I looked at Seth. “That would be us.”
“But—” Anastasia said.
“Wait,” I said. “Any decision—cell phones, hamsters, dates, nose rings, tattoos…”
“I can get a tattoo?” Anastasia asked. “When?”
Seth started to open his mouth, but I was faster. “And then, if and only if the grown-ups agree, you’ll be brought into the negotiations.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Shall we give it a test run?”
Seth and Anastasia looked like two peas in a pod when they shrugged.
I looked at Seth. “Tattoo. How would you feel about our daughter getting a tattoo?”
“Not a chance in France,” Seth said.
“I agree,” I said. “End of discussion.”
“That’s not fair,” Anastasia said.
“Life’s not fair,” I said. “Try us again in a couple of years.”
I looked at Seth. “I’d like you to move in for about a week to stay with our daughter so I can go somewhere.”
“Okay,” Seth said.
I turned to Anastasia. “How would you feel about that?”
“Good,” Anastasia said.
“Great,” I said. I pushed myself back up to a standing position. “I’ll get back to you both with some dates.”
As soon as I hobbled back to my bedroom, I picked up my cell phone and called my boss, Joni. “It’s Jill,” I said. “I’m just wondering. Is it too late to get in on that Costa Rica surfing trip?”
29
MAYBE I HADN’T DONE A LOT OF SMART THINGS IN MY life, but at least I’d renewed my passport last year. It had actually been a birthday present I’d given to myself.
Joni always came through with a gift on my birthday—a book of movie passes or a gift certificate to a restaurant. But for years my only other birthday present had been what ever Anastasia made for me, usually a painting that dried while we baked my birthday cake.
As much as I certainly didn’t have money to burn, things were starting to get incrementally easier. I could almost believe that over the course of the next ten years, the life of the passport, I might actually get ahead enough to be able to afford to go somewhere. And somehow I thought if I renewed the passport, maybe it would symbolically pave the way for a trip.
I’d planned on getting Anastasia her first passport at the same time, even if it meant scrimping on groceries for a few weeks. I simply couldn’t imagine going anywhere without her. I went online to see if we needed to bring anything besides her birth certificate for documentation. Apparently there was just one small thing: her father. In order to receive a U.S. passport, a child under the age of sixteen had to appear with both parents and sign a form in front of an Acceptance Agent. Those two capital As read like a warning: an Acceptance Agent would be taller and more threatening than a mere acceptance agent, the implication being don’t even think about trying any funny stuff.
I couldn’t be the only single mother in the United States who wasn’t able to produce her husband. I scrolled down. Sure enough, I could do this alone. I just had to get Seth to give us a signed and notarized Statement of Consent to take with us. Piece of cake—all I had to do was find him.
I kept reading until I came to Form DS-3053, STATEMENT OF SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES, to be completed by applying parent or guardian when the written consent of the nonapplying parent or guardian cannot be obtained.
Use back of form if additional space is needed, it said.
Ha. Not only was the back of the form not nearly spacious enough, even when combined with the front of the form, but all I could see was the big can of worms it would open. Have you attempted to contact the nonapplying parent or guardian through his parents or other relatives? the Acceptance Agent would probably ask. Have you tried to locate him through his employer?
Form DS-3053 made me consider skipping the birthday travel symbolism and taking a nap instead. But I forced myself to fork over the money to renew at least my passport. Maybe I’d just keep renewing it until Anastasia was old enough to sign for her own passport, and then we’d go somewhere together.
A year later, here I sat, on my front steps, amazed and a little bit overwhelmed that I not only had a current passport when I needed one, but it looked like I was actually going to use it before the week was out.
I waved to Anastasia as she lined up with the other kids to get on the bus. She waved back, then pushed some buttons on her Purple People Reacher Phone.
My cell phone rang. I ignored it.
Anastasia gave her head a shake and pointed at her phone.
I pushed a button on my cell. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think it was you.”
“Mom, don’t forget to make sure Cammy has plenty of water while I’m at school. I don’t know how fast she drinks yet. And make sure you call her Cammy and not anything else, so she doesn’t get confused while she’s still learning her name. And if you have any questions, just look them up in the hamster book Dad bought me. I have to go, bye.”
Anastasia disappeared onto the school bus.
Cynthia sauntered over and plopped down next to me on the steps.
“Hey,” I said. “Would you mind being my backup? My ex is going to watch Anastasia while I take a trip to Costa Rica, and I just want to make sure he has an emergency number.”
Cynthia leaned back in her tennis outfit and crossed one perfectly formed thigh over the other. My own thighs had been screaming with pain since I woke up this morning. I wondered if they’d ever be crossable again.
“Cheez Whiz,” Cynthia said. “Why can’t I be single?”
I pulled the T-shirt I’d slept in down over the knees of my baggy gray sweatpants. “Trust me,” I said. “It’s not as glamorous as it looks.”
“You know, I’ve always wanted to go to Costa Rica,” Cynthia said. “Where is it again, girlfriend?”
THE WEEK FLEW BY in a blur of preparations. I picked up extra phone shifts, trading for coverage while I was away, which essentially meant I was tethered to my headphone pretty much round-the-clock. I called everybody in Lunch Around the World, canceling Monday’s class and tacking on an extra class at the end of the session.
They were ridiculously happy for me. “It’s about time you had a little fun, a young girl your age,” T-shirt Tom said. “You only go around once, you know, honey.”
“Don’t you worry about us,” Ethel said. “We’ll still be here when you get back. At least the ones that don’t keel over in the meantime. Have you worked things out with the boyfriend yet? Not that I make a point of sticking my nose in where it’s not my business, but he seemed like a real sweetheart.”
I communicated most of the details of my trip to Seth via Anastasia and her Purple People Reacher Phone. I tried not to think about the fact that it was only a matter of time before we became the subject of one of her spelling sentences. Dysfunctional, she’d write. My parents have this dysfunctional way of talking to each other through me. Dysfunctional.
The rest of the information I wrote down on an ongoing note on a bright yellow legal pad. I left it on the kitchen counter and kept adding things as I thought of them.
—A. hasn’t had an ear infection since she was 4ݣ but if she does, remind the pediatrician that Amoxicillin never works, and to go right to the Augmentin, unless they’ve come up with a better antibiotic since her last ear infection. Pediatrician’s number is on the emergency list, but here it is again, in case the emergency list falls off the refrigerator.
—Make sure A. leaves that cell phone in the kitchen at night, and keeps it turned off whenever possible, since school’s still out on the cumulative dangers of electromagnetic radiation.
—Please remember to turn off lights when not in use.
—Sometimes the toilet handle needs to be jiggled to stop the water from running. If you find yourself with extra time on your hands, maybe you could figure out why.
—The computer is off-limits until all homework is done. And please supervise A. when she is on it so she doe
sn’t inadvertently come into contact with the many unsavory characters in cyberspace who prey on innocent young girls.
—Do not let kids next door snack here. Food is far better at their house. Key is under the mat. Good luck finding fridge.
—A. needs her sleep, so do not allow yourself to be manipulated into a later bedtime.
The next time I picked up the yellow legal pad, I saw that Anastasia had crossed out this last entry. Over it she’d written in purple pen: A. does not need much sleep. Let her stay up as late as she wants.
Billy called a couple times. Once I was home. I stood in my kitchen and watched his name light up my caller ID, but I didn’t pick up. He left messages asking me to call him back, saying he’d like to talk. I thought about it, but what was there to say? We were at such different places in our lives, and with my luck, dating him would only mean I’d be watching his kids, too, while he and Seth ran off to Japan together. It was just the way of the world.
I avoided talking directly with Seth. I mean, what was the point? Every time I thought of him, my chest tightened with resentment. He probably thought he was father of the century for spending a few paltry nights taking care of his daughter, even though he’d shirked that responsibility for most of her life.
And as soon as I got back, he’d head off to Japan for the first of what were sure to be many trips ahead. I’d never really be able to count on him, and the sooner I faced that cold, hard truth, the better off I would be.
I also did my best to avoid Anastasia’s new hamster. I told yself it was because I needed to step back so Anastasia would step up and assume full caretaking responsibility. If I changed the cedar shavings or the water bottle, or filled the little food dish, even a single time, it would become my job as soon as the novelty of owning a hamster wore off.
But the truth was, even though it called out to me every time I walked by, I just couldn’t let myself get anywhere near that little wire cage with its brightly colored maze of tubes crisscrossing inside like a jungle gym. I had to think of it as an it and not a she, as the hamster and not Cammy.
When we were curled up on the couch watching TV after dinner and homework, Anastasia would bring the cage out to sit on our coffee table trunk. She’d reach in and take the hamster out for a cuddle. “Here, Mom,” she’d say. “Feel how soft Cammy’s fur is.”
I’d give it a quick pat with one forefinger, careful not to feel a thing. The last thing I needed was something else that needed me to take care of it.
If I let this little fur ball in, even for a second, it would be all over. Before I knew it I’d be worrying about whether it was getting enough human attention, if it needed another hamster for rodent companionship. Then I’d start waking up in the middle of the night wondering whether I should call the vet to double-check the best ratio of dry food to fresh vegetables, and perhaps discuss the possibility of adding vitamins to its little hamster diet while I had them on the phone. Oh, and should we consider upgrading to a better brand of cedar shavings to risk damaging its delicate little hamster lungs?
The downward spiral would continue. I’d spend hours reworking the plastic tubes into ever more challenging mazes to stimulate its tiny hamster brain. I’d sit at my sewing machine for hours making matching dresses for Cammy and Anastasia. I’d surf the Internet, thinking surely someone must make a pink plastic headband for hamsters.
All over the world, approximately every five seconds, another perfectly intelligent woman gets sucked in like this, the victim of maternal instincts or female hormones, or maybe just a heart that keeps overruling her head.
Each time I passed the hamster cage, that old commercial would play in my mind. Calgon, take us away, I wished for us all.
30
THE PLAN WAS TO MEET UP WITH THE GROUP AT THE Miami airport and fly together to San José, Costa Rica. We’d arrive at the San José airport in the early evening, take a chartered bus into the city, have dinner together, and stay the night in a hotel. In the morning we’d wander around, shop, visit a few of the sights, then catch a third plane to our final surfing destination of Tamarindo.
Just before we stepped onto the moving sidewalk between he Logan Airport garage and our terminal, Cynthia and I stopped so she could rearrange her mountains of matching luggage. The Beatles rained down from the sound system, singing “Ticket to Ride” for all they were worth. A shiver ran up my spine as I watched the intricate movements of busy planes through the huge expanse of glass.
This was it. Finally, after all these years, I had my own ticket to ride again. I closed my eyes to take in the enormity of the moment.
Cynthia took off her wide-brimmed straw hat and placed it upside down on one of her suitcases. She rearranged her bangs on her forehead, then spread her arms wide. “We’ve got a ticket to rye, eye, eyed,” she sang. Loudly.
I shook my head. I couldn’t believe she’d talked me into letting her come along.
“Shh,” I whispered.
A woman walked over and placed a dollar in Cynthia’s hat. “Thanks,” Cynthia said. She reached in and handed it to e.
“Keep singing,” I said.
“Why?” she said. “I have plastic.”
Cynthia and I sat next to each other on the flight from Boston to Miami. The flight attendant offered us the choice of a small packet of honey-roasted nuts—or nothing.
I left my nuts sitting on the tiny tray table in front of me, and took another sip of my ginger ale. My stomach had been tied up in knots since leaving the house this morning.
Seth had arrived early to move his stuff in and get Anastasia on the bus. Anastasia couldn’t wait to get me out the door. “Have fun!” she yelled as I got ready to drive off with Cynthia. “Have fun and bring Cammy and me something good. And Dad. Don’t forget a present for Dad.”
She gave me a hug and a kiss and ran off to give the hamster one more check before school.
I turned to Seth. “Call me if you need to know anything. There’s a roaming charge for Costa Rica, so if it’s not important, you should e-mail. I’ll try to check my e-mail at least twice a day. But if it’s the least bit important, just call.”
Seth bent down to pick up my bags. With three flights each way, I knew better than to check luggage. I’d managed to cram everything I needed into a big shoulder bag and a rolling carry-on I’d borrowed from Cynthia’s family’s vast collection, since the last time I’d traveled, rolling suitcases probably hadn’t even been invented.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I can get it myself.”
He put my bags back down on the kitchen floor.
I leaned down to grab the handles.
When I stood up, he kissed me on the forehead. “Listen,” he said.
“Don’t,” I said. I looked away from the hurt in his eyes.
He ran his hand through his hair, which was sticking up on the side he’d slept on. “Jill, just tell me. Why are you doing this? I mean, I get that it was probably too much too fast, and I know you really need this trip, but—”
I put my luggage down again. “Here’s the thing, Seth. You just got back. You don’t get anything. And even if you think you do, you don’t really know anything about me anymore.” Then I ran to find Anastasia to say one more quick good-bye.
Cynthia reached for my honey-roasted nuts. “Can I have these, girlfriend? All I had for breakfast was a handful of Pepperidge Farm croutons.”
I turned to look at her.
She was already opening my nuts. “They were almost past their inspiration date. Don’t worry, I know it’s really expiration. But, I mean, who has time to wash lettuce?”
Are we there yet? I thought. It was going to be a long trip. I closed my eyes and let Cynthia’s chatter flow in one ear and out the other, like waves breaking over a pristine beach. I visualized myself standing up on my surfboard on the very first try.
“I am so going to hang ten,” I said.
Cynthia crumpled up the empty peanut wrapper and put it back on my tray table. “Fine,” she
said. “Then I’ll hang eleven.”
I didn’t think women like Cynthia had smaller brains at birth. Their brains probably started out the same size as the rest of ours but withered on the vine while other things, like looks and tennis skills, were being nurtured. Cynthia just needed a good role model. I certainly wasn’t going to spend my whole trip being her Henry Higgins, but I thought I could give her some quick coaching that might help her present herself a bit more intelligently to the world.
Sometimes Anastasia would ask me if she was prettier than a classmate at school or even one of the tween flavors-of-the-month at the box office. “You’re exactly pretty enough,” I’d say, “and how great that you’re also smart and creative and kind and funny.”
My ten-year-old daughter would let out an impatient puff of air as I launched into a lecture about what a looksist society we were, and how even if there was no denying that a certain amount of attractiveness might make life easier, everyone’s beauty fades eventually, and what happens if superficial things like the way you look are the entire basis for your self-esteem.
“Never mind,” she’d say when I paused for a breath. “I was only asking who was prettier, me or Emily. I think I am.”
I checked my watch. Anastasia was safely in school, and our flight was on schedule. I’d call Seth as soon as we landed in Miami to make sure he’d be on time to meet the bus. If not, I’d have Cynthia call her house and see if whoever was meeting her kids could watch Anastasia until Seth arrived. Tomorrow was Saturday. The weekend would be easier, and by Monday, they’d have the rhythm down. Everything would be fine.
Anastasia could handle this. I could handle this. Even though the pain in my stomach felt like an invisible umbilical cord was being stretched tighter the farther my daughter and I got from each other, Anastasia and I would both be fine. I closed my eyes. “Fine, fine,” I whispered to myself slowly, like a mantra.
I turned to Cynthia. “Hang ten is a surfing expression. There is no hang eleven.”
Cynthia looked up at the ceiling. “It was a joke. And please tell me you’ve bought at least one new bathing suit in the last five years.”
Claire Cook Page 15