I make my way back to the couch with enough ice to keep me going for an hour, and a book that will last the rest of the day.
I am home.
*
My eyes fly open in the middle of the night, while nausea takes over my body. What a disgusting dream. I try to kick the blankets off of me and focus on something in the dark to take away the image in my head. My mattress is uncomfortable, lumpy, clearly damaged in some spots. My father's painting looms on the wall almost invisibly. My stomach turns over as I fight against remembering the dream I just woke up from.
I reach over, turn on the lamp, and try to sit up. What is wrong with me. Of all the crazy dreams I've had, nothing has touched this. I was pregnant. Visibly pregnant. Five months pregnant, in my dream. Further along than I ever had been in real life, further along than Hallie is. Where did five months come from? But I am happy. I am sitting with Danny, and his hand is on my belly, hard and rounded, full of tight fluid like a filled water balloon, and solid baby, not flab. And I need to go to the bathroom. I've had bathroom dreams before. I have bathroom dreams often, in fact. That I am some place public, and find myself on a toilet with an audience, unable to finish, unable to keep going, unable to get up. But this – I have to go to the bathroom horribly. And I get to the toilet, close the door behind me, and I start to go and go. The shit piles up under me, and I am appalled at myself. I try to flush even though it is still coming out. And my belly is shrinking. Dear lord. God help me. Someone please help me. I was never pregnant at all. I just had a massive gut full of shit, and it's squeezing out of me, more and more, coiling up, and I flush again. I am sickened and humiliated. I cannot tell Danny there was never a baby. I cannot fake a miscarriage either – I know all too well how painful that is. How am I going to tell Danny, and my parents, and everyone who knows me, that there was no baby? That I was filled with five months of shit?
I grieve the loss of a child that never was, I face total mortification with what I must admit, and I double over with more shit.
And that's when I woke up.
I pass my hand over my forehead, but it's cool and dry. I look around the room, and all the shades of beige fall into place by the light of the lamp. I don't have to go to the bathroom. I have a glass of water on the night table, melted ice chips, and I take a few swallows. I don't even have to pee. I keep marching my eyes around the room, taking in the familiar walls, the familiar furniture, rehearsing the pattern of the shadows, to keep from dwelling on the dream.
I take a few deep breaths and stand up, my stomach still roiling, and grab the glass of water again, finishing it. I look out the black window, the glass revealing nothing but a distortion of my own reflection. I turn away and walk out of the bedroom into the dark hallway.
I need to see the second bedroom.
I have not told you, but this is a two-bedroom condo. My parents kept the spare bedroom for nights when I would crash with them. I thought they would turn it into a studio, but they kept their easel in the living room, taking turns who used it. The spare bedroom was always mine. It held my things from my childhood home, so, for me, when they moved, it was a seamless transition bedroom-wise. I got rid of toys and dolls as I grew, but there was a fair amount of Young Mona still represented. Some I left alone for their sake – I knew they loved me and missed the days when I was young, so some of my more sentimental toys were still on the shelves. A couple stuffed animals, a few favorite board games. A snow globe from a vacation to the beach. A framed print of a unicorn. Several series of books I could never part with – the Narnia books, and most of the Ramonas. The rest could have been a guest room anywhere, with the same furniture I'd had in my room my whole life: the bookcase my mother had experimented painting in an "antiqued" style. The little desk we picked up from a yard sale, stripped and stained a lovely dark brown, and became a vanity with nail polishes and makeup in its cubbyholes, once I got a bigger desk. A standard issue twin bed, with a wooden headboard and footboard. Two dressers, neither matching, one an antique, the other probably from Montgomery Wards or Sears or something.
When my parents died, and I moved in, force of habit had me sleeping in my old bed. But I quickly realized that I was forever a child in this child's bedroom, and I wanted my own bedroom furniture that I had accumulated as an adult, as I was slowly mingling the two households, mine and my parents'. Item by item, I eventually dismantled the spare bedroom, as I put together my new one.
But the essence of a child still lingered in there. I counted – I couldn't help but count – how old my own baby would be if I hadn't miscarried. When my parents died, my son – I knew he was a boy – would have been turning seven. Without meaning to, I saved the Chutes and Ladders board game on my bookcase. I got rid of the Ramonas but I saved the Narnias. I kept the stuffed animals. I got rid of the framed unicorn, but I saw a great poster of the Marvel comic book heroes when I went into the mall for the last time, maybe four years ago, and I hung it on the wall.
And as the years slowly passed, the son I did not have turned eight, and nine, and ten.
And I kept the room up for him.
Now he's 12, and about to be a teenager. A few months ago I had gotten rid of the Ninja Turtles bedspread that I had ordered online on what might have been his ninth birthday, and upgraded it to a deep red plaid quilt: something he could grow up with. I had long since changed the little vanity desk into a play-doh station, but recently I had ordered pewter action figures and tiny, detail paintbrushes and paint, for him to paint his own Dungeons and Dragons characters, so now the vanity was a true artist's desk. I bought a Warhammer book and a Minecraft poster.
Now do you think I'm crazy?
Chapter 23
I take a deep breath, as I always do, and slowly open the door to the spare bedroom. I do not turn on the light – my eyes have adjusted from standing in the dark hallway. My sweet son's room is spread in the shadows before me. I feel him, in here, just as I feel Danny, and the family we might have been. The darkness embraces me and I am a part of it.
I walk inside slowly, and sit on the bed. The mattress feels too firm, too unused. It's a reminder that no one sleeps in here, and I feel sad, for that. I had bought the mattress new shortly after I moved in. I run my hands over the warm, plaid material of the quilt, fuzzy and thick. I rest my palm against the short wooden post of the footboard, a place I have rested my palm, sitting on this bedframe, for 45 of my 47 years. This is where I could have sat when I read him stories, while he was propped up on pillows at the headboard. This is where I could have sat when I had a serious conversation with him, while he slouched opposite me at the desk, tuning me out, working on painting his little figures. This is where I did sit when the child in this bedroom was me, while my mom blew me kisses from the door, at the old house, and reminded me again not to stay awake reading all night.
I look around at the boy scout magazines, and the games, and the toys. I do not cry. I know he is not in here. I can feel him in my heart, but I know he is not in here. I am alone in this darkness.
The rest of the night, I spend making trips down the hall, retrieving my Lawn & Leaf bags from the kitchen and bagging up everything that needs to go, then hauling the bags to my front door. I open the door, look quickly up and down the dark hallway, put the bag down, and quickly close and lock the door again, as silently as I can. I bag the t-shirts with the Cartoon Network characters on them. I bag the X-Box and all its games. I bag the toys, the games, the puzzles, the action figures. I roll up the posters carefully. I fold the jeans. I fold the Pacman pajamas. I bag them all up. Ten bags, total, are outside my door. All full. The clothes cushion some of the breakables and the electronics.
I post an ad on Craigslist: Many items for a boy's bedroom or playroom, free to a good home. Too many items to detail, all in excellent, unused condition. Reply with interest and I will let you know my address.
Emails start popping in as the sun rises, people thrilled to find a freebie listed, some people literally begging me t
o hold it for them. This timing is uncanny, I was praying to find toys listed for my twins' birthday, one response said. My husband lost his job and I am disabled. We just moved here and we have nothing. I cannot pick up until the neighbor is home to let my husband borrow her car, would you please please consider holding them for us?
They're yours, I write in a return email. Here is my address, and just push the buzzer outside the building if the lobby door isn't propped. Take the stairs to unit 303 and they are in the hallway. I won't be home, sorry I cannot help you carry them downstairs.
THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!! she writes back. There are not words for our gratitude! I will let you know as SOON as we can get the car!!
I smile. I get a piece of paper and a marker, and I write, "Hold for Darla," and I open my door again and tape the paper to the bags.
I reenter the spare bedroom, which has windows that face the east, and the room is flooded with light. I can see motes of dust dancing on the beams that come in from the windows, windows with pretty white blinds but recently denuded of their Bugs Bunny curtains.
The plaid quilt looks beautiful in the sun. The pillow has a plain pillow case on it now. There is nothing on the walls except a spray of dried flowers that I moved from a wall in my own bedroom. The bookcase has very little on the shelves: a couple of jar candles, and a vase. There's nothing on the vanity desk. There's nothing on top of either of the dressers.
It's a blank slate. The closet is empty and so are the drawers.
I feel okay.
I pull the door shut behind me as I leave to make my morning coffee.
*
The welcome wagon arrives later in the form of a Slurpee-sucking Hallie, making as much noise with the straw as she did with her gum, and a slightly relaxed version of Moises, who seems more at home in his own skin, occasionally.
"We like, totally wanted to bring you a welcome home cake," says Hallie, chewing on her straw, "but obviously that's inappropes. Hey, you have a treadmill! I never noticed that before, I think usually there's … laundry on there? Are you going to use it?"
"Yes, actually. Now that I don't think I'll break the thing. I'm actually looking forward to it."
"You're amazing, Mrs. Jam," says Hallie. "I hate treadmills. And ellipticals, and stair steppers. Gym equipment. All that moving and you don't go anywhere. I feel like a hamster on a wheel. Take me for a nice long walk outside any day."
"That can be arranged," says Moises, thumbing the black velvet choker she's wearing around her slender throat.
"It's not a collar!" she yells. "Cut that shit out!" She flips her hair and turns back to me. "Not to discourage you or anything. I joined a gym this year, mostly because they had tanning beds there, and I just could not get used to the stair stepper and stuff. As fast as I went, and I never could get out of that damn gym." She shrugs. "I want to try mountain climbing one day, maybe. I have like, no upper arm strength though. Maybe I should lift weights instead."
"Well, the treadmill is just for in here. I'll be using the stairs too, in the condo, and hopefully walking around the neighborhood a bit as well."
"Can you even imagine how strong your leg muscles must be?" says Hallie. "God. And you know, the first few hundred pounds will just like, fall off you." She sucks noisily on her straw.
I chuckle. "I wish. It does go fast at first, but not that fast. And of course, I'm going to cheat a bit, and let Moises's dad handle the rest…."
Moises nods. "You should," he says.
"I will," I reply. I look at Hallie and see a new sprinkling of freckles across her pink cheeks. She smells like chlorine a little, fresh like a pool. For once, there is no old makeup. Her eyeliner is recent, though. "Go swimming today?"
She nods enthusiastically. "Your condo's pool is nice," she says. "There's two diving boards in the deep end, even, and the popsicles at the snack bar are only fifty cents. None of the chaises are broken, and my god, it's so clean."
"You went swimming here? At this condo? How did you get in?"
"I dunno." She shrugs. "I just walked in. No one ever stops me. I'm friends with the lifeguards now, so, I guess I can go another few times this week, before they close for Labor Day. Is that okay? I didn't think I had to ask you. Have you seen it? The steps in the shallow end are made out of these gray pebbles, it looks like you're on a real beach, and it's so fancy. Totally love it."
"Oh no, you don't have to ask, I just didn't realize you felt so at home here." I laugh at her unconscious brazenness. I wonder if she appreciates how free she is. My life would have been so different if I hadn't hid in corners year after year. What wouldn't I give for a do-over. I'd walk right into pools too, set up shop on the deck, oil myself up, and party with the lifeguards. What was I always so afraid of?
Moises rolls his eyes. "The world is hers," he says. "She walks in anywhere. It helps that she knows everyone, but even if she doesn't, in five minutes she does. The rules don't apply to her."
I have a flash of Ponytail Man disregarding the sidewalks, and I smile.
"I think that's cool," I say. "And I want to show you something. I want to show you both, actually." I force myself to stop digging my fingers nervously into the folds of my housedress, and try to let my hands hang naturally. "Come here."
I walk down the hallway, and stop at the door to the spare bedroom. They follow me and stare at me quizzically.
"Between surgery, which might happen next month, and rehab, which could take another month, I am not going to be home for some time," I say. I feel like I am making an announcement. I am, kind of. "I may check myself into a prolonged rehab, just to really make sure that after surgery, I develop the right habits. My insurance covers a huge chunk of it, so I can actually maybe afford it. There's one here, but there's a longer one, a six month one, in Colorado. Your dad told me," I say, nodding to Moises, and pausing to take a deep breath, "that I could transition from one to the other, and expect to be back here, all told, in April. To start a new life here, get a job, and, basically, make a place in this world. Again. For myself."
I look at them both, waiting to see anything in their expressions that registers that they know where I am going. They're both watching me expectantly, but neither is catching on.
"I have this spare bedroom, for now, if anyone needs it," I say, opening the door. I see Hallie start and draw her breath in sharply, and peer into it. "And then beginning next month, I have the whole apartment available. For months. If anyone needs it." I stop, and decide to let them fill in the rest. I don't want to put thoughts in their head. It's just an offer. I need them to decide what they can do with it.
"Ohhhhh my god," says Hallie, softly. "Are you kidding me, Mrs. Jam?" She walks into the bedroom and turns in a circle, looking at all four walls. "I could stay here? Are you freaking kidding me?"
"You could," I answer simply. "And I hope you will."
"And when you're in the hospital…. I could stay here? I could … have the baby here?"
"That's gross," says Moises. "You should have the baby in a hospital. Do you know how wet those things are?"
She stamps her foot. "Moises!" she exclaims. "You know what I mean. Mrs. Jam, really? I'd have the baby here for a couple months until you're back?"
"Yes," I say. "And after that too, if you think you can share a bedroom with the baby when I'm back. You're welcome to stay here then as well. We'll figure it out."
Hallie bursts into tears. "I can't believe this," she sobs. She shuts her eyes tight and balls her fists at her sides and cries, right into the air.
I look at Moises. "You can stay here with her too," I say in an undertone, while Hallie wails, oblivious. "Use your judgment as to when, and how."
He meets my eyes and nods. "And why," he adds, forcefully. "It's always about why. And the reason is, because I love her." He looks back at Hallie like she alone hung the moon in the sky, while she's standing there crying in her too big boots and her too small shorts, with black makeup running down her cheeks.
"And hal
leluiah for her," I say. I slip my hand into Moises's and squeeze it once, hard, then let go.
Hallie spends the rest of the afternoon wandering around the rooms in shock. "I gotta tell my mom," she mumbles, crossing her arms over her stomach. "Now I can tell my mom." She circles through the living room and back into the spare bedroom. She comes out and wanders into the kitchen.
I hear her testing the blender, the burners on the stove, and the microwave. She opens cabinets and I hear her taking inventory of the pots and pans. I hear her gasp as she finds my shelf of cookbooks: crock pot recipes, vegetarian recipes, how to cook French food, how to make a soufflé nice and puffy. The entire Julia Childs series. The recipes that came with the quesadilla maker and the sandwich press. The recipes that came with the waffle iron.
"No wonder you're fat!" she squeals. "This is the best kitchen ever!"
Insults, compliments: sometimes, in the mouth of a straight-shooter, they are the same thing. I smile. Moises buries his face in his hand. I hear her lightly shaking each of my spices on the rack, testing how full each jar is, breaking up clumps from disuse.
Hallie emerges from the kitchen with fresh tears in her eyes. "How do you feel about a rotisserie cooker?" she asks happily. "You have plenty of room on your counter, and chicken is healthy. I've always wanted a rotisserie cooker."
"Knock yourself out," I say. "In fact, here." I open the top desk drawer and take out all the cash. "This is two hundred dollars. Actually, two hundred ten, right? Go buy us a rotisserie cooker." I scoop up all my credit cards and feed them back into the slots of my wallet. I grab my keys too, and put everything into my purse, which is still hanging on its hook, where it's been waiting patiently and expectantly for three years. I hand Hallie the cash and she stares at it in her hand like it's a pile of gold.
Then she looks up.
"Whee!" chortles Hallie. "We eatin' good tonight!"
Take a Load Off, Mona Jamborski Page 17