A few years ago, Gavin would have assumed the comment was sexual and would have batted back the flirty pitch. But now he was an umpire, and played strictly by the book. “It’s just hard to see her feeling so awkward in her own skin. It’s hard to know how to cheer her up.”
“I actually, believe it or not, wasn’t really talking about Tess. I was talking about you, and whether you needed cheering up,” Zoe slurred.
“Me? I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Zoe put her hand over his on the bar.
He moved his hand gently out from under hers. “I’m sure, Zo. Thanks,” he said lightly, playing ignorant to what had unmistakably been put on the table. He wanted to say “I’m sorry” but didn’t want to highlight the rejection. Better for her if it remained innuendo, not an explicit offer.
There was a brief, awkward silence while Zoe absorbed the sting. She focused on her bare hand, pale and slim against the dark mahogany bar, and then quickly reached for her vodka and drank deeply.
————
With her hand firmly clasped together with Jared’s, Megan left the restaurant so exuberant she could have sprinted a marathon. She was alight with luck and good fortune, a feeling she hadn’t had in a long time. Her job, her friends, Jared, the baby, all the puzzle pieces, everything that was important to her had finally snapped into place. She adored feeling like she was carrying around an amazing secret, a secret that only she and Jared, and a few select people of their choosing, knew anything about. She now understood why pregnant women glowed; she certainly felt like she was lit up.
Strangely, when she had discovered she was pregnant, certainly a surprise on the scale of premeditation, she hadn’t been panicked. The second she saw the positive test, the world had narrowed down to the eye of a needle—this breathless moment, her trembling hand, the extraordinary double pink line, and the certitude in her heart. When the world opened back up again a moment later, she was in Oz, and everything had turned from slightly washed-out ordinary to lemon yellow, fire-engine red.
The four walls of the apartment had quivered with excitement as she waited for Jared to arrive home that night. The minute the door creaked open, she exploded into his arms with the white stick in hand, sending the mail flying and almost knocking him to the floor. Shortly afterwards, barefooted and silhouetted against the Caribbean sunset, their vows and rings were exchanged with quiet conviction, the gently breaking surf and the tearful sniffles of both families and a few friends the only background music.
Now on the heels of their honeymoon and their first dinner out in the city as husband and wife, they returned to their little apartment—they had already planned where the crib would go—and fell onto the couch together. A few times during their walk, Megan had felt a strange twinge in her belly, but she attributed it to walking too quickly and once the feeling passed it had disappeared from her consciousness. But now that they were home, the twinges started again.
She left Jared on the couch and went into their closet-like bathroom, closing the door behind her. She pulled down her underwear and sat down on the toilet seat. It took her a full minute to register that she was bleeding.
Chapter 10
Journal Entry #10
March 18, 2001
Get ready to give up your heart. Not many people hear these words when they’re pregnant with their first child, when they are eagerly stockpiling receiving blankets and colorful rattles. Family and friends help us prepare with lists of gear must-haves (diapers, pacifiers, 10 more arms), with logistical suggestions (an extra changing table downstairs), and with self-care advice (sleep when you can). But no one sits us down and asks: Are you ready to be moved to corners of your heart you’ve never been before? Are you ready to love so fiercely that you’d kill if you had to? Are you ready to be knocked to your knees by the overflow of adoration, grief, rage; emotions that previously were manageable but are now Herculean in their depth and power?
Our conversations are so often peppered with emotional qualifiers about other people in our lives—I love him, I’m furious with her, I despise that man. And we talk about our children all the time, either casually with acquaintances or in depth with family and friends, but I’ve never once heard a parent reflect on their feelings for their children. The situations are analyzed to death; the underlying emotions aren’t debated. There are whole genres of creative arts dedicated to romantic love (love songs, romantic comedies, romance novels), and comparatively few pieces of art dedicated to the feelings we have about our children. Why is that? Is it because words, despite all the fat dictionaries chock full of interesting choices, can’t begin to capture the encyclopedia of feelings we have about our children?
Or is it because the premise of loving your children is so instinctive, so organic that it doesn’t need detailed description, and that that feeling is the only emotion in the encyclopedia that is internally, and certainly publicly, sanctioned? Everyone cherishes their children; it’s as simple as that. But does this simple blanket of impermeable love render any other strong feelings—natural feelings such as anger or frustration—an act of ultimate betrayal? Does allowing ourselves the bad days and negative thoughts constitute treason, signify deviance?
And if just feeling or speaking of moments of ugliness is taboo, how can some people so publicly declare themselves aberrant by walking away from their children? And what does that say about their children?
What does that say about me?
That was meant to be rhetorical.
I wonder if other parents ruminate as much as I do about their own death. My worry isn’t narcissistic; it’s an Arctic dread for my children. Of course selfishly, I can’t bear the idea of not knowing these quirky, beautiful, charismatic little people, can’t bear the thought of not watching, supporting, cheering for them as they grow up. But even more unbearable is the thought of them facing the world without me, without the bubble wrap of my unconditional love, without that one person in their lives who can barely stand it she adores them so.
Random times when I’m behind the wheel of mindless errands, a flash of disaster shatters my semiconscious maneuvers on the road, and for a split second I envision slamming into a tree or crashing through a guardrail into the rippled reservoir below. What’s most horrifying about these images is that it would be a day like any other. Matthew and Gillian would be at home with a sitter, happily playing outside on the swings, or in their rooms, contentedly imagining stuffed animals ruled the world, confidently anticipating my arrival. The clock would tick… and tick… and tick… and I just wouldn’t show up. The house would become hushed with their confusion, and they would wonder why Mommy wasn’t sailing through the door, as only a few hours earlier she had sung a cheery “Be back soon! Love you!” as she had hurried out of it. After a while their worry would become cranky frustration. The clock would continue to tick; the big hand would patiently make its way around again.
Matthew and Gillian would be left only with questions, and I wouldn’t be there to cuddle them close, to smother them with soft kisses and offer answers. They would be forced to digest death and loss and insurmountable sorrow without me to put sugar on the spoon for them.
When these nightmares wash over me, I try not to look, I try to turn the channel, but like a turnpike rubbernecker, I can’t tear myself away. I’m glued to the scene, tears in my eyes and despair in my heart as I think of the grief I’ve unintentionally wrought. And then another image steps forward from the recesses of my mind: an image of a scared little girl and boy, huddled together on a blue couch, wondering and worrying about their own mother. And I am reminded that unanswered, insurmountable sorrow is exactly what my mother knowingly handed to me.
Apparently I was inconsequential.
I have spent my whole life trying to show Eva that she shouldn’t have walked out; I realize now that no matter what I do, and no matter what I did when I was a child, she’s not coming back. And that
her leaving was not my fault. NOT MY FAULT. (Repeat after me, Sarah coaches gently, “Not my fault.”) Sometimes now I believe it. And through Matthew and Gillian I see that kids are what they are: lovable, awe-inspiring, life-redeeming, pure and passionate joy. They are also exhausting, challenging, and button-pushing. There’s no getting around that. It didn’t matter how hard I tried to be fun, to be exciting, to be an “easy” child, my role as a child and my mother’s role as caregiver would have been the same. I was four. I was a responsibility; I put unspoken and unknown demands on her. Sometimes I was a pain in the ass. And there was nothing I could have done to keep her from bolting.
I try to remember that when Matthew’s face lights up with pride and his eyes instinctively search for mine among the parents in the audience, or when he falls off his bike and needs a kiss before he needs a Band-Aid; every time Gillian joyfully prances around me in the kitchen, or shakily yells out for me in the middle of the night. I’m not going anywhere.
And I am not inconsequential.
July 1997
Rye, NY
Electric guitar smashed through the sleepy, gray dawn, jolting Allie upright and into consciousness. She reached behind her, over her warm, crumpled pillow, and smacked the alarm; silence flooded back into the room. The kids must have played with it again. Her heart was pounding like she’d just run a marathon. And there’s my cardio for today. She sighed and rolled out of bed.
Through the baby monitor, she heard Gillian’s “Mommy-Mommy-Mommy!” and wondered whether it was the classic rock or Gillian’s own internal clock (set for daybreak) that had woken her. She stumbled bleary-eyed by Gillian’s door—coffee first—and down into the kitchen, where she started to fill the coffee pot with water. In the corner of the room, the overflowing laundry basket sneered at her. Damn, I meant to do that last night. She’d better throw in a load fast; Matthew’s best friend, Jack the Rabbit, was encrusted with mud and lying limply on top of the pile. If Matthew spied it, she wouldn’t get Jack into the wash without an epic call to arms.
She blindly spooned coffee into the machine and made a mental note to get more at the store. I should write that down. She glanced around for a pen, but as Gillian’s cries grew more adamant, she abandoned the idea of a list and rushed back upstairs.
“Juice, Mama,” Gillian demanded through her pink pacifier as Allie walked into her room. “Juice.” Underneath the mop of dark hair that was sticking up in all directions, her green eyes were very serious.
Allie smiled; it had been the same greeting since the two-year-old could say the word. Clearly she believed if she didn’t insist on it each morning, she wouldn’t receive it. Which judging by the fact that I forgot to start the coffee machine, could mean that Gillian belonged in the talented-and-gifted program.
She wrapped her arms around her daughter and held her close, breathing in the little girl’s warm, rumpled scent as she tread down the stairs, cherishing for a moment the little arms wrapped snugly around her neck. Allie one-handedly poured orange juice into a sippy cup, started the coffee, and stepped cautiously over the obstacle course of toys in the playroom that she’d sighed and turned her back on last night. The red couch was mercifully clutter-free, and she and Gillian sank in for a round of stories while they both regained consciousness. She could hear the coffee machine gasping and grunting as it began to percolate, and Allie silently urged it to hurry.
A moment later, Matthew padded in and curled up in her lap as well, but he had no patience for the board book and demanded his morning addiction, hot chocolate.
“Let me just finish this book sweetie, and then I’ll make you the most delicious hot chocolate.”
“Moooooooom.” Matthew looked at her with big brown eyes.
“Sweetie, please don’t whine. I’ll get it in a minute.”
“Read!” Gillian jabbed her chubby finger into the book.
“Moooooooom.”
Kids must be taught in utero that the more compelling the whine, the faster the action. That and the best way to find something is to dump everything out.
“Matthew, can you help me read this story to Gillian? Tell her which animals the gorilla is saying goodnight to.”
Matthew’s face lit up and he began to point to the colorful pictures.
“Mommy do it!” Gillian said, pushing Matthew’s hand off the page.
Matthew drew his eyebrows together in a deep frown and thumped his finger down on the book.
Allie took a deep breath and smoothed a lock of hair behind Gillian’s ear. “Gill, Matthew knows this better than Mommy. He can help us.”
Gillian opened her mouth to protest, and Allie interrupted with her best cheerleader voice. “Okay guys, let’s go get something to eat.”
“And hot chocolate too!” Matthew scrambled off of the couch.
And coffee, Allie thought. She toted Gillian into the kitchen with Matthew close on her heels and passed a pile of unopened mail waiting to be sorted; bills most likely. Balance my checkbook, oh and RSVP to that party.
Still juggling Gillian, she opened a cupboard. “We have Cheerios. Want Cheerios?”
Both kids nodded.
“Matthew, with milk or without?”
He nodded absently as he climbed into his chair.
“With or without?” Allie said.
“Without,” Matthew said. “I mean with!”
Gillian nodded. “Wid.” Her wide eyes were solemn with the importance of the decision.
“Yellow bowl!” Matthew yelled. He had to eat and drink everything out of yellow dishes.
“Yellow bowl… ” Allie tilted her head and raised her eyebrows at Matthew.
“Pleeease.”
As Allie was pouring the milk into two identical yellow bowls, Matthew gave a squeal of delight. “Jack!”
Oh no. She turned toward him with a smile. “Jack’s been waiting for you to help him with his bath.”
Matthew grabbed the filthy toy and clutched it against his chest. “He’s not dirty.”
“Sweetie, he’s very dirty, can you see?” Allie buckled a squirming Gillian into her high chair and squatted down to Matthew. “And he was so excited for his bath, he told me this morning.”
“He can take one with me tonight.” Matthew was pleased that he’d thought of a solution.
Allie had visions of her son swimming in a tubful of black water. “But Jack needs a special bath, a fur-washing bath. Hey, you know what? Maybe we can give him a bath outside later, fill up the plastic pool with bubbles and have a giant bath for animals.” She held her breath.
Matthew grinned and clapped his hands. “Now?” Jack fell to the floor in a cloud of dust.
“How about we wait for the sun to come up?” Allie smiled.
Matthew started jumping up and down and Madaket, their yellow Labrador retriever, pranced and barked around with him, not sure what the commotion was about, but more than happy to join in. Gillian bounced up and down in her high chair and cheered.
The dog snatched up Jack from the floor and froze, looking at Matthew, hoping for a chase.
“Jack!” Matthew shrieked with gleeful indignation and jumped towards the dog, who took off, tail wagging. Matthew bounded after him.
Allie put her hands on her hips and smirked at Gillian. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” she said in a deep voice. “The man-eating lion has broken out of the ring, and is loose in another tent. Please stay where you are.” She tickled Gillian under the arm.
She heard the shower turn on upstairs, and was relieved to be handed an easy way to slow things down, or at least move the circus to a different adult—um, room. “Daddy’s up.”
“Daddy!” Matthew veered away from the dog and ran for the stairs.
“Matthew, your Cheerios!”
“I’m all done.”
“Me too!” Gillian said.
“Really, G
ill? You don’t want this?”
“I wanna see Daddy.” She pushed her cereal away and Allie reached out to grab the sliding bowl before it dumped soggy Cheerios all over the floor.
“Okay.” She sighed, unbuckled Gillian, and watched her scamper after Matthew, noting her giant, soggy diaper and gambling that the levee would hold another half-hour. Or maybe Dana will change it. She stood at the bottom of the stairs to supervise Gillian’s half-walk, half-crawl up the steps, and once the toddler had reached the top and was weaving her way to the bathroom, Allie went back into the kitchen, poured some coffee, and threw a load in the washing machine.
Above her head the kids charged into the bathroom and Allie heard Dana’s hearty “Good morning!”
She sipped her hot coffee (she had long ago graduated from milk and Sweet-N-Low to rocket-fuel black) while she unloaded the dishwasher and mentally began a grocery list, until a clean-shaven Dana tagged her for bathroom time. As she started up the stairs, Allie spied Gillian waddling into the playroom with a dirty diaper the size of a watermelon hanging behind her.
Half an hour later, her long hair hanging wet down her back, Allie walked through the kitchen with a ball of dry cleaning tucked under one arm and a garbage bag of dirty diapers gripped in the other hand. She dumped it all by the back door.
“Can you get the garbage on your way out?” she said to Dana.
“Sure, and can you go to the—” he glanced at the pile of dry cleaning. “You’re way ahead of me.” He glanced at his watch. “What’s on tap for today?”
“We’re meeting Tess and Juliette at the pool.”
“Sounds like fun.” He smiled absently. He kissed them all goodbye—one, two, three. “I’ll be home by six.”
The Truth Is a Theory Page 26