Amanda Bright @ Home

by Danielle Crittenden

  “What a day to come here!” he exclaimed, as the Japanese dispersed. “How much farther are the damn gorillas?”

  “They’re just beyond the white tiger.”

  “Tiger!” Sophie called out. “Want to see tiger, too!”

  Bob wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Of course you do.”

  “Bob—” Amanda said warningly.

  He resumed pushing. They followed the path around a bend and came upon a heavily fortified concrete pen. The tiger was splayed out on a rocky ledge, with all the ferocity of a tabby cat dozing on a windowsill. Sophie and Ben clutched the fence and growled at it. Bob and Amanda parked the stroller and sat down on a low wall a few feet away. Amanda fanned herself with the map.

  She had been wanting to speak to Bob about her decision to return to work, but there had been no opportunity. Judging from his mood, this would not be the best opportunity either, but she did not know when else she might have his attention, and Amanda urgently needed to know what he thought. When she had first blurted out the idea, Bob had seemed supportive, but Amanda did not know if that had simply been a bluff. She didn’t think that he had given the idea any further consideration; she had done little else but. Yet now that she was on the verge of confiding her decision, she hesitated, as if exposing it to the air might cause it to shrivel up like a seedling that has not yet taken root. Amanda urged herself on—to seize the chance while the children remained distracted by the tiger.

  “Were you serious the other day—when you said you didn’t think it would be a bad idea if I returned to work?”

  The abruptness of her question flustered Bob. For a moment he looked defensive, as if she had just lobbed an accusation.

  “Did I say that?”

  “You said—you agreed—that it was an option.”

  “You raised it as a way we could afford to send Ben to another school. And I said, yes, that would be a way to do it. But I wasn’t urging you to do it—”

  “I understand,” Amanda said patiently. “And I’m raising it again, as a real possibility. I’ve been thinking hard about it—about returning to work in the fall, when the kids start school again.”

  Bob seemed reassured that she was not returning to their old argument, but he didn’t immediately offer her an opinion. She expected him to launch into a debate over the negative and positive consequences of such a decision—that was his usual way of discussing big family issues—but instead he remained silent and, if possible, appeared even more preoccupied. He fluttered the front of his T-shirt while his gaze wandered over to the children, where it found Ben sticking his arms through the fence.

  “Don’t do that, Ben.”

  “What do you think?” Amanda pressed.

  “You know what I think,” he replied, his eyes still on the children. “You should do what you think is right.”

  “But is it right? Sophie will be in school next year for a full day, but I’ll have less time to take care of things at home …” C’mon, she thought, I can’t decide this entirely for myself. I need you to tell me it will be okay.

  Bob exhaled wearily and placed his hands on his knees. He seemed to want to make it very clear that it was Amanda’s idea to discuss the issue again, and that he was going to remain a neutral party to it.

  “Are you thinking of working full or part time?” he asked.

  “It would only make sense financially to work full time, don’t you think?”

  “It depends.” He shrugged. “We can get by, obviously, on what I earn now. So the question is, are you returning to work so we can have more money, or are you doing it because you want to get out of the house?”

  “Both,” she said honestly.

  “Well then, you’re right—a full-time job would bring in real money. If it were just a matter of getting out of the house, there are a lot of other things you could do.”

  Amanda was not finding this Socratic back-and-forth helpful. She could think through for herself what sort of work she would like to do—she had thought it through, down to the outfit she would wear on her first day back at the National Endowment, if it would have her. What she needed to hear from Bob was that her family would be fine—that returning to her old job would not impinge upon them.

  “It’s just that—” Amanda faltered. “It’s just that—well, you talked about making us suffer for your idealism, and I’ve been thinking maybe I’ve been making everyone suffer for mine. Maybe it was idealistic of me to quit my job and stay home. Maybe it was even selfish of me. I can’t ask you to go to work at a firm you don’t want to, just because we could use the money. You’ve been carrying the load for three years. And the children—they’re older and don’t need me as much, and my income could be a real help—we could send Ben to a school where he might be happier, where they don’t want to send him to a therapist—give them both some of the things other kids have …”

  “I’ve never thought of you as selfish.”

  “I know—I’m not saying you have. But it amounts to a kind of selfishness, doesn’t it? Demanding that you support us all?”

  “No, Amanda, I’ve never seen it that way.” Bob cautiously put his arm around her shoulder; the heat of his body was stifling but she did not pull away.

  “Maybe you just weren’t cut out to be at home.”

  “Maybe not.”

  They got up and beckoned the children to follow. Sophie raced into the stroller and Ben clambered on the back, complaining that he was too tired to walk any farther.

  Amanda told herself that Bob had given an answer to her question, but she wished he had given her something more—approval, disapproval, that sane army of pros and cons he could march out at will and that always brought logic and coherence to her feelings. Admittedly, she had dwelt very little upon the cons, whether out of fear or guilt—though it amounted to pretty much the same thing. Maybe Bob could be so agnostic on the matter because she wasn’t asking so much of him, really—just a nod of approval and a higher tolerance for a messier house. No, the people of whom she would be asking a great deal would be the very people whose opinions would not be solicited. Sophie’s little head was bobbing in the stroller in front of her, looking this way and that, trusting that she was being pushed in the right direction. Children, like ancient tribes, accept that their fate lies at the mercy of forces beyond their comprehension. One day Ben and Sophie would have their mother. The next they would find themselves among the children who arrived at school at seven forty-five in the morning for “Early-Bird Care” and who remained long past three o’clock for “Extended Day.” Instead of rushing to the embrace of Amanda at dismissal time, Ben and Sophie would join the daily shuffle of children into unused classrooms, where they would spend the next several hours gluing Popsicle sticks, waiting for their mother to pick them up. This image, above all others, was the one that most wobbled Amanda’s resolve to return to work.

  “How do you think the kids will take it?” she asked Bob in a low voice.

  “They’ll get used to it.”

  Perhaps a similar image came to his mind, because the comment seemed to effect a change in his mood. As they came upon the Ape House he cheered up considerably—or at least enough to convince the children he was enjoying the visit to the zoo. He accompanied Ben and Sophie inside the smelly enclosure, and afterward consented to a round of ice cream cones; he did not lose his patience even when Ben immediately dropped his on the pavement, and had to be bought another.

  When they returned home, everyone was filthy and hot. Bob showered and left for the office—“Got some calls to make and I’ll see if there’s any more fallout from the show”—but he promised not to be home too late. Amanda filled up the kiddie pool and, sipping iced tea, watched the children through the back window. It all came upon her in a rush—the return to a chaotic household, the pressure that would build up inside her like a steam kettle, the sudden preciousness of weekends, the smell of warm bananas in a child’s lunch box at the end of a long day.

  What
was she about to do to them? she wondered, as Sophie, squealing with delight, turned the hose upon Ben. The little girl was naked, completely and unselfconsciously so. She had not yet left Eden; there were still puppy wrinkles in her thighs. Amanda went to fetch a towel, and as she went, triggered another question: what was she in danger of doing to herself?

  She left the towel by the back door and returned to her post by the window, vigilant but detached. Maybe this was the mother’s role: to make sure her children were in no danger but otherwise to allow them to find their own way. And how were they going to find their own way if she was always waiting nearby, towel at the ready?

  Amanda knew this much: she had to do something. There would be no more excuses, no more second thoughts, she told herself firmly. They needed the money, but even more urgently, Amanda needed to be able to open her fists years from now and see that they held something of value; something that proved she had not let life run through her fingers like sand.

  Chapter Twelve

  “HEY.”

  Alan was sitting in his usual place with the stroller. It was the last week of school, and Amanda had entered the lobby feeling exhilarated about her impending liberation. Suddenly the looming summer holidays did not seem so much like a prison sentence as a last chance to enjoy, and even savor, her final weeks as a full-time mother. Amanda had heeded Liz’s advice and planned excursions and projects for the children. By September her house, and life, would be in order. The sight of Alan momentarily threw her. Amanda had locked away her fantasy of him. But as the memory of it escaped, flooding her body with pleasant, tingling associations, she could not lie to herself, either: she was not unhappy to see Alan.

  “Hey.”

  He was obviously pleased to see her.

  “I have the tickets with me,” he said eagerly.

  “Tickets?”

  “To my play. It’s opening this Friday. Can you still come?”

  Amanda remembered promising to go to his play, but at the time the promise had felt like little more than a friendly gesture. Amanda wondered at the implications of saying yes now. The fantasy seemed manageable so long as it stayed in her head.

  Alan was aware of her hesitation for he said quickly, “I understand if you can’t. I mean it’s short notice—”

  “No, no, I want to come to the play—I just don’t know if I can get a baby-sitter.”

  “Sure,” he said, with a trace of disappointment.

  Amanda became impatient with herself. Why was she always so afraid of taking risks? What on earth was she afraid of with Alan? It had been her fantasy, not his. They were both responsible grown-ups. She was keen to see his play.

  “It probably won’t be a problem though. My neighbor’s kid is usually free. I’ll check. Assume yes,” she said.

  Alan’s face lightened. “Fabulous. Do you need a ticket for Bob or is he still going to be working?”

  Amanda sensed, but could not be certain, that Alan was rather hoping for the latter.

  “I’m pretty sure he’ll be working. Besides, he’s not a big fan of experimental theater. Not that he wouldn’t be interested in your play …”

  “I’m not offended. Many people find my work too challenging.” He smiled in a way that included her in the better-knowing audience.

  “Yes. Well—” The bell rang and Amanda made a motion to leave.

  “I can pick you up if you like,” Alan offered. “It’s playing in Rockville. If you’ve never been out there before, it’s easy to get lost.”

  “Rockville? Why Rockville?”

  “It’s where they had space.”

  “Oh.”

  “They workshop a lot of serious plays there. It’s sort of the off-Broadway of Washington. Anyway, did you want me to pick you up?”

  Again Amanda hesitated, not sure what to answer, but as if reading her thoughts, he added, “A bunch of us are going—”

  This relieved her a little, although why it should, she asked herself, she didn’t know. Stop being so fearful!

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

  “Good. We’ll pick you up around six then, if that’s okay. I have to get there a little early—you know, as playwright and all.”

  “Fine.”

  Amanda nearly crashed into Dr. Koenig, who had just emerged from the office, carrying files.

  “There you are, Amanda,” she said accusingly, as if Amanda had been in hiding for the past week. “I was going to call you today. Did you find a therapist for Ben?”

  Dr. Koenig made no effort to keep her voice down, and Amanda cast an awkward glance around the lobby to see how many of the other mothers had overhead. Fortunately, not many had arrived yet; only Alan seemed to be listening closely.

  “Um, yes,” she lied. “I’ve been looking into it.”

  “Many go away for July so I wouldn’t dawdle. Ben needs assessment immediately.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.” Dr. Koenig marched off down the hallway. Amanda bit her lip and shrugged at Alan, who raised his eyebrows in sympathy.

  By the time Friday arrived, Amanda was almost breathless with excitement. She stood in front of her wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. Everything she pulled out was wrong. She found herself reaching deeper and deeper into the back of the closet and pulling down shirts from high shelves.

  Amanda couldn’t remember going out for an evening without Bob; and while she was guiltily aware of the spark of attraction between her and Alan, what excited Amanda more was her rediscovered sense of independence. Some years after she and Bob were married, they were in a restaurant, and Amanda noticed a couple at the next table who were obviously on their first date: the man and woman were recounting their life stories to each other with the earnestness of candidates at a job interview. Amanda had felt so pleased that she was married and not dating anymore—how awful it would be to have to keep offering yourself up on a plate to a different person every week!— and instinctively she had gripped Bob’s hand. Tonight, however, Amanda was looking forward to describing herself to someone new. This evening would be an opening of sorts for her, the official launch of herself as an individual with a life and interests outside the house.

  (Bob had encouraged Amanda to go, although she could tell he was glad to have an excuse not to join her, especially after she repeated Alan’s description of his play. “Workshop is not a verb,” he corrected her. “Besides, why is it playing out in Rockville? Why isn’t it downtown?”

  “Apparently a lot of important plays are workshopped—get their start—in Rockville. At least that’s what Alan told me. He says it’s the off-Broadway of Washington.”

  “Or maybe the New Jersey of Washington.”

  “Look, you don’t have to go, okay? I’m really just going to show Alan support. It’s a big deal for him. He’s a nice guy and he’s been at home, you know, like me. He doesn’t always get the respect that he deserves.”)

  Yet what to wear? There were her mommy clothes, and her old office suits, and the cocktail outfit she had worn to Jack Chasen’s, which was too dressy. Amanda dug around some more and came up with a black T-shirt she used to wear to clubs, before she had met Bob. She pulled it over her head and found that it fit her more tightly than before, but not unattractively so. With jeans it would work—she would look arty, youthful, her old self again, especially if she loosened her hair—

  Sophie entered the bedroom, dragging a stuffed dog on a makeshift leash.

  “Where are you going?” she asked her mother.

  “Mommy’s going out tonight.”

  “With Daddy?”

  Yeesh, Amanda thought.

  “No. With some friends. We’re going to see a play. How do I look?” Amanda turned around, modeling her T-shirt and jeans.

  “Not pwetty.” The little girl went over to the closet and pointed to a long creamy lace dress that Amanda had worn to a wedding. “You should wear thith.”

  “I don’t think that would be right, sweetie. It’s too fancy.
Now run along and play with your brother.” Amanda ushered her out of the room.

  She brushed her hair and made one last check of herself in the mirror. She asked herself if the T-shirt really was too tight. No—she liked it. It made her feel good. She would wear it.

  The baby-sitter rang the doorbell, and Amanda hurried to find her sandals. They were where she had last kicked them off, beside the bed. As she slid them on, she noticed the pad of paper and pen she kept on her night table. Amanda tore off a sheet and wrote, impulsively, “Having a great time—sorry you’re not with me. Hope your work went well. Love you. A.” She placed the note on Bob’s pillow.

  Alan drove up in a silver Lexus sedan.

  “Nice car.”

  Alan patted the dashboard fondly. “It’s Lisa’s,” he said, referring to his wife.

  Amanda kissed him lightly on both cheeks and noticed him taking in the effect of her T-shirt. She turned and reached for her shoulder belt.

  “Where is Lisa, by the way?”

  “Working on a big case.” He put the car into gear and pulled out from her driveway. As he reversed, he rested his arm over the back of her seat, and Amanda shifted uneasily. Admittedly, Lisa had not loomed large in any of Amanda’s thoughts, but now that she was sitting in the woman’s car, she became vividly aware of her existence—the lipstick in the cupholder, the hairbrush shoved between the two front seats, strands of unfamiliar reddish hair caught in its bristles—

  “Lisa couldn’t come to your opening?”

  “Nope.”

  Amanda waited for him to elaborate, but Alan seemed suddenly distracted with figuring out the best way to avoid rush-hour traffic on Connecticut Avenue. They drove without speaking through a maze of side streets that led them north of the worst of it. She glanced sidelong at Alan, who was frowning in concentration. Somehow he looked different in this context, less appealing, and she realized it was partially due to his clothes: there was definitely an “author’s-photo” quality to the black blazer he had thrown over his jeans. She was struck, too, by how odd she felt sitting in the front seat of a car with a man who wasn’t her husband, and she wondered if Alan felt similarly. When the quiet between them grew awkward, she asked, “Who else are we picking up?”