“Do you want to come stand by us?” I asked, not sure if taking him further away was even a good idea. But he nodded and walked back with me and stood by Elliot. Violet, who was still sitting in the cart, reached for me. I scooped her up immediately, hugging her tight and then grabbed Elliot’s hand, squeezing it hard. He squeezed back.
In what seemed like seconds and also hours, an ambulance arrived, sirens full blast. Violet covered her ears. There was movement and quickness and suddenly up from the chaos came Charlie on a gurney with his eyes open. Seeing June rejoice at seeing her baby’s eyes open made me feel like I might collapse. She was holding onto the gurney, but looking for Chase in the crowd.
“He’s over by us,” I said, waving.
“They won’t let him in the ambulance,” she said desperately.
“He can come home with us. Just call me later. Do what you have to do. We’ll be fine. We’ve got Minecraft.” What ridiculousness was I even saying? I blame the adrenaline.
“Thank you.” She climbed into the ambulance, ghost white, and blew Chase a kiss as the doors shut and the sirens re-blasted.
The four of us stood there, underneath the tall metal Costco canopy, watching the ambulance lumber out of the packed parking lot, dickhead cars refusing to move and give up their place in line for the up-front spots.
I looked at Chase, not knowing how to handle any of this. Elliot tapped my shoulder from behind. He was pointing at the box of Fruit by the Foot in our cart and then pointing at an unsuspecting Chase. I nodded yes to Elliot. “Do you want one of these?” he asked Chase.
“Sure.”
“My mom never buys this stuff, but our friend had to poop so bad that they were going to take him to jail.” Elliot made zero sense, which made Chase laugh. We all laughed. Thank God.
“Wait, do you have any allergies?” I asked Chase, remembering that these days, he could likely be allergic to anything and everything, could need an Epi-Pen on his person at all times, a special kind of cream for debilitating eczema, or a tranquilizer for when he ate anything with red dye.
“No.”
How utterly refreshing.
“Mama, I have more Fruit Foot?” Violet asked, adorably. Elliot’s hands were already in the praying position, his eyes wide open, hoping for another yard of sugar for both himself and his sister. Such a chiseler. But I took a lesson from Danielle’s playbook and realized there were worse things in life, such as your kids not opening their eyes.
When we arrived at home, Elliot grabbed his iPad and took Chase upstairs to his room. Seconds later I heard the two boys laughing hysterically at the sound of oinks and TNT exploding. Violet corralled her mermaids in the family room and had them all gather around one that was laying on the floor, like Charlie had been.
I sat down on the couch, noticing that I was still shaking. Upon seeing me sit, Violet came over, climbed up into my lap, and curled into a tiny ball. I kissed her on the crown of her head and put my arms around her. Safe. The intense events played in my head, stopping only when I realized that it was almost dinnertime and Aaron would be home soon, or not. Despite just spending an hour at a grocery store, I had nothing to feed my family except for lunchbox-sized servings of beef jerky, hummus, carrots, and the motherfucking unending nightmare that was Fruit by the Foot. I would be calling out for pizza.
When I took my phone from my back pocket, I nearly jumped and dropped Violet. There was a missed call from an unknown number. It must’ve been from June. My phone’s ringer and I were constantly at odds. I called the number back. June answered.
“Charlie’s fine, thankfully. He’s got a broken arm, some scratches and bruises, but nothing too serious, we think. But he will have to stay here overnight so they can monitor him.”
“Gah. I’m so sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say. “I have never been so scared in my life,” she said, breaking. I sat there listening to her cry, trying to be strong for her instead of the tenderized slab of meat I really was.
“I bet.” It didn’t feel like enough.
“Thank you for taking Chase. I will probably send my sister, Cammy, over later to grab him. April, thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without a friend there today.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Revolving Door
The next morning spit Violet and I out at Target, bright and early, because somehow there were no diapers left in the house, despite me swearing I had a whole box left. I threw on some jeans and put on a bra under the shirt I slept in.
I looked around Target’s not-yet-packed parking lot at the handful of other moms in their minivans who also swore they had diapers that morning. It was like a cult—a cult where your days are spent driving from big-box store to the next, acquiring items you never bought for the first twenty- or thirty-something years of your life. Early-morning Target possessed a spa-like tranquility mixed with the heavy smell of plastic packaging.
“I needs fishy crackers!” Violet chirped as I lifted her into the bright red cart.
Pavlov’s findings were in full effect. Every time Violet entered Target, the red bell in her head went off that told her a carton of Goldfish crackers would be hers. And she was right. It was a small atonement that would give me at least three minutes of peace and a way to distract her from the “Dollar Spot” section that worked as a lobbyist for the Bin of Pointless Crap. I was also not immune to Pavlov’s poop theory, as usually right about the time I found myself in the furthest corner of the store, I would have to shit. And I recently found out it wasn’t just me. Danielle said this also happened to her. We Googled it and apparently it’s a thing.
Hoping to get out in under ten minutes, I tried to stay the course, dodging the whimsical snares of the brightly colored seasonal tableware. I almost got snagged by the witty kids’ plates with smiling vegetables and a cartoon bubble that read, “Lettuce be friends,” but I kept steering the red chariot straight to the diaper section, which smelled like clean baby butts. I hoisted a box of disposables into the back of the cart, pausing as a flashback overtook me. Elliot was a newborn and I was cloth-diapering him, like all the “conscious” moms did. Nothing would touch his precious skin except pure, organic cotton woven by bunnies. But then there was endless laundry. And the inability to leave my home without hauling a bag of piss-filled cloths with me.
I lovingly looked at the disposable diaper box with deep gratitude. My phone dinged with an email telegram from CeCe with no subject, as usual. Had she found the orange couch stain?
CeCe D’Ambrosia
To: April Stewart
No Subject
The pop-up shop was a hit. Half of the people raved about you and your shirts. I have another one in two weeks. On a Friday. Can you come? No children. Love and light, CeCe.
How could such a short email conjure up five different feelings? I looked for the answer in the women’s clothing section. My ego felt stroked and then slapped and stroked again and then kicked, and finally, outraged at her hypocrisy. She should more accurately sign her emails with “Curtness and judgment, CeCe.”
“I needs get down,” Violet barked. She strained to unbuckle herself so she could stand up in the cart’s seat and send herself to the ER. It was the Mommy version of “last call.” I needed to get to the checkout immediately. I found my way back to the white linoleum road and picked up serious speed. An elderly man with a basket full of enough cat food cans to last his lifetime snailed toward the one open cashier. I whizzed past him, doing a favor for everyone who didn’t want to hear a toddler melt down. The cashier had Target-red lipstick, wrinkles, and a fanny pack. She scanned the diaper box without taking her eyes off a struggling Violet.
“I never liked that age,” she said, matter-of-factly, handing me my receipt. Well I never liked fanny packs, Karen. Why the fuck did cashiers think they could comment on the one minute of life unfolding in front of them? They were only seeing a snapshot.
In the parking lot, Violet finally wriggled her way out from under the buckle
and sprang up to standing in the cart seat as I lurched to stop it. “I out!” she celebrated. I lifted her down.
“You have to hold my hand, though,” I explained. She put her starfish hand in mine, jumping and smiling the whole way to the car as if her feet had never touched land before. She looked up at me and grinned, showing her Chiclet teeth, happy-ass eyes, and pure toddler glee. I playfully lifted her up high on the next jump.
I opened the back of my van and set the diaper box inside the trunk on a messy pile of blankets, two strollers, sandy beach toys, and the current pile of “things to donate.” I tried to close it, but something was in the way and the hatchback wouldn’t shut. I pushed a caught piece of blanket out of the way, which revealed another box of diapers—the ones I swore I had. Of fucking course.
In the driver’s seat, I cranked the Moana soundtrack to quell Violet so I could sit there and reread CeCe’s email, which felt like a temptation and an ultimatum—the universe cleverly asking, “So just how much do you like money and freedom?” I wondered what June would make of it.
Ohmygod June! The events of yesterday had slipped my mind in the urgency of diaper acquisition. I turned down the blasting, “SHINNNNNNNNNYYYY . . .” and called her.
“How are you guys doing today?” I asked when she picked up.
“Better. We just got home from the hospital.”
“Wow, that’s great. And how are you?” “Tired. I stayed up making sure Charlie was breathing, replaying the scene in my mind.”
“Yeah, that was really scary. Can you sleep today—do you have help?”
“Don’t know yet. Before I forget, Chase told me that he thinks he left his hat in your car.”
I cranked my head and looked around the van, past a singing Violet. There was Chase’s hat sitting on the back seat next to a wad of wax paper.
“Yep, I see it right now. Want me to drop it off later and give you a break so you can nap, or just to say hi?” After I said it, I felt my stomach drop, thinking maybe I’d been too pushy, essentially inviting myself over to her house, even if in the name of Mom Code—the law of helpfulness that moms follow when one of our sisters is in distress.
June paused. It was a big jump and I understood. She sputtered and then, “You know what? I would love that. Chase said he and Elliot had tons of fun together, so he’ll be excited too.”
Relief.
As I hung up and waited for June to text her address, I realized that I had no idea where in Orange County she lived. It was a big place. I pegged her for Newport Beach.
When Violet and I arrived home, we opened the door to see an unusually tidy post-breakfast kitchen, complete with an empty sink and humming load of dishes mid-wash. We had left for Target while Aaron was still home and this must’ve been his doing. The hand-job equivalent for moms.
His good deed made me miss him. Us. I walked over to our dry-erase wall calendar and looked for a weekend day that was free. I texted Tanya, asking if she could babysit next Sunday so Aaron and I could go on a much-needed date.
The response dots appeared.
I’m busy Sunday. But I could do Saturday.
I looked at the calendar and shrank. That day read, “Chalk-paint furniture class.” It was a class at a hip little craft store that I’d been wanting to take since Elliot was small, and I’d finally scheduled it after my pop-up shoppayout. Here I was again, having to choose between time with my husband and time with myself. The dishwasher changed cycles with a powerful whir and with that reminder, I chose my husband. I erased my craft class and wrote “Date,” with a big heart around it.
I felt giddy. I had tonight with June to look forward to —with Lucinda coming last minute to watch Violet—and now a date with Aaron this Saturday. I messaged him with the good news.
Hot date this Saturday. You. Me.
Holy shit. Where are we going?
Anywhere without children.
Dear God, yes.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mr. Calvin
Mom guilt was a cloud that sporadically hung over my relationship with Elliot. With his full-day schooling, and the addition of Violet, there was very little time just for him and me, like we had in our beginning. He remembered what it felt like to be an only child and spoke about it like a dead best friend. I treasured our fragments of alone time and found myself enjoying the peaceful, non-Disney-dominated car ride with him to June’s house, where he divulged which of his classmates had said the f-word on the playground that day.
She lived only fifteen minutes away—inland, which was completely unexpected since June exuded a beachy vibe rather than a barren desert vibe.
We pulled up to a huge but plain-looking house that stood behind a gate. It was like an R. Kelly sex-cult compound. June seemed too down-to-earth for a monstrosity like this. I scrolled through our texts to make sure I hadn’t mistyped the address, but sure enough, her voice greeted us over the intercom and the gate buzzed open.
I shriveled at the thought of June being so privileged, and worried that our developing relationship might suffer if she was living an entirely different life than me. My house could fit into her garage. Maybe we didn’t have that much in common, after all.
“They must be rich. Way richer than us,” Elliot said.
I parked the van next to a black Mercedes SUV. June was waiting at the front door for us with her usual bright smile. She was wearing one of those cold-shoulder tops that looked like your kids had taken scissors to one of your nice blouses.
“How are you holding up?” I asked. In light of last night’s events, a hug felt appropriate. It was the first non-awkward one we’d had.
“Good, thanks to Cammy’s cooking.”
As she walked us into the foyer, Chase rambled down the massive, marble staircase. To the side of it was a twenty-foot golden obelisk that spanned two levels. Across from that was an oil-painting of a smug-looking man. We were in the lobby of a Trump hotel. Kill me.
As the boys raced up the palatial stairs together, June hurriedly walked me to a giant, open family room with natural light streaming in as the afternoon sun began to set.
“It’s not what I would’ve done with the entryway,” she mentioned, tucking her hair behind her ears. I now knew this was her tell for “embarrassed.”
A warm, savory smell pulled my nose toward the kitchen, zeroing in on the Crock-Pot on the counter, which seemed strangely out of place in a rich person’s house.
“That was Cammy’s doing this morning,” June said, noticing.
The cheerful, clean family room popped with tropical pinks, greens, blues, yellows, and tangerines against soft white walls and a tan couch. Cozy and unpretentious, just like June’s office. The oversized dining table between the family room and the kitchen looked like a refinished barn door, and the chairs were a matte lemon yellow.
“Ooh, is this chalk paint?” I asked, taking a closer look at the finish.
“Good eye.”
I looked around the room. “Where’s Charlie?”
“Right over here,” she said, quickly walking me past what appeared to be an office with the door cracked open. Next to the door, a sign on the wall—more like a plaque—read “The Boss.” I stopped and squinted to see that below it, in smaller writing, it read “No whiners allowed.” I peeked inside the open door to see a wall covered in awards and shadow boxes with medals. Above an ornate desk the size of my bed hung a large framed picture of a man running through the finish-line tape of some kind of race. Underneath it were the words “I run the day. It doesn’t run me.” I shuddered. That’s some serious control shit. June doubled back.
“My husband is obsessed with running,” she said with a smile that visibly hurt her face. We closed the office door and kept walking to a nook on the other side of the family room, where Charlie sat in a fancy beanbag, his legs covered with a patchwork blanket. His bright red Iron Man–inspired cast was perched on a stack of pillows, just like a nursing mom’s elbow. There were random tapes still stuck to his b
ody and a bruise on his left cheek. I wondered how many others he had.
“Hi Charlie,” I said, remembering that I was essentially a stranger to him. He momentarily looked up from the Avengers show on his tablet.
He shyly said “hi”, the opposite of his superhero swagger the day of the accident.
June led us back into the kitchen and pulled out a stool for me to sit on at the center island. “Coffee? Tea?” she asked.
“Tea. Erry day.”
I fixated on a long black panel of switches on the wall. Each switch was labeled with some kind of technical code that someone must’ve understood. Below was a small mahogany table with a bank of screens that looked like surveillance. I could feel the push/pull of energy in June’s home. Feminine rustic was at war with the boardroom.
June dug through the cupboard, setting three black mugs on the counter so she could grab whatever it was she wanted from the back. The three mugs were tall, with “Chet’s Coffee” written in gold lettering. She was sighing and struggling to find what she wanted through a bevy of black mugs. “Drives me nuts,” she said half to herself as she finally reached what she was looking for—two light blue teacups with wide rims and small bases, like from the Mad Hatter’s tea party. She put all the other mugs back, shaking her head.
“You must really like this Chet’s Coffee place,” I said.
“They’re my husband’s. His name is Chet and he likes to put it on everything.” She went over to the wine rack and pointed to custom corks with the letter “C” on it. Then she walked over to a drawer and pulled out a barbeque tool for branding a steak, which I thought nobody actually bought. The iron had “CHET” emblazoned on it in all caps.
“Whoa,” I said. With a name like Chet, this guy was destined for douchery.
Adult Conversation Page 15
