Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories
Page 23
“He answered. “I’m Lieutenant Grant,” His voice was so soothing, a priest giving benediction, gravelly. He looked from me, to Reid, to Evan’s car, and back again at me.”
“I remember saying to the officer, “I think I’ll sit down.” And, then, all I saw was ice cream, and the post office, and the little market a mile up the road from our beach house, and Evan’s face, then, just his smile. It’s the last thing I remember seeing.”
I look over at Dr. Brad Stevenson now. Conveying an are-we-done-here? look.
“And,” I say with inevitability. “That’s why I hate Advil.”
The psychiatrist regards me with his steady professional gaze, but his hand trembles betraying his own turmoil over my story. He glances down at his watch.
“Time’s up,” I say. All he can do is nod.
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Cheryl Shireman
I Burned My Bra For This?
One Woman’s Fantasy
I’m a Baby Boomer. Which means that I remember bell-bottoms, Happy Days, and having only three channels on the television. I played Donny Osmond albums on a record player. My parents watched Gunsmoke, and on Sunday nights we all watched The Wonderful World of Disney. In the living room. Together. On the only television we owned. Imagine that! I remember the first time I saw Bonanza in color. I remember the first time I heard about remote controls for televisions. The whole idea seemed ridiculous. With three channels, really, how often would it be needed? I remember the Watergate hearings playing on the television when I came home from school.
I also remember watching feminists (does anyone use that word anymore?) burn their bras and march for equal rights. I grew up believing that a woman deserves equal pay for equal work and that a woman is not defined by the man she marries or by the children she gives birth to. In fact, we were told that both men and children were optional. The idea seemed revolutionary at the time. It still does. Women were mad as hell and they weren’t taking it anymore. We called it Women’s Liberation, and though it was never said, it was certainly implied (and believed in most circles) that a woman who did not work was a bit inferior to a career woman. That was when such women were called housewives and not “stay at home” moms. Women were divided into two groups — those who worked and those who didn’t. Back then, no one thought that staying home and taking care of a family and home was work. The women of my generation wanted more, demanded more, and believed we were entitled to just that — more. We sometimes looked at our own mothers, most of whom did not have real jobs, as women who simply did not understand that there was more to life than being a mother. If truth be told, we thought they were a bit simple-minded and we secretly vowed to do more with our lives.
And yet…as this Baby Boomer looks at her life, I realize nothing I have ever done, or will ever do, is as important as being a mother. Not career, volunteer work, graduate school, or any creative pursuit. Nothing else even comes close to being a mother. Period.
One of my children lives half an hour away, another is one state away, and the third is on the other side of the world in Denmark. Yesterday, my husband and I spent the entire day with our two-year-old granddaughter. She then spent the night. As I write this, I hear her gentle breathing in the baby monitor positioned atop the table close to where I sit.
To say that my children, and now my granddaughter, have filled my life with love and joy is an understatement. As children, they expanded my heart in ways I could never have imagined. For the first time in my life, I not only understood, but received unconditional love. As adults, they are three people that I know I can always count on. They will always be there for me. Just as I will always be there for them. Can you say the same about your career?
There used to be a television show called Fantasy Island. People visited the island and lived out their fantasies — no matter how wild (okay, not that wild — this was primetime family tv in the seventies). Not too long ago, my husband and I had a discussion about that old tv show and asked each other — What would your fantasy be? Mine was easy. If I could have a Fantasy Island day, I would relive one day with my children. My son would be 10, which would make my daughters 4 and 2. We would spend the day doing whatever they wanted. Going to the park, going to the movies, playing games, baking cookies, or just sitting on the floor playing with Legos and Barbies. I would hug them a lot. And kiss the tops of their heads. And take tons of pictures. I wouldn’t cook. I wouldn’t clean. And I wouldn’t worry about my career.
I would watch my son show his younger sisters how to do things, like he always did in his older brother sort of way. I would watch my 2 year-old daughter follow her older 4 year-old sister around the room, shadowing her every move. Just as she did, even through their college years when they shared an apartment near Indiana University. I would watch the older sister taking care of her younger sister, as if she were her baby. Which is what she called her when she was born — my baby.
Bedtime would be later than usual on that fantasy night. I would tuck them into their beds, fresh from baths and smelling of shampoo. The girls smelling like baby lotion. My son would hug me goodnight with his long skinny arms and tell me he loves me. And I would feel the truth in that. I would tuck in my girls and tell them it is time to go to sleep. I would take extra care in covering the older girl’s feet, because she always kicked her blankets off during the night. I would kiss the baby and hold her a little longer, because I would know that, as I type this she is in Denmark which makes visiting tough.
And, as I walk down the hall and turn out the lights, I would call out to all of them, as I always did… “Goodnight. Love you. Sweet dreams. See you in the morning.”
And that would be my fantasy day. Oddly enough, it has nothing to do with my career as a writer. Even though being a writer has always been my dream. My first novel, Life is But a Dream: On the Lake, was published earlier this year. The main character, Grace Adams, is a woman facing an empty nest and the possible demise of her marriage. Grace withdraws to a secluded lake cabin to redefine her life and try to find a reason to continue living. While at the lake, Grace not only finds renewed purpose and hope, but when things take a turn for the worse at the lake, she finds a strength she never knew she possessed. The novel is thought-provoking, sometimes frightening, and often funny (just like life). It is also, very definitely, fiction.
I’m not Grace. Even though my “nest” is empty, I am enjoying this time and this new focus on my career. I am not suicidal or lacking in purpose. My husband and I both work from home (he designs websites), we live on a lake, and our schedule is our own. It is truly a wonderful time in our lives. Sometimes I have popcorn for dinner. Enough said.
But, would my current life be as wonderful if I had not pursued career and graduate school and developed the skills I am using now? Probably not. I managed to combine work and school and motherhood. I believed I could have it all, and do it all, but to be honest — the kids always came first. And being a mother is the strongest and best part of my identity. It is the thing I am most proud of. My greatest achievement. And, once in a while, I miss those days when toys where scattered across the floor, the washer was always running, and we bought eight gallons of milk a week.
If you have children at home, cherish those simple everyday moments with them. They really will be gone in the blink of an eye — sooner than you can possibly imagine. Put this book down. Now. Go sit on the floor and play a game. Pop some popcorn, put on one of their favorite movies, and cuddle up on the couch. Live that “fantasy” right now. You will never be able to recapture these moments. Enjoy them now. There is no greater gift than the love of your children. Spend the rest of your day letting it pour over you. And pour your love right back over them. You can come back to this book tonight, after they are asleep.
As I type this, I can hear my granddaughter waking up. I am shutting
my computer off. Right now, I am going to go upstairs and scoop her up from her crib. She will probably wrap her little arms around my neck and ask, “Play blocks, Bomb Bomb?”
And we will play blocks.
About the Chick
Cheryl Shireman lives in the Midwest on a beautiful lake with her husband, Bruce. “One of the things I like best about writing is that I can do it from home in my pajamas.” She started writing as a teen, probably inspired after reading one of her favorite books, My Friend Flicka. Through the years, amid marriage, the birth of three children (Rocky, Lee Anne, and Scarlett), divorce, and a second marriage, the one thing that has remained constant is her love of writing. She has written many “practice novels” through the years (“the kind that get stuffed in a box and shoved under your bed or clutter your hard drive”). With her last child married, she is now ready to spread her own wings. The bestselling Life Is But a Dream: On the Lake is her first novel. The sequel, Life Is But a Dream: In the Mountains is scheduled to be released in fall of 2011. Her second novel is entitled Broken Resolutions. Cheryl is currently hard at work (probably in her pajamas and staring out the window at the lake) on another novel.
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Life Is But a Dream: On the Lake
Cheryl Shireman
Book One in the Grace Adams Series
An Excerpt
Chapter 1
I am dreaming. I am four. I am at a family reunion at an aunt’s house. The reflection of a white farmhouse looms, tall and angular, into an in-ground pool. The scents of chlorine and grilling hamburgers waft, exchange, and intermingle.
My mother sits nearby in a lawn chair. Her black polyester stretch pants squish through the crisscross of webbing in uneven lumps. Her attention is on a noisy game of volleyball being played across the yard. No one sees me. I am so small that I barely exist. She does not see me. She does not see. She does not. See me. See. Me.
A large beach ball floats seductively upon the surface of the pool. It drifts in my direction, becoming larger and larger until it fills my entire field of vision—red and white and glistening with irregular drops of water. I clap my hands and it draws closer.
Mother is standing now. She looks so young. Even in my dream, I wonder, was she ever this young? One hand is placed on her hip and her mouth is parted in a smile as she watches the raucous game. A transparent headscarf is wrapped around her head and its tail flutters tentatively under the knot that is pulled snug against her pale neck. The scarf is the color of lilacs.
I wonder why I am not being scolded. I expect harsh words. Maybe a spanking. I am very near the pool. I was told to stay away. But my mother is smiling, laughing, while the volleyball players argue over whether the ball was in bounds. The concrete under my feet feels hot and rough. I wiggle my toes and feel the skin being scraped from them.
I look at the ball. It is so close now that I see nothing else. I smell it. Fresh wet plastic. It smells like pool toys. I reach forward and touch it. Its surface is warm and slippery and smooth. It recoils upon contact. Flirty. Coy. Slowly, it floats out of my reach. I lean forward and strain to touch it again.
My body meets the water with a quiet splash. An unnoticed splash. Falling into the water, I sink in slow motion. Deeper and deeper. My body turns over and the water and sky become one and stretch above me. Through the blue that engulfs me, I see the distorted image of my mother. She stands in the same position. Still smiling. I see the scarf flutter—lilac blue now.
My arms extend toward her. She is out of reach. Wavy. Like a mirage. Struggling frantically, I grasp at the water but it slides through my fingers. I call out to my mother and water forces its way into my mouth, and into my lungs. I gasp and choke on more water. I am helpless. All I can do is sink slowly until the pool and the sky merge into darkness. I wonder why my mother will not come and get me. And why she is still smiling.
Waking, I quickly sit upright. I gasp in uneven breaths. Sweat covers my body. I clutch at a tangle of damp sheets. My tee shirt is a twister. My torso caught in the storm.
I reach for Matt, but my grasp is hollow. He is not there. I long for his chest to bury my head against. I long for the feel of his breath upon my hair as he whispers that it was just a dream. He is not there. Not here. Not beside me. I am not sure how long he has been gone. It was so gradual I never saw it coming. In fact, his side of the bed no longer exists. I am in the middle of the bed, in the place where we used to meet. In the empty, odd-shaped gap between our bodies that we used to fill like interlocking puzzle pieces.
I am not even in our bed. That bed is in storage and I am in a secluded lake cabin on a small island in the upper peninsula of Michigan. The cabin belonged to Matt’s parents. We rarely came here, and I have not been here in years. I am not a lake person; I cannot swim. The first time Matt and I were here was on our honeymoon. The last time we were here, Laney was fifteen and had spent the entire weekend moping about some boy she had just started dating. After we returned home, they broke up within a week. I am still angry that some boy, whose name I cannot even remember, spoiled what could have been a wonderful weekend.
Now, I am here because our house has been repossessed and I have nowhere else to go. Matt is living in his parents’ house, which he went to “clean out” a little over a year ago when his only surviving parent, his mother, died. He never came back. Months later, an appraiser knocked on the door and asked to come inside and appraise our house for the bank. I was sitting at home making a grocery list when he rang the doorbell. I was totally in the dark. But I was in the dark about a lot of things back then. I had called Matt immediately. He just kept saying he was sorry. Over and over again. Finally, I told him he had to come home and straighten this out.
“I can’t,” he said.
“What! What do you mean, you can’t? Matt, there is a guy here appraising our house!”
“I can’t love you anymore.”
I wish I could remember what I said back, but I can’t. I only remember the appraiser walking around the house and, eventually, Matt hanging up on me. The following months are a blur. I had a garage sale, selling our stuff for handfuls of quarters. I rented a storage unit and moved furniture, and boxes and boxes of possessions, into it. I put enough clothes for the summer in all of the suitcases I could find, and I came to this cabin.
I cannot believe my beloved house has been repossessed. A beautiful grey Cape Cod with a full-length white porch. Matt and I used to sit there in wicker chairs and watch Laney play in the front yard. Hanging pots of magenta petunias—so big that women in passing cars used to slow down to stare at them—filled the air with their sweet scent.
Now, I sit in the dark in this cabin that feels strange to me. I have nowhere to go. I think of Laney, my barely eighteen-year-old daughter, who is spending the summer hiking across the Colorado Rockies with her best friend, Allison. Despite my many protestations about the danger of two girls hiking alone in the wilderness, she left, which is a good thing, I guess, because at least she doesn’t know about the house. She left a week before the appraiser showed up. Almost immediately upon her return, she will be leaving for her first year of college at Colorado University in Boulder, halfway across the country.
I sigh and roll over. I still can’t believe any of this. I can’t believe Matt ended our twenty-two-year marriage with the words, “I can’t love you anymore.” I can’t believe that somehow, without me ever noticing, both of them have managed to create lives that suddenly do not require me.
To say that I do not understand is an understatement. It goes deeper than that. I cannot fathom it. It is incomprehensible. Unimaginable. Unbelievable. How could they have so neatly, and so completely, eliminated me from their lives? My life not only has a void, it feels void. Null and void. Useless. Without direction or purpose. Now what, I often catch myself thinking. Now what? For the next moment, the next day, for the rest of my life. Now what? I pass through t
he days looking at the clock and wondering: Is it time to go to bed yet?
I roll over to my other side. The digital alarm clock atop the bedside table glows orange. 3:46 a.m. I don’t like it. The numbers are too big, the color too harsh. “Three forty-six and you’re wide awake and all alone!” The numbers on my old alarm are a soft green. I like that better. It’s bad enough I’m awake, I don’t need an alarm clock mocking me.
I wonder if I still have that alarm clock, whether it is in storage or whether it was sold at the garage sale. I remember a woman coming up to me, holding a jewelry box Matt had given me.
“Would you take a dollar for this?” she had asked.
I had looked at it. It sported a pink sticker that read five dollars. Matt had given it to me on our first anniversary. “Sure,” I answered and then held out my hand while she dropped four quarters in it.
I wonder if tents have locks on them. I hope that Laney is warm. When she was a baby, I used to check on her while she slept and a little bare foot was always poking out. I would tuck it back in. Protect her from the cold. Protect her. Even in her sleep.
As she was packing to leave, I tried to give her an extra blanket to put in her backpack but she laughed at me and told me that it was too heavy. She said her sleeping bag was rated to several degrees below zero, which was a good thing, because they might encounter snow in the higher elevations. At the time, I just stood and stared at her. In the higher elevations?—was that my baby girl saying that? When she was a little over eighteen months old I had taken her outside and stood her in the grass. She refused to take a step. She cried and held onto me and I had to go inside to get her shoes. Even after she started school, she seldom liked to walk in the grass barefoot. And now she was talking about sleeping in a tent in the snow in “higher elevations.” Standing there, watching Laney stuff her backpack, I wanted to remind her of that—tell her that she never even liked to be barefoot in the grass. But she walked from the room before I could say anything.