Being Known

by Robin Jones Gunn

  “Makes sense.” Sierra took off the jacket carefully and handed it to Tess. “It’s a beautiful jacket.”

  “It’s a great color on you too.” Tess looked at me. “Jennalyn, do you want to go next?”

  I felt a little shiver of happiness and immediately repented of my jealousy. “You were reading my mind.”

  Tess held up a black boatneck top in a stretchy fabric. “This could be a classic go-to with your hair. It will show your collar bones, which are actually a very attractive feature on a woman, if the top fits snuggly and doesn’t gap or show any cleavage. Again, quality, well-fitting jeans always work best. Try boot-cut, Jennalyn. They’ll keep the proportions working well for you. Especially if you wear boots with heels. And then earrings. Are your ears pierced?”

  “Yes. They may have closed up. I don’t know. I stopped wearing anything dangling when Eden was born.”

  “Well, I suggest that on your next date night with Joel, you wear a top like this and dangling earrings—not too long—and if they have a little shimmer, so much the better.” Tess turned to the others. “Go for accessories that shimmer, not sparkle. There is a difference.”

  Sierra picked up the fun of being tutored by Tess and turned to Emily. “Did you hear that? No more borrowing Audra’s bedazzled necklaces to wear when hostessing at the pie shop.”

  “Got it,” Emily said with a grin.

  “Here’s an idea for you, Emily.” Tess reached for a short white jean jacket. “Always a winner year-round in California. You can do all kinds of tops underneath. I think you should avoid yellows and tiny printed fabrics that are in billowy tops. Nothing gathered at the neckline. No ruffles. Lean toward straight lines that fall to your hips, and try darker shades like navy blue, emerald green, or the right kind of true red. Like…”

  Tess seemed to be searching for the best descriptor for true red, so I offered, “Cherry-pie red?”

  “Yes, perfect! Cherry-pie red.”

  “What made you think of that?” Christy asked. “Peggy’s Pies, where Emily works?”

  “No, my mom,” I said in a low voice. “Her favorite nail polish was called Oh My, Cherry Pie. It was the perfect red for toenails.”

  Christy didn’t reply because Tess was holding up a V-neck sweater in front of her that was a color I wasn’t sure I could describe.

  “It’s kind of bright, don’t you think?” Christy asked.

  “A little. But I want you to see that you can wear this shade of persimmon. With your hair and skin tone, you can pull off all the oranges, reds, and blues that I can only dream of wearing. Pair it with black or white. Avoid most beiges and tans. They’ll wash you out. And try this.” Tess had Christy slip into a white jacket that zipped up the front and had a stand-up collar.

  “Cute,” Sierra said. “Very Newport Beach, ‘let’s go out on my yacht’ looking.”

  Christy tucked her hands in the pockets. “This is really nice cotton. It’s so thick.”

  “It will last at least five years, even with constant wear. I put a lot of my clients in that brand when they’re going on vacation.”

  For the next half hour we asked questions and held up colors and styles that we wouldn’t normally pull off the rack when shopping. I learned so much. Tess amazed me. I never had been around someone who knew so much about fabrics and styles, body shapes and clothing brands.

  She convinced us that we were “women of options” and should be thoughtful about how we dress and present ourselves.

  “It sort of goes back to our free will,” Tess said. “You can wear anything. Why not focus on quality and be true to what best fits you rather than what everyone else says is fashionable?”

  She shared about what it was like to always be the tallest girl in the room and how her cocoa skin tone had prompted racial comments when she was younger. When she made peace with who she was—her height, shape, skin, and hair—she started figuring out how to best adorn what God had given her.

  “When I first realized I was a woman of options,” Tess said, “clothes and accessories became the door to walk out of feeling inferior and self-conscious. Now the clothes are just the fun bonus. The truth is that I’m comfortable with who I am on the inside. That, of course, is because of what God has done in me. I always liked that verse about how you’ll know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

  “This is so good,” Christy said. “All of it. I wish the girls at the school where Todd teaches could hear you say all that.”

  “Do you speak at schools and events?” I asked.

  Tess shook her head. “I’ve never been asked. I think it would be fun. I always wanted to pull a rack of clothes on stage and pick random girls from the audience and style them. I saw that on a TV show once, and I loved the spontaneous way the teens responded.”

  “Would that be your dream job?” Emily asked. “You said one time that you loved styling actors. I guess that’s why we always picture you driving off to a film studio in your SUV loaded with clothes.”

  “Not every day. Rarely actually. I do love working on projects like that. At this point, though, I’m open to anything. Business has been slow the last few months, and I need more clients.”

  “Well, get ready for your phone to ring,” Christy said. “If you’re serious about speaking, I’m sure that between Todd and Aunt Marti, they’ll have lots of gigs lined up for you in no time.”

  “I’d love it.” Tess glowed like a woman who was about to have more options open up to her.

  It was nearly midnight when we all hugged Tess at her “Parisian” front door and whispered our goodbyes. We tried to be as quiet as possible entering Gussie through the side door. As soon as we had our seat belts on, Christy started the engine, and the rumble seemed amplified in the confined space. Gussie chugged loudly as Christy slowly and carefully backed up. She had almost made it to the top of the steep driveway when the neighbor’s front light turned on again.

  “I have a feeling Tess is going to hear from her bird-watching neighbors in the morning,” I said.

  My prediction came true. Tess texted the group Sunday afternoon to let us know that her neighbor had reported the disturbance to their landlord. I might be house hunting soon.

  Being the Haven Makers that we are, we all jumped on the group text with suggestions for Tess. By Monday afternoon Emily’s husband, Trevor, had two housing options for her in nearby Santa Ana. I was watching for Tess’s reply when a text came in from Eden’s dance teacher. The flu bug had caught up with her, and she had to cancel class.

  For the first time in a couple of days, I thought about Garrett. I felt relieved that I wouldn’t see him. Fortunately, Eden wasn’t in her tutu yet, so she didn’t realize it was ballet-lesson day.

  I started Eden on an art project, making paper valentines for GiGi and Poppy. She loved sitting at the counter and working on crafts of any sort. I leaned against the kitchen sink while Alex was in his high chair, contentedly eating his new favorite organic baby crackers.

  Tess finally replied with appreciation for Trevor’s house hunting efforts but assured us that her landlord would never kick her out. She said she was only kidding when she said she might be house hunting.

  I typed, Any updates on Guy? Then I deleted it.

  Tess’s next text read, We didn’t make plans for our next gathering. How about a picnic?

  A long string of messages followed, as we chimed in with all our ideas. Sierra described her vision of the five of us lounging on colorful blankets and pillows in a field of wildflowers under a billowing canopy that she was sure Tess could design.

  Where do we find the wildflowers? Emily wanted to know.

  I can bring lots of pillows, Christy offered.

  Sierra said she could hunt up some vintage-style picnic hampers, if the rest of us agreed to fill them with all kinds of delicacies.

 
What kind of delicacies did you have in mind? I asked. Keeping up with the slightly unrealistic Downton Abbey–type theme that was emerging, I jokingly added something I had seen on a cooking show Joel had tuned into a while ago. Quail eggs and figs with cream?

  How about pie? Emily asked and then volunteered to bring an assortment from Peggy’s Pies.

  Tess pitched for us to have a picnic on the beach. She insisted that the photos would be “scrumptious” if we caught the “golden hour” of light.

  Sounds like we’re setting up a photo shoot for a magazine, Sierra replied.

  Tess’s response was immediate. We could. I know people. What do you think? Should I make a few calls?

  I felt like it was time that someone intervened with a voice of reason, so I reminded everyone how we had gathered at my house last year under the big tree in the backyard. I had hauled a long table out on the grass and set it with my white dinnerware. The table was encircled by mismatched chairs with pillows on the seats. It was very simple. The only decorations I had managed to put up were a half-dozen Mason jars with battery-operated votive candles. I hung them on wires from the tree limbs, and when the sky darkened, the candles were like fireflies flitting over us. Somehow, being outside together had an enchanting effect on us, which was probably why the instinct was embedded in all of us to do something special outside for our Spring Fling get-together.

  Gazing out the kitchen window, I waited for the others to reply to my suggestion to set up something simple at my house. I knew it would still take extra effort on my part since nothing from last year’s event remained. The table had been removed when the deck was built last summer. The Mason jars had all come down when the unstable limbs had been cut back significantly by an expensive tree specialist.

  I heard Eden giggling and looked up.

  “Eden, no!”

  She had taken a red marker to her baby brother’s face and drawn an uneven heart on his cheek, which she was now coloring in. Alex posed for her, contentedly eating his crackers.

  Eden looked surprised at my strong reaction as I reached for the pen and took it away from her. “You may not draw on your brother.”

  “But he’s my Bal-intime.”

  Alex was grinning so happily and Eden seemed so proud of her artwork that I had a difficult time staying in a disciplinary frame of mind. Even though I had read all the mommy blogs and I knew I would probably regret it, I held up my phone and snapped a couple of pictures before returning to my stern mama voice.

  Eden asked me to take more pictures. She posed next to her brother. She held up her valentines. She said “cheese” six times before I finally said in the sternest voice I could muster that I was not taking any more pictures.

  My words had little effect. She seemed determined to capture my attention with her cuteness.

  The streak continued over the next few days. She kept doing things she knew she wasn’t supposed to do. As soon as she completed her shenanigans, she would call for me to come and take her picture.

  On Tuesday morning she used an entire roll of toilet paper to wrap, or as she called it, “make a present” of, all the books she could find. Then she hid them throughout the house and told her brother to find them. All he found was the first one she pointed out to him, and when I came into her room, Alex had a fistful of toilet paper in his mouth.

  On Wednesday she got into a box of Alex’s diapers. After peeling back the tabs on every single one, she stuck them all along the upstairs hallway. I snapped a picture when I thought she wasn’t looking and sent it to Joel at work. In a way, it was the best inroad I had to connect with him throughout his long days. He had replied to the pictures I sent with an emoji of a laughing face or a single word, such as “Nice.”

  The moment of reckoning came on Wednesday afternoon when Eden dumped a container of almond flour onto the pantry floor. When I found her, she had gone from finger painting in it to urging Alex to follow her and walk barefoot through it so they could make footprints throughout the house.

  I came down hard on her, and she burst into tears. I felt like a terrible, mean mother. Remaining firm, I made her help clean up the mess, all the while talking to her calmly and trying to explain why everything in our house is not a toy. She told me she was “souwee,” and we hugged. I thought her reign of terror had ended.

  That evening, though, I discovered she had “made a picture” with toothpaste on the closed toilet seat in the master bathroom. Before I was aware she had done it, though, Joel came home. She called to her daddy, and he came upstairs to find us. I picked up Alex and discovered his diaper was so wet he squished when I rested him on my hip.

  Joel joined us in the master bathroom and looked around. “What’s everyone doing in here?”

  “I made a flower,” Eden said proudly, holding out her open hands toward the toilet seat as if she were a hostess on a game show.

  Joel laughed and tickled Eden, calling her his “clever little artist.”

  She was ridiculously cute; I had to admit it. But I was so irritated by his response. I wanted him to join me in my firm-parent crusade and help me crush the rebellion of toddler antics.

  As soon as the kids were in bed that night, I followed Joel into the bathroom, where he began brushing his teeth with the tiny bit of toothpaste that was left. The bathroom still smelled minty fresh.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I told him. “She didn’t have much of a terrible twos phase. It’s as if she saved it all for her fours, but I can’t keep up with her. And Alex is so mobile I can barely keep up with him.”

  “Mobile, huh?” Joel garbled.

  “Yes! He’s fast, Joel. You’ve seen how he charges across a room. I can’t put him down at the grocery store like we used to do when Eden was his age. Remember how she used to like to push the kiddie shopping baskets, and she would stay right beside me? Not Alex. He bolts. Every time I put him down, he takes off. When he starts running, I’m in trouble.”

  Joel rinsed out his mouth and turned to me with a grin. “You have to admit, our kids are cute.”

  “Cute has nothing to do with them turning into wild little hooligans.”

  “They’re just kids.”

  “But they need to behave. Eden doesn’t get it. She’s determined to make huge messes every day.”

  “It can’t be that bad. Are you sure you’re not exaggerating?”

  “Joel, you don’t know what it’s like here with them every day.” It frustrated me that he wasn’t sympathizing with me.

  “Yes, I do. I understand.”

  “No, you don’t. How could you? You’re never here. You said things were going to change, but they haven’t.”

  His countenance changed instantly. He stared at me, his eyes narrowing. He turned off the bathroom light, said nothing, and went to bed.

  I turned the light back on and finished getting ready for bed. A few minutes later, once I had calmed down, I got into bed and placed my hand on Joel’s chest. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was attacking you for not being here. I just feel like I’m all by myself sometimes. I’m trying hard, but it’s never enough.”

  “Trying hard?” His voice came out in a low growl. It wasn’t a tone I had heard from him very often. “Try working ten- and twelve-hour days for months so you can provide for your family. That’s trying hard. But that’s not enough for you, is it?”

  “Joel, I didn’t mean…I just…”

  “Look around, Jennalyn. You have a nice place to live, all the food and clothes, and anything you and our two healthy children could ask for. I can’t feel sorry for you that they’re so normal and do childish things and make your life so miserable.”

  “Joel!”

  “I’m not going to talk about this now.” He pulled away and turned his back to me, my hand slipping off his chest. “Leave it alone.”

  Even though he was indic
ating that I should leave the topic alone, in my frustration I heard that he wanted me to leave him alone. I grabbed my pillow and slammed the bedroom door shut as I marched to the stairs. My heart was pounding.

  Why did he think I was trying to attack him? What’s his problem? How did we get this messed up?

  Stomping down the stairs, all I could think was that if I had woken the kids by slamming our bedroom door or from my thumping footsteps, it would be up to me to go to them and comfort them.

  Everything falls on me.

  I knew that statement wasn’t fair. Joel was the one who worked such long hours. When he was home, he did a lot with the kids. But that was when he was home, and my comment was accurate about him rarely being home.

  He keeps saying things are going to change at work, but it won’t happen this weekend. Not when Valentine’s is one of their busiest times of the year.

  I pulled a blanket from the basket by the sofa and threw my pillow next to it on the couch. I didn’t know what to do. Should I go upstairs and apologize? Should I try to make things right?

  Why couldn’t he just sympathize with me about the kids? That’s all I wanted. A simple hug would have been enough to make me feel like he at least heard me. Understood my feelings. Cared about me.

  Settling in under the blanket, I felt so alone. So confused. Why is everything coming in as a ten on my stress meter? I need to talk to someone.

  Something deep inside me whispered that if I needed to, if it was really important, I could reach out to Christy, Sierra, Emily, or Tess. Any of them would take my call, even though it was after ten o’clock. They would understand the churned-up emotions. They would have comforting things to say, the way my mom used to say just the right thing when my mood went low.

  I thought about going back upstairs. If Joel was awake, I would apologize and try to smooth things over. If he was asleep, I would curl up quietly on my side of the bed and try to sleep. There was wisdom in not tumbling back into the cave where, a few weeks ago, the melancholy I had felt over the loss of my mother had threatened to grow around my heart like moss.