“I don’t like it,” she screams. “It tastes like puke.”
“Wait,” I say, “Puke isn’t one of the flavors. Here, try the chocolate one. I’m sure you’ll like it.” I add a white rice milk lie: “All kids like chocolate rice milk.”
“No, they don’t,” she screams. “I don’t want it. I hate rice milk.”
I pour a glass and demonstrate intense enjoyment of rice milk by slurping and making a large milk mustache. Olympia is right: the vanilla one is kind of pukey.
I just spent an hour making a mushy looking soup with fifteen kinds of vegetables. There’s every color of vegetable except yellow, as all yellow vegetables and fruits are verboten. Bananas are acceptable as long as you don’t allow the yellow of the peel to touch the white part of the banana.
Olympia hates the ADHD diet with a passion. I offer her a bowl of soup.
“I’m not hungry. Can we have pizza?” she asks.
“No. Pizza is a very unhealthy choice.”
Serenity and Shae choose this exact moment to traipse in the door with a pizza. It smells yummy even though it has congealed cow’s mucus smeared all over its surface. The tomato sauce probably came from a can—disgusting—and the pepperoni is nothing less than discs of toxic sludge. The mushrooms are, I’m sure, the mold-bearing kind, but I don’t recall a prohibition against onions—and pizza has no soy products, which are expressly forbidden. Therefore, based on the fact that the pizza is loaded with delicious onions, and the fact that we’re observing the rule on soy, I think we should go ahead and enjoy. Olympia picks all the onions and green peppers off, and eats three pieces.
I’m about to rustle her upstairs for her bath when the phone rings. It’s Donald. He grabbed a cab from the airport shuttle and he’s on his way home. I wasn’t expecting him until tomorrow. Olympia shrieks and runs to pin up the Welcome Home banner she made while serving out her suspension and driving me to distraction at the store this week. A few minutes later Donald walks through the door wearing a black cowboy hat and the biggest silver belt buckle I’ve ever seen. The white-cotton-shirt-and-jeans look is actually kind of Butch Cassidy hot. Jack and Olympia race to greet him. “Daddy! Daddy!” they scream.
“Howdy, partner,” he says to Jack while scooping Olympia into the air and up onto his shoulders. With Olympia still perched on his shoulders he crouches down to bear hug Jack and then fishes into a bag, producing Calgary Flames jerseys and candy bouquets. The kids crawl all over him, shrieking with excitement. I step back to watch this splendid family scene. Donald should go away for long absences more often.
After a few minutes he looks up from tussling with the kids and, catching my eye, tips his hat and winks. He stands up, popping the hat on Olympia’s head and comes over to greet me with a kiss. On the cheek. “You look great,” he says.
Donald smells different. Good different. A new kind of aftershave, I guess.
Olympia wants Donald to read her a bedtime story. He picks up his bags by the door, and our eyes meet.
Awkward. Do I want to invite Donald back into the bedroom? That would be wrong on so many levels. Does he even want an invitation? Who makes the first move? King to Queen, or Queen to King? Is there an opening advantage? This feels more like the endgame. What are the rules to this stupid game anyway?
“I’ll put these in the spare room on my way up.”
I nod. King checks Queen in another stalemate.
On Monday morning I drive Donald back to the airport shuttle. We stop at the bookstore on the way. As Donald climbs out of the car, he winces at the sight of my wooden store sign, which I can’t bring myself to replace. It’s hanging precariously above the door, crooked and peeling and full of fabulous faded-glory character. “The Pita Gnat is constantly complaining about the sign, but he can stuff it.”
“The Pita Gnat?”
“See that short guy standing over there? That guy who’s staring at us? He hangs around in his entrance all day. I don’t know how he gets any work done. All the business owners hate him because his food is terrible and he’s rude to everyone.” I wave across the road. Pita Gnat wheels back into his shop and slams his door.
“I see what you mean.”
We go inside. Jude is chatting up a customer while Serenity is wiping down the espresso machine. She picks up a coffee scoop. “How about Ethiopian Mochacinos? Fair trade, of course.”
While we wait for our coffees, we stroll about the store. I straighten a book on the front table. “There’s lots left to do but it’s coming along, don’t you think?”
Donald nods. “Absolutely.”
I reward him with my best smile.
An hour later, as I watch the shuttle pull away, I think how the Calgary Plan could prove to be a real lifesaver for my sunken marriage. We were carefully cordial all weekend. Friendly even. No one brought up tough questions about marrage, separation, or divorce. Donald even complimented me on my business plan. Every husband should be sent to live thousands of miles away when things get rough. When they come home for a visit, it’s handsome smiles and pretty compliments, aftershave and big buckles, and best of all: they will even fix the broken washing machine without being asked.
CHAPTER 23
MIA
MIA: Missing in action.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms
The house is lovely and quiet at 6 a.m., on a Sunday—the perfect lineup for meditating. Michael is always pestering me to learn to still the mind. He claims he can sit with zero thoughts in his head for 30 minutes at a stretch. That doesn’t impress me much. Any man can do that. I’ve seen Donald suppress all brain activity for hours when he’s watching sports on TV. Once in a while a stray thought will cross his mind urging him to get up and grab a bag of peanuts and a cold one. Otherwise, nothing.
For women with children, stopping the mind is more of a challenge. If we shush for five minutes, the house will be on fire and the children thigh deep in the forbidden creek by the time we return from the stillness.
I sit up in a straight-backed lotus position and rest my hands in the open mudra position on my lap. As I rise, George, sleeping at the foot of my bed, wakes up and stretches.
“No George, go back to sleep, not time to get up yet.”
George jumps off the end of the bed and limps over to the bedroom door and scratches the frame. He wants to go out. If I let him outside he’ll probably start barking at the red squirrels eating breakfast at the bird feeder.
“Shhhh, George, go lie down.” George lies down beside the door with a huffy sigh and stuffs his head between his paws to watch me.
Breathe in gently, let those stomach muscles relax, don’t think about how big this makes the belly, breathe out slowly, stop thinking about the belly. I better lay off on the post-game brewskies in the locker room this season. Maybe I don’t have time for hockey this year anyway. I’ve missed the last four practices. This week is going to be a busy week. Tuesday night Michael wants me come out to the spoken word event he’s organizing at the Dingy Cup. Oh yes, and book club is on Wednesday night. And why is George limping anyway? Maybe he needs his nails clipped?
My mind divides evenly into three parallel tracks and, as I consider the fact of book club, I also contemplate the fact that I haven’t arranged the sitter yet for Tuesday night, and when was the last time George got his nails clipped? I can’t call the sitter now, so I better jot it down on my to-do list. Where is my to-do list? An optional fourth track opens up. I didn’t want to join the book club, but Jennifer says it’s essential promotion. I better call the dog groomer today and book George in. Is Tuesday night when the sitter has her violin lessons? It’s the biggest book club in town and they always order their books through us. If I quit the book club, we might lose the business. I better remember to schedule the sitter for Friday night and read at least the first two chapters of the book club book before Tuesday. Wait, Bibi said her sitter can watch Jack and Olympia on Friday night and Shae can take George to the groomer because it i
s her dog after all and maybe I should just read that book on how to pretend you’ve read a book already.
What’s down for Thursday night? Do I need a sitter for that night too? What should I wear to Michael’s spoken word event? My poet-friendly jacket with the cool buckles is at the cleaners and … oops. I’ve let my mind go off the breath.
I don’t like following the breath anyway. So boring. Maybe I’d be better off with using a mantra. I could try the OM mantra, which, according to Michael, is supposed to bring a balancing and centering quality to daily life. He says OM is the primordial word that most closely resembles the universal breath and has the power to connect me to the vast substratum of the universe.
A substratum sounds like a layer of dirt to me. If we’re talking dirt, I’m already pretty well connected here at home. Obviously those monks who make this stuff up get out way more than me: for sure they never had to vacuum under the refrigerator. Maybe women should say GOO instead of OM.
At this point, I have to go downstairs and retrieve my mind as it has gone off to rest in contemplation of the thick layer of eternal grease that is slabbed in under the stove. Stop it, I shout inwardly. Be still.
Inhale deep silence. On exhalation, think: OMmmmmm. Inhale deep silence. Exhale: OMmmmmm. The OM word sounds like M-o-m. Which makes sense. The universal vibration is creative, maternal. It is both the gentle sigh and wolf howl of the Great Mother. The thought immediately unbalances me as I remember that my Mom, my personal Great Wolfy Mother, is coming over for dinner tonight, and I haven’t passed the vacuum for weeks. Forget GOO and OM, time to deal with TO-DO.
I’m down in the basement throwing in a load of laundry when I hear Mom’s chirrupy voice coming in the door upstairs: “Hellooooo! Helloooooo! Jack, help me with these bags. Watch this one, now, that’s my wine. You can take this one, it’s a vegetable dip; better go put it in the fridge. Hello, Olympia dear, I brought you kids some treats.”
I hurry upstairs to greet her.
“Pauline, what’s the matter with George? He’s limping.”
“His toenails need clipping.”
“Look. He’s scratching. You know, he might have the Red Mange. If I were you I would take him straight to the vet. If you let Mange get out of control, it can cover the whole dog. The hair all falls out eventually and the skin turns red. It never goes away, and it can transfer to humans. You better tie him up outside.”
For the rest of the evening, that’s all she can talk about. That and Barack Obama. She’s got a big thing for him. “There’s an article about him in The Oprah Magazine,” she says while I’m stuffing the chicken. She fishes the magazine out of her handbag and shows me his picture. “He’s so handsome. He’s like the son I never had.”
Things are getting easier now that I have Jude and Serenity helping in the store, but I’m still a wreck by 9 p.m. each night. That’s usually when Donald calls to say goodnight to the kids. Tonight, Olympia’s gone for a sleepover birthday party and Jack is gone to a show with his friends.
Donald is in a chatty mood. “Head office came out today. They’re really happy how everything is coming along. We’ll be able to launch on deadline.”
“Congratulations.”
I sit on the edge of the bed as he describes his day in detail. The bestseller Bibienne raved about rests on the bedstand. Picking it up, I stroke the spine. The book and my fluffiest pillow are calling.
“How was your day?” Donald suddenly asks.
I tell him how Serenity has turned out to be a wonder worker: “She even straightened out that Johnny Rotten kid. He’s flat out terrified of her.”
There’s a beep on the line. Who could be calling so late?
“Hang on,” I say, “I have another call, and I’m afraid it might be a problem with Olympia at the sleepover.”
I switch over. Uh oh. The caller is Michael. “I finished my dissertation! I have a bottle of champagne with your name on it. Is it cool if I come over for a while?”
I feel a draining sensation in my shoulders like someone pulled a plug from the back of my neck. I’m so tired I could sleep for a week. “Can I call you back? I have Donald on the other line,” I confess.
A long silence ensues. Michael speaks first. “You know, maybe it’s time for you to decide what you really want.”
“Please don’t be mad. This isn’t a good time. I have to go.”
“Wait, wait, hold on. I know … I’m not being fair. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pressure you. I just wanted to tell you my news.”
“I’m sorry too. I mean, wow, your dissertation is done? That’s awesome.”
“It’s a load off my mind. Now all I can think about is you. I bought you a present the other day you know. It’s got five speeds. The sales guy said it’s the taser of vibrators.”
Really? Mmm, taser tingles. I can feel them already. But Donald is on the other line. Tingling with impatience no doubt.
“Be right back,” I say to Michael.
“Hey,” I say to Donald, trying to think of a way to wrap this up quick.
“Is everything okay at the sleepover?”
“Yes, I …” Another beep on the line. This time it’s at Donald’s end.
“Can you wait a minute? I need to take this call,” he says.
Who is he so anxious to talk to at this time of night? Lindsay? I quickly tap back to Michael.
“So where were we?”
Michael is exactly where a girl might want him to be. I’m being tasered before I know it. I can’t believe how charged up a person can get talking about high voltage and direct currents. Michael has such a way with words. The taser has turned into a long-range wireless electro-shock projectile and for some reason the thought of such a device is the most erotic thing I’ve ever imagined. I’m transfixed by the suggestion that one is coming for me right now when another beep comes on the line, and I remember about Donald. I use the Olympia excuse on Michael this time.
Michael says, “Hold that thought and call me back.”
I tap back over and Donald apologizes, “I lost you there.”
“That’s nice. I mean, that’s okay.”
“You sound out of breath.”
“Do I?”
All I can think about is cattle prods. As I end the conversation and hang up the phone, George’s collar jingles. He’s leaning against my leg, vigorously scratching his ear with his back paw.
George has been scratching a lot lately. Maybe Mom is right. Maybe he does have the Red Mange. My head feels itchy and there was a lot of hair in my brush this morning. Oh no.
Forget Michael and his cattle prod. This is an emergency. I run to the computer and google “Red Mange.” 2,600,000 sites. Millions of people are all up on this issue, yet I never heard of this problem before Mom told me about it.
I click on a site. Ewww. Red Mange is a revolting skin disease caused by tiny mites. George is lying on my bare feet. I yank my feet away from him. He’s probably crammed with the creepy, crawly creatures. There’s even a YouTube video. I feel nauseated at the sight of numerous wiggling legs and a worm-like head that features an oversized gobbling mouth-like apparatus. Mom’s right—although cases are rare, the Red Mange can spread to humans. I click on a photo spread of a poor woman who contracted it. She has ugly red lesions all over her face, picked up from her Irish Setter. It was months before she was able to kick the infestation.
Funny. I have an itchy pimple on the back of my neck. And I can’t stop scratching my chin, especially in one spot where I’ve found a small scab. Or a lesion.
There may well be a rapidly exploding population of mangy mites boring holes all over my head right now. Soon all my hair will fall out, my scalp will turn red, and my face will be covered with unsightly lesions. It’s all my fault for not listening to my mother and being a poor manager. Through a disastrous confluence of ignorance and neglect, I’ve let the Red Mange rage out of control through my household. First thing in the morning, I’m going straight to the doctor and George is g
oing to be quarantined at the vet. I better not mention this development to Serenity. The remedy involves dunkings in a toxic bath of insecticides and antibiotics. Unfortunately, she’ll have to put up with her mites and lesions until after the baby is born.
Google is addicting. One horrible mite leads to the next: apparently everyone has eyelash mites, which live and mate and die in the follicles of the eyelashes. According to this site, if I were to pull out an eyelash and place it under a microscope I would probably see one. Or more. The mature adults and maybe even some of the teens have pulled the curtains and are humping away furiously, in my follicles, at this moment. And, as far as I can tell, nobody is doing a thing about this.
I can’t resist taking a peek at the house dust mite. It is related to the arachnid. In other words, my pillow is, apparently, chock full of spiders which are busily defecating and urinating in my pristine, sleepy-time fibers all night long right under my nose. That’s it. Tomorrow I’m treating everyone to a new pillow with impermeable covers.
From here it would be a short hop to search for information on human parasites and lice. Not a good idea since, because of Google, before I hit the sack tonight I will need to swab the entire house, change my sheets, swathe my pillow and mattress with plastic wrap, dip the dog in insecticide and pull out all my eyelashes.
Saturday morning: within minutes of opening the store, a rash of kids come piling through the door for Story Time With Serenity. Johnny Rotten runs straight up to Serenity and dares her to guess what’s inside his backpack.
“A severed hand?”
“Nope.”
The Perils of Pauline Page 21