“It doesn’t matter how woke my husband is, June, I’m the one whose breasts leaked when my babies cried. I can’t regain my sanity as a mother because in my quest to get it back, I push it further away. Trying to make money to buy the help I need just makes me need more help.” It was a masochistic riddle. That’s how I would describe motherhood from this day forward. “And it all hinges on my babysitter’s ability to show up. Everything I worked for.”
My voice became deep and urgent. “Can you be real with me?”
June nodded.
“Is any of this shit you’re offering me going to work?” I had been searching for some elusive, microscopic place of balance and now I wasn’t even sure it existed.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. “There’s a lot to unpack here, but in ten years of doing this work, you are the first person to ask me that question directly. And it’s a valid one.”
We sat staring at each other, in the stillness of not knowing what to say or how to fix anything. I wondered if June was going to answer the “valid” question or just hand me a prescription for whatever people take to make motherhood feel less unjust, which at this point sounded amazing. I broke gaze from her and nervously brushed my hand back and forth against the grain of the couch’s fabric until she spoke.
“No two moms are the same. We all come to motherhood differently. Things like hiring a babysitter, wearing eye shadow, or getting a manicure actually help some of us to feel like our old selves again.” She wiggled her manicured fingers. “Some respond to these quick fixes and others need more.”
I now understood how the search for one’s old identity could sometimes be misinterpreted as vanity, but I didn’t feel any better.
“April, you have a unique self-awareness that borders on anxiety. You aren’t afraid of deep emotions and you ask hard questions. That’s why quick fixes don’t work easily for you. They don’t address the root of the issue and so it keeps coming up. I can see that clearly now.”
It made a fucking lot of sense, and I knew it meant there was probably no way out for someone like me. Martha was right. The only way out was through.
“There’s no magic pill,” June continued, “to erase the dark while leaving the brilliance. Time, maybe. Your kids will grow.”
Great, I’ll just wait this out for sixteen years. No big deal.
“There are pharmaceutical options, and I can refer you to someone, but those come with trade-offs as well.”
“Do you think I’m depressed?” I almost welcomed a diagnosis so we could just wrap this whole thing up and put it to bed with a little Prozac.
“You’re more an intensely thinking and feeling mother of young children than clinically depressed. You’re doing your best with who you are, like all of us.”
Her words stung for some reason, perhaps because they were so true. I suddenly understood that if I were to give myself some compassion and truly believe that I was doing my best as a mother—flaws and all—I would have to retroactively extend that same grace to Marnie. She was also a mother doing her best with who she was, even though it didn’t feel good enough to me. But what was I supposed to do with those conflicting feelings?
“It’s okay to feel more than one way about motherhood,” June said. “You can love parts of it, and love your children fully, but also find yourself in a blinding rage from the amount of sacrifice.”
She must’ve known “blinding rage” would make me laugh, because it did. June never joked, and this was perfectly timed. Then she sat up tall in her seat, like someone pricked her with a pin. “I have a poem I think you might love. Let me find it.” She slid a few books out of her bookshelf, opening and shaking them. A folded piece of paper fell out of the fourth one. “It’s called The Shoelace, by Charles Bukowski. Take it with you to read.” She handed me the tattered paper. The poem was handwritten. I wondered if the handwriting was hers, or if it had been passed down to her.
She checked the time.
“I didn’t mean to downplay the legit support you’ve given me here, June.”
She smiled in her humble, June way. “You’ve worked hard here. I commend you for that.”
I wished I could be more like her: calm, yet in charge. She could sort things out with care, just like I wished I had done last night with Aaron.
“Your family is fortunate to have you,” she said, standing up.
“Let me call my husband real quick and have you say that to him,” I joked.
“Husbands are a different thing entirely.”
“Well, your husband is lucky to be married to someone like you, who can untangle the knots we humans tie.”
She tried to repress her guffaw. “Thank you, but we don’t agree on much,” she said, smiling painfully. Come again? I didn’t know how much I could ask, but she offered an opening. I took a leap.
“So he doesn’t think he’s lucky to have scored you?” I instantly regretted it when I saw her look away and smooth her hair behind her ear. Her scar.
“I’m sorry, April. I shouldn’t have said that.” Her voice became strained. “Our time together is about you and I want to honor that.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
She smiled warmly, but with a lilt of what looked like regret. I hated myself for having prodded her too far. Me and my senseless questions and love of honest human connection. No wonder Marnie didn’t have the patience for me.
“You didn’t pry. I know it’s hard for clients to have a one-sided dialogue in here. There’s more I’d like to say that I can’t, but I can tell you that it’s far easier to make sense of someone else’s life from the outside than my own from the inside. We are all human.” If you were really human, June, you would just spill it instead of leaving me dangling on a goddamn cliff, but whatever. “What are you thinking about a next session?”
I felt lost at the thought of not having June to help me, like a baby without its lovey. But I needed a break from the straw grasping, even just temporarily. “I’m going to just be for a bit. And spend the money I made from the pop-up shop. It wasn’t a total failure,” I said with a grin and dollar-sign eyeballs.
“Good for you. Really good.”
Not knowing when I might see her next, I unabashedly went in for a hug that was maybe also an apology for digging at her personal life. She accepted and hugged me back.
“I really hope our paths will cross again,” she said, her hot pink- and black-tipped fingers squeezing my forearm.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Superheroes
After leaving Mother Roots, I was sick of soul searching and wanted to have some fucking fun for a change. I texted Danielle to see if she and Owen could meet up at Costco for some cheap-ass hot dogs, bulk buying, and another playdate in a place of business. Shopping with your own children was risky enough, but including other people’s children was next-level. Especially with Owen. But the payoff of getting to do a normal mom activity with Danielle was worth the gamble of a possible disaster.
They were totally down.
In front of Costco, I was about to click the button to open the van door when Elliot stopped me. “Mom, wait. Let’s do it on the count of three. One, two, three!” He loved pressing the buttons for the automatic van doors at the same exact time, to create a spaceship experience. Or something. The doors opened in unison.
The three of us walked up to the Costco “dining” area, which resembled a roller-skating rink snack bar meets an airport concourse, and ordered our dogs. We saw Danielle sitting with Owen, who was deep-throating a whole dog while holding a second one in his other hand. She waved us over.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so MIA,” I said, hugging her. “These shirts have been kicking my butt.” All three of the kids laughed at the word “butt.”
“Tanya told me she was spending lots of time at your house and I could hardly believe it. But good on you.”
“Well, I was just at my therapist’s office today for an emergency visit, if th
at gives you any indication of how things are going.”
“Oh right. I forgot about that whole OC housewife mix-up.” Danielle sipped her Coke.
“It’s funny, I really like her. I judged the shit out of her —oops, sorry kids—but I was wrong.” My filter had fallen off. “But today she dropped some hints about being in a bad marriage, which just boggles my mind since she’s basically perfect.”
“Aren’t therapists not supposed to talk about themselves?”
“She didn’t come out and say it, but she for sure implied it.”
“How can she counsel you when she’s dumb enough to be in a busted marriage?”
There was Danielle’s bluntness. I felt a jolt of protectiveness over June and regretted having told Danielle anything. She didn’t have the context in which to place June and all of her loveliness.
“Well,” I said, stalling. “I don’t know that it’s so black and white.” I sounded like the person I was defending. “Just because she’s human doesn’t mean she can’t be a good therapist.” I was careful not to sound too defensive. It was delicate territory discussing new friends with old friends.
Before Danielle could respond, Owen suddenly stood up. “MORE!” He sounded like a tiny king.
“No, dude, we are all done with hot dogs,” she said, wiping grease off his mouth and hands. His face squeezed up like he was about to burst into tears so she put her Coke straw into his mouth like a pacifier. He instinctually sucked into submission.
One of the perks of Costco was that the carts had two kid seats up front. Its girth made it a bitch to drive, although it was slightly more manageable than the dreaded twenty-foot-long car cart at the grocery store I mowed down every end-cap display with.
“Okay, what’s on your list?” I asked Danielle.
“Dino chicken nuggets, those small bags of chips, Fruit by the Foot.” Her list was my junk food list.
“Are you kidding me with Fruit by the Foot? They still make that?”
“I know, right? Owen loves those things.”
“Can we get some Fruit by the Foot too?” Elliot asked, jumping up and down eagerly. If I allowed Cavities by the Centimeter into my home, I would have to micromanage it and the subsequent teeth brushing for as many days as fifty rolls lasted. I wanted nothing to do with any of it.
“Not this time, El.” Or any time. I knew the low-hanging head was imminent. As Danielle walked over and reached for a gigantic box of Fruit by the Foot, I whispered in his ear. “That stuff’s not good for you.”
“But Mom, Danielle is buying it,” he said loudly, holding his hands out in total kid despair, not picking up on my discretion. I winced, preparing for damage control, but Danielle seemed not to mind, nor even to question the 150 feet of yellow #5, red #40, and blue #1 she was humping into the cart. She was like a mom in the 80s, giving zero fucks.
“MOUF,” Owen demanded, looking at the box and pointing to his pie hole. She ripped it open, pulled out a package, and handed it to him. He took one look at the little bundle of spiraled paper and red stickiness and shoved the entire thing in his mouth.
“Owen, you have to pull the paper off.” She fished it out of his mouth. “He does this every damn time,” she said to me, shaking her head.
“It’s probably a lot to figure out with the paper and all,” I reasoned, trying to make her feel like Owen’s primal ways were normal. A little bit like June did for me.
“Would you like one, Elliot?” Danielle asked him, which felt like possible retribution to me. His eyes blinked widely and looked at me for the green light, his hands in praying position. I wasn’t really sure why the toxic hot dog from ten minutes earlier was more acceptable than this junk, so I said yes.
“Wha ‘bout me?” Violet said, like a damsel in distress.
“Of course you can have one too, Sweetie,” Danielle said, handing an open package to her. Violet had never had Fruit by the Foot before, but somehow she instinctively knew how to carefully peel the red part off of the paper. Danielle noticed. “She’s a genius.”
Danielle and I did our best to chat between constant interruptions. For thirty seconds, we talked about her and Daveed’s upcoming adult getaway to Napa, and the spa day she had planned for them, which had me drooling. Then there was screaming over a too-tight seatbelt which caused us to completely forget what we were saying, which rolled right into someone asking if they could get a life-sized Storm Trooper. The five of us looked like some kind of group neurosis, with two feet of sweet-smelling paper trails hanging from every child’s hand, like Dead Sea scrolls.
Suddenly Owen let out a piercing yelp that was out of the normal vocal range for him. Danielle dropped the fat sack of round, red cheeses that resembled an overstuffed fisherman’s net. I looked at Violet for a trace of foul play or guilt, but she looked as startled as we were.
“Shit,” Danielle said, bummed but unfazed, as Owen doubled over, moaning. “Time’s up on Owen.” I looked at her, concerned. “It’s this new thing he does when he has to poop. He screams bloody murder, clenches and resists and then when he finally does go, it’s like a crime scene. I gotta get him outta here.”
“Do you want me to get all this stuff for you and drop it off at your house?” I yelled as they fled. She waved a firm no.
The three of us remained.
“Mom, what does she mean that it looks like a crime scene? Does Owen have to go to jail?” Elliot asked.
“No, it was a joke.” I hoped that would suffice. And it did, only because he noticed that Danielle had left their opened and partially-eaten box of Fruit by the Foot.
“What about that?” he asked, pointing to the ripped box, looking uncomfortable. If I had been alone, I would’ve dumped it off somewhere in the tire aisle, but I knew impressionable eyes were watching and any slight violation of the law would lead to hard-hitting questions. Danielle had gotten the last laugh, intentionally or not. “We’re gonna buy it since we opened it, right?” he asked eagerly, hands in praying position again.
“We sort of have to, I guess.”
He mouthed a “yessssssss.” I could just picture his and Violet’s back teeth covered in sugary red blankets for the next three months, like tiny cakes covered in red fondant.
Our playdate had quickly turned into me finding the fastest way out, after snagging lunch-box usuals and splurging on some new towels that didn’t stink. The outlying Costco gatekeeper—an insanely good-looking young man all us local moms referred to as “Costco Ryan”— snatched my receipt, put the highly official highlighter dash on it and released us into the outside world. It was piercingly bright outside compared to the fluorescence of Costco’s innards.
I slid my sunglasses on, stopping in my tracks. There was June, walking in my direction. She noticed me too. Her smile was just as warm outside of the office as it was inside. Two curly-haired boys who looked to be somewhere around six and ten stood on each side of her. The older boy was wearing a boxy surfer hat with the California flag on it. The younger one was wearing an Iron Man muscle costume.
“Look at your adorable boys,” I said, taking my sunglasses off. I relished in getting to see her children, a peek into her life. So these are the work of perfect mothering.
“This is Chase,” she said, pointing to the older boy who waved shyly, “and this is Charlie—I mean Iron Man.” He pretended to punch in the air. “And who are these two cuties?” she asked, gesturing toward my kids, pretending not to know. I wished Violet was representing herself more accurately, but instead, she was making a liar out of me by just sitting there quietly.
“This is Elliot, and this is Violet.” I patted them each on the head. “And this is June, you guys. She’s a friend of Mama’s.” A friend Mama pays to cry in front of.
“Mom.” Chase said, pointing at Elliot’s Minecraft shirt.
“I see you play Minecraft, Elliot,” June said.
“Yeah. My favorite part is blowing up pigs with TNT,” Elliot said, and Chase laughed.
“Well, is
n’t that lovely to know about a person?” I said, slightly mortified that my son outwardly spoke of getting pleasure from killing things, but then I realized that the more bananas my kids were, the more my tales of woe made sense. Bring it, kids.
Suddenly, there was a commotion just a few feet away. An older woman had lost control of her cart with an obscene amount of toilet paper and vitamins in it. It was gaining speed and about to careen into a parked car. She was yelling for help. Before any of us knew what was happening, Charlie went barreling toward the cart.
“I got it,” he announced, in superhero mode.
“Charlie, no!” June yelled, turning to run after him. But it was too late. Tires screeched and a silver Range Rover slammed hard into the runaway cart and into Charlie, both bouncing to the ground hard, in different directions. Everyone gasped in unison, like a canned sound effect from a movie. The Range Rover revved hard and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving its mess behind. June raced over to Charlie, who laid on the ground.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Please make him be alive. No blood. No blood, please. My body felt like bricks. I wanted to do something. To comfort June. To rewind time. To turn into the Bionic Woman and go pull that Range Rover driver out by their hair, wherever they were, but all I could do was stand there, heavy. I fumbled my phone in my shaking hands, dialed 911, and breathlessly rambled about what had happened and where we were. My heart pounded inside my mouth. Onlookers were gathering and employees were scurrying over with hand radios. I ran over to June who was stroking the curly hair of a motionless Charlie. “Baby, baby, baby, baby . . .” she was repeating, breaking into tears.
“I need everyone to back up!” an employee yelled, crouching down next to June. She patted around Charlie’s body, feeling for blood or a heartbeat or whatever a mother feels for when her baby is unresponsive. There was nothing anyone could do yet. I saw Chase standing there, frozen, his eyes transfixed on his mom, and on his brother’s ripped costume.
Adult Conversation Page 14
