Maybe Someday

by Ede Clarke

  I then said, “Wherever you are today, Ted, may God keep you and watch over you. And may He give your children His love.”

  Then we all went into the backyard and buried the box with dirt that felt cold to the touch.

  “Mad, you are too good to me,” I told her as I accepted a huge bag full of casseroles and brownies.

  “I know the kids will eat it even if you just sip your tea,” she told me as she lovingly gave me a hug and walked into the living room. “I can only stay for about thirty minutes since I should get back to Erie Public by two.” Looking at her in the midday light was a gift. There stood a mother, researcher, wife, friend, colleague, and woman. The tears rolled down and down, tracing her olive-colored features.

  “Your tears are precious to me, Mad. Thank you for taking some of my pain, my friend.”

  As I put the goodies on the kitchen counter she began, “What is to come of you all? What do the police say? The social worker woman? How are you? What can I do besides brownies . . . ?”

  I finally had to interrupt her by placing my hand on her arm and raising my eyebrows. When she ceased I told her, “Clara . . . ”

  “Do they finally know what it is?” she interrupted.

  “Yes, they do, but . . . ”

  “Good. Good,” she nodded with hopeful emotion.

  “Well, yes it is good to put a name to it, but it’s not an illness that’s wrapped in a tight, precise little package that everyone recognizes and knows how to handle. You treat the symptoms, really, and wait for her to get bad enough for surgery. The trick is to get her the surgery at just the right moment—when she’s well enough to handle it, but sick enough to need it.”

  “So, what . . . ”

  “Basically, it’s the beginning stages of heart failure. She was born with a heart defect that has worsened over time.”

  “So, now it’s that bad?” Mad asked.

  “Yes, but still not bad enough for surgery, depending on who you talk to. And, she may never need surgery. We’ll just get her checked twice a year and manage the fatigue and other symptoms. We have to monitor the blood flow through the heart. Right now the numbers are not too bad.”

  “Patty, I don’t know what I’d do if this was one of my kids with Dan missing . . . ”

  “Let’s not equate your family with this one, Mad. It’s so . . . ”

  “Not so different, I think. They are yours and he is gone.”

  “Well, if I need to take Clara for tests or if something suddenly comes up, I might need to drop the kids at your house for a few hours. That would be a big help, you know. Just to know I have that option, that safety net.”

  “Of course, of course. Just call my cell day or night and Dan I will take them for as long as you need. No problem. “Thanks, Mad.” We sat and smiled at each other and held hands at the direness of the pain. At times I felt she was more desperate than me. “Now, let’s have one of those brownies,” I winked at her.

  “So, you don’t think I should even try for legal custody, Rosalie?” I asked for the fourth time during our intense, hour-long discussion.

  “Patty, you can do whatever you want, but I’m telling you that the judge will look more favorably on you just going for temporary custody right now. Humility will go a long way right now. It’ll look more like an admission of guilt on your part, but without actually saying what you did was wrong.”

  “It was . . . ”

  “I am fully aware that you don’t think it was wrong, Patty. That’s fine. But that holds very little weight in this matter and you go before the judge in three days.”

  “No chance or little chance?” I asked again, probably for the fifth time.

  “Little chance of any custody if you go for the whole thing. I say go for temporary and get that and then work on guardianship later. I think if you go for it now, you’ll get nothing.”

  “But you said little chance, not no chance?” I asked again for clarification.

  “Look, don’t look to me for a guarantee on this, Patty. Think about it, sleep on it, pray about it, then call me tomorrow with your final answer.”

  Think about it was no use because every time I thought about it I felt about it and feeling about it only led to non-rational, non-objective thinking about it, which, as anyone knows, is pretty much like not thinking about it. Sleep on it was also of no use because I woke up every twenty minutes or so in mid-thought, obviously processing very vigorously throughout the vivid dreams which included children screaming as they’re ripped from my hips and legs and arms. Pray about it was more helpful since every time I began to pray I remembered how small I am and how big God is. Then I would fall asleep in that surrender.

  I still had no clear direction, but I knew that having them temporarily was better than not at all. Risk has its place, and this was not it. “Okay, temporary custody,” I said with half-confidence and half-faked confidence.

  “You sure?” Rosalie asked me.

  “Owwah! Don’t ask me that, Rosalie!”

  “Okay. Okay. Sorry. I’ll file the papers today and see you in a few days.”

  That was how the decision was made. In a way it made sense, really. They were given to me in a temporary sort of way, never with the promise or expectation of being their legal mother. So, we would continue on, temporarily, at least for a while.

  Even Beth was fully committed to the task at hand as we all joined to celebrate the judge’s decision of granting temporary custody and guardianship. Kenny and Bethy, Mad and Dan, Candy, and me and The Five ate cake, candy, and ice cream until we were all sick with stomach aches and had that sugar film on our teeth that you can’t just get rid of by drinking some water.

  “My favorite was the peppermint,” Jackie told me, half awake as he sprawled across my chest and lap with a huge smile on his face.

  “Beth, you haven’t once used the phone in the last hour and a half. You must be having a pretty good time,” I joked with her.

  “Very funny,” she threw back at me.

  “Is there a special someone you talk to, Beth?” Bethy asked her.

  “Alright, she’s not old enough to be thinking serious thoughts like this, are you?”

  “No, I’m not,” she obediently replied.

  “I know it’s hard, Beth. But trust me that you have time for all that and let’s just keep it in check for a little while longer.”

  “Or, at least in the presence of adults,” Kenny added with the sweetness of a Grandpa.

  “There you go,” I affirmed. “Even better.”

  After Mad and Dan and their kids went home, I put The Five to bed and settled into a nice long talk with Kenny and Bethy and Candy. We covered everything from politics to Jesus, education to shopping; gardening to Marie’s Bakery in Kenfield; Bethy’s friends’ kids’ problems to Candy’s coworkers at Rich’s; and travel to Parkside.

  “We must make time tomorrow to go in and see Frank,” Bethy urged Kenny.

  “Oh, yes. We could take The Five. It’s Saturday.” Then a silence filled the space between the bookshelves and walls, chairs and lamps, people and teacups, and thoughts and words. No longer did I feel a responsibility to speak what I was thinking. With these friends I could just be. In that moment we required nothing more of each other.

  So, I found it the perfect time to let them know, “I’ve decided to move me and The Five out of Buffalo. I think a small town like Kenfield would be better for me in managing them while working. Do you think you could help me find a job?” Although I had spoken, it certainly didn’t start any great conversation right away. Since there had been silence for so long and then no reply to my question and no comment to my announcement, I did wonder at one point if I didn’t say it out loud, but had actually just continued to think it.

  But then Candy confirmed it was my outside voice. “I had just gotten used to the fact that you weren’t going to New York City and now you’re leaving anyway. I know it’s selfish, but I’m having a hard time being happy about this twice,” she c
onfessed and continued, “But, I think Kenfield is a great choice if you want to get somewhere small and manageable. But, what will you do? How will you support them on a Kenfield salary?”

  “Well, you have the money he left, right?” Kenny said.

  “Yes, but I don’t plan on touching that accept for Clara’s medical bills and their college,” I quickly responded.

  “Well, we need an assistant manager at Marie’s. Can you believe it?” Kenny dropped. “But, I don’t suppose that would interest you, especially since the hours are so early.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked him.

  “Well, the assistant manager comes in early and leaves earlier. So, you’d have to be in by six-thirty, seven at the latest . . . ”

  “But, then I’d leave in the mid-afternoon, right?” I interrupted.

  “Right,” Kenny said.

  “That would be great, though. I would be home closer to when they got home from school.”

  “Oh, right,” Kenny clued in. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I like the idea of having you all close,” Bethy finally piped in. “That’s for sure,” she continued. “We’ll have lots of fun and you’ll always have a babysitter on hand.”

  “Now if we could just get Candy to make the move, too, we’d have it all,” Kenny added with a smirk.

  “That’ll be the day,” I quickly added, patting her on the shoulder. “Our executive is in a different country every month, let alone Buffalo or Kenfield.”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad,” Candy protested, “But I confess I do love the travel.”

  “So, it doesn’t really matter where you call home then,” Bethy inserted, “if you’re just using it as a home base.” We all smiled at her sly failed attempt. “We’ll have to make due with Patty and The Five.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Yes, the kids are asleep,” I told him, sighing in disbelief that I was finally talking to him again. This is real! I keep thinking over and over. This is actually real! “I appreciate you calling back.”

  “Look . . . I . . . I know . . . ”

  “Hang on a minute,” I quickly tell him, and then check beyond my slightly ajar bedroom door, just to make sure none of The Five are listening. “Sorry,” I begin again.

  “I understand . . . ” “

  Hang on one second,” I break in again at the sound of something in the hallway. Again . . . nothing. “I’m back,” I said, barely whispering, with my heart racing a bit with nervousness and embarrassment.

  “Well . . . we should . . . I . . . need to talk to you,” he slightly reproaches and continues forcing his way in, “and you . . . told me . . . to call you back, now. And I am. So I . . . I don’t understand why . . . well, why you can’t . . . give me, us, two consecutive seconds of your time . . . before jumping on and off the phone . . . like we always talk and can do this anytime we want. It’s like you don’t even recognize what we’ve been through.”

  At that I sit in silence and feel the emotion rushing up from my stomach in painful tightening purges, forcing upward the injustice, anger, and helplessness. I wish I could close the door, hang up the phone, and cry to sleep—burying it all. But the door must stay somewhat open in case they need me. And I can’t hang up because their father is on the phone. And I can’t cry because . . . well, I can’t cry full out, anyway.

  What we’ve been through . . . plays over and over and layers on top of itself with different intonations and different word emphases in each version, thoroughly assaulting me. “What we’ve been through?” I finally squeak out in a tiny, injured note. “I fully recognize what we’ve been through . . . ” I break to clear my throat even though I can’t seem to really be able to, so I just continue in a hoarser and hoarser gruff, “over the past few years . . . fully.” Amazing how the impatience and frustration of getting through a sentence, a conversation with him returns so acutely, as if he was never gone.

  “Toura, I’m going to steal a few minutes for a phone call in the back. I’ll eat after that,” I casually tell her, tearing through the flipping door to the prep area while dialing Candy. As I shut myself into a small dry goods closet I begin to shake as the ringing continues. Once I say this out loud, it will be real.

  Candy picks up. “Hey! What’s going on? How are The Five?”

  “He’s back and he wants them,” I cry the words out as a hello.

  “What?”

  “Last night . . . ”

  “You talked to Ted last night?!”

  “He . . . he says he’s better . . . ”

  “Look, it’s Tuesday. I can probably get to you Thursday or possibly Wednesday night. I can’t take off Friday, so I can’t stay long. Okay?”

  “Okay,” is all I can get out.

  What I want to do is profusely thank her for knowing that I need her, even when I don’t know to ask. But, shame cracks the door and peeks its head in to test the waters. Do I give in or slam it shut? Incompetent. Doubt. Will I ever be back to normal again? “That would be good,” I tell her and then we hang up.

  “Normal?” Candy asks me as we dig through piles of laundry on Thursday morning, “maybe a new normal, but not normal normal.”

  “You’re probably right,” I concede while shoving clothes into the washer. “No way is it possible to bring back their father from the dead and keep normal around.”

  “I told you years ago that that was a bad idea . . . ”

  “And I told you years ago, worst case scenario: we raise him from the dead.” We smile half-smiles to each other, not really able to feel the full release of laughter, but still able to appreciate the situation for what it is.

  “And here we are,” she says, turning to pick up a basket of clean whites.

  “And here we are,” I echo, turning my back to hers with arms full of dirty darks.

  I look now and then at her hands as we fold shoulder to shoulder. Her tan hands on the darks and then her tan hands on the whites, and then her tan hands on the colors. Each time the effect is so different, and so different from my washed-out, day-glow digits. Hers is a manicure with a coral, fiery red combo and several rings on each hand; the purposeful palm-down, palm-up almost over-accentuated mannerism as if she thinks someone she cares about is watching; the posture of her back and core area of hips, back and stomach erect and awake; and the way she does it all as if she doesn’t have a life outside of my living room.

  “So, he hired a private investigator who found us. And, by the way, it took just a few hours.”

  “Well, it’s not like you were hiding. It should’ve just taken . . . ”

  “I know, I know. But, it was just the way he said it, you know?“

  “Yeah?”

  “Accusatory tone, like he proved a leg up by finding us, or something.”

  “Please!”

  “Yeah, I just came right out and told him he had nothing to rooster around about since we both knew he was still the only legal parent.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He asked when he could get them back.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “As soon as I tell them you’re alive again . . . Then I suggested that maybe his private investigator failed to tell him about the funeral we had.”

  “Mad?”

  “In check, but yeah, I would definitely say so.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He gave me a week to call him back, otherwise he said he’d get other people involved.”

  “So . . . what? If you call him within the week then lawyers and everything will still happen but just nicer?”

  “I guess so. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. I mean, the most that I’ve wrapped my brain around is that I have to have a really hard talk with them and then start packing their stuff.”

  “Uh, huh . . . ”

  “That’s when I pretty much stop thinking about it.” And that is when I pretty much start to sniffle, and tear, and eventually sob, right there, dripping on their clean clothes and Candy’s
tan fingers. I cry not for the thought of them leaving, but because I can’t even think that thought. As soon as logic gets close to it, like packing their stuff, the wrenching begins and takes over for reason.

  Thinking is unfortunately what I have to do a lot of, very thoroughly, and very quickly. Unfortunately not because I don’t want to or because I am incapable, normally, but because my balance is off again and I have less confidence in myself this go around. Candy left and I therefore have no check. “Call me day or night. No meeting is uninterruptible, no hour too early or too late. Got me, my friend?”

  I have thirty minutes to myself now that she’s left and The Five will soon start trickling in from school. “Thirty minutes,” I tell myself over and over as I scan the adjacent rooms and quickly create a list of tasks that can be completed within that timeframe. But then suddenly my body gives up—I sink to my knees. I don’t think I blanked out, because I never woke up. But I don’t remember the fall to the ground. I was standing. I am kneeling. There was no in between, no transit needed. Weariness sets into my spirit. My body seems strong, but my soul cannot hold up my bones and flesh. So I sit and look and remember and begin to mourn the loss of the present and past. I begin to regret every second that piles on because it will be one more that is added to the memory of them.

  “Thanks for the cookies. They taste better after a long day at school,” Lizzie tells me with a slightly smudged smile.

  “You think so, do you?” I smile back at her as I take the freshest batch off the sheet and place them onto the ever-increasing mound on the plate. I feel happy that I made the right choice of how to spend the preceding thirty minutes. That is, once I got myself off the kitchen floor. Like Lizzie would have had any clue the kitchen windows were cleaner and the veggie and fruit drawers were now nasty-free.

  “Three. Okay?”

  “No problem,” she tells me as she has told me many times a day for the last week or so.

  “So, who taught you, ‘No problem’?” I ask her.