by Lisa Tuttle
She worked for hours, late into the night, until she realised that weariness was throwing off her sight and coordination. Then, pleased, exhausted, and looking forward to the next day’s work, she went to bed.
The children let her sleep no later than they ever did in the morning, but Sara didn’t mind. The hours spent painting seemed to have invigorated her, enabling her to thrive on less sleep.
When Mary Alice arrived to pick up Michael, she offered to take Melanie for the day, too, as company for her youngest. Sara gazed at her in mute gratitude, seeing her blonde, smiling friend as a beneficent goddess, the personification of good fortune. With both the children gone, she would be able to work.
‘Oh! Mary Alice, that would be wonderful! Are you sure you don’t mind having her along?’
‘What’s one more kid? Chrissie needs someone to play with. And besides,’ she patted Sara’s shoulder, ‘it will give you some time to paint. Are you working on anything right now?’
It had been Mary Alice, with her ready sympathy and praise, who had encouraged Sara to take up painting again.
Sara smiled. ‘I started something new last night. It’s different. I’ll show you what I’ve done when you get back.’
But despite her words and easy manner, Sara felt her stomach fluttering nervously when she went to bring out the uncompleted painting after the others had left. She was afraid of what she would find; afraid it would be clumsy or stiff or silly, and not at all what she remembered working on.
To her own surprise she was pleased by the sight of it. She felt a rising excitement and a deep satisfaction at the thought of having uninterrupted hours to work on it.
The pig and the shrouded woman stood on a misty shore. Nearby was a bush in which nested a large white bird.
Sara painted all day with an easy authority she had not known in years. She felt light and free and intensely alive. She didn’t have to think about what she was doing; the work had its own existence.
‘Unusual.’
Sara turned with a start to see Mary Alice. She felt as if she had been abruptly awakened. The children – her own, and Mary Alice’s three – were roaring through the house like a hurricane. She looked back at the painting and saw that it was finished.
‘Would you like some wine?’ Sara asked.
‘Please.’ Mary Alice slumped into the old armchair and continued to study the canvas. ‘I’ve never seen you do anything remotely like this. The White Goddess, right?’
In the kitchen, pouring wine, Sara frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ She brought two glasses into the family room.
‘Well, it reminds me of Welsh mythology,’ Mary Alice said, accepting her wine. ‘Thanks. You know, the pig, the bird, the hawthorn bush. The hooded figure would be Cerridwen – white goddess of death and creation.’
Sara shivered and looked around. It was as if a door had been opened and shut quickly, letting in a chill wind.
‘I don’t know about any of that,’ Sara said. ‘I never heard of . . . what’s-her-name. But I had a dream about this terrifying white figure, and then I saw this huge pig across the lake. I just . . . they fit together into a painting, somehow. The bird’s just there to balance out the composition.’
‘A dream,’ said Mary Alice. She glanced at her watch and stood up. ‘I suppose you don’t have to know what a symbol means, to pick up on it.’
Sara also stood. ‘Look, why don’t you and the kids stay for dinner? It’s just spaghetti, but there’s lots of it.’
‘Thanks, but Bill’s expecting me back. He hates having to fend for himself.’
‘Some other time, then,’ Sara said, feeling oddly bereft. She wanted adult conversation, adult companionship. It had been so long since she had eaten a leisurely meal with other adults.
Mary Alice touched Sara’s arm and said, ‘You’ll have to come over for dinner some night soon – a late meal, after the kids have been put to bed. There’s a friend of Bill’s from the university that I’ve been wanting you to meet, and I could cook something really elaborate and make a party of it.’
‘That sounds marvellous,’ Sara said. She glanced at the painting again, then away, oddly disturbed. ‘You know, I had no problems with this painting. I never had to stop and think, and I’ve never worked so fast and surely in my life. It was odd, coming right after so much discouragement. For months I haven’t been able to finish anything I liked.’
‘The muse takes her own time,’ Mary Alice said. ‘She’s the White Goddess, too, you know – at least for poets.’ She raised her voice to call her children.
Company gone, Michael and Melanie buzzed around Sara, tugging at her arms and reciting unintelligible stories about the adventures of the day. They were tired and hungry but keyed up to such a pitch by the events of the day that Sara knew she would have a hard time calming them. She put her completed but still wet painting back in her bedroom, out of reach of flailing arms and flying toys, and resigned herself to being a mother again.
On Sunday morning Sara rose even before the children. She felt as if she’d been in hibernation for the past forty-eight hours, dozing as she tended her children, cleaned the house, and ran errands, and only now was she awake again.
In a few hours the children’s father would come for them and Sara would be free to paint and live her own life until Monday morning. She had found a few moments to sketch, and she was bursting with the urge to take up brush and paints and turn her grey preliminaries into colour.
Not even pausing for her usual cup of tea, Sara pulled on a bathing suit and rushed outside. The air was a blessing on her bare skin and smelled of honeysuckle. The grass was cool and slippery beneath her feet and there was a special taste in the air that exhilarated her. She began to run, her thoughts streaming out behind her until she knew nothing but sensation.
She plunged into the water as she had plunged into the morning and began swimming vigorously toward the other shore. She was panting so hard she felt dizzy when she arrived, but she grinned with delight.
‘Come on out, oh Pig or Ghost or whatever you are!’ she called as she walked ashore. ‘I’m not afraid of you – show yourself!’
She began to shake herself like a dog, simply to feel the droplets of water flying off her. Then, somehow, she was dancing: a wild, primitive, arm-waving dance.
Finally, tired, she dropped to the rocky beach and rested. She gazed northward to where the narrow lake began to widen. Then she looked across the short stretch of water to her own house and to the others like it which dotted the shore. This early on a Sunday all was still and quiet.
Sara drank it all in: the sun, the clean, warm air with the scent of cedar in it, the songs of the birds, the solitude. Everything was as it should be.
She was cheerful when she returned, telling the kids funny stories and making blueberry-and-banana pancakes for breakfast. It was a special morning; even the children felt it.
‘You’re our good mommy, aren’t you?’ said Melanie, hugging Sara’s bare legs.
‘Of course I am, sweetie.’ She put the butter and syrup on the table and dropped a kiss on her daughter’s head.
Feeling the promise in the air, Michael said, ‘Could we maybe rent a sailboat and go sailing today like you said maybe we could someday?’
‘That will be up to your father,’ Sara said blithely. ‘Did you forget he’s picking you up this morning? I’m going to stay home and paint.’
Michael’s face was comical as he absorbed this: the conflict between the pleasure of going out with his father and disappointment that he couldn’t make use of his mother’s good mood was clearly written there. Sara laughed and hugged him.
After breakfast had been eaten and the dishes washed, Sara began to feel impatient. Where was Bruce? He always liked to get an early start, and the children were ready to go.
The telephone rang.
‘Sara, I�
��m not going to be able to make it today. Something’s come up.’
‘What do you mean you’re not going to be able to make it? Sunday’s your day – you know that. We agreed.’
‘Well, I can’t make it today.’ Already, annoyance had sharpened his tone.
Sara clenched one hand into a fist, wishing she had him in front of her. ‘And why not? One day a week isn’t so much. The kids have been counting on seeing you.’
‘I haven’t missed a week yet and you know it. Be reasonable, Sara. I just can’t make it.’
‘Why? Why can’t you make it? What’s so important on a Sunday? You’ve got a date? Fine, bring her along. I don’t care. Just come and take the kids like you’re supposed to.’
‘Look, put the kids on and I’ll explain it to them.’
‘Explain it to me, damn it!’
A silence. Then he said, ‘I’m in Dallas.’
Sara was too angry to speak.
‘Tell the kids I’m sorry and I’ll try to make it up to them next week.’
‘Sorry! You knew – why’d you wait until now to call?’
‘I don’t have to explain myself to you. I’ll be by to pick up the kids next Sunday, nine a.m.’ He hung up.
Sara held on to the phone, still facing the wall. There were tears of frustration in her eyes, and her back and shoulders ached as if she’d been beaten. When she had regained some control she went to look for her children.
They were outside on the driveway, eager to catch the first glimpse of their father’s car.
‘Sweethearts,’ Sara said. Her throat hurt. ‘Your father just called. He’s . . . he’s not going to be able to come today after all.’
They stared at her. Melanie began to whine.
‘Why?’ Michael asked. ‘Why?’
‘He’s in Dallas. He couldn’t get back in time. He said you’d all do something extra-special next weekend to make up for missing this one.’
‘Oh,’ said Michael. He was silent for a moment, and Sara wondered if he would cry. But then the moment passed and he said, ‘Can we go sailing, then?’
Sara sighed. ‘Not today. But why don’t you two put on your bathing suits and we’ll go for a swim?’
To Sara’s relief they accepted the change of plans without fuss. For the next hour Michael showed off his skills in the water while Sara gave Melanie another swimming lesson. Afterward, she got them started playing a board game and went off to her room to be by herself.
She felt exhausted, the euphoria of the early morning faded into the distant past. She sat on the bed and paged through her sketchbook, wondering why she had been so excited and just what she had intended to make of these rather mediocre sketches of a woman’s face and details of tree branches. With a part of her mind she was still arguing with her ex-husband, this time scoring points with withering remarks which left him speechless.
Finally she stood up and took out her paints and the fresh canvas. As she set up the work in the bedroom, she could hear the children running in and out of the house, laughing, talking, and occasionally slamming the screen door. They seemed occupied and might not bother her until they grew hungry for lunch. After that, with luck, she might still have the afternoon to paint while Melanie napped and Michael played quietly by himself. She’d had such days before.
But it didn’t matter: Sara didn’t know what to paint. She was afraid to make a start, so sure was she that she would ruin another canvas. Her earlier certainty was gone. She stared at the blank white surface and tried without success to visualize something there.
Then, from the other room, Melanie screamed.
It wasn’t a play scream, and it didn’t end. Melanie was screaming in terror.
Sara went cold with dread and ran into the family room. She saw Melanie cowering against a wall while Michael shouted and leaped around. At first Sara could not make out what was happening. Then she heard the mad fluttering of wings and saw a pale blur in the air: a bird had somehow blundered inside and was now flying madly around the room.
Poor thing, thought Sara. It can’t find the way out again.
Her relief that the crisis was nothing more dangerous than a confused bird turned her fear into irritation with the children. Why were they being so stupid, carrying on so and making matters worse?
‘Calm down,’ she shouted. ‘Just shut up and keep out of the way. You’re scaring it.’
She gave Michael a firm push and then opened the door, keeping it open by lodging the iron, dachshund-shaped foot-scraper against it.
‘Melanie, be quiet! You’re making things worse,’ Sara said in a loud whisper.
Melanie’s screams trailed away into noisy sobs. She was still cowering in a corner, head down and hands protecting it.
The bird flew three more times around the room, finally breaking out of that maddened, fluttering pattern to soar smoothly and surely out of the open door. Sara gazed after it, smiling. Then she turned to her children.
‘Oh, Melanie, what is the matter? It was only a bird and it’s gone now.’ Annoyed but obligated, Sara crossed the room to crouch beside her younger child. ‘Now, what’s all this about?’
Gently she raised Melanie’s face away from her hands and the tangle of her hair, and saw that she was covered with blood.
‘My God! Oh, sweetheart.’ Sara hurried the little girl down the passage to the bathroom. So much blood . . . was her eye hurt? She’d never forgive herself if . . .
A wet flannel, carefully used, revealed no great damage. There were two small cuts, one just above Melanie’s left eye and the other on her left cheek. Melanie snuffled and breathed jerkily. She was obviously content to have her mother fuss over her.
Michael peeked around the doorframe as Sara was applying Band-Aids to Melanie’s face. ‘That bird tried to kill Melanie,’ he said in a tone of gleeful horror. ‘He tried to peck her eyes out!’
‘Michael, really.’ Sara sighed in exasperation. Melanie would be nervous enough about birds without his stories. ‘It was an accident,’ she said firmly. ‘Birds aren’t mean or dangerous – they don’t try to hurt people. But that bird was frightened – it was in a strange place. Unfortunately, Melanie got in the way while it was trying to get out. If you’d both been more sensible, instead of jumping around like that – ’
‘It flew right at her,’ Michael said. ‘I saw it. It tried to get me next, but I wouldn’t let it – I kept waving my hands around over my head so it couldn’t get at my face like it wanted.’ He sounded very self-important and pleased with himself, which annoyed Sara still more.
‘It was an accident. The bird felt trapped and didn’t know how to respond. It’s not something you have to worry about because it’s not likely ever to happen again. Now I don’t want to hear any more about it.’ She hugged Melanie and lifted her down from the sink ledge. ‘Feel better?’
‘Hungry,’ said Melanie.
‘Glad you mentioned it. Let’s go and eat lunch.’
On Monday morning Sara took her children to play with Mary Alice’s children. It was a beautiful day but already stiflingly hot. Sara felt lethargic and faintly sad. After Michael and Melanie had joined the other children in the safely fenced-in yard, she lingered to drink iced tea and talk with Mary Alice.
‘I hope you got a lot of work done yesterday,’ Mary Alice said, settling onto a brightly cushioned wicker couch.
Sara shook her head. ‘Bruce copped out. He called at the last minute and said he couldn’t come – he was in Dallas.’
Mary Alice’s eyes went wide. ‘That . . . creep,’ she said at last.
Sara gave a short laugh. ‘I’ve called him worse than that. But I should know by now that he’s not to be counted on. The kids are starting to learn that about him, too. The worst thing about it is what I lost – or what I felt I lost. I woke up feeling great – I was ready to conquer the world, at least to
paint it. I felt so alive. I felt – I don’t know if I can explain how I felt. I think of it as my “creative” feeling, and I haven’t had such a strong one since Michael was born – or maybe even since I married Bruce. It’s a mood in which everything has meaning, everything is alive, everything is possible.’
‘There’s a girl who sits for us sometimes,’ Mary Alice said hesitantly. ‘She’s very young, but responsible, and she doesn’t charge much. You could have her over some afternoons to take care of the kids while you . . .’
Sara shook her head, discarding the suggestion impatiently. ‘They’d still be around. They’d still be – oh, calling to me, somehow. I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes I feel I’m just looking for excuses not to paint, but . . . there’s just something about being both a mother and an artist. I don’t know if I can manage it, not even with all the good examples of other women, or all the babysitters in the world.
‘Art has never been a part-time thing for me. Art was all I cared about in school, and up until I met Bruce. Then the part of me that was an artist got submerged. For the past five years I’ve been a full-time mother. Now I’m trying to learn how to be a part-time artist and a part-time mother, and I don’t think I can. I know that’s very all-or-nothing of me, but it’s how I feel.’
The two women sat quietly in the bright, sunlit room. The high-pitched voices of their children, playing outside, floated up to them.
‘Maybe it’s just too early,’ Mary Alice ventured at last. ‘In the fall, Michael will be in school. You could put Melanie in a nursery, at least during the mornings. Then you could count on having a certain amount of time to yourself every day.’
‘Maybe,’ Sara said. She did not sound hopeful. ‘But even when the children aren’t around, the pull is there. I think about them, worry about them, have to plan for them. And my art makes as many demands as a child – I can’t divide myself between them. I don’t think it can ever be the same – I’ll never have all my energy and thoughts and commitment to give to my art. There are always the children pulling at me.’ She sighed and rubbed her face. ‘Sometimes . . . I wish I had it to do all over again. And I think that, much as I love them, I would never have chosen to have children. I would never have married.’