by Jane Porter
I close my eyes, take a breath, and another, trying to keep from losing my cool. How can this be my family? How can these be my children? How can they be so horrible?
“I’m home,” I shout wearily, stepping out of one high-heeled pump and then the other.
The girls don’t even hear me. They’re still screaming mean things, and now Jemma’s shouting at the top of her lungs: “Well, Mom and Dad never even wanted you. You’re a mistake!”
Suddenly I don’t have it in me to yell. I don’t have words for anything. I’m just sick of the screaming and sick of the worrying and sick of trying to do it all by myself.
I grab two lids from the pots and pans cabinet and clang them together as hard as I can. It’s like cymbals crashing. It’s loud. Really loud, and worse, I can’t stop banging the tops to the pans.
Suddenly Annika and the three girls are on the stairs, staring down at me. Annika’s aghast. She’s Finnish, never loud, always civilized. Whatever.
My girls stare at me as though I’m mad. I am. So there. Dropping the lids onto the counter, I face the girls. “There’s no mistake in this family. Each of you was deliberately made, and each of you was very wanted. There were more of you planned, and more of you wanted, but life doesn’t always turn out the way we plan or we want. So, get down here, pick up your toys, and help me make dinner.”
I glance at Annika. “And Annika, as the Wicked Witch is home, you’re now free to go.”
Chapter Nineteen
Thursday afternoon, I hand over a check to Mr. Oberon, the owner of the rental house. It’s for $5,900, the first two months of rent, the last, and the cleaning deposit. I know he didn’t need the extra month’s rent, but I do it for my peace of mind, not his. This way, no matter what happens, the girls and I have a home until January 31.
Last Monday night after signing the lease agreement, Mr. Oberon handed me the keys to the house and let me know I could start moving in any time.
Now on Thursday I stand in the middle of the horrid little house that will soon be home and realize I can’t move the kids in, not with the house in this condition.
I’ll paint the walls. Rip up the stained carpet and have it hauled away. Maybe the floor beneath isn’t so bad. Maybe I’ll splurge and get us some new remnant carpeting.
Maybe I should have found a different place.
Friday, Marta closes the office at eleven-thirty. I head to Home Depot and buy gallons of white paint. White paint covers a multitude of sins.
At the very least, it’ll hide the stains, mildew, and grime.
I spend all Friday painting, and after arranging playdates with Patti’s kids (I called Kate as Brooke wanted to play with Elly but haven’t gotten a call back), I spend Saturday painting, too.
By the time I pick up the kids from Patti’s, my arms, face, and hair are covered in tiny paint freckles.
Sunday, Lucy has the girls over and I return to the rental house for another painting marathon.
I know we’re going to be in the rental house for only six to twelve months, but I can’t stand the faded paint, the walls a drab gray and dirty beige that makes leaving our beautiful sunny house even more depressing. I won’t be depressed. I refuse to be depressed, so little by little I work my way through the house with a paintbrush, roller, and cans of off-white paint.
The only negative with painting is that it gives me way too much time to think. I find myself thinking about everything. I think about Nathan. I think about his family. I think about my family. I think about those Christian music tapes I found and Matthew’s baby box.
I haven’t painted a room, much less a house, since before Matthew was born. But then I haven’t sewn, either, and I used to sew all the time. I designed and sewed my own clothes, curtains, slipcovers, baby clothes. I made Jemma’s entire layette. But I stopped sewing after losing Matthew. I don’t know why I didn’t sew again other than it hurt whenever I thought about fabric or patterns. It hurt because I could remember Matthew’s room and the crib that was already furnished and ready. I remember the padded bumper and the soft quilt that I hung over the rocking chair.
I remember the cheerful sailboat valances, the little throw pillow I’d embroidered his name on.
Matthew Young. Matt Young. It sounded like a quarterback’s name. My son was going to grow up and be like his father.
After Matthew, Nathan wanted me to get pregnant right away. He thought it would make the grief better. I couldn’t. I couldn’t even bear for Nathan to touch me. I hurt too badly.
It was around that time that I began sketching, putting together all my ideas into a dream house. Nathan loved the sketches. He got excited about having a big house on the water, a house we’d fill with more children, little boys and girls, and we’d be this all-American family. We both got so excited by the idea of what we could be that, looking back, I see we lost who we were.
Nathan and I never were about things in the beginning. We were about us. About love. About making our way through life together.
My eyes sting as I paint, and I tell myself it’s the fumes, but I know better.
I know I’m incredibly, deeply hurt. And incredibly, deeply confused. I could never love any man the way I love Nathan. He and I just work. We fit.
By the time I’m finished, it’s dinnertime and pitch dark outside and I hurt all over. My back, shoulders, and neck ache as I wash out the paintbrushes in the hideous kitchen sink, but at least I’ve got the living room, dining alcove, laundry area, and kitchen done.
I think I could have picked a better white paint, as this one looks a little chalky, but it’s not as if I can’t repaint some of the walls later. The hall to the bedrooms would look nice in a crisp green, and the kitchen would be far brighter and cheerier if the walls were more buttery or maybe lemon.
At home, I let the girls order a DirecTV movie and they all climb onto my bed with microwave popcorn to watch. I’m so tired that I fall asleep before the movie ends. And when I wake up, the TV’s off and the house is dark except for a light in the upstairs hall.
I go into Tori’s room, and her bed is empty. I check Brooke’s room, and her bed is empty, too. I hurry into Jemma’s, and there they all are, sleeping on the ground with Jemma’s blankets and comforters as if they’re having a slumber party.
They put themselves to bed.
I stand in the doorway a moment and watch them sleep before heading downstairs to lock the doors.
The doors are all locked. The lights are all off.
They even put their popcorn bowl in the dishwasher and wiped off the counters.
Maybe my girls aren’t so horrid.
Monday, Marta lets me leave work at four so I can show the girls the house. I’m nervous about their reaction but want them to see the house and help pick out the paint colors for their rooms.
When I go home to get the girls, Annika asks if she could talk to me. In private.
What cruel thing has one of my daughters said now?
Turns out none of them have said cruel things. Annika’s just ready to move on to another family, a family that’s more stable and can offer better hours.
I ask if she needs a reference and she says no, she has a job lined up already. She just needs to give me a week’s notice, but because it’s Thanksgiving this week, Wednesday, just two days from now, will be her last day.
After Annika leaves, I drive the girls to the rental house. Holding my breath, I wait for their opinion.
The girls don’t hate the house completely. Tori likes the green “fur” on the roof, says it looks like Turtwig, the green Pokémon with a little leaf on its head.
Brooke gives me a pointed look. “That’s a bad thing, Mom.”
Yeah, I got it.
Walking through the house, the kids want to know which are going to be their bedrooms. I show them the two at the end of the hall. The rooms are tiny, and the windows are up too high. Great for placement of furniture, but bad if you want light.
Jemma announces she wants her
own room (no surprise there), which means Brooke and Tori will share the other. Brooke starts to throw a fit, but I snap my fingers and give them my new, improved don’t-or-you’ll-die look.
That silences the fighting. Now we just have to decide on bedroom wall color. Jemma wants lavender. Brooke wants lavender. Tori wants pink.
Jemma denounces Brooke for picking her color. Brooke shouts that lavender doesn’t belong to Jemma. Jemma didn’t make it or buy it, so she can’t own it.
Tori wants pretty pink.
Jemma laughs because Brooke—who hates pink—is going to have a pink bedroom.
Tori wants ballerinas.
Brooke wants soccer balls.
Jemma rolls on the ground, laughing, saying that maybe we can find wallpaper where pink ballerinas are playing soccer.
Brooke slugs Jemma. Tori cries because she doesn’t want her ballerinas to play soccer. Jemma cries because Brooke hit too hard and she hates everything to do with our family.
I’d like to cry, too, but at this point, it seems a tad redundant.
Time is passing quickly, so quickly that I realize I haven’t thought about the auction once, nor have I been sending out my weekly e-mails to the various chairs and committees, checking on progress and giving everyone updates.
Tuesday I use my lunch to send everyone a brief e-mail letting them know that we won’t be meeting until after Thanksgiving weekend (how could we meet before? I have to get us moved), but please feel free to e-mail me with any questions, suggestions, or problems.
With that e-mail sent, I’m inspired to tackle more of my to-do list, and I knock off another dozen e-mails, notifying the kids’ schools that we’re moving and giving the effective transition date and new address. I e-mail magazines, place a change order with electric, phone, water, garbage, and DirecTV. I restart our newspaper subscription, reasoning it’ll just feel more homey with a paper arriving every morning in our driveway (in front of our carport). I call U-Haul and reserve a large pickup truck along with a dolly and moving blankets. I inquire about their packing materials and resolve to go by on my way home from work tomorrow (it is a half day, after all) to get everything I’ll need for packing up our clothes and our dishes.
I send one last e-mail before wrapping up my business: Hi, Nathan, Just a quick update re the house and move. I’ve nearly finished painting the rental house and we’re almost ready to move this weekend. The girls are really excited you’re coming home tomorrow. It wouldn’t have been Thanksgiving without you. It’s been a hard couple months, but I know we’re over the worst now. From here on out it’s going to be better. Love, Taylor.
E-mail sent and my lunch hour over, I shift gears again, finishing letters that need to be written, resending invoices on statements that haven’t been paid, photocopying the color handouts for Marta’s presentation in the morning.
Marta’s been out much of the day, arguing with one of her big printers. She’s not happy with the calendars she designed for one of her clients. The calendar is the client’s Christmas gift to their customers, and the dark burgundy wine color isn’t the color Marta ordered, and she’s not going to take the calendars. She wants them redone. And she wants them done now.
Knowing that Marta is not in a good mood, the other team members have slunk out of the office to avoid potential storms.
When Marta returns at one-thirty with a slam of the door, I know she still hasn’t gotten the printer to do what she wants.
“Hi,” I say as she slings her purse into her chair.
She grunts a hello.
While the copy machine in the supply room continues copying and collating, I attack filing. A tall filing cabinet is sandwiched between the wall and my desk, and I start finding homes for the huge pile of paperwork that has been accumulating on my desk over the past two weeks.
I’m trying to straighten the files in the second drawer but can’t seem to make the folders line up right. Instead of going in horizontal, they are twisting to the side. Sliding my hand to the back of the drawer, I feel something wedged back there. It’s a book. With a twist and a yank, I manage to free it.
I blink at the title: How to Be the Most Popular Girl in Your School. I had no idea there was such a book, and the bigger surprise is that it’s in Susan’s filing cabinet.
“Did Susan read stuff like this?” I ask, studying the back cover blurb.
“What?” Marta asks sharply, looking up.
“This.” I turn the cover toward her so she can see it. “How to Be the Most Popular Girl in Your School.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In the filing cabinet, at the back of the second drawer.”
Marta shakes her head. “So that’s where that is.”
My eyebrows arch. “It’s yours?”
She glares at me. “It was Eva’s. I was her project last year. She was determined to make me popular.”
I’m struggling not to laugh. “No offense, but I don’t think her plan worked.”
“Really?” she answers with a roll of her eyes as she turns back to her computer. But not before I see she’s smiling.
Nathan replies to my e-mail that afternoon: I can’t wait to get home. It feels like I’ve been gone forever. Do you need me to arrange a moving truck?
Feeling very pleased with myself, I e-mail back: I’ve taken care of the truck, but we do need you.
Two hours later, the phone rings. “Z Design,” I answer, picking up the phone without checking caller ID.
“Marta?” a voice quivers at the other end.
“No, this is Taylor. Would you like to speak to Marta?”
The woman doesn’t answer. A long silence ensues. I’m not sure what to do next. “How can I help you?” I ask after a moment.
“Marta?”
“No, this is Taylor. I work for Marta. Can I help you?”
The line goes dead. I replace the phone, perplexed. Such a strange call.
“These look good,” Marta says, emerging from the supply room where she’s been flipping through the handouts that I just finished binding into books. “We’re set. Now all I need to do is dazzle them, win the account, and close the deal.”
“Piece of cake.”
Her eyebrows lift. “How many did you make?”
“Sixteen. A few extra just in case.” I glance at the phone, the call still very much on my mind. “Marta, there was just an odd call. Someone asked for you but then wouldn’t talk. I’m wondering if we should check caller ID, make a note of the number, just in case.”
Marta frowns and picks up the phone from my desk. She hits the last number. Her expression clears. “My mom.”
She returns the phone to me, grabs her cell phone, and walks out, heading toward her house. She doesn’t return for fifteen minutes, and when she does she sits at her desk but doesn’t do anything except stare out the window, troubled emotions flickering over her face.
I’ve never seen Marta this way. She looks lost.
It’s not the way I think of Marta, and even though I’m just an administrative assistant, I feel I should do something, say something, but I don’t know what.
Shuffling the papers on my desk, I tell myself to get back to filing, but instead I stand at the filing cabinet, biting my lip, wondering what to say.
“Is your mom okay?” I blurt out.
Marta nods once. She looks even more sad, if anything.
I realize I don’t know Marta. I’ve made snap judgments based on appearances. I suppose I’ve taken a look at her and labeled her. Long hair, combat boots, motorcycle equals pothead, druggie, outlaw, bad lady.
But seeing her here, knowing what she’s already done for me, I’m ashamed.
Marta’s not that hard. And she’s not that wild. She’s actually—surprisingly—not that different from me.
“Marta,” I say tentatively, “why did you have Eva on your own?”
A small muscle in her cheek pulls. “I wanted to be a mom.” She looks at me, slim shoulders shrugging. “And I didn
’t want to wait for a man, or try to snare a man. I just wanted to be a mom and get on with my life.”
I nod. It makes sense in some ways, but in other ways it doesn’t. I can’t imagine ever wanting children without Nathan. Nathan made me want to be a mom. I wanted to have his children, raise his children, I wanted something that would always be part of him.
I’m just picking up the next paper to file when Marta’s voice stops me.
“My mom has Alzheimer’s. That’s why Eva and I moved here from New York.” She pauses, exhales. “Eva had never spent time with my mom, and I wanted her to before it was too late.”
“I’m sorry,” I say awkwardly.
She shrugs. “I wasn’t close to her for years. Moved to New York to get away from her. But when I found out time was limited . . .” Her voice fades away, and she sits staring at her computer monitor. “I told myself I moved back for Eva, but it’s not true. I moved back for me, too. My mom’s a good person. She’s just different from me.”
I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. “Marta, most people are different from you.”
She grins crookedly. “I know.” Her grin grows. “I like that.”
And looking at Marta, I decide I might just one day really like her.
Nathan calls me later that night to give me his flight details. He’ll arrive around seven o’clock tomorrow night on Northwest Airlines and won’t return to Omaha until Sunday morning.
He sounds almost like the old Nathan on the phone, and for a moment I believe everything is going to be okay. Nathan and I will be fine. We’ll be back together the way a family should be.
Because we’re going to do a lot of the move on Thursday morning, I make a reservation for Thanksgiving dinner at McCormick & Schmick’s. We’ve never eaten Thanksgiving dinner in a restaurant, but this year I think it’s better to go out, take a break from moving to have a proper meal, even if it is prepared by someone else.
Reservation made, I stay up late Tuesday night packing. Even though I’m leaving most of the furniture behind, and even though I’ve been sorting and organizing and disposing of things for the past two weeks, I don’t seem to be making any headway. It’s a huge house, nearly seven thousand square feet, and every room is full of things—trophies, vases, books, picture frames, little figurines. I’m taping boxes as fast as I can, filling them even faster, yet the entire house stretches before me.