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On the walk home, I detour to the elementary school both Taylor and Troy attended. Small children are at recess. Settling on a nearby park bench, I listen to their squeals, their laughter. Watch them run and skip and climb on the playground equipment.
I miss my little girl and little boy. As much as I love my grown-up children, I mourn the loss of the kids they were. I miss their bright smiles when they would look up and see me enter a room. I miss the days when Troy talked my ear off and I didn’t have to bribe Taylor Jane with money to interest her in spending time with me. I miss being wanted, being needed.
Was life as simple and fulfilling back then as I remember it? Or, as Polly suggested, am I forgetting all the aggravation?
Leaving the park bench, I head for the sidewalk, still watching the children play.
“Is she a stranger?” I hear a tiny voice ask and turn in time to avoid running into a young woman who escorts a child toward the school building.
I duck out of their way. “Excuse me.”
Wariness clouds the woman’s eyes as she scans me from head to toe, and I realize how I must look: swollen eyes, slight limp, uncombed hair and wrinkled clothing.
“Is she, Mommy?” The little boy gawks at me over his shoulder as they pass.
“Yes, Cody,” the woman answers in a hushed tone, hurrying him along. “And we don’t talk to strangers, remember?”
Squaring my shoulders, I limp toward the street on my throbbing calves. In less than an hour, I have been reduced from a smug and admired marathon runner, at least in my own mind, to a person small children should avoid.
Mother’s powder-blue Cadillac pulls to the curb outside the front of my house when I turn the corner onto my street. She climbs out, looking like an ad for Talbots, crisp and tailored, every highlighted hair in place. “Where’ve you been?” she calls to me.
“Walking.”
She meets me center-yard, hugs me. “I say this with love, darling. You look like hell.”
“Thank you, Mother. That’s just the look I was striving for.”
Following me to the door, she says, “Seriously. I’m worried.”
“About me?” Surprised and oddly pleased, I pull my house key from my pocket. “Don’t be.”
“Carl needs you, Dana. He’s at the prime of his career. This is no time for a meltdown.”
So she’s worried about Carl. I should’ve known. “He’s fine, Mother.” I open the door and we walk inside. “And I’m not melting down. Even if I were, he’s so busy right now with work, I doubt he’d notice me dripping.”
She settles at the kitchen table, lights a clove cigarette, sizes me up. “You should fly to Colorado Springs and stay at the Broadmoor, pamper yourself at their spa for a week. A wife sometimes needs to take a bit of quality time for herself in order to give her best to her husband.”
“What 1955 guide to wifely duties did you read that in?”
“I mean it.” Mother props her elbow on the counter so that the smoldering cigarette tip points up at the ceiling. “You’re the one who needed a weekend at the Mansion. Not Taylor Jane and that long-haired, freeloading flake she married.”
“At least Mooney has a job. That’s more than I can say for Taylor.”
“Mooney.” Mother huffs, then mutters, “Dear God in heaven.” She takes a drag.
Myra emerges from the adjoining utility room carrying a basket of clean laundry.
Mother greets her with a nod and a half-assed smile.
Myra grunts and leaves the room.
I notice the blinking red light on my phone answering machine and push Play.
“You have two messages,” a robotic voice informs me, followed by a beep, then Carl saying, “It’s me. I have to take a prospective client to dinner tonight. Peter Celine. Celine Designer Shoes out of L.A. I know you’ve heard of them.”
Who hasn’t? I’ve ordered from their catalog many times. And Taylor probably keeps them in business.
“They’re bringing stores into this area soon. Cross your fingers I land the account. It’s big bucks. Don’t wait up.”
Another beep, then a voice says, “Mom, it’s me.” Taylor yawns. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch this morning. I started my period. If you really want to go with Elaine and me, you can. She’s meeting me at Wall Trends at 1:30. My car is on empty, so pick me up at 1:15.”
“Where did that child learn to use such language?” Mother asks.
“From listening to you, most likely.” Scooping yesterday’s mail off the counter, I shuffle through it. “Why don’t you go shopping with her and Elaine? I’m not in the mood anymore.”
“You’re asking me to drive through your son-in-law’s neighborhood?” Mother feigns a shudder. “No, thank you very much. I value my safety and my hubcaps.” Her mouth pulls into a thin line as she drags my half-empty coffee cup across the counter toward her. “Besides, I’m still not speaking to Taylor Jane.” She flicks ashes into the cup. “I may never get over her marrying that grease monkey. He has a tattoo, for heaven’s sake.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“On his shoulder blade. A dragon or some other such nonsense. I saw it when they were swimming over here one day when you weren’t home. What on earth has gotten into that daughter of yours?”
Lust, I think, but say, “I believe it’s called love.”
“Love.” Mother huffs again. “Ridiculous.”
I sit in the chair across from her and begin untying my shoes. “Daddy had a tattoo, or have you forgotten?”
Her rigid mask slips, and I glimpse the softness behind it, the hidden side of my mother I wish she allowed other people to see. “That’s different. Your father was in the navy.”
“Well, Mooney’s not a grease monkey, he’s a musician.” I stress the word like Taylor does, trying to convince myself as well as Mother. “Rock-and-rollers have tattoos these days. And he works at Home Depot sweeping sawdust now, not at the oil-change job.”
Scowling, Mother studies her fingernails. “Janet’s daughter Lynette asked me to have you call her.”
“Lynette Ames?” Janet is my mother’s lifelong best friend. Lynette is Janet’s daughter.
“It’s Yancy, now.”
“As in Mrs. Gregory Yancy the neurosurgeon? I didn’t know he and his first wife split.”
“Lynette made her move before the ink on the divorce papers dried. She’s a very sharp girl.”
The words gold digger come to mind as I remove one shoe and start untying the other. “I can’t remember the last time I saw her.”
Whenever it was, it hasn’t been long enough. Ever since we were little girls, Lynette has made it her mission in life to one-up me. First, she had to have the bigger toy, then the bigger bra and the better grade. Next came the more popular friends and studlier boyfriend. Later, the more prestigious college, followed by the fancier house and richer husband. She has had three of those.
“What does she want?” I ask.
“To invite you over tonight, I believe.”
“Why? Does she have something new she wants to rub in my face?”
“Lynette’s youngest went away to school last year. She understands what you’re going through. She was very sympathetic when I told her what a mess you are right now.”
“Thank you for doing that,” I say sarcastically. “No doubt she wants to see for herself and gloat.”
“Why do you have to be so suspicious of her? She’s reaching out to you.”
“She’s treated me like crap for years. Especially when we were in school.”
“Maybe she wants to make amends. Call her. Whatever she has planned for tonight, go. It will be good for you to get out and socialize. And it would be a coup for Carl’s business if you eased into the Yanceys’ social circle, anyway. Besides, Carl’s working late. What else do you have to do this evening?”
“Nothing, Mother.” I reach for an apple in the bowl that sits center-table, imagine throwing it at her but bite into it instead. “Thanks for reminding me.”
CHAPTER 5
“How’d the meeting go?” I ask Carl the next morning when he enters the kitchen where I’m toasting bagels and making coffee. He was already home and snoring when I returned from Lynette’s last night. I had left a note on his pillow, telling him where I went.
Carl’s mouth curves up at one corner as he takes the bagels to the table and sits. I know that smile; it means success. “We’re in the running. It’s down to Logan Advertising and a Dallas agency.”
“That’s fabulous, honey! Congratulations.” I pour us each a cup and limp over to him on my still-aching calves.
“I don’t have to tell you we’re considered to be small potatoes. Beating out all the other Dallas and Houston agencies we were up against is a feather in my cap.”
“I’m sure you’ll outshine this last one, too.” I smile at him. “To a profitable 2007.” We clink our coffee cups together.
“Hear, hear.” Carl sips, and so do I. I notice that his hand shakes slightly as he lowers his cup. “Celine’s thinking is that, since we’re located in the area he’s targeting, we should be more in tune to the marketplace than the larger agencies down south.” Carl explains that he and his team will be developing a campaign to introduce Celine Designer Shoes to area customers. “Peter Celine will be back October twenty-seventh to take a look at what we come up with. He’s bringing his wife. Apparently, she’s in on the decision-making. I said we’d have them over to dinner that night.”
“I can handle that. I’ll put it on the calendar.” As if I could forget. It’ll be the only thing written in for the entire month.
“I’m afraid, until then, I’ll be working weekends and nights.” He yawns. “I’m getting too old for this. I’m counting the years until Troy can take over.”
I smirk at him. “You’re not even fifty. Besides, you love your work.”
“Guess I’m a little burnt out. After twenty years of the same thing, you get tired of it.”
“Who do you think you’re kidding? You’d be miserable without the agency to keep you busy.” As miserable as I am without my old activities. “You’ve always given it a hundred percent.”
“That just means I’m obsessive-compulsive when it comes to my job.” He gives me a self-deprecating smile. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just feeling the pressure, that’s all.”
Concern tweaks me. Carl has always thrived on a challenge. “What would you do without your work?”
“Who knows? Sell seashells by the seashore. Twiddle my thumbs.”
“Believe me, that gets old fast, too. Thumb twiddling is tiresome.”
Carl blows into his cup. “So how was bridge?”
“It’s a cover.” I sit across from him.
“What do you mean?”
“Bridge is a cover for Lynette and all her friends to get together once a week and have a pot party. They started the tradition after all their kids left home.”
Carl sputters and spills his coffee, but maneuvers so that it hits the place mat rather than his crisp white shirt. “You’re kidding? Pot, as in marijuana?”
I nod. “As in grass, weed, pass me that doobie, dude, wow, man, this is some good shit.” The coffee cup warms my fingers as I lift it. “Apparently, after Lynette’s daughter left for college, Lynette was cleaning out the girl’s closet and found a joint hidden in an old shoe. She brought it with her to bridge that night and bridge went up in smoke, so to speak.”
“Back up.” Carl lifts a knife to spread cream cheese on his bagel. “Lynette said ‘Pass me that doobie, dude’?”
“No, I did.”
The knife pauses in midair; Carl stares, looking uncertain and a tad bemused.
“Relax. I’m only kidding. I said no to the joint.” I take a bite of bagel. “Maybe I shouldn’t have. Lynette is a lot friendlier and fun stoned than she ever was sober. They were laughing hysterically by the time I left. I could use a good laugh.”
Carl frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to end up like those women, Carl. So bored that the highlight of my week is sneaking off to bridge night and having a few bong hits with the gals.”
“How do you know they’re bored?”
“They said so. Do you know how bad off Lynette must be to admit that to me? They were all stay-at-home moms and now they’re stay-at-home wives trying to figure out how to fill their time. Just like me. I swear, I’m thinking about firing Myra and doing all the housework myself. That’s how desperate I am for something to do.”
Carl laughs, then mutters, “That oughta last until you break a fingernail.”
I glare at him.
Sobering, he says, “So do something. Find a hobby. Take piano lessons. Art lessons. Redecorate the house. Go spend a week at some fancy spa.”
“Why is everyone so fired up to get me to a spa all the sudden?”
“You love going to spas.”
“Not as a career. I want to do something productive.” Wincing, I stand and walk to the counter where the paper lies folded.
“Are you hurt?”
“Shin splints. From my brief stint as a marathon runner.” When he frowns, I add, “Don’t ask. It’s just another of the many things I suck at.” The look Carl sends makes me blush. I’m feeling sorry for myself and he knows it. I know it. “At least I’m a good mom,” I mutter, feeling pathetic.
“You’re a great mom.”
“Yeah, well, the job description has changed now that the kids aren’t living under our roof. I guess I’m having a hard time learning the new rules.”
“You’ll figure it out.” He clears his throat. “Polly called last night. She said you showed up at the PTA meeting.”
“She did, did she?” The traitor.
“She’s worried about you.” He coughs. “Barbara Smart called, too.”
“Troy’s fifth-grade teacher? Why?”
“She’s the elementary school principal now.” He coughs again. “Some mother complained that you were, um, scoping out the children on the playground yesterday?”
“Scoping—” Remembering the woman and her little boy I passed in front of the school, I slap a palm against the counter. “I wasn’t—”
“I know that. Barbara does, too. She assured the woman you’re harmless.”
I return to the table and sit again, avoiding Carl’s eyes. “Jesus.” I press fingers to my forehead. I’ve never felt so humiliated. Well, maybe when I was caught playing Peeping Tom at the high school yesterday, but that’s the only other time.
“Barbara had already spotted you out there before the woman complained,” Carl continues. “She suspected you were crying, and she wanted to make sure you’re all right. That’s the only reason she called.”
I could tell him I’m not all right, that I feel as if I could cry another bucket of tears right this minute. That I’m ashamed of myself for being so pitiful, for not being able to pull myself together and get on with my life. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to get things done, but since Troy went to college and Taylor married, I’ve lost that ability, along with my pride.
I unfold the paper. “I’m thinking about looking for a job.”
His gaze flicks away from me then back again. “O-kay.”
I hear an unspoken but at the end of that word.
“Say it, Carl.”
“It’s just…I don’t want you to tie yourself down to anything.”
“Why not?”
He continues to avoid my eyes. “I don’t know. Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“Nothing.” He faces me. “I’ve been looking forward to spending more time together now that the kids are gone.” He pats my thigh. “The end of November, I have a conference in Vegas. While I’m in meetings you can hang out at the pool if it’s warm. Or you could shop or head for the spa.”
The spa again. I sigh. “That doesn’t solve my problem of what to do when we’re home. Which is the majority of the time.” I open the paper to the Classified section.
He’s quiet for a few seconds, then says, “Getting a job can be expensive. There’s the increase in income tax and the cost of a new wardrobe. Not to mention the extra gas to drive to work and back every day.”
I lower the paper. “So it’s okay with you if I go to work just as long as I find a job that…one—” I lift a finger “—allows me to schedule my hours around yours…two, is within walking distance of our house, and…three, pays cash under the table. Did I cover all the requirements?”
Carl’s neck reddens above his collar.
“Oh,” I continue, “and my boss should allow casual wear at the office so I won’t need new clothes.” I thrust out my lower lip and nod. “No problem, honey. That should be an easy job to find.”
“I don’t care about the expense. I just don’t want you to have to plan your life around someone else’s schedule.”
Other than yours, I think, but keep my mouth shut.
“Why don’t you just volunteer?” Carl murmurs, careful not to look at me. “We don’t need the extra money yet.”
“Yet?” I tilt my head and study him. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“No, it was a slip of the tongue.”
What’s up with him? “I’ve been volunteering for the past twenty-two years,” I say. “For once in my life I’d like to know how it feels to earn money of my own. To actually accomplish something and be compensated for my work.”
I’m on the verge of tears again, though I’m not sure why. Blinking them back, I glance at the clock on the wall, put the paper aside and scoot over to grab the phone.
“You already found a job listing that interests you?”
“I’m calling Troy. It’s time for him to get up.”
“What happened to his alarm clock?”
“Nothing.” I punch in the number. “He’s developed a bad habit of turning it off, then rolling over and going to sleep again. So, I’m his backup. He said if he missed another eight o’clock class, the professor would dock his grade. Last week, I started calling him every morning.”
“He’s only been there two weeks. How many classes has he missed?”
“Too many, obviously.”
“Getting to class on time is Troy’s responsibility, not yo—”
“Good morning, sweetie,” I say, interrupting Carl when Troy utters a groggy H’lo at the other end of the line.
“Rise and shine!”
Troy groans.
Carl shakes his head and mutters something under his breath.
“Are you getting up?” I say into the phone.
“Yeah,” Troy answers in a hoarse whisper.
“Are you sure? Or do I need to call again in five minutes?”
I hear rustling, then he says, “No, I’m up.”
“Okay, sweetie. Have a good day.” After I break the connection and put down the phone, I turn to find Carl squinting at me. “What?” I ask.
He reaches for the paper and begins scanning the Help Wanted ads. “So…what kind of job are you thinking about?”
CHAPTER 6
Five Weeks Later
“Dana?” A knock sounds at my bedroom door. Tugging the blanket more tightly around my shoulders, I continue to stare out the window into the backyard, and rock.
It’s windy and unseasonably cool. In the wee hours of this morning, when I couldn’t sleep, the Weather Channel predicted an early winter nationwide. That might explain the squirrel’s frantic behavior. The one who lives in the oak tree. I’ve named her Tizzy, and she’s late this morning. She hasn’t made an appearance.
I say the squirrel is a she. For the past few days, Tizzy has run frantically up and down the tree trunk gathering grass and twigs, scraps of paper that have blown into the yard, then taken them back to the nest she’s building, tucked away up high in the crook between two branches. On occasion, one of her babies ventures partway down the trunk and the dog next door, whose head is, more often than not, poked through a hole in our fence, goes into a barking frenzy. Then Tizzy appears out of nowhere, putting herself between her tiny offspring and the dog, chattering and darting back and forth at the base of the tree until her baby goes back where he belongs.
Another knock sounds. The door squeaks open. “Dana? It’s Polly. Can I come in?”
I turn and see her curly dark head poking into the room. “Sure.” I return my attention to the window as Polly crosses to stand beside the rocking chair I’m in.
“When you didn’t answer the door, I called information for Carl,” she says. “He gave me the combination to your garage-door opener and told me to come in. You’d better call and let him know you’re okay.”
I don’t tell her that I’d be lying; I’m not okay. I don’t know what I am, but okay isn’t on the list of possibilities.
“Are you going to call him?”
“When he doesn’t hear from you in the next few minutes that I’m hurt or dead, he’ll assume I’m okay, put me right out of his mind, and get back to work.”
I hear the musical beeps from her cell phone as she punches in numbers. While she murmurs quietly to my husband, I continue rocking.
“Why haven’t you answered any of my calls these past couple of weeks?” Polly asks when she’s finished talking to Carl.
“I didn’t know you’d called.”
“I must’ve left at least twenty messages.”
“I haven’t checked them, and Carl never does.” That’s my job. Menial. Easy. Right up my alley.
“Carl’s worried about you, honey. I am, too.”
“Join the club. Mother thinks I’m off my rocker. That’s what she told me last night.” I laugh a little. “She’s wrong about that. I’ve spent the past three…” I frown. “Or maybe it’s been four days… Anyway, I’ve sat right here in this rocking chair for quite some time, and I don’t plan to get off of it anytime soon.”
Except maybe to go to Tuesday night bridge at Lynette’s, though even that has begun to lose its luster. Still, Lynette and her friends provide the only good laugh I get these days. And I don’t even indulge in the leafy green appetizer. The stoned bridge ladies have been discussing a road trip sometime in the near future and tossing around possible destinations. They’re looking for somewhere they haven’t already visited a dozen times, which is difficult since travel is high on their list of pastimes. They want a place they can spend their husbands’ money on jewelry and clothing, great food and massages. They asked me to join them, but I’m not sure I can muster the energy.
Outside, Tizzy’s baby runs down the tree trunk, all the way to the ground. He darts across the yard alone. A first since I’ve been keeping tabs on the tree. The baby squirrel disappears, and Tizzy scampers down from the nest seconds later, pausing midway, her head jerking left and right, up and down. She chatters and chatters, calling him back.
“Have you ever paid attention to what goes on in your yard?” I ask Polly, my gaze on the frenzied squirrel. “Whole lives are being lived out there. Dramas. Celebrations. Births. Deaths.”
Polly kneels beside me and touches my arm. “You need to get out of this house.”
“Why?”
Still no baby squirrel. Tizzy descends to the base of the tree trunk.
“Did you make that list, like I told you to? The one of all the things you’ve always wanted to do but didn’t have time for?”
“Yes.” I flick a wrist toward my dresser. “I think it’s still over there.”
Polly stands and crosses the room. A second later she says, “This paper is blank, Dana.”
“I couldn’t think of anything.”
“I don’t believe that. Surely you have things you want to do. Besides having a family, I had other big dreams when I was young. Then I got busy and pushed them aside. It must be the same for you.”
I shrug.
“What were your dreams before you had your kids?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Dana—”
“It doesn’t matter.” For the first time since she entered the bedroom, I cease rocking and face her. “Whatever they were, they’re gone now, and even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t know how to begin to accomplish them. All I’m good at is being a mother. That’s it. Period.”
“Being a mother is no small thing.”
“But it’s not marketable, and I don’t have any other skills. Not anymore.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I tried to find a job.”
She nods. “And?”
“Do you know what businesses are willing to hire a middle-aged woman with a twenty-four-year-old philosophy degree and no work experience? None. Not even the kind that require their employees to ask, ‘Would you like fries with that?’ They think I’m overqualified, and I’ll be bored. As if I’m not already.”