Love & Sex in a Minefield

by Jean Austin

  Love & Sex in a Minefield

  Copyright © 2016

  All rights reserved. The right of Jean Austin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 9781520499109

  Chapter 01: Home Sweet Home

  “...and they lived happily ever after,” drifts into the kitchen from the dining room. That’s my cue—the movie is coming to an end and, at best, Jillian will give me sixty seconds before she gets restless and becomes agitated.

  I shove a banana into Jimmy’s lunch box. Where is Jimmy?

  Calm, soothing music plays as the credits roll, but it won’t last long.

  What do all fairytales have in common? Everyone lives happily ever after. It’s a lie, and we all know that, but we don’t want to admit it. I guess it’s an appeal to the status quo. Ever after—it’s as though nothing negative ever happens any more, not even death. Happily ever after—what the fuck does that even mean? That’s why I hate fairy tales. They’re an escape, an opportunity to imagine something other than the weekly grind. Life is no fairy tale.

  Monday is reality. Tuesday is a repeat. Wednesday is halfway, with the promise of the weekend looming in the distance. Thursday’s a tease. Friday is a drag—and not in the sense of men dressing up as women and putting on a show. Saturday should be a chance to relax, but the work simply shifts from paid to unpaid. Laundry. Vacuuming. Scrubbing toilets. For thousands of years, Sunday has been the holy day, a day of rest, or is it supposed to be Saturday that’s the Sabbath? For me, Sunday is sacred, and I worship by burying myself under the covers and sleeping in to the ridiculously extravagant time of 7am. Kids. My weekends ended with the advent of children, but I love them. I like to rationalize Sunday as a chance to unwind before reality returns again with Monday.

  Today’s Monday.

  I’m a mess. Outwardly, no one would ever know as my brown hair has been carefully straightened, curling lightly over my shoulders. There’s a touch of eyeliner, the subtle effect of lip gloss, and a light dusting of blush sitting high on my cheekbones, but I know—it’s all window dressing. I can’t fool myself. Mom says I’m too cynical. Problem is, I’m cynical about whether or not I’m cynical, which probably says more about me than I’d ever dare admit to my husband. Being depressed is too depressing to contemplate, so I keep up the pretense. Some days, I can almost convince myself I love the endless grind. My son wanders into the kitchen.

  “Come here, Jimmy.”

  Life takes work—admittedly, a lot less work than in centuries past, but work nonetheless. Manna from heaven sounds idyllic, but someone still had to go out and collect that stuff. I grab a wet wipe from beneath the sink and gently clean spilled milk from Jimmy’s shirt. He sniffs, and I catch sight of a booger in his nose. Whitish green. I’d rather not know, but moms are moms. I can’t let it go. With a tissue in hand, I say, “Give me a big blow, little man.”

  Gross. So gross. Motherhood is a contradiction. How can kids be so disgusting and yet so cute? I hate bodily fluids. Bodies would be awesome without them. Could some scientist please get on this asap?

  “How are you feeling?” I ask, crouching before Jimmy as Paul squeezes past me looking debonair in his police uniform.

  “I’m late,” is all Paul says, not taking the time to see he has a sick child. We were both equally invested in the whole procreation thing, but he rushes out the door, leaving his dirty breakfast dishes on the counter. He wasn’t too late to browse Facebook or tweet about the latest political rant engulfing the Internet. Breathe, Emma. Breathe.

  “I’m okay, Mom.”

  I shove a bunch of tissues into Jimmy’s pocket, saying, “Don’t sniff, okay? If you need to blow your nose, blow.”

  I touch his forehead, trying to assess whether he has a temperature. If he does, Plan B needs to swing into immediate effect. My whole day pivots on the next few seconds. Do I pull him out of school and whip him off to the doctor, or let him go? My boss says he doesn’t mind the occasional day off to tend to sick kids, but he has to say that. Saying that and meaning it are two entirely different things, and from how he talks about some of the other moms behind their backs it’s easy to see that it’s largely lip service. Sigh.

  Jimmy is a little warm, but I’m so tightly wound, wanting to do the right thing, desperate to find the balance between caring for my child and not overreacting that I’m probably imagining a little heat. Guilty moms are a soft sell for everything from baby formula to painkillers, and I’m torn between dosing him up with something just so I feel better, or leaving his body to fight off the infection by itself. At this point, I’m damned. Let him go, and I’ll feel bad about pushing him on to school. Keep him home, and I’ll kick myself if he’s bright, bubbly, and happy all day.

  “I’m fine, Mom.” Jimmy makes the decision for me, pulling away. He squirms as I try to give him a hug. He’s seven, and by his reckoning too old for a hug. I feel robbed.

  Jillian wiggles in her chair, rocking back and forth on her booster seat, swinging her legs and arms and flinging mushed banana around the dining room. Not fair. I swear, that was less than thirty seconds.

  “Jilly,” I call out, abandoning Jimmy and rushing to get to her before she finally succeeds in toppling off her chair. Why? Why me? What have I done to deserve this? Oh, that’s right, I fell in love. I was swept off my feet by Prince Charming. I rushed off on a whirlwind honeymoon to Vegas as though I was being whisked away to a castle. I was convinced life would never be the same, and I was right. It never was. Lazing by the dorm pool between classes in college. Gone. Partying with the girls on a Friday night. Never again. Catching up over coffee, well that still happens, but only with the tribe in tow. Relaxing in a hammock with a good book? Once a year on Mother’s Day. Maybe. But Mother’s Day is hardly a day. It seems to end around noon. By evening, it’s just another day, and the young birds squawk in the nest, demanding to be fed.

  How did I become a mother? Physically, that’s pretty obvious, birds and the bees, and all that stuff, but chronologically it seems as though one day I was carefree, the next, everything changed. I was betrayed by my own body. At the time, life was surreal and exciting. A slight bump on my stomach, and a fuzzy grey image in the doctor’s office—something gross squirming inside me. Lots of encouragement from Mom and Grandma. Lots of smiles from proud Paul, and shopping for cribs, baby clothes, and cute little booties. Ah, reality. James was born on a Monday, as was Jillian.

  Philosophers and writers often struggle to define love. At one end of the spectrum, love is a red rose given over a fancy dinner with a glass of white wine. At the other, love is an evolutionary bonding response to ensure social cohesion within a tribe. Me? I think love is something we choose to give because we care. Love is devotion.

  Jimmy swings his backpack over his shoulder and wanders to the front door.

  “Have a good day,” I call out after him, as though I have any influence over that at all. Ah, sweet, good intentions, how shallow and fickle you are. He doesn’t look back. I think he got his cynical nature from me.

  Another wet wipe makes short work of the artistic mess created by Jillian. Seriously, wet wipes are Nobel Prize material.

  “Come on, trouble.”

  “You’re trouble,” she says. Almost three years old and as sassy as a catwalk model. I love her.

  “Yes, I am,” I say, sitting Jilly on my hip and going about cleaning up the breakfast plates, rinsing them off with one hand and sliding them into the dishwasher. I could put Jilly down, but she’d run off and into mischief. Knowing that I
need to get to work, stalling would become a game—a hilarious game for one of us.

  Happily ever after. Only if happiness requires relentless effort. When it comes to family, the work is its own reward. I grab my handbag, Jillian’s bag, my phone, my reading glasses, and the car keys, and struggle out the door, pulling it shut behind me.

  Paul’s gone. His partner, Helen, picked him up in a squad car. She’s fresh out of the academy and a stunning blonde. I’m not jealous, but I’d kill to have a body like hers again.

  Jimmy stands in front of the neighbor’s place with several other kids lining up for the bus. He glances at me, and even though my hands are full I sneak a wave. He ignores me. Moms aren’t cool. Was I like this? Probably. Is this how my mom felt? When did I stop being cool? I’m cool. But honestly, how cool can I be lecturing him about homework and keeping his room tidy?

  I want to be cool again.

  Why is motherhood so much work?

  I dump the bags in the front passenger’s seat, strap Jillian in the rear car seat, and back the SUV out of the driveway. The streets are unusually quiet and I get a great run through the traffic lights. Oh, wow. The highlight of my day is catching three sets of lights in a row without speeding. What an utter travesty. Life shouldn’t be so mundane. My mom hates when I use profanity, but I mumble under my breath, “Jesus, what is wrong with me?”

  I dropped out of college, but I did complete two semesters, majoring in anthropology. For hundreds of thousands of years, we’ve been restless—itching for change, longing to see over the horizon, but personally, I could never understand why until Paul and I celebrated our ninth wedding anniversary. “Next year’s the big one,” he said, which I took to mean, ‘I didn’t get you anything other than these flowers from the gas station, because (a) I’m a cheapskate, and you knew that when we got married, (b) nine in a row is getting a little tedious as far as celebrations go, and (c) as this is our ninth, I can defer anything even remotely resembling romantic sentiment until The Big One.’ Am I being melodramatic? Selfish? How big a deal is the first decade? It’s the 25th anniversary that gets all the kudos. Oh, now there’s a depressing thought—fifteen more years. I could rob a bank and still be out in time to celebrate.

  I should have stuck with my degree. Dad couldn’t understand my interest in such an obscure, niche field and was quietly pleased when I dropped out. Girls don’t do science. Why would a woman want to study how humanity ended up here today? Restless. That’s what I am. Aching for adventure. Longing to wander beyond the Savannah.

  “Don’t want to go,” is the grumble from the back seat. “Sick.”

  Someone’s been watching their older brother.

  Jilly’s perhaps the most strong willed person I’ve ever met, and she’s not quite three. She was walking by eight months, talking by eighteen months. Forget the terrible twos, we suffered from the terrible ones. By the age of two we had a full on teenage rebellion—slammed doors and smart ass backtalk. Lately, it’s been passive aggressive. Last weekend, I handed her a plate of cookies, asking her to offer them to our guests. She stood in front of me with the plate outstretched and an angelic look on her face. For a moment, for just a split second, I was naive enough to think she was actually going to be nice. She stood perfectly still, moved her hands slightly apart, and watched as the plate fell, breaking on the tiles. “Oops.”

  Paul’s not shy about spanking Jilly, but it breaks my heart to see him strike our kids, so I cut him off at the pass whenever I can. Honestly, I don’t think it makes any difference to her. Jilly is Jilly, and no one’s going to change her, and the thought of her being forced to change is nauseating. Give her time. Give her the chance to be a kid, the opportunity to grow. I can’t explain why, but I feel as though we need to be true to ourselves—pure, unadulterated and raw. Genuine. We spend too much of our lives trying to please others, putting on a show and acting as though we’re on some grand stage playing to an audience that never applauds. What’s wrong with being yourself? Weather the storm, I tell Paul. There are calm seas ahead.

  I find Jilly is more responsive to positive engagement, but I have to be firm with her.

  “Are you feeling a little sick, honey?” I ask, peering at her in the rearview mirror as we drive along.

  “Yes.”

  One word answers are a giveaway. If she was faking it, I’d get a rambling, long winded explanation desperate to convince me. I’m already pulling onto the freeway. Yet again, it’s decision time. The first off-ramp is easily two miles away. I could turn around there, call my office, cancel daycare, swing back by home, and try to squeeze in a doctor’s appointment. Or I could drop her off at daycare and keep going to work. Sigh.

  “Are you feeling hot?”

  Jilly puts the back of her hand to her forehead like a Southern Belle swooning. It’s all I can do not to laugh, but for her this is serious. She nods. Her eyes are glazed. Normally, she’s as chirpy as a box of birds. Seeing her so solemn leaves me in no doubt she’s sick, and that this has come on so quickly is a worry.

  “I’ll turn around up ahead,” I say to her. “Let’s get you home and back in bed, okay?”

  “Can I see the strange doctor?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Let’s get you home first. I’ll give you some medicine, and we’ll let you have a rest. If you’re not feeling better, we’ll take you to see Dr. Strange.”

  My kids love the fact our local GP has the same name as a Marvel superhero. In their minds, it’s no coincidence. As for the real Dr. Strange, he doesn’t live up to his comic book namesake. He’s an astonishingly kind and considerate older man. At a guess, he’s in his early 60s, but he’s not beyond having a poster of Benedict Cumberbatch on his wall—with clouds swirling around him and lightning crackling from his fingertips. I swear, my Dr. Strange makes full use of the placebo effect.

  I pull off the freeway and dial my boss while sitting at the lights.

  “Hey, Phil,” I say.

  “Sick,” Jilly yells from the back seat, making sure her voice is picked up by the microphone in the front of the car.

  “Is that you, Emma?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I was on my way in, but Jilly’s come down with a fever. I can’t drop her off at daycare like this.”

  “No problem.” He says, and he sounds sincere, although I’m never really sure.

  “Thanks,” I say. “She should be fine tomorrow.”

  “Okay. See you then.”

  “Bye,” I reply almost simultaneously with the phone being hung up at the other end, and again I’m left wondering about his real intent. Breathe, Emma.

  Jilly’s quiet on the drive back home. Her head leans on the side of the child seat. She’s just about asleep, which is out of character for her. I made the right decision.

  I pull into the driveway behind a police squad car. Paul must be home. Maybe he forgot something.

  “Come on, baby,” I say, getting Jilly out of her car seat.

  “I’m not a baby,” she replies, so she’s not too sick. Both of my children have grown up way too quickly.

  The front door is slightly ajar, but the lock is a bit tricky and doesn’t always catch so I think nothing of it. Paul’s probably in a hurry. I half expect him to come running down the stairs in a rush again.

  Jilly’s warm but not overly hot. Balancing her on my hip, I grab some children’s Tylenol from the fridge and dose her up.

  “Let’s get you to bed.”

  Jilly’s bedroom is upstairs opposite ours. I tuck her into bed and kiss her on the forehead. There’s giggling coming from the hallway.

  “Paul?” I ask, but there’s something deeply unsettling about the sound, and my voice is barely a whisper. I creep out of Jilly’s room, unsure if there’s a stranger in the house. Daylight robbery? Not in this neighborhood, surely, and not with a police car parked in the driveway.

  The door to our bedroom is closed. Quietly, I turn the handle and press softly against the wood, opening the door a fraction of an inch. Monday
. Of course it’s Monday. My heart sinks. Paul is naked and kneeling on the bed, mounted behind Helen, holding onto her bare hips as he thrusts, keeping a steady rhythm. Helen is on her hands and knees, rocking gently with his motion. Soft, blonde hair falls over her face. Her breasts hang low. She clutches at the bedsheets, pulling them tight between her fingers. I just washed those sheets. Two police uniforms lie crumpled on the floor. I ironed one of them last night. Helen giggles as Paul groans. I close the door without making a noise.

  My hands shake.

  “Mommy.”

  My world is disintegrating, but Jillian needs me. I don’t know what to do. My voice wavers.

  “Go back in your room,” I say softly, and she turns, dragging a stuffed animal as she wanders toward her bed. I feel bad, but I can’t help her—not now. I can’t even help myself.

  I breathe. It seems stupid, but I need to remind myself to breathe. Breathing is no longer autonomous. My entire nervous system seems to be on the verge of collapse. Blood pulses through the arteries in my neck. My legs are weak.

  Happily ever after—is that what this is? I’m on the point of laughing at the irony of the moment. Had I continued on to work. Had I been selfish and dropped Jilly off at daycare, I’d be oblivious. I’d have gone through the day selling furniture at a discount outlet, telling complete strangers that an American inner spring mattress is worth almost twice the price of the Chinese competition because of the superior quality metals used in the springs, extending the lifespan by four to five years. Is that true? Hell, I don’t know. I just say what I’m told to say. Is that what’s become of my life? Do what’s expected of you, Emma. Be a good mother. Be a good wife. Don’t ask questions. Wipe shit from your daughter’s ass. Cook dinner. Watch TV. Fuck your husband at least twice a week. Rinse and repeat.

  How long has this been going on? How long would this affair have lasted if I hadn’t come home on this fine, sunny Monday morning? How exactly does adultery work? Is it like a phase? Would it have ended as quickly and quietly as it began? Has Paul done this before with some other slut? Could this affair have come and gone without me ever knowing? I feel physically sick. These are questions for which I don’t want answers. My life is now officially a train wreck.