That Kind of Mother

by Rumaan Alam

The poem truly began in January 1982, an icy Wednesday worth remembering, a sky purpled with clouds, a plane that crashed into the Potomac. Air Florida flight 90 had lifted but failed, skimmed over a bridge and acceded to gravity. This was Icarus, the impossibility of flight, the way we try to lift up but always fall down, or so it seemed to her at first. A poem was one matter and another and a third, fourth, fifth; the poem was a theory toward their bond, less a map than a guess. What did she know? At least, at last, she had a subject. Tragedy had given her that (Priscilla had given her that, too): something to write about. She wrote—about how we try to live but end up dying, about the kind of cold that causes floes to form, about the drivers on the Fourteenth Street Bridge unaware of death sweeping down from above. And, yes, only she would see it, but she wrote about how, the day after that plane had crashed, she’d met Christopher for the first time. The plane was the thing, it was plain. Maybe a poem was a map and it led somewhere quite stupid.

  Rebecca turned off the television and took out the new Vogue. She’d earned that, no? Rebecca had sent her papers off to Alice Quinn. It was that woman who called the whole lot Folly (what greater folly than to feel invincible?) and published it. Rebecca had earned some easy entertainment and was annoyed when the telephone intruded upon this.

  “Rebecca, it’s Cheryl. I’m sorry to call, but I need a favor.”

  “Of course.” It didn’t matter what it was. Rebecca had been waiting for this opportunity, that student always first to raise her hand. “Is everything OK?”

  Everything was fine. Ivy was ill, suddenly—this happened, a condition of being three almost four, your natural joy could switch without warning to tears and vomiting—and Cheryl had gone onto her weekly double shift and Ian was at work.

  “It’s not a problem.” Rebecca was already putting on her shoes. “Don’t say another word. I’ll call you when we’re home. Ian can come whenever he can come.”

  Ivy’s day care was in the basement of Good Shepherd, but tolerably nondenominational, and was inexpensive, too. Rebecca went to the main office.

  “I’m here to pick up Ivy Barber.”

  The doughy woman at the desk raised her eyebrows. She put the cap on her pen and frowned. “I see. Are you on her blue card?”

  “I’m not sure what a blue card is. Can I see Ivy? Is she feeling OK?” There had been vomit, Cheryl said. It was her trade, so she was not overly worried, but she was a mother. Rebecca knew about vomit’s violence, the rack of a small body. A child’s pain is terrible in a way that an adult’s is not. It was her responsibility to hug the girl, plus she’d brought along some of Andrew’s clothes in case she was dirty.

  “Ma’am, I cannot let you see one of our students unless I verify that you are on the blue card.” The tone of every tyrant everywhere. Forget the absolute: tiny tastes of power corrupt, too.

  Rebecca’s default mode was genial. Flies and honey. Her dad had taught her about math and sports, but society had taught her that. Put on lipstick and everyone will love you. Then she had Jacob and discovered something else: she could be fierce. “Please look at the card, then, if that is so important. There’s a sick child waiting for me.”

  The woman thumbed through a little recipe box filled with index cards. They were, indeed, blue. “Barber, Barber,” she said to herself.

  “It begins with B.” Rebecca jingled the car keys in her hand.

  She moistened a fingertip with her tongue and flicked and flicked.

  Rebecca had always found this licking of clerical fingers disgusting. She listened for the sounds of children but those were curiously absent or perhaps she couldn’t pick them out over the ambient hum of her own annoyance.

  “Barber. Your name again?”

  “It’s Rebecca Stone. I’m Ivy’s . . . aunt.” Rebecca faltered. Near enough the truth.

  “I’m sorry, miss, but you’re not on the card.” The woman was triumphant.

  “It’s Mrs. Stone.” Rebecca summoned the power of the patriarchy. “It must be an oversight. Cheryl is at work. The child is sick. She called me. So here I am.”

  “Well, the school is authorized only to release a child to the people specified here in writing. It’s the school’s policy.”

  This is not a school, Rebecca did not say. “I am her aunt.”

  The woman pondered this. “This is the school’s policy.”

  At Woodley Park Montessori, even those who didn’t know Rebecca knew by sight the white woman who came to fetch the black boy. There were two other black children there, with black mothers. Once, another of the mothers had mistakenly thought one of those other children, a boy named Marcus, was Rebecca’s son. They pretended that this was no matter, but it was. She wondered what would happen if she dispatched Cheryl to fetch Andrew. Cheryl could declaim her kinship and be believed: he looked just like her.

  “You’ll have to call Cheryl. Immediately. Ivy needs to go home with me now.” Why was she not on this all-important blue card? Was there meaning in this as there was meaning in everything?

  “I’m afraid that’s against our policy. We require written authorization. A copy of the designated person’s ID must be kept on file. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do now. I don’t know who you are. I need the child’s parents.”

  This was a woman who believed: Satanists running day cares, music urging teens to commit suicide, LSD in the Halloween candy. Rebecca took a breath. “I am Rebecca Stone. I’m her aunt. I’ve just told you that. So you do know who I am. Is there someone else I can speak to?” Had Cheryl not written down Rebecca’s name and telephone number for a reason, or had Cheryl simply forgotten, for that moment, that her family was as large as it was?

  “I don’t see how you can be her aunt. And I’m afraid the director is in a meeting. At any rate, this is the policy and it’s not going to change. For the safety of our children.”

  “You don’t see?” Rebecca knew what this meant. “Cheryl telephoned me. And asked me to come. Cheryl is my family. Ivy is my family. I don’t need you to see. I need you to take me to where Ivy is right now, or let me speak to someone who can see.”

  “Ma’am, I’ll have to ask you to lower your voice. This is a school. This is a safe space.”

  “This is the basement of a Catholic church. I need to speak to the director now.”

  The woman frowned, but it was a triumphant frown. She left Rebecca in the shabby office that smelled of pine-scented disinfectant. Everything about the space—the construction paper collages Scotch-taped to the cinder-block walls, the worn upholstery on the chairs meant for parents who were waiting—communicated what sort of place this was. A place for children was the one place in which a woman like Rebecca could be assured of her authority.

  The formless gormless woman returned, another woman with her. This woman wore a purple turtleneck and eyeglasses on a chain. These gave her a kindly aspect. Rebecca could imagine this woman reading a story to a bunch of children seated in a semicircle. But this woman, crucially, was black. She could be made to understand, or she could be overruled.

  “Can I help you?”

  Rebecca ignored the first woman altogether. She extended a hand. “I’m Rebecca Stone. I’m here to pick up Ivy Barber. She’s been taken ill. It seems that Cheryl hasn’t listed me as one of the people authorized to pick her up. But I can assure you it’s an oversight.”

  “Well, as you’re aware it’s the policy . . .”

  “Ah, what’s the use in policy if we can’t think? I’m Cheryl’s brother’s mother. Cheryl’s brother’s adoptive mother. I’ve known Ivy since the day she was born. You can call Cheryl to confirm this, of course. You know, she works double shifts midweek at Foggy Bottom. Ivy’s father works in Bethesda. He’s tied up until six. The child is sick, and I am here to fetch her.”

  The woman looked at Rebecca. “It’s just that we have this policy in place.”

  “Look. I’m clearly not a criminal. Please, call Cheryl, call Ian, but it would be lovely if you could do it quickly so I c
an take the girl home.”

  The woman took the blue card from her underling’s hand and picked up the telephone.

  Rebecca listened as she asked for Cheryl, because of course, in such an instance, you’d call the child’s mother. Their conversation was brief.

  “I’m sorry.” She replaced the receiver. “Do come with me. Ivy’s waiting in the teachers’ lounge.”

  Rebecca took the girl home. She bathed her and put her in Andrew’s pajamas and turned on a cartoon. Ivy fell asleep on the sofa, warm with fever, and Rebecca carried her to Andrew’s bed, surrounded her with stuffed animals so she’d feel reassured when she woke. Christopher came home and Rebecca sent him to pick up the boys, so she wouldn’t have to rouse Ivy.

  She let the boys watch television because it was impossible, otherwise, to get them to play quietly. Ivy woke, vomited once more, and Rebecca changed her clothes again, washed her face and her mouth. She was flush, her beautiful skin aglow, her perfect hair mussed. Rebecca carried Ivy downstairs to where her uncle and Jacob—what was Jacob to her, there was no word—were eating their dinner. Rebecca made Ivy a piece of toast and held her warm body on her lap while the children talked about whatever children talk about. Ivy managed only a couple of bites, but chuckled more than once at the boys’ prattle, and Rebecca knew, in that way a mother knows, that the sickness that had overrun her would have run past her by that time the next day.

  Ian rang the doorbell at six thirty. Like any father would, he hurried past Rebecca to his child, scooped her up off the sofa, pressed his chin against her forehead. “Hi, baby. How are you feeling?”

  “She’ll be fine.” You couldn’t not smile: Jacob and Andrew huddled under a blanket on the floor, Ivy’s damp face peeking out from another blanket.

  “Rebecca, you’re a lifesaver.”

  “It’s nothing. Leave her for a minute. Come, sit.”

  Ian covered the girl back up and followed her into the kitchen. “I rushed over. What a stupid day. It’s a busy time of year. Christmas presents and bargain hunters. I’m sorry, otherwise I would have been over earlier.”

  “Ian, please. There’s nothing to be sorry about. You know I love Ivy.”

  Ian washed his hands at the kitchen sink. “I do know that.”

  “I’m happy to help. And it was basically nothing. She slept most of the day. Kids get that way, don’t they, when they’re sick. It’s scary the first time it happens. You’re so used to them being full of energy, it’s weird when they want to just lie there and do nothing. But I’m an old hand. So, don’t worry about Ivy, I’m almost certain that she’s going to be back to herself by tomorrow.”

  “We don’t have much experience with it, I guess. She’s been pretty healthy. We’re lucky. It’s different now that she can talk. So different from when they’re just babies and are so helpless and you feel insane.”

  “When the baby is sick, you feel like a crazy person. When they’re bigger and they’re sick, you just feel sad because they’re so pathetic.” Rebecca laughed. “She did throw up a lot, but she kept some toast down. And some juice. And she doesn’t feel as warm. I have a feeling she just needs to wait this out.”

  “You’re the best, Rebecca. I’d have called my mother, but you know, she’s in Upper Marlboro, it’s a drive, and the school made it sound like an emergency.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “Don’t thank me again. It’s what we do. Why don’t you eat something? The kids are happy with their show. I don’t want to think about you going home and eating a sandwich over the kitchen sink.”

  “Men cook, Rebecca. I’m known far and wide for my lasagna.”

  “You’re not going to go home and put your sick child to bed and make a lasagna. I’ll join you, actually. Some nights, I like to have dinner with the kids, even though it’s so early. I like the togetherness, but if you want to know the truth, the thing I like best is that after the kids are bathed and put to bed, there’s nothing left that I need to do. I can just do whatever I like.” She sliced into the meatloaf, an unappealingly shaped thing, but it was good, she knew, because she was the one who’d dutifully chopped all those mushrooms, who’d pulverized the parsley and basil. She was the one who’d steamed cauliflower and smashed it through the ricer until the boys would eat it without complaint. She was the one who’d poured little plastic cups of milk, and toasted bread for Ivy, and cleared the table, and wiped it of crumbs, and gone upstairs to fetch blankets, and put the cassette into the video player. Christopher was at his desk, in their bedroom. It was amazing what you could choose not to know.

  She put the plates on the table. “Turkey meatloaf. Spinach. Cauliflower in disguise as mashed potatoes. Do you want a glass of wine, Ian?”

  “OK, this does look better than what I was going to have. No wine, thanks.”

  Rebecca sat across from him. The fixture over the kitchen table was unforgiving. You looked like you were being interrogated. Rebecca had wished for a dimmer switch for years. Even in the unflattering light, Ian looked his handsome, open self. A salesman’s confidence, that instant warmth. He was not unlike Christopher; they both sold things for a living and had, accordingly, developed that ease with people, that utter belief in what it was they were selling, not cars, not banks, but faith in the promise of luxury, technology, wealth, power. The things that protect.

  “This is delicious. Rebecca. Do you cook like this every night?”

  “It depends. Sometimes I need the distraction. It’s like the opposite of my work, because it’s so real. It’s a relief. Ivy was napping and I figured, I’ll make a nice meal, that way I can hear her if she calls, and I’m using the time productively. Some days are like that, I want the distraction, or I want to have to think about cracking eggs or something, instead of, you know. Whatever.”

  “That’s how I feel about the Orioles, I guess. But cooking has a practical application. My watching baseball doesn’t do anything for anyone. But we all need our escapes. I like my job, don’t get me wrong. But you know, you can only have the same conversation so many times a day.”

  “You must talk to some real characters.”

  “Divorcing men. The occasional spoiled teenager, but it’s mostly divorcing men who need what I have to offer.”

  Rebecca sipped the wine she’d poured. She remembered, as was impossible not to, other meals, glasses of wine, at that table, with Christopher, with Priscilla. Those were over now. Diana and Charles were separating and Rebecca understood but could never admit to anyone else that this meant that she and Christopher would, too. Admitting you can see what fate has in store exposes you to mockery as much as believing in the curative powers of crystals.

  “It’s so cute, don’t you think?” Ian gestured toward the den with his knife. “The three of them. Together like that. There’s something about it I love to see.”

  “Looking at a child is like looking at the future. Sometimes I see past the moment, I see the boys playing, and the scene gets sort of frozen, and I feel so good about the future. It’s a passing thought. But it’s so powerful. I see the men they’ll be. I see. I don’t know. I see everything.”

  “I know what you mean, I think. Ivy lifts me out of time. But I get nervous. I worry about . . . everything. Boys. College tuition. My little girl making her way in the world.”

  “But you saw them.” Rebecca smiled. She wondered what that bright light did to her face as she did, knew she was transformed, aged, made into something else by a trick. “How can you look at our children and not feel better about everything?”

  They finished eating, and Ian did the washing, then he carried Ivy to the car and drove off into the night.

  26

  ANDREW HAD CRIED THE FIRST DAY REBECCA LEFT HIM AT MONTESSORI. It broke her heart because he was so fat and darling, small fingers sticky with nervous sweat. Now, he barely bade Rebecca farewell. That morning he had kicked off his shoes and run into his teacher’s bosomy embrace. Of course you wanted the children to have a happiness independent of you. Rebe
cca got back into the Volvo and drove to her parents’ house in Greenbelt.

  She’d long stopped thinking of the split-level as having anything to do with her life, but pulling into the driveway had that feeling of familiarity. Rebecca knocked but it was concession to formality, last-minute warning; she opened the door, which was unlocked, of course.

  “Becky! Have you had breakfast?” Doctor Greg Brooks was gifted at dadhood. He’d changed diapers and prepared bottles, not much done at that time in history. He’d zipped his girls into jackets and escorted them to the air and space museum, where he pointed out the Spirit of St. Louis but told them all about Amelia Earhart. He brushed hair and learned a serviceable braid and made each one feel pretty without complimenting their looks but by applauding their ingenuity. He only rarely slipped and called her Becky.

  “I’ve had breakfast. We’ve been up for hours. I’d have a coffee, though. Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi yourself.” He led her into the kitchen. “You all to myself, not a grandchild in sight?”

  She shrugged. “I just thought it would be nice.”

  “You know I adore the boys, the whole gang but—it’s hard to talk.”

  Rebecca recognized the mug, the inverted comma of a rainbow, once white porcelain gone vanilla from years of use. “That’s an understatement. Thanks. How is everything, Dad?”

  He had taken his retirement, having served with distinction, a dentist-cum-actuary for the federal government. Greg Brooks had been born during the Roosevelt administration, and raised his daughters to believe in science as a public good, art a worthwhile endeavor. “It’s fine. I’m volunteering, I told you? Conversational English. We’re just supposed to sit and converse.”

  “But you’re doing more?” Rebecca knew him. She noticed the rooms were quiet, not even sports radio, which she had come to expect. “I know you’re doing more than just conversing.”

  “Well, this woman—can you imagine going to Vietnam not knowing a word of their language? And figuring out how to enroll your kids in school? How to take the bus?”