large Milkbone to work on.
When he saw the message with the subject line, “Hi Sammy!” he considered waiting so they could read it together. No, it was better if he read it first so he could be prepared for any questions he might have to field. He turned on the previewer and read:
My Darling Sam,
I was so surprised and happy to get your lovely email today! Be sure to thank Daddy for typing it for us. I hope you have been staying nice and cool during this muggy weather. My office and home are cool, but I sure don’t like traveling between them. I ride the “L” train. Do you know what that is?
Did you and Jordan make up? I hope so. You should always remember who is important to you, and say you are sorry right away.
My cat’s name is Milo. He is two years old. My sister gave him to me when I got my new job and moved to downtown Chicago (I was living with her before that). Tim has a big dog named Hank. Hank likes cats fine, but Milo is not sure the feelings are mutual.
When do you start first grade? Are you excited about it? Do you walk to school or take the bus? When I was little, we lived right next door to the school. This was good, or I never would have gotten there on time. I’m not a very good “morning” person, which I’m sure your daddy will confirm. Some days I’d be running to school with my mom running behind me, carrying my lunch box and books and a hairbrush for my messy hair. Other days I’d look down and realize I forgot to put socks on.
So let’s talk about this Loch Ness Monster. Personally, I believe she is real. Sometimes you can believe things without having to see them. Like I believe there must be angels guiding us, or how would you have ever found me at the mall that day?
Some day I would love to go to Scotland and take a look at the Loch Ness for myself. But if I don’t see anything, I won’t stop believing. If you think you’ll be wanting to go as well, I’ll just wait and go with you, okay?
This weekend I am going to New York City for a wedding of one of my dear friends from college. Have you ever been to New York? Chicago is much nicer. Tell Daddy to let me know when would be a good time to come visit again. I miss you!
Mommy
Gus turned off the previewer. Had he opened Pandora’s box? Sam would want to write back to her instantly, and then would fret until she replied. There was a lot to be said for the good old days of snail mail. Maybe he could suggest they start corresponding that way so Sam could send drawings and practice his writing. Good call.
He switched to Wikipedia, and typed in “Bipolar.” The information was all over the map, in one paragraph assuring him:
…Ultimately one’s prognosis depends on many factors, which are, in fact, under the individual’s control: the right medicines; the right dose of each; a very informed patient; a good working relationship with a competent medical doctor; a competent, supportive and warm therapist; a supportive family or significant other; and a balanced lifestyle including a regulated stress level, regular exercise and regular sleep and wake times.
and then following that with gloomy statistics of treatment failure and disportionate suicide rates. Even the diagnosis itself was vague, with levels determined by length, intensity, and frequency of manic swings. Alt
hough the sufferers spent a majority of their lives in normal or depressive states, all the treatment seemed aimed at squelching the upswings. That must have been what Maureen was referring to when she said she’d been neutralized. He looked at the long list of historical or famous manic depressives. Van Gogh he had known about. Kurt Cobain. Sylvia Plath. Here was Beethoven, Baudelaire, Churchill, Faulkner, Twain, Vonnegut. The list was amazing. What if these people had been “neutralized”?
He thought of how good he felt when he was on a strong creative jag; it gave him energy, got his blood moving quicker, spilled over into his whole life. Would he want that squelched?
But he was simplifying it too much. These people didn’t feel “happy;” these people were coming unglued. Happy people didn’t cut off their ears or stick their heads in ovens or load up on heroin and shoot their brains out. Happy people didn’t throw computers through televisions and break a baby’s leg.
He sighed and closed the browser window. When he and Sam had been printing photos earlier, he had set the one of Maureen and Sam cuddling in the rocking chair as his wallpaper. He wanted to be part of that. Wanted to fold them both into his arms and never let go. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Even if Tim weren’t in the picture, she belonged to a world he didn’t fit into. Frank had asked him why, with his income, he lived in this middle class neighborhood. It was simple—this was his comfort threshold. He wasn’t a cufflinks and cocktail parties and discussions on politics or the economy sort of person. He tried to keep enough abreast of the news to feel like an informed voter and to choose worthy charitable organizations, but he kept his opinions to himself. He had hated the few parties his agent had dragged him to, and he imagined a room full of bankers would have to be ten times worse.
Somewhere out there a woman had to exist who was smart and gentle and patient enough to put up with him but wasn’t a socialite. He thought of the family they had met at the beach. Thought of Ellen, who would have probably loved to have had the opportunity to stay home with her children. Thought of the other mothers in their neighborhood, few of whom worked. But when he thought too hard about them, he realized they were mostly bored and catty and narrow minded like his own mother. They treated him kindly because they considered him a novelty, but he knew they fed on gossip about each other and pushed their beliefs with their petitions to ban inappropriate books from the schools and libraries and their pro-life bumper stickers on their enormous gas -guzzling SUVs.
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