The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom
Page 28
Jane, Trudy and I continued to socialize. Margot Baumann was often included and I grew to really like her. Of course, Jane frequently invited preschool or ballet-class moms, trying to fill that fifth seat vacated by Carly, but we had yet to find someone with whom we clicked.
Our incarcerated friend still weighed heavily on my mind. I couldn’t help but feel responsible for sending her to the ‘big house’, no matter how many people reassured me that it wasn’t my fault. Logically, I knew that was true, but what did Carly think? Obviously, given her psychotic behavior, logic wasn’t her strong point. For my own peace of mind, I knew I had to contact her. It wasn’t like with Javier, where seeing him necking with some old granny had allowed me to close the door on our relationship forever. Carly and I had shared a much deeper bond. I decided to send a letter to the Colorado Women’s Correctional Facility. But what could I say?
Dear Carly,
How are you? I hope you are enjoying jail?
I wanted the letter to be somewhat upbeat, but not patronizing. After much forethought, I sat at my sunny breakfast nook and put pen to paper.
Dear Carly
I hope you are keeping well. This must be a difficult time for you, but I have noticed that many women who are released from prison have really amazing complexions. Martha Stewart looked several years younger after her short incarceration, so I’m sure you will look incredible after eight years.
Oh God, that was no good. I crumpled the page into a ball. No, there was no room for niceties in this missive. It would have to come straight from the heart.
Dear Carly,
I’m writing to try to explain, if I can, why I had to be honest and testify against you in court. It was truly the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and the pain of that day will stay with me forever. But I had no choice. You see, I couldn’t live a lie any longer. Karen had confessed her affair to me as well, and keeping her secret was eating me alive. That day, when I discovered you had been involved in her fall, I knew the truth had to come out… all of it.
Of course, I would like to ask for your forgiveness, but I understand if you can’t give it to me. I want you to know that I hope you have a good life when you are released. I’m sure, with some therapy, you can learn to be happy again. You will still be a young woman, Carly (and if other released prisoners, e.g. Martha Stewart and Mary Kay LeTourneau, are any indication, you will probably look far younger than your years). You can still have the life you dreamed of: husband, children, good friends…. I want that for you Carly. I really do.
Sincerely,
Paige
Without rereading or overanalyzing, I stuck it in an envelope and handed it directly to Leon.
Whether Carly believed the sentiment in that letter, I don’t know. She never responded. I was left to ponder whether the missive actually reached her through all the bureaucracy and security now surrounding her. Perhaps her silence meant she’d never received it? Or maybe she had and she was too emotional, too ashamed to make contact? Other times, I felt certain she’d read it and it had only fueled her anger. I could almost feel her hating me from her jail cell. But the gesture of reaching out to my former friend provided me some solace. Besides, I had expended enough energy on Carly, Karen and Javier. It was time to focus on me.
I needed to find a hobby—although hobby seemed a rather lackluster term to define what I was looking for. What I craved was a passion—something to expand my mind, broaden my horizons, and nourish my soul! It had to be something that made me feel like I was living again, a part of the great big world outside of my kitchen and SUV. Despite the chaos and turmoil of the last few months, I had somehow managed to learn several hitherto undiscovered truths about myself. I knew that I treasured my husband and children, but there was an emptiness inside of me that needed to be filled (and not by some studly barista or similar). My heart yearned for some type of creative outlet! While my drawing undeniably sucked, I was not completely without artistic talent. I needed something, something that was mine alone, completely separate from my role as a wife and mother.
And then, one ordinary evening, I was making Spencer a pea butter sandwich for his school lunch. (Yes, pea butter: a peanut butter substitute derived from a moderately tasty form of peas. A child in Spencer’s class had a severe allergy where she would go into anaphylactic shock if she so much as smelled peanut butter on a classmate’s breath.) As I smeared the brownish-green paste onto the bread, my eyes drifted to a vase of candy pink tulips on the kitchen table. Outside the window, the summer sun was just setting. Its final, deep orange light streamed into the room, illuminating the vibrant blooms and their delicate crystal vase. It was so simple and yet so beautiful. It stirred me somehow, and I dropped the knife. I felt an intense desire to capture that image, to preserve it. It was really too bad that I couldn’t paint or draw.
And in that moment, it struck me: photography! Oh my God! Why hadn’t I thought of it before? I could do photography! I’d need a camera, of course. Ours was cheap and outdated. And I’d need to take classes. No more pointing and clicking for me! I would learn about real photography! I’d take photos of the children, of the mountains, of the setting sun shining through the window on a bouquet of tulips! I was going to do it!
And I did. I bought a second hand Pentax and signed up for classes at a nearby college (the Wild Rose Arts Center was too risky). As my knowledge of lighting, depth of field and aperture grew, I began to take some pretty impressive photos. My specialty was extreme close ups: a leaf or a flower petal cropped to show the intricate and delicate detail of the plant. The children were another favored subject—or more accurately, their parts were: Chloe’s cherry red lips, Spencer’s boyish hand clutching a daisy, the downy back of my daughter’s neck… I loved taking photos, I really did. In fact, it was a love that bordered on a passion. God! I had finally found it!
Paul supported my new hobby whole-heartedly. (I think he realized how much trouble I could get myself into when I was bored.) He made it home from work in a timely manner when I had a class. For my birthday, he gave me a newer, more expensive and complicated Pentax. But it was the gift he bought me for our thirteenth wedding anniversary that really blew me away.
It came in the form of a generic, rather syrupy greeting card. “For the Woman I Love” the flowery script read, above the hazy image of a yellow, dew-kissed rose.
“Thanks hon.” I leaned over to kiss him before I’d even opened it. It was a little cheesy, a tad predictable, but it was still sweet of him to remember. Besides, I wasn’t expecting anything significant. It was only our thirteenth, after all.
“Look inside,” Paul said, and for the first time I noticed his barely contained excitement.
Embossed on the pink parchment paper within was a schmaltzy poem—something about me making his life complete and how he’d marry me all over again. Beneath it, my husband had written:
Happy anniversary, Paige!
How would you like to photograph the kids splashing in the Caribbean? A tropical sunset? Or maybe some Mayan ruins?
We leave in two weeks.
I love you,
Paul
I looked up at my husband and he was positively bursting. “I’ve booked us ten days in Mexico, on the Mayan Riviera,” he gushed. “It’s a five-star resort with a great kids’ club so we can have some time alone. There are daily tours to Chichén Itzá and other historic sites—you know… if you want to do some photography…”
“Oh my God!” I squealed and jumped into his arms. It was beyond fantastic! We hadn’t gone on a beach vacation since before Spencer was born, and after the year we’d endured, we really needed it! Paul and I could decompress and spend some quality time together! The kids would have a grand adventure and learn about another culture! We would reconnect as a couple, as a family! It was going to be great!
And it was… pretty great. Except that we experienced some turbulence on the flight down, and Chloe puked all over Paul’s left forearm and leg. Spencer, usually such a
fan of throw-up, diarrhea and the like, turned alarmingly pale. “Are you okay?” I asked him.
“I don’t feel so good,” he responded weakly.
“Let’s go to the bathroom and wash your face.” While Paul tended to Chloe and himself, I led my ghostly son down the aisle to the lavatory. “I’ll come in with you,” I offered.
“No,” Spencer insisted. “I want to be by myself.”
“Let me help you, honey.”
“No, it’s too small in there. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not a baby!”
“I know, honey,” I said apologetically, as he stepped inside. I heard the click of the sliding lock and the little green Vacant sign turned to red, Occupied. I coached Spencer through the folding door. “Just splash some water on your face, sweetie… and go to the bathroom if you need to. You’ll be okay, big guy.” Several minutes later I heard the loud gush of the toilet flushing. “Wash your hands, love!” I called.
“I’m coming out now!” Spencer called back. I heard the jiggling of the lock but the rectangle beside it remained red.
“Spencer, come on out.”
“I can’t!”
“Why not?”
“When I move the lock, it goes dark in here.”
“I know. The lock’s connected to the light. Just slide the lock over, and then quickly push on the door.”
“I can’t,” he wailed. “I don’t want to be trapped in a dark bathroom!”
“You won’t be. It’ll be unlocked. I’ll come in and get you.”
“No! You won’t see me and you might trample me!”
Trample him? What was I, a herd of rhinoceroses? “Spencer, calm down. I’ll just reach in and grab your arm, okay?”
“No! No! I don’t want to be alone in the dark.”
Paul approached, his left side completely soaked from sponging off Chloe’s vomit with airplane water. “What’s going on?”
“He won’t unlock the door,” I cried. “He doesn’t want the light to go off.”
“It’s okay, son,” Paul said, commandingly. “Daddy’s here. Just slide the lock over and I’ll come in and get you.”
“You’re too big! I’ll be crushed!”
I left to check on our daughter while Paul tried, for another twenty-five minutes, to cajole Spencer into unlocking the door. Finally, as we were preparing for our descent, the crew stepped in. They lifted up a small metal plate beneath the “locked” sign, then slid the latch underneath to the side. The door opened and, pale and tear-stained, our son was released. When we finally exited the plane, I was flooded with relief. I was so happy that I was only mildly bothered by the disdainful looks the flight attendants gave their most troublesome passengers as we filed past.
Despite its inauspicious beginnings, the rest of the trip was wonderful. Of course, we each got hit with a case of Montezuma’s revenge—to a greater or lesser degree. “Don’t eat your ice cubes,” Spencer would wisely counsel the guests lounging by the pool. “That’s how you get Montezuma’s revenge. I had it a couple days ago. I got it so bad it was like I was peeing out of my butt.”
We visited the nearby ruins, me with my new camera in hand, and reveled in the ancient history of the area. I also took a solo trip to a local market where I shot the array of brilliantly colored fruits and vegetables, the deep red chilies drying on racks, and the stacks of terracotta pots and hand woven baskets. But most of the time, we just hung out… together. Sometimes, the children went to the kids’ club for the day, leaving Paul and I to swim, lounge, eat massive quantities, and sip frothy beverages. Other days, the four of us spent the day in the pool, or at the beach, splashing and frolicking, leaving only to lunch on hot dogs and French fries.
In the evenings, we put the kids to bed and sat out on the balcony, enjoying a slushy margarita or an ice-cold cerveza. Paul and I talked about everything and nothing; the only untouchable subject was that of Karen’s death and the ensuing madness. And it felt really good to spend time with my husband again—as a friend, and as a lover. Since we’d been in Mexico, our sex life had picked up dramatically. Oh, it wasn’t wild and crazy (the children were just in the other room after all) but it was regular, and loving and special.
On one such balmy evening, Paul and I stayed up late, having imbibed a few more margaritas than was our norm. We were laughing hysterically about something inane, falling toward each other in our frenzy, when suddenly, Paul kissed me. It was a hard, passionate, tongue-thrusting kiss and it took me by surprise.
“Whoa…” I said, when he finally pulled away.
“I’m so hot for you,” my husband growled, drunkenly. “You look so beautiful… your tan… your hair… Let’s do it right here, right now.”
“On the balcony?” I tittered. “Are you crazy?”
“Everyone’s asleep,” Paul cajoled. “Come on. Crawl on over here and sit on my lap. Even if someone’s awake, they won’t even notice.”
“Oh… I don’t know…” It was risky, potentially embarrassing… and so exciting! I looked at my spouse, who was very handsome and tanned himself, and I suddenly realized how lucky I was. I had two sweet, healthy kids, a passion for photography, and a wonderful, caring husband with whom I was about to have daring and hot balcony sex. God, I had it all, I really did! Why had it taken so much drama for me to realize it?
“Come here gorgeous,” Paul said, pulling me by the hand. I had no sooner plunked into his lap when:
“Mom! I peed the bed!”
“Oh no!” I whispered.
“Aw, Spencer,” Paul groaned, “you’re killing me, here.”
I stood up. “I’ll go change the sheets.”
“Naw, I’ll do it,” Paul offered, moving to the sliding glass door. “You stay here and finish your drink.” He gave me a naughty wink. “I’ll be right back.”
Leaning back in my lounge chair, I took a sip of my tart, half-melted beverage and stared out at the darkened palms surrounding the balcony. A small, self-satisfied smile curled my lips: air sickness, Montezuma’s revenge, wet sheets… Yeah, I had it all, all right—and I couldn’t have been happier.
THE END
Other Books by Robyn Harding
The Journal of Mortifying Moments
Unravelled
Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis
My Parents are Sex Maniacs, a High School Horror Story
Mom, Will This Chicken Give Me Man Boobs?
About the Author
Robyn Harding lives with her husband and two children in Vancouver, BC. She writes fiction, nonfiction and screenplays.
Table of Contents
Copyright
DISCLAIMER
Praise for Robyn Harding’s Novels
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Other Books by Robyn Harding
About the Author
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