by Hope Lyda
When U2 comes blaring out of the stereo the restless cooks send up a cheer. I even get a high five from Matty. The ice is broken, and I am no longer staring in from the outside. I know there is a long way to go before I am accepted as part of the group. Many times I watched a new child enter this home, uncertain and worried. The boys often acted tough and insensitive, the girls often shy or nervous. Always it took time before they became themselves among the brood.
The ring of the bell attached to the front door announces the arrival of my parents. I watch my mother’s eyes light up with joy as she sees the kids in motion, working together and creating a meal. Before she can notice me, standing in the corner, I notice Dad following behind her. His face is hollow and narrow. Even the smile which reflects his pleasure in the scene before him does not reflect the sparkle it once did. My news of his illness has been so recent I had not expected to see such a frail person.
Marcus notices my expression. He gives my elbow a squeeze of support. And as he does, my parents scan the room and rest their eyes on me. They rush over to give me a hug. My arms can practically reach around the both of them.
“Yeehaw! We are thrilled you are here. Hey, kids,” Dad shouts, his voice a bit strained, “this is our daughter, Mari. She’s the one who insisted I build that clubhouse out back.”
“And the library slash phone closet upstairs,” Marcus adds, laughing.
I notice Lou, Elsa, and Ben clap. Looks of recognition and appreciation cross the faces of the others. Wallace walks over to me shyly. “Are you the Mari who invented the poetry pizza night?”
I lean over to look him in the eye. “That’s me. Do you enjoy the pizza?”
He nods earnestly, shaking his black curls. “Yeah, but mostly the poetry.”
Mom kisses Wallace’s forehead and looks pleasantly surprised by his social interaction with me.
Dinner is just like old times. The chaos doesn’t bother me. I actually enjoy the experience when there isn’t attention on what I am eating. If Beau could see me here, with these kids devouring platters full of food, he would laugh at how similarly we all eat—quickly and as much as possible.
I find myself looking at Dad often, trying to readjust my sense of him and his health. They reported that today’s doctor’s visit was a positive one. If Dad follows his diet and medication plan, his recovery will be surprisingly fast. Periodically, Mom will check his plate to be sure only baked chicken is resting next to his salad.
Before the strawberry shortcake is brought out by the blue team, Marcus stands on the fourth stair leading up to the bedrooms. “Since the green team got to make the music selection, they also have kitchen cleanup.”
There is a groan, and this time I am joining in. It isn’t easy being green. But for a moment, I have high hopes of spending this visit home being me.
Ground Rules
What’s wrong with you?” A little hand taps my forehead several times before I open my eyes.
“Where’d you come from?” I struggle to prop myself up on my elbows.
“I’m Daisy, from New York.”
That isn’t exactly what I meant, but it will do for now. Perhaps she is the child of one of the volunteers. “Your mom is probably worried.”
Her eyes get big. “Really?” she whispers.
“Daisy!” Lou rushes into the small guest room where my cot is set up and seems flustered to see me. “Daisy, you woke her up. I’m sorry.”
“Whose is she?” I ask.
Lou seems a bit put off. “She’s mine, that’s whose she is.”
I realize my mistake and feel bad about mentioning Daisy’s mom. Chances are, there is no mom worrying about her. I try to cover.
“Let’s go see Mom Hamilton so she doesn’t wonder where you are.” I reach for Daisy’s hand and scout around for my slippers.
“She was asking about you, actually,” Lou says and takes Daisy’s hand from mine.
As if on cue, Mom’s voice floats up the stairwell. “Breakfast, dear.”
I check my watch. It’s five o’clock in Tucson, and I feel it. The household is in high gear. Kids are stuffing books in backpacks, grabbing brown lunch bags from the counter, and waiting for their school buddy to walk out the door with them. My presence among them goes unnoticed. I point to the calendar. “It is not even August.”
Mom and Dad look at me and nod.
“Since when does school start in July?”
“Marcus started a practice school day drill. They all get ready, walk to the school, and then go to the park to play games. It really helps the first day jitters and eases any kinks out of the morning routine. They do it once a week.”
“Interesting.”
Soon it is just Mom, me, and Daisy seated at the table. I lift the line up of cereal boxes one by one—only Cheerios remain. I do the same to the milk cartons…soy it is. Instead of missing children featured on the side panel, there is information about endangered species.
“It is so good to have you here. Your dad was beaming all evening. His physical therapist even noticed he seemed peppier this morning.”
“Therapy this early?”
“They are trying two short sessions a days until he builds up strength and stamina,” she says with a cheery tone.
“How about you? Do you get two sessions—therapy, perhaps?”
She laughs. “It isn’t so bad. We are thankful to have good news. He promised to do the work it takes to get back to health.”
“Dad said you were second-guessing the city council race. Is this true?”
Mom begins to braid Daisy’s long hair and then looks directly at me. “I want to do it, but I worry about Ted.”
“You need to do it, Mom. I’m here to help for as long as it takes.”
She shakes her head slightly and starts the braiding over. “But you have Beau, your friend’s wedding, and those dear people at Golden Horizons.”
“This is where I want to be. And I will go back and visit as often as I need to. I have all that covered.”
With practiced flair Mom ties Daisy’s braid off with a band and forms a clover-shaped bow with yellow ribbon. “Yellow for Daisy. Now you go do your art project, my dear. It seems Mari is here to stay for a bit, so no need to treat her like a novelty.” Mom winks at me and turns Daisy’s shoulders toward the study room.
Once the girl is out of earshot, I whisper, “Since when did you start taking in kids that young?”
“I did break my own rule for Daisy. When I met her and Lou, they were with their aunt, who is not physically able to care for them. There is no father in the picture and their mother died. I want all children to have opportunities, but these two,” Mom pauses and gets teary, “with all they had working against them, these girls should get their chance.”
“Then they will.”
She smiles. “Yes, they will.”
I watch her smile fade and her down-to-business look take its place. “Mari, I meant it about your life. You have important, lovely things going on right now. This time is also your chance for happiness.” She takes my hand in hers. “Promise me you will come to me if and when the distance causes a problem of any kind for you. We have Marcus and we have other options for help after he leaves.”
I do a Scout’s honor salute.
“Were you proud of us for not sending Marcus to the airport to pick you up this time? I had to talk your father out of it.”
“I’m with Beau, Mother.”
“Believe me, we are thrilled about your relationship with Beau. Certainly there was a time when we wanted you with Marcus because he is such a good boy. And you two made a great couple until you…”
“Broke his heart.”
She feigns shock. “I was going to say moved to Tucson.”
I sigh, “This is my rule for this visit—there is to be no forcing together of Mari and Marcus. There is to be only great respect for the relationship Mari has with Beau. No jokes, no subtle comments, no insinuations in front of the kids.”
&nbs
p; She mimics my earlier salute and starts to speak.
I place my finger to her lips to silence her. “This concludes the Marcus-Mari conversation.”
“What about Marcus and Mari?” Daisy calls out from her perch at the littlest study desk.
Teaching Old Dogs
I could be gone a while. You’re sure about this?”
“Mom, you are leaving me to hang with Dad, not with a tyrannical toddler. Go to your first candidate meeting, would you? I’ve been here a couple weeks. If you aren’t going to trust me now, you never will.”
“It isn’t trust, sweetie. I am just a doting mother and wife. What can I say?” She is flush with excitement. I wonder how many years she has dreamed of becoming more involved, more influential for the sake of what she believes in—education, equality, fair housing, and funding for kids.
“Don’t forget your special lunch. Josiah and I packed it this morning.” I hand her a bright red lunch box covered with stickers. The night before, Marcus asked the kids to decorate white labels with campaign slogans or reasons why Mom should win a seat on the city council.
As she reads these for the first time, she puts her hand to her mouth. I can tell she is about to cry.
“Nobody wants a tardy and bawling councilwoman.”
With a blue scarf draped around her shoulders and her lunch box in hand, Mom kicks open the screen door and walks out into the mild heat of the late morning sun.
“I’d vote for her,” Dad says as he approaches me with careful, slow steps. His favorite trick of sneaking up on people is thwarted by his illness.
“Did you do your exercises with Fabio?” Dad’s therapist, Bernie, doesn’t really resemble Fabio other than in the long hair. But the lean and slightly bookish Bernie seemed flattered by the moniker I gave him when we met.
“All done. Watch.” Dad does a partial jumping jack for effect.
“I’m not sure how to interpret that move, Dad, but I will give you the benefit of the doubt. Do you have the educational tape of your choice with you?”
“All set up in the study room. Shall we?”
I loop my arm through his and we hold our heads up high. We invented this formal walk so it looks less like I am holding him up and more like he is escorting me around the neighborhood.
“I do believe you are gaining some bicep muscle, Father.”
We enter the empty room and each take a seat at a desk. I have fresh notepads and sharpened pencils ready for use. As part of our deal, Dad has not told me what we will be studying during his time of recovery. As he shuffles at a turtle’s pace over to the old boom box setting on a bookshelf, I can only hope we will not be learning to tango.
“Here’s lesson one.”
“Hit it, DJ Daddy.”
Through speakers torn and splattered with paint from past uses, the first words of our learning adventure fill the space between me and my father.
“Bonjour,” says a rich female voice.
“Bun-jer,” repeats my father with an intentionally horrific accent.
I take the crisp first sheet of paper on my pad, wad it up, and toss it at him. “French? This is what you have selected to make use of our study time?” I talk over the seductive voice as it works through various ways of greeting fellow countrymen.
“You said I could choose. This is what I choose.”
“Do you speak any language other than English?”
“Non.” My father says with pronounced nasal effect.
“Wouldn’t Spanish be more useful?” I throw my hands up in the air. I was all prepared to learn carpentry, Latin cooking, or astronomy.
As I am about to say “What on earth are you going to do with French?” my father quietly says, “Your mother has always wanted to go to Paris.”
From that point on, I learn to shut my mouth—fermé la bouche—and pay attention to the life lessons my father is trying to teach me.
Three-Way Conversations
In the time I have been in DC, I have realized that the phone can be used for evil or for good.
I call Golden Horizons to speak with Beau, but first I speak with Lysa, Sonya, and even residents Rose and Chet, who seem to be happily dating. This is all good and does my heart wonders to remain in touch. The real disconnect begins once the call is transferred into Beau’s office.
“Hello? So glad you called,” he says a bit like a real estate agent rather than a boyfriend.
“I’m glad you’re glad. How are you doing? I’ve missed you.”
There is silence and some paper shuffling it seems. “Hey, I’m great.”
A long pause follows and the sounds of the activities in the hallway seem to fill the receiver in place of sweet words I had hoped for.
“Lots going on there? Your doorless office sure adds some clutter to phone conversations,” I say, still hoping we will turn a corner from chitchat to heart-to-heart any moment now.
He laughs strangely. “Actually, can you believe it? I put the door back on. Seems there are some perfectly good reasons to have a door.”
“But it was such a nice statement. The staff loved it. Do they understand the change?” I fondly recall the door removal ceremony. It was the start of a new leadership philosophy for Golden Horizons. I am disappointed and Beau knows it.
He decides to answer a former question, a more manageable one. “Just taking care of some last state reports for this month. Oh, and that cruise-themed night of entertainment you suggested was exceptional. We sailed right through it without one complaint.”
I appreciate the praise, but this is all so much more formal than I expected for one of our rare conversations. “Wasn’t this the time you suggested I call?” His obvious busyness and attention to distractions makes me want to hang up.
“The residents are acting up a bit in your absence. They miss you.”
They miss me.
Who took over the heart and soul of my fabulous boyfriend? That’s what I would like to know.
“Should I leave?” A woman’s voice asks a question within range of Beau’s phone.
“Beau?” I ask once again, being more polite than I want to be. “Is this a bad time?”
“No.” He says clearly, causing my lungs to take in air again. Until I realize he is talking to the other voice. “Stay. We need to go over these projections.”
I’m getting the picture. This wasn’t a good time to call. Beau is going right along with his business.
Now he speaks to me. “Can I give you a call this evening? So we can be…”
“Alone?” I say coldly.
“Yes, exactly. I do appreciate your call. Bye, you.”
“Bayou? Or Bye, you?” says the woman whose call is so very appreciated.
“Funny girl. Talk to you soon.”
Click.
Disconnect.
Familiar Faces
Get out of here! Is that you, Mari?” A loud voice startles me and causes precious ounces of my Americano to spill over the top of my Alexandria Roasters paper cup. I’m still licking my thumb when a woman approaches me and gives me a side hug.
“What?” I look up and into the eyes of my former high school locker partner. “Rachel Reynolds?”
“Yes!”
I stare at her funky, close-cropped haircut, black silk jacket, and ruby camisole and recall her days as a tomboy basketball player. “When did you give up rugby shirts and gray sweatpants?”
“After a year of playing ball for the community college I decided to go to art school. Can you believe I’m a sculptor and a jewelry designer?” She spins as though she is on the runway.
“You always were creative,” I say honestly.
“And you were always nice.” She resumes walking, so I join her. “I heard you were somewhere crazy like Mexico.”
“Tucson.” Pause. “Arizona. You weren’t too good at geography, as I recall.”
“Oh, no. You want to ruin the nice reputation so soon?” She playfully punches my shoulder. “So why are you here?”
“See? Nice. I was just about to pick up some lunch and take it back to my studio at the Torpedo Factory. Want to join me?”
I check my watch, but I’m not wearing one.
“It’s almost noon. Or were you trying to fake busyness?”
“I am busy. I’ll have you know that today I was going to map out a field trip so I can bring the kids here next weekend and then to Williamsburg the following week. But even a working girl needs lunch.”
“We can do one better than lunch. Remember Cheyenne?”
“Porter? Are you two still feuding over what’s his name?”
“Vinton.”
“Yeah, Derek Vinton.” I think of the baby face of the most popular boy in school.
“As in Cheyenne Vinton. She won that dispute.” She throws her head back and fake laughs so hard she has to hold onto me for balance.
I feel as though I am sixteen again.
Once she regains her composer, Rachel steps in front of me and walks backward to keep the conversation going. Passersby look at her with fascination and step out of her way, just as she expects. “Cheyenne and I are friends, I’ll have you know. She is the only person from high school I stay in touch with, other than Derek, of course.”
“How is she?”
“Great. And my point in mentioning her is that she is assistant director of the Williamsburg tourism department. I’ll have her meet us at my place, and then we can officially arrange that tour for your kids.”
“Hate to remind you, but Williamsburg is not exactly a hop, skip, and a jump away from here.”
“She lives here, in town, and today is one of her days off. The woman works nearly every Saturday and Sunday for events, so she has the luxury of midweek weekends.”
“Lead on, then.”
The employee door at the renovated Torpedo Factory is propped open with a brick. We climb two flights of stairs with our bag of Caesar salads and maneuver a catwalk-like corridor until we come upon a bright blue door adorned with a star and Rachel’s signature across it. She removes a pink rabbit’s foot key chain from her jean pocket and unlocks the door to her small studio.
