Chapter 24
One year later…
"Coming!" I call from the bedroom, while I finish wiggling into my jeans and zip them up. I give my hair one last toss, to make sure the curls didn't dry too tight, check my lipstick in the mirror, and hurry to the door.
"Hello, my love," says Jim, when I open it. He's holding a bouquet of flowers and still wearing his mailman's uniform.
"Jim!" I cry. "You sweet goose of a man, you shouldn't have." I kiss him, then kiss him again, while he hands me the flowers. "Why didn't you take the time to change? Are we going to the movie in uniform?"
"Nah, I have a couple pairs of clean clothes here, still. Figured I could save time if I came here straight from work."
I smile at his dear face, his clear eyes and bushy moustache. "But you still stopped for flowers."
"Absolutely I did." We gaze at each other and my heart flips. So I ended up with my mailman after all. I shoo him into my bedroom (where he does have a drawer and a little slice of closet space) so he can change, and I turn my attention to the real love of my life.
Tamari sits on the living room floor, all six chubby months of her, gumming a plastic rattle with rainbow beads, cooing and waving her fists as soon as she sees me looking at her.
"Come here, you!" I exclaim, scooping her up. She laughs with delight and I nuzzle her sticky cheek.
"Mrs. Jam, you spoil the shit out of her," says Hallie, walking in from the kitchen, shaking her head. "She just got happy sitting there to let me go cook."
"And she'll get happy again, won't she," I coo back at Tamari, "but I had to say goodbye to my favorite baby, didn't I, yes I did—"
Hallie laughs and takes her from me. "She's getting spit all over your face, Mrs. Jam," she says. "Go get a baby wipe before you leave, that stuff dries white. Everyone will think you drooled your toothpaste."
Tamari's eyes crease shut as she squeals and smiles at me and Hallie, revealing every glorious inch of pink gums. She's still bald as a peach, but with long dark lashes and dark eyebrows that look like an angel painted them on her with the finest of brushes.
"I'll miss my girl tonight," I say. "Both of them." I wink at Hallie and she swats me with the wooden pasta spoon she's holding.
"And we'll be right here when you get back," she says. "So go. Enjoy your date night. Don't eat the popcorn! Ha! Ha ha!"
Hallie, Tamari, and sometimes Moises share the big bedroom now, while I moved into the small one to make room for the family. Tamari means fig tree in Hebrew, which is what Feigenbaum means too – Hallie figured since the baby wouldn't have Moises's last name, she could have it as her first name. All of the baby's grandparents are doting and smitten – Moises's parents are frequent visitors, and Hallie takes Tamari over to her mom's house often.
Guess what her middle name is? Mona. Tamari Mona McBride. She defies an identifiable rhythm and meter and I love every last syllable. Tamari Mona McBride. I make up lullabies for her every night that include her full name. "Tamari Mona McBride," I'll sing, "went for a ride, climbed up the slide, and never was denied. Tamari Mona McBride, kisses are implied, doggies are defied," and so on. She smells like peaches and strawberries, always, and plays in the tub. Hallie is still allergic to showers, but little Tamari is a water baby.
Hallie and Moises craigslisted up a new mattress for themselves, hauling mine to the dump while I was gone. They also graced the living room with a new couch. Everything else is still pretty much the same, except for a lot of bedroom furniture rearranging to make everyone fit. Hallie took over the kitchen and cooks constantly. I don't know what's in half the cabinets, and I don't look. I upgraded to a double bed in my new bedroom, saving the twin bed frame and mattress upright in the storage closet for Tamari when she outgrows her crib.
I'm 48 now. I weigh just about 200 pounds. I'm not skinny but I'm tall enough to look pretty good. Jim has begged me not to lose another pound. He loves every inch of me, he says, and demonstrates just how many inches on me he's willing to kiss….
I work, again, as a receptionist and fill-in legal secretary in a law office. I figured I'd go back to what I know. I may complete my training to be a paralegal, I'm not sure yet. Hell, I may go to law school. The law firm is a busy one, with a big staff, and I enjoy the camaraderie with my co-workers. For the most part, none of them know about my past. I let a bit of the secret slip to Shelly, another secretary, when I had a bite of birthday cake during an office party and threw it up into the kitchen sink, and she was concerned I was ill.
"No," I had gasped, rinsing my mouth with water from the sink. "Since my surgery, any real sugar makes me vomit. I thought I could have one tiny bite, but uggggh." I told her I'd had gastric bypass surgery and Shelley didn't ask how much weight I had lost, but I figured she had a mental imagine. I'm sure she isn't even close. And it's not a secret – I am not intentionally keeping it to myself. It just doesn't come up. Tamari comes up – I can talk about her all day. Hallie comes up. Moises comes up. They are my family.
So are my cousins, and my aunts and uncles – I reappeared at a spring cookout my uncle was hosting and I cried and cried as each of them hugged me and told me how much they'd missed me.
"Don't you ever do that to us again," whispered Tess in my ear as she hugged me. "I don't care what you think you weigh. We missed you." She hugged me fiercely, pinched my cheek, then hugged me again. The cousins all have a billion kids, collectively, who ran around kicked balls and got in trouble for turning on the hose, and they all started asking me for pictures, when one found out I could draw. They kept me busy churning out cartoon animals and plants and people for them to color in. My party trick. They call me Aunt Mona. I almost like my name the way they say it – they have a way of rounding out the o that sounds nearly pretty. Besides, now that it's part of Tamari Mona McBride, how can I do anything but love it.
"Our parents were always asking us why we couldn't be as nice as cousin Mona," said Tess, sitting next to me and Aimee as I drew, sipping on something that looked like a soda but smelled suspiciously like a party. "And now, you're still the popular one. Look how all the kids flock to you."
I snorted. "Tess, I was never the popular one. Who are you kidding."
Her eyes widened. "What are you talking about?" she asked. "You were always the nicest one. Everyone loved you. You were everyone's favorite."
Aimee poked me with her toe, while she nursed her newest baby. "Mona's so lucky, she's an only child. Mona's so nice, she never backtalks her mama. You can tell Mona a secret, she never spills anything. Mona's the best friend you could have in this family. God, woman, I nearly hated you, I liked you so much." Aimee reached over and stole a sip of Tess's soda, and rolled her eyes. "Get me one of those too, please," she said.
Well. So now I needed to reevaluate my entire life. But, another day.
*
My favorite nights are when Jim sleeps over. He's a little shy with the big kids here, so he doesn't stay more than once or twice a week. He invites me to stay at his place but I hate to not be home for the baby. Hallie's got Tamari into a good routine now, but when I got home, four months ago, and Tamari was only about eight weeks, Hallie was running on fumes. Sleep was a faintly remembered luxury of the past, and Hallie was a zombie. I took over the night times for a month straight while Hallie collapsed at 10 p.m. with her black boots still on and didn't budge for twelve hours.
A month later, her energy returned, and so did her smile and some of her more fun make-up ideas, and a couple new streaks of color in her wild hair. She sings real music to Tamari, belting out the soul and old gospels. She's a great mom. She dances around the apartment with Tamari in her arms and kisses her every minute. She just needed to sleep. Tamari is still a rotten sleeper, I must say. Night times are for parties, and I think she gets that from her mom, and maybe, from whomever her dad was. I still take her a couple nights a week so Hallie doesn't lose her mind. "Tamari Mona McBride," I croon into her ear, rocking her back to sleep, "you better stay inside, the
boys you won't abide, your beans will be refried…."
Hallie is going to wait until Tamari turns one, before she worries about her last high school credits and getting a job. She's thinking of culinary school, and working in the early mornings at a bakery. Moises is working for Food Mart still, and cramming as many college credits into the evenings as he can. He'll have his bachelor's in another year, in computer science. He's still an unforgiving purist, refusing any food that isn't free range and locally farmed, making sure the tea bags are herbal and not caffeinated, and policing Hallie's purse in case she ever takes up smoking again. I saw him reading the ingredients on the baby rice cereal box with a furrowed brow. He stays with us many nights, but most of his stuff is in his parents' house still. He doesn't want to formally shack up until they are married and can have their own place. Plus, I think he wants to keep an eye on his sister for a couple more years yet.
He takes Tamari very seriously. He does not speak in baby talk. He explains to her what her toys are. He holds her and points out the window and names the buildings. She's lately taken to smacking his bald head with the palm of her hand and laughing so hard she almost falls backwards out of his arms. He tolerates this with good humor. She gets a gyeeh out of him more often than not. She lights up when he enters the room, and even sweeter, he lights up when he sees her too.
I light up like I could power the entire city of Baltimore. I cannot wait until Tamari starts to talk. I wonder what she'll call me. Mrs. Jam? Aunt Mona? Or will I be another Gramma?
I keep a car seat in the back of my car and sometimes I take her for a ride in the evenings, to help lull her to sleep. I had forgotten how much I loved the road, and roadside sights, and driving. The motorcyclists' shirts puff up in the back, as the wind whips through their short sleeves and becomes trapped in the cloth like a parachute, and they all look hugely fat. I glance at them again as I pass them, and see how lean they are in front, as the wind presses their shirts flat against their skinny ribs. The roadside peddlers sell their piles of corn in the backs of their trucks, or tomatoes, or sometimes bushels of crabs, or sometimes flowers, all parked on the shoulders, with customers gliding to a stop and sauntering over. As the sun dips down out of the sky and I turn on my headlights, I see the pools of darkness that gather in the road, dissipating as my headlights vanquish them, like black ghosts that die on the street and yield to the light. The bugs fling themselves past my windshield, briefly illuminated in the headlights of cars coming from the other way, and the comforting swish of the wipers on nights when there is rain somehow speaks to every driver's common journey. I love to drive. I can't believe I did without driving for so long.
When I arrive at the condo, I carry a tranquil Tamari up the flights of stairs, holding her close, feeling her sleepy weight against my body, smelling her milky breath. I rap softly on my own door, as to not jingle my keys, and someone wonderful lets me in. Hallie. Or Moises. Or my own dear Jim.
And I am home.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to all my family and friends, whose lives I ruthlessly mined to make my characters. Thanks to Jennifer Sampson Hedeman, whose support and keen reader's eye I could not have done without. Thanks to Dan Pearce, who inspired me to write this book after he published my short story on his blog Single Dad Laughing: this whole book started as a new story idea for another holiday contest, and it grew from there. Thanks to John Bowen, whose daily help and support was the single biggest reason anyone will ever find and read this book – it would have gathered dust if it weren't for you, mate.
My husband Don, who reminds me to never forget the antagonist, is forever my protagonist: thanks for your love and support.
My parents, who always encouraged me to write, are my heroes.
My children, who inspire me every day, are my blessings.
Thanks to all of you.
Lyrics credits
"Big Girls Don't Cry" written by Bob Crewe and Bob Gaudio, recorded by The Four Seasons in September 1962.
"Fat Bottomed Girls" written by Brian May, recorded by Queen and released in October 1978.
"All About That Bass" written by Meghan Trainor and Kevin Kadish, released in June 2014.
"The Weight" written by Robbie Robertson, recorded by The Band in January 1968.
About the author
Joanna Franklin Bell is a writer and mother of three, living in rural Maryland with her family. Take a Load Off, Mona Jamborski is her first novel. Her second novel, That Birds Would Sing, is coming soon in Spring 2015. She is also the author of a children's chapter book entitled Muse: A Cat's Story, and a picture book entitled Mrs. Just-So. She is an occasional contributor to Baltimore Magazine. Many of her articles can be found on various Patch.com news sites, and her award-winning short story can be found on the blog Single Dad Laughing.
Please turn the page for a glance at That Birds Would Sing.
That Birds Would Sing
Things are not always what they seem… and for April Jones, reflecting on her adolescence, deception and truth can feel horribly the same.
When an unexpected obituary in her home town newspaper brings on a flood of memories, April recalls the freshman year that changed her forever, describing the beginning of high school as "a trip across an ocean that would take four years to cross, where there was no option to turn around. If you wanted out, you had to drown."
There was Jasmine, the unknown beauty with the terrible secret, and Alec, a dangerously fearless boy tangled in forbidden knowledge. There was a special student, wounded and naïve, whose scattershot development had outpaced her intellect, and a complicated, brilliant teacher with a fateful Achilles heel. April battles herself to make sense of their journeys and her own, remembering the world that once fell apart around them all as they struggled to grow up. She distills her memories into the very elements that make her heartbreaking recollections so turbulent and their brutal impressions so lasting.
April's dissection of her coming-of-age journey is a laid-bare tableau of society's rigid expectations that are increasingly at odds with the spectrum of ways adolescents change, grow, fall, fail and triumph… and the secrets with potential to destroy those lives in an instant.
Take a Load Off, Mona Jamborski Page 18