by Dawn Davies
Below me, some feet down, I see the white roof of the tourist trap that sells shell mobiles and shell ashtrays, stiff flip-flops and cheap beach towels made in China. This isn’t right, I think. I’ve been so pain avoidant that I have been very, very careful. I don’t get too close to people, lest I hose them in some way. I don’t make big commitments. I eat right. If it comes out of a box I won’t eat it. I’m telling you, I only eat real foods from the earth, fruits and non-inflammatory vegetables, and meats. I don’t drink alcohol or coffee. I exercise. I keep my weight down. I follow a doctor-advised inflammatory protocol all the time. I take thyroid medication to replace the hormones that my previously attacked thyroid can no longer produce on its own. I take magnesium. I juice. I eat kale. I eat so much stinkin’ kale I might as well smoke it like crack, or have it shot straight into my blood. Why does my body still attack itself? Why do I have autoimmune disease?
You are so ridiculous, I think, and then I realize it: I’m the payback fairy. I’m doing this to myself. I always attack myself. When there is a problem, I assume it is my fault, by default. When there is an argument, I assume I am the one in the wrong. I have called myself names: “idiot,” “fool,” “stupid,” “dumbass.” Knowing this, my husband will sometimes jokingly blame me for something ridiculous that no one would think could be my fault, and I will end up apologizing for it, even though logic tells me it is ridiculous as well. I have hated myself. I have hated my height, my face, my crooked nose, my voice. I have apologized for my dreams, my goals, my son, for the extra space I take up as a six-foot woman, for the audacious hope of wanting to be a writer and not a middle school teacher or a sales rep, for being so anxious and weak. In my mind, things are always my fault. I always blame me, as you can see. I’m even blaming myself for this. Why, then, am I surprised that my body is attacking itself, too?
I stay afloat by doing an eggbeater kick, a water polo technique I once learned, though I never played water polo. My lower legs circle around hard underwater, and I kick something. Up surfaces the little fat boy who was so fascinated by the lemur. When he pops up, he gasps for air as if he is sucking back his soul. I grab him and push his face above water while kicking with my feet to stay afloat, and his added weight begins to press my body down. I crane my neck for his mother, for anyone in his party, but there is only a sea of heads being washed away. A small toy raft floats by, and I right it and shove the little boy into it before being hit by a wave. When I surface, the raft is several feet away, Americana Moses wailing westward. I look around and it’s just me.
It’s time to forgive myself, I think, but I don’t know how to do it. I use my arms to stay afloat now. I use everything I’ve got. I am tired. I am so tired I don’t think I can swim this current much longer, but my eyes are finally free of grit and for once, nothing hurts. All the tears I’ve cried are being given back to me as a measure of my grief. I need something to grab on to. I need a lifeline, but everywhere I look is the salt-filled sea. “I forgive you,” I say out loud, to everyone and everything. To myself. This is when I feel it begin. My legs begin to weld, my body thickens and waves me afloat in the water and it feels right. I move without effort now, shoot like a jet stream just under the surface, then up again, leaping in an arc above the blue for a gasp of breath before plunging under again. Just before my arms are absorbed, I feel down the sides of my body to the smooth, slick scales and spiny fins. The refracted light reflecting off my tail is a dull silver that mesmerizes me. I plunge down and skim the rocks, breathing freely. There is no dry or wet here, there is just the need to keep moving, and I shoot away into the water that has no name. My eyes no longer need to blink. My doggoned heat is cooled and I swim, not away after all, but toward.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In order of operations: Much gratitude to my parents, DBD and VMW, for raising me right; to my sister, DDM, whose devotion is priceless; to my stepsons, M and M, steadfast men whom I’m proud to call family; to my daughters, S and A, whose strength and grace and humor are unparalleled; to G, my brave son who has agreed to let his story be told in hopes that it will change future discourse; and to my husband, T, my steady, with whom I can do all the things.
Thank you to Julie Marie Wade, the merriest person I know, who gently guided early versions of this manuscript; to John Dufresne, who inspired and motivated me to improve my work; to Vernon Dickson for providing astute and much-needed mentorship; to dear friend Doc Suds, aka PC, for being my literary sounding board; to my friend MO for opening a door; to my splendid agent, Ellen Levine, the cleverest of Weebles; to editor Caroline Bleeke for her razor-sharp eye; and to my captain, Amy Einhorn, a brilliant and fearless editor who worked this book with me like she was riding a dragon.
I often use music to fuel my writing. When writing this book, I listened to plenty of Jaco Pastorius, Pablo Casals, Dire Straits, Aretha Franklin, Jack White, Tom Petty, Gaither Vocal Band, Rush, Yes, Nelly, Steve Morse, Afro Celt Sound System, Adrian Legg, Peter Gabriel, Curtis Mayfield, Patty Griffin, Tim McGraw, Trick Daddy, and Earl Scruggs. I often play one song on repeat for days or weeks. I found myself listening to “Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid” by Hall and Oates several times per week for much of the three years it took to complete this book, as its lyrics are a musical warning for the memoirist.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dawn Davies has a BA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and an MFA from Florida International University. She is the recipient of a Pushcart Special Mention, and her work has been published in numerous journals and anthologies. She lives in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where she does everything from work construction to teach college writing. Mothers of Sparta is her debut. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
DEDICATION
PUBLICATION CREDITS AND AWARDS FOR THIS MANUSCRIPT
NIGHT SWIM
THREE PLACES
KEEPING THE FAITH
GAMES I PLAY
PIE
FEAR OF FALLING
FIELD MANUAL—DIVORCE AND REMARRIAGE: SUBURBAN OPS
MEN I WOULD HAVE SLEPT WITH
KICKING THE SNAKES
TWO VIEWS OF A SECRET
FOSTER DOG
SOCCER MOM
THE DRESS
KING OF THE WORLD
MOTHERS OF SPARTA
FOUR ANIMALS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
These are true stories, though some names and details have been changed.
MOTHERS OF SPARTA. Copyright © 2018 by Dawn Davies. All rights reserved. For information, address Flatiron Books, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.flatironbooks.com
Cover design and photography by Catherine Casalino
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Davies, Dawn (Dawn S.), author.
Title: Mothers of Sparta: a memoir in pieces / Dawn Davies.
Other titles: Memoir in pieces
Description: First edition. | New York: Flatiron Books, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017041747 | ISBN 9781250133700 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250133717 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Davies, Dawn (Dawn S.) | Davies, Dawn (Dawn S.).—Family. | Mothers of autistic children—United States—Biography. | Sjogren’s syndrome—Patients—Biography. | Women authors, American—21st century—Biography.
Classification: LCC PS3604.A9532 .Z65 2018 | DDC 818/.603 [B] —dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.
gov/2017041747
e-ISBN 9781250133717
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First Edition: January 2018