by Annette Fix
“I won't. See you in the morning, love you too.”
I slammed open the stall door and went looking for Brandy. I found her perched precariously on one of the wooden stools in the makeup area.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” I yelled. “That was my son. And he thought I was a cocktail waitress until you opened your big mouth.”
“Well, fuck, you shouldn't be on the phone with your kid back here. What the fuck did you expect? Get over it, so now he knows. Big deal.” She shrugged and looked away.
I wanted to reach out and choke the stupidity out of her. “Unbelievable,” I said, turning on the heel of my platform stilettos.
I brushed through the velvet curtain. Four hours left in the shift.
Happy thirteenth birthday, son. Just thought you should know, Mommy is a stripper.
homeschool park days
Thursday, December 13
“What if they're all weird?” Josh's anxiety overflowed in his tone.
“I talked to the mom who organizes the group. She seemed really nice. I'm sure the kids will be nice too.” I guided the car up the 57 Freeway toward the community park in Brea.
Josh squirmed in his seat. “Just because they're nice doesn't mean they won't be weird.”
When we pulled into the lot, I parked my sporty little convertible in a line of minivans and SUVs. It reminded me of a kindergarten worksheet: Which Object Does Not Belong? Maybe Josh had it wrong. Maybe we were the weird ones.
Josh grabbed his baseball sports bag and his skateboard from the trunk. We walked up the grassy hill toward the covered picnic tables. A group of mothers sat on the benches and many small children played nearby. A group of older kids stood gathered around another table and took turns writing on a large scroll of butcher paper.
When we reached the crest, the entire group stopped and watched us approach.
“They're all looking at us,” Josh said, barely moving his lips.
“Just smile and give them a chance.” I stretched a grin across my face. “Hi,” I waved to the group. “Which one of you is Glory?”
Glory, a plump Hispanic mother with a shock of dark curls, shook my hand and pointed around the picnic area, naming the members. During the dizzying introduction, I counted fourteen moms and thirty-one kids. Only five looked to be in Josh's age group, the majority ranged from toddlers through elementary school.
Glory explained to Josh that the older kids were working on writing a perpetual story—each child adding the next scene to something the child before had written.
Josh tilted his head and looked at me. His expression couldn't have been more telling of his thoughts. The look he gave me screamed: You've got to be kidding. See! I told you they'd be weird.
Despite his reluctance, I was proud of his display of manners. He smiled at Glory, set his bag and skateboard at my feet, and wandered over to join the juvenile storytellers.
Once Josh was settled watching the narrative project unfold, the group's attention turned to me.
“Are you a stay-at-home mom?”
“What does your husband do?”
“Where do you live?”
“How long have you been homeschooling?”
I didn't realize I had to interview to join a homeschool playgroup. I knew my situation was far from the norm. I felt uncomfortable being asked to hold it up to scrutiny by so many people at once.
“Well, I'm a single mom. We live in Aliso Viejo, and I just started homeschooling Josh.”
I felt like a life-sized Show-and-Tell project. The questions just kept coming.
“What does your ex-husband think of you homeschooling?” asked a petite Asian woman holding an infant.
There it was. The same basic question that always came up one way or another. In Josh's early years, I answered in vague platitudes about accidentally putting the cart before the horse. After thirteen years, I just served up the answer without decoration.
“I was never married. Josh's father left when I was five months pregnant and I haven't seen him since.”
There was a soft collective “Oh.” just like the sound made when a crowd witnesses a circus performer fall off her horse.
I waved it off. “But that was a long time ago. So it really doesn't matter, and I certainly don't need to worry about what he thinks.”
One mother, Tammy, raised her hand to ask the next question. She had a warm smile and looked like the cliché of granola crunchy, all the way from her Birkenstocks to the thick braid of hair that hung like a rope down to the seat of her pants. “So, what do you do for a living?”
Out of the relationship frying pan and into the employment fire.
“I'm a writer.” I shrugged slightly. “And I work part time in a bar.”
I didn't want to admit that it also happened to be a topless gentleman's club. I detested having to mention the bar job at all. It always led to that unspoken assumption that I was only a writer wannabe. But the only way you could confidently say you were a writer was if you could provide an ISBN or production credits to back up your claim.
Everyone, everywhere, seemed to be writing a book or a screenplay. I cringed whenever I mentioned writing a book and a person's response was, “You are? Me too.” Invariably, their next comment was “I think we should get together and collaborate on a project. You can help me write it, you see, I have this idea…”
“You should talk to Karen.”
I missed Tammy's comment completely while I zoned out. “I'm sorry, what did you say?”
“I said you should talk to Karen. She's not here today, but she's writing a children's book about a homeschooled girl. You two should get together.”
“Sure. I'd like to meet her sometime.” The statement wasn't at all untrue. I enjoyed talking about the craft to anyone who was interested.
“So, what teaching method are you using?” Laura, a slim blonde in a blue tracksuit, handed a bag of Cheerios to her three-year-old, then turned to study my face for an answer.
“Method?” I shifted from one foot to the other. I wasn't sure how much method there was in handing Josh a stack of textbooks and threatening him with lethal injection if he didn't study them.
“Charlotte Mason? Montessori? Waldorf? Unschooling?” Laura looked at me like I truly had no idea what I was doing.
“Have a seat,” Glory said.
The moms along one bench scooted over to make room for me. Then the conversation turned to an interesting debate over teaching principles and techniques. I was glad to have the focus off my personal life. I sat, listening intently, and cast my eyes over to the group of kids assembling around Josh.
He had reclaimed his sports bag and revealed the baseball treasures to the rest of the kids. Soon, a haphazard team formed a tight infield and outfield between the shady trees. I watched as Glory's oldest son tossed a gentle underhand pitch to Laura's seven-year-old daughter. Josh, on his knees beside her, helped her swing the bat. There were calls of encouragement all around, and three girls who decided to play cheerleader on the sidelines. Twin boys ran after the ball when the girl took a swing and missed.
It was good to see Josh interacting with something positive. There were no cliques. No age divisions. No pressures to have designer clothes. Just kids playing together.
Socialization. That was the big argument I'd heard against homeschooling. But it felt like a healthy environment—for both of us.
land shark on the loose
Christmas Eve
Monday, December 24
Candy bars, batteries, cologne, toothbrush—Josh's last minute stocking stuffers shifted in the bag as I turned my house key in the lock. I pushed the door open with one foot and felt along the wall for the light switch.
Snap. The room flooded with light. I gasped at the sight of a Christmas massacre. Crimson smears from hand-dyed ornaments stained the beige carpet. Broken glass bulbs littered the floor. Severed wires snaked in pieces, snagged in the fibers of the rug. Pine needles and gnawed branches were scattere
d around the room.
Buddy, with a wad of shiny tinsel hanging from the corner of his mouth, sat in the middle of the mess, wagging his tail.
Too stunned to yell, I stood surveying the damage. Everything from the middle of the Christmas tree to the bottom was completely stripped and destroyed. A few ornaments clung precariously to the top branches. The tree leaned at an awkward angle, held up by only the screws in the stand. The angel on top looked unsure whether to take flight or pray.
“Bad dog! Go! Get on your bed!”
I knelt to the floor and raked the frayed wires of the Christmas lights into a clump with my fingers. Buddy watched me from his cedar-filled pillow with that puppy look that wavers between “let's play” and “oh shit, I screwed up.”
“Don't even look at me right now!” My voice echoed in the room. Tears clouded my vision. I dropped to the floor on my hands and knees.
Why did he have to leave me? Am I ever going to find someone who truly loves me enough to stay? Why does every holiday, every everything, good and bad, have to remind me of him? I blindly crawled along the carpet, collecting the broken glass in my hands.
The front door swung open. “Mom?” Josh rushed over and crouched beside me, “Are you okay? What happened?”
“Buddy—” I choked on a sob.
“Don't cry, I'll help you clean up. It'll be okay,” Josh half-patted, half-hugged my quaking shoulders.
“We can try to redecorate the tree…”
“Don't do it for me, Mom. I'm thirteen now. I know there's no Santa Claus.”
“Are you sure?” I sat back on my heels and searched his face.
“I don't really care if we don't have a tree set up, as long as I still get the presents.”
The priorities of a teenager.
Silently, we took down the Christmas tree. Josh collected the mess in a trash bag while I removed the remaining ornaments and returned them to the garage storage bin.
We wrestled the 7 ft. Noble through the doorway and placed it on the curb. Bits of tinsel fluttered in the cool breeze.
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house…
santa works for the auto club
Christmas Day
Tuesday, December 25
I stared at the ceiling. There was no reason to get out of bed. Christmas was ruined. I couldn't imagine turning on Christmas carols and faking my way through the day. I rolled over and buried my head under the covers.
A soft rap on my bedroom door preceded Josh's face peeking between the door and the frame. “Mom, you awake yet?”
“Come on in, Wonderboy.” I sat up and plumped the pillows behind me.
Josh crawled across the bed and curled up beside me with his head in my lap. “Can we open presents now?” he asked.
“I suppose so. But let's eat breakfast first.” I stroked his soft, clean hair, enjoying the feeling of it without the crispy gel spikes.
“Do my back.” Josh shifted on the bed and pulled up the edge of his T-shirt, exposing his lower back.
I started doing the tickle touch when he was an infant to get him to relax and fall asleep in his crib—the light, barely-there massage still had the power to put him into a near coma.
“See if you can figure out what I'm making for breakfast,” I said, drawing the letters, spelling it with my index finger on his skin: G-R-I-L-L—
“Grilled egg and cheese sandwich?” he guessed, looking at my smile to confirm it. “I'll get the ketchup!” Josh jumped off the bed and ran down the stairs, yelling over his shoulder, “Hurry up, Mom!”
That was the one thing that was guaranteed: his favorite breakfast trumped everything else.
After breakfast, I watched Josh open his presents and dodged his question about why there was nothing for me. I just couldn't bring myself to buy my own gifts, wrap them, and then open them. To me, that felt more pathetic than not having any at all.
The plan for the rest of the day was to drive over to Bonita's: Josh could spend the day with her sons, while Bonita and I sat around eating the 500 pounds of Christmas cookies she baked every year. Usually, we had Valerie's help, but this year, she had flown home with her kids to visit family in Nebraska.
I maneuvered the Celica onto the 73 Toll Road North from the Aliso Creek onramp. The road was nearly deserted, so it would be a quick drive up to Bonita's condo in Costa Mesa.
Josh held a stack of his new DVDs on his lap. I knew the boys would fill the entire day watching testosterone-injected movies and playing violent video games—the teen boy activity equivalent of consuming junk food.
I accelerated on the incline toward El Toro Road and pushed in the clutch to shift from fourth gear to fifth. I felt a pop, like having a rubberband break under my shoe, and the clutch went all the way to the floor.
“Shit.” I guided the car across one lane, braking to slow down. I stopped on the right edge of the roadway and turned on my emergency flashers. “What happened?” Josh asked, a worried look pinching both of his eyebrows together. “Why are we stopping? What's wrong?”
“The clutch went out,” I said, reaching into my purse for my cell phone.
“What are we going to do? Are we going to have to walk?”
I pressed the Call key for the first number in the internal phonebook: AAA Roadside Assistance. “We're staying here and I'm getting a tow truck.”
“Well, this blows.” Josh slumped low in his seat.
That summed it up pretty succinctly. Could anything else go as miserably wrong as the last three months of my life? Why couldn't something just go right for once?
“Is this payback for kicking a karma puppy?”
I shouted out the window. The look on Josh's face said a good Christmas gift for me would've been a silver-buckled, hug-me sweater.
The whole situation was almost laughable.
I nearly dissolved into hysterical tears when the tow truck driver arrived wearing a fluffy, red and white Santa hat.
resolution #1: no more obsessing about kevin
New Year's Day
Tuesday, January 1
I opened my eyes, blinked until I could focus, and then glanced at the clock. Almost noon.
Somehow, I had made it through New Year's Eve alive. Probably because South Orange County doesn't have any buildings tall enough to jump from. And I wouldn't have been able to climb to the top in my platform stilettos anyway.
Jaimee and I had decided to work instead of going out. Josh was at a slumber party at Adam's house, and sitting at home alone wasn't an option; it would've made me crazy.
There had been a skeleton crew: only six dancers, one bouncer, a bartender, two waitresses, and the DJ. Nate was the manager who drew the short straw.
The entire night, there were never more than twenty customers in the club, but it was a surprisingly good money night—almost as if free-flowing cash and free-flowing alcohol could help both the dancers and the customers pretend it was a celebration of a new year, instead of a night saying goodbye to a year without anyone significant to share it.
At the countdown to midnight, I couldn't chase the thought out of my head that Kevin might be kissing someone special and welcoming a new year with her. I was tormented by the visual of silver confetti swirling around them while their lip embrace was serenaded by “Auld Lang Syne.”
He clearly wanted this old acquaintance to be forgotten.
The rest of the night passed slowly with that image playing like a skipping record in my mind.
Now, it was New Year's Day—the ritual. A day I usually spent evaluating the year before, all of the failures, and the resolutions that never quite made it past March.
Eat better. Exercise more. Spend less. Live slower. Be a better mother. A better friend. A better mate. A better person.
This year, I could leave out the better mate resolution.
I stretched out on top of the bed, notebook and pen in hand, and glanced around the room to assess my personal space.
Gaps. The gaps were
too big. I rolled from the bed and spread my knickknacks across the long dresser, trying to fill the empty space left when Kevin gathered his personal items. I picked up a picture of him; his brooding expression from an old modeling pose stared back. I set it facedown. Almost in the same movement, I picked it up again, and stood it upright in its original place.
Every private thing that belonged to him was gone. Only the furniture remained. Mismatched pieces of a bedroom set. Some his, some mine, waiting to be divided in another six months at the end of the lease.
Maybe then, once I'd gotten my life in order, when I wasn't working at the club anymore, and when I'd sold my book, maybe then, we would get back together.
But just in case, just in case we didn't, I needed a plan.
A Five-Year Plan.
I'd be empty-nested in five years. So, I'd devote myself to breaking into the publishing industry and at the end of those five years, if I wasn't a rich and famous author, then I'd sell everything and move to an island.
Maybe Fiji. Or I could backpack across Europe. I'd always wanted to do that.
There was a certain freedom in being alone.
There was a certain misery in being alone.
Well, there it was—My Five-Year Plan. Eat better. Exercise more. Spend less. Live slower. Be a better mother. A better friend. A better person. And move far away to escape my haunting failures.
a survey of sanity
Wednesday, January 2
I couldn't pass up the serendipity symbols. Kevin sent me his half of the rent check in a card. It usually came in an envelope alone, no note. Nothing. And it wasn't a holiday card; the card said Thinking of You.
I wondered how many cards Kevin read before he found one that said what he wanted to say. The check he sent for the rent wasn't the usual 50/50 split either. He wrote it for $1000 and left me to pay the other $895.
True, it was only a $50 difference, but why did he do it? It was almost like being a gift without really being a gift.
Was I reading too much into it?
Those two things alone were unsettling enough. Then I received an email from Meg inviting me to a girl's craft day get-together up in Los Angeles. The address of the event had the same cross street as the golf course where Kevin worked.